Andre Norton - The Magic Books 03 - Dragon Magic

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2024-12-24 0 0 319.09KB 138 页 5.9玖币
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Dragon Magic
Andre Norton
DEDICATION:
For Anne McCaffrey and
L. Sprague de Camp,
two notable tamers of dragons
1
HIDDEN TREASURE
Sig Dortmund kicked at a pile of leaves in the gutter, watched the
crowd at the school bus stop. With just one bus running from this new
development, they picked up the little kids, too. Just a few guys here his
age. Yeah, only three. And this was a double run, to the elementary and to
the middle school—you had to leave a lot earlier in the morning and get
home when it was too late to do anything outside. Swell year this was
going to be! He kicked harder.
Those three guys, he tried to look them over without them seeing him
do it. Well, he sort of knew the small one. He'd been in social studies with
him last year. What was his name? Artie—Artie Jones. Should he say "Hi,
Artie?"
Artie Jones chewed on his lower lip. What a jam this was. All the little
kids shoving and yelling. Bet everyone would be good and deaf before they
let them off at elementary. And look what he had to maybe sit with! There
was that big guy—he'd seen him last term, but he was no "big man," that
was for sure. Then take that Chinese kid over by the wall. Mom had heard
all about him. She told them at supper last night. How Mr. Stevens had
been in Vietnam and had gone to Hong Kong on leave. There he ran across
this Kim in an orphanage and wanted to adopt him. The Stevenses had to
wait a long time to bring him over, even had to get their congressman in
on the deal. Didn't look as if he was worth all that bother, did he?
They said he was bright in school. But of course the Stevenses would
brag about him after taking all that trouble to get him here. Big
deal—jokers like him to ride with!
Kim Stevens held tightly to his book bag. All the noise and confusion!
He had heard plenty of noise, been caught in crowds of people ever since
he could remember. Hong Kong was so crowded that people lived on top of
people there. But that was different. Those had been his people, he knew
what they were like. Last year here had been so different, too. Father had
driven him to school. Yes, he had felt strange at first, but later there had
been James Fong and Sam Lewis. He glanced once at the tall black boy
leaning against the wall around the old house. But that one acted as if he
were all alone, not even noticing the second graders almost jumping on his
toes.
Ras was not listening to the noise. He had to concentrate just like
Shaka said—remember and get it right. When they asked him his name he
wasn't to say "George Brown"; he was to say "Ras." Just like his brother
was now Shaka, not Lloyd, named after the Zulu king in Africa, the one
who really gave it to whitey back in the old days. Ras meant "prince";
Shaka let him pick it out himself from the list. Shaka was sure right in the
groove, he wore his hair Afro and everything.
Dad and Mom did not understand. They were old days, take all the
mean things whitey wants to hand out and keep your mouth shut. Shaka,
he told it like it was now. And Ras wasn't going to let anyone talk him out
of doing just like Shaka said.
More leaves blew around the comer of the wall, and Sig crackled
through them with a deliberate crunching. Back there was the old house
they were going to tear down. He'd like to go and take a look at it,
anything better than hanging around with a bunch of guys who wouldn't
give you even a look, let alone the time of day. But the bus was coming.
The day, which had begun sourly, didn't get any better; sometimes they
don't. At four Ras slouched again in the bus seat for the trip back home.
Troublemaker, huh? He'd heard old Keefer talking. Anyway he hadn't told
them anything but Ras. Not his fault Ben Crane spoke up that way.
Ben—he was what Shaka called an "Uncle Tom," smoothing up whitey.
Maybe Shaka could get Ras out of this dumb school into the Afro-studies
one. No one to go around with. He scowled at the seat ahead.
Kim sat still, his book bag across his knees. Why didn't that boy want to
tell the teacher his name? And what kind of a name was "Ras"? He just
didn't understand anything in this new school. It was too big and they
hurried you all the time. His head ached. He didn't belong here. Dared he
say so to Father, maybe get to go back where he had been before?
