‘Just do it,’ Ralph says as he opens the flap of the tent. He looks over his shoulder at me. ‘Otherwise, my finger might just slip on the trigger a second time.’
I stare at the entrance long after he leaves, trying to control the anger that threatens to make me vomit. Wyvernmire and Ralph have both tried to recruit me to spy on the Bulgarian dragons, but both refuse to see that echolocation is an untranslatable language. There’s no call for Ralph’s name inthe Bolgoriths’ Koinamens. And even if I am able to catch Goranov talking about him, I’ll barely be able to understand what he’s saying.
I change out of my singed trousers and blouse and curl up under the itchy military-grade blanket. Hollingsworth and Chumana will be looking for me now, but there’s no way for them to know I’m on Canna. I doze until someone brings me food – bacon, eggs and buttered bread – and I wolf it down. Then I sit cross-legged on the bed and pull the loquisonus machine on to my lap. I have no intention of translating the Koinamens for Wyvernmire – or Ralph, if I can avoid it. But perhaps listening in on the Bulgarians will give me some information that will help me escape without him.
I study the loquisonus machine, suddenly nervous. Didn’t I promise Chumana I wouldn’t touch one again? This machine is smaller than the ones I worked with at Bletchley Park, with a short, primitive-looking speaker. The dials are marked in Bulgarian as frequency and volume. But there is no switch for input and output, meaning that while this machine can listen to echolocation, it cannot attempt to speak it. I feel a sweep of relief. Wyvernmire won’t be able to use it to send out recordings that could confuse or exploit the dragons, meaning that it cannot be used as a weapon against them. This loquisonus isfarless dangerous than the ones we used at Bletchley.
I pull the headphones on, start the machine and twist the dial. I hear crackles, awful scratching sounds that slowly smooth out as I find the right frequency. And then . . .
Goosebumps rise on my skin as my ears fill with the familiarclicks and calls, long trills and loud pitches. I instinctively look skywards, forgetting I’m inside a tent. Canna is a cacophony of conversation. Where are all these dragons I’m hearing? Some of the calls are distant but the loudest ones come from close by. Are there dragons flying above the beach? Or am I listening to the inhabitants of Rùm across the water? A thrill shoots through me and I immediately feel guilty. I shouldn’t be listening at all, Chumana made that abundantly clear. The Koinamens is a sacred language, one so deeply rooted in dragons’ psyche that without it they cannot hatch their eggs. To live without it would be like humans living without touch or eye contact.
As I twist the dial again and focus on the loudest calls, translations come flooding back to me:land,stranger,tomorrow. I used to believe these calls belonged to separate dragon dialects, when actually their meanings differ depending on the emotional bond of the dragons communicating. I move the dial ever so slightly and an even louder transmission comes through, so loud that I almost pull the headphones off. The dragon must be right above my head. The calls are a Skrill-type06 followed by a Trill-type15 and a Pitch-type3. A slow shock fills me.
Impossible.
My translations must be wrong. I listen again, but the calls remain in my mind as if the time I spent in the glasshouse has permanently etched them there. How could I ever forget the encounter that changed everything? I string the translations together and feel my head spin.
Greetings, human girl.
I stand up so fast that the loquisonus falls with a clatter to the floor. With shaking hands, I push the tent flap aside and run out on to the sand. The black beach stretches out before me, frothy waves rising up to kiss the shoreline to my left. Seabirds whirl through the air and the taste of salt settles on my tongue. Across the bay I see green fields full of sheep and behind them, hills blanketed with trees. The pale smoke of a fire rises on the horizon but the sky is empty.
Where is she?
‘You’re supposed to stay in the tent!’ Ralph hisses, surging out of nowhere. ‘I’m not—’
A rush of flame pours down the cliffside, licking across the tops of the tents like a fiery snake. Screams sounds as Guardians run to put the fire out and Bulgarian dragons lurch from the sand towards the cliff. Ralph pulls me backwards as the tent next to us bursts into flames and I shake him off as a flash of pink streaks by. A dragon swoops low on to the beach in another whoosh of flame and my heart skips a beat.
Chumana.
I dart back into the tent and stuff the loquisonus machine into its case. Then I’m back out on the sand, running through the camp as Chumana circles above, snarling at the Bulgarian dragons closing in on her. My eyes water as I stare through the smoke. Why haven’t the Bolgoriths attacked? Do they think she’s one of their own? I need to get somewhere higher, somewhere she can reach me. I race towards the cliffs, my heart bursting. Chumana has come for me. I’m about to escape. Wyvernmire emerges from her tent amid a swarm of Guardians who push her further up the beach. The air is toohot to breathe. I run, almost tripping in the heavy sand, as screeches sound in the sky. When I look up, Chumana and the Bulgarian dragons attacking her have disappeared. My stomach drops.
No. No. No.
I’m too late.
I look over my shoulder. Ralph is running behind me, his expression furious. The fires are being extinguished and the Guardians are regrouping. One of them points at me. I scramble on to the path that leads up the cliffside as panic overwhelms me. Have the Bulgarians killed Chumana? My boots slip on tiny rocks and I skid downwards on to the beach, barely managing to keep a grip on the loquisonus machine.
‘Recruit!’ Ralph screams at me.
He’s just a few footsteps away, his white helmet glinting.
A low whistle.
The world slows as it sounds again, then a third time. My eyes frantically search the cliff face, blinded by the sunlight. I’d know that signal anywhere. And then I see it between the rocks. A familiar face. I could cry with joy.
Marquis.
Chumana appears again, two Bulgarian dragons on her tail, her roars filling the air as fire and blood rain down on to the tents. The flames draw circles across the sand, keeping the other Guardians from reaching me. Marquis is gesticulating, his face frantic as he points urgently to something behind me. I hear a loud stamping and turn around as a tall figure emerges from the smoke. Not a dragon, but a horse. Its rider looks down at me, the sun shining behind his head. Terror icesmy veins and I feel my knees buckle as I reach for the swallow around my neck. Because what I’m seeing just isn’t possible. The figure slides from the horse and comes towards me, his arms pulling me upwards. I try to shake him off as tears blind me, because surely he must be a vision, a ghost. But he’s as solid as I am, his hands warm on my waist. The smoke envelops us like it did in his final moments, but I see him as clear as day. The crooked smile, the smell of peppermint, those deep brown eyes. His voice is soft as he cups my face in his hands.
‘Hello, Featherswallow.’
From the private papers of Patrick Clawtail
June 1862
We have been with the Hebridean Wyverns for six months, since we fled the government’s forced eviction of Canna. There were whispers that the Prime Minister intends to make the island into a prison, and now every person we ever knew here is gone. June and I are slowly learning the wyvern tongue, aided only slightly by the fact that we speak Scottish Gaelic, from which it is descended. I have taken the liberty of naming it Cannair, and little Marguerite is already fluent. She is young enough to learn straight from the wyverns’ mouths, deciphering the meaning of words from context like small children do, whereas we possess the tiresomely ingrained habit of translating inside our heads. I remind our daughterthat as with any language, the dictionaries never reflect its entire flavour. To truly taste a new Draconic tongue, one must live among its dragons.
September 1863