Artie scuffed his feet on the bus floor. Used his eyes and ears all right
today, he had. That Greg Ross was the big man in the class—played
football, a cinch for the student council when they had the election the
homeroom teacher gabbed about. Get into Greg's crowd and you had it
made. Too bad he was too small and light for football. But he'd figure out
some way to make Greg know he was around. No other way to really make
it but be in that gang—outside you were nothing.
Sig, sitting next to Artie, wondered what he was thinking about. Just
those three guys in his neighborhood. Artie sure wasn't very friendly—it
didn't matter much about the other two. School was too big. You got lost.
Artie had been in social studies and in math. But both times he pushed in
to sit near that Greg Ross, like he was trying to make Ross notice him.
And that Ras—not telling his real name. Get mixed up with a kook like
that and, man, you might be in real trouble.
That other one—where'd he get a name like Stevens? He was Chinese or
something. Never opened his mouth in the two classes where Sig had seen
him. Acted like he was afraid of his own shadow. Sure going to be some
drag, riding with this bunch all year.
As the bus swung in to drop them at the corner, Sig noticed something
different. The gates guarding the old house were gone, bushes broken
down inside as if some truck had pulled in and out. He had heard they
were going to tear the house down, make another parking lot there.
Sig lingered as the first wave of children swept on down the street. It
sure looked spooky in there. He remembered that some old guy had lived
there for a long time. Wouldn't sell the place even when they offered him a
lot of money. He'd been a kook, too, from what Dad said—lived in other
countries digging up old bones and things belonging to people back in
history.
Last year when their class at the other school had gone on a museum
trip, Miss Collins had shown them things in the Egypt room and the China
room that the old man had given to the city. And when he had died there
had been a long piece about him in the paper. Mom had read it out loud.
She was interested because she knew Mrs. Chandler, who used to go in
and clean house for him once in awhile. He kept some rooms locked up,
though, and she never saw what was in those.
What had he kept locked up? Treasure, maybe—things he had found in
old tombs and such places. What had happened to them when he died?
Did they take them all to the museum?
Sig balanced from one foot to the other a pace inside the wall, standing
on the weedy, overgrown drive. He wouldn't like to come here after dark.
But what about those locked rooms? Suppose they were still locked and
everyone had forgotten about them? Suppose you could get inside and
really find—
A shiver ran up Sig's back. You could find a treasure! Why, then you
could buy a bike, or a real official league baseball and bat—He had a list of
things he dreamed of owning some day. If he had any of those, you bet the
guys would notice him, even in a big school like Anthony Wayne! To find a
treasure!
Only, a big, dark place like that—Sig didn't want to go poking around in
there alone. It got dark fast now, and they were bussed home so late. He'd
need someone else to go along, but Artie was the only possibility. Suppose
he asked him about it? Told him about the locked rooms and the treasure?
That would wake him up all right, make him know that there were other
people in the world besides Greg Ross. Artie'd really listen to Sig if he had
something like that to say. Just wait until tomorrow!
However, it was hard to corner Artie long enough to talk to him alone,
as Sig discovered the next day. In the first place Artie was late in reaching
the bus stop, getting in just before the bus pulled out, and so sitting at the
very front. And he was off and away before Sig could catch up with him.
But at homeroom time Sig got him by the arm.
"Listen"—he made it fast because Artie was pulling against his hold,
looking beyond Sig to where the Ross guy and those fellows he ran around
with were in a huddle—"listen, Artie, I've got to tell you something
important—"
Now Ross went up to talk to Mr. Evans and Artie relaxed, looked at Sig
as if he had just seen him.
"What?" His tone was impatient.
"You know that big old house, the one they are going to tear down, the
one at the corner?"
"Sure. What's so important about that?"
Artie was again trying to look around Sig. But Sig planted himself
firmly before the smaller boy, intent on gaining his interest.
"My mom knows a lady who used to work there. She said that the old
guy who owned it kept some rooms locked up, wouldn't ever let her look in
them. You remember last year when we went to the museum and they
showed us all those old things he gave them—the things out of tombs he
dug up in different places? Maybe he didn't give them all away, maybe
some are still in those locked rooms. Treasure, Artie!"
"You're crazy. They wouldn't be left there now, not when the whole
house is going to be torn down." But Artie was looking at Sig now, was
listening. "You ought to know that!"
"I asked Mom this morning. She said nobody had been inside much
since the old guy died. The lawyer said all the things inside were to go to
the Good Will people, but they haven't come yet to haul them away. Mrs.
Chandler has the house keys and nobody's asked for them. So that means
maybe something's still there."
"If it's all locked up, how are you going to get in?"
Sig grinned. "There're ways." He was not quite sure what ways, but he
would not tell Artie that. The more he thought about it, the more he was
sure that there was treasure just waiting to be found. And it would not
hurt anyone to take it. The old guy did not have any family. And if it was
all just going to be given to the Good Will—
"When are you going to do it?" Artie had stopped fidgeting so much,
was listening carefully now.
"I brought a flashlight. We'd better try today. Don't know when the
Good Will people will come. The gates were taken off yesterday, they must
be getting ready to tear the place down soon. We may not have much
time."
"All right," Artie agreed just as the bell rang. "After school."
Artie hurried quickly to the seat just behind Greg Ross. Sig went to his
own place in the back row. As he turned he bumped into Ras. Had he been
listening? Sig frowned down at his math book. The treasure seemed more
real every minute he thought about it. If that Ras had an idea he was
going to muscle in—well, Artie and he would be two against one, so he had
better not try anything, he had just better not!
Ras sat down. Treasure in the old house? Shaka was always talking
about how they needed money for the Cause, a lot of money. Suppose,
suppose Ras could find this treasure, give it to Shaka. Then he would be
helping out. Treasure in the old house, and those two were going after it
tonight. There was no reason why Ras could not trail along behind them,
see just what they were doing or what they found, no reason at all.
Sig and Artie slid out of the bus toward the end of the crowd getting
out at the corner that afternoon. They wanted to be the last to leave, and
so stood talking at the break in the wall where the gates had been torn out
until the rest of the children were gone.
"O.K. to go in now." Artie sounded as impatient as he had earlier. "My
mom will be wondering why I don't get home if she sees the rest of the
kids going by."
Sig hesitated. Now that the time had actually come he liked his idea a
little less. The bushes grew tall and hung over the drive that was almost
hidden. It had been cloudy all day, though it had not yet rained, and that
made it look very dark in there.
"Well, are you coming or aren't you? Big talk about treasure. You afraid
or something?" Artie, several paces farther up the drive, turned around.
"I'm coming, I'm coming, all right?" Sig had the big camping flashlight
out and ready in his hand.
The drive led around the side of the house to the back, where there
were some other buildings strung out. They looked as if they were all
falling apart. The roof was off the end of one. But the house was in good
condition, even the windows unbroken.
"Where do we get in at?" Artie asked impatiently.
There was a door at the side, which turned out to be locked. There was
another in the back, opening off a small, screened-in porch. But the
screening was rusty and had holes in it. Sig pulled at a piece and it tore
right off in his hand. The door there also was locked, but there were two
windows, one on either side.
"You hold this!" Sig thrust the flashlight into Artie's hand, dropped his
book bag on the porch, and tried the nearer window. He was not going to
let Artie think he was afraid, not when it was his own plan.
At first the window would not budge; then it moved, but so hard that
Artie had to help him push it up. There was a queer smell from inside. Sig
sniffed and did not like it. But they could enter, and that was what
mattered—he had proved this much to Artie.
They climbed over the sill and Sig switched on the flashlight, shining it
around.
"Just a kitchen," Artie said as the light picked up a sink, a very large
stove that did not look much like those they had in the new houses, and a
lot of cupboards.
"Sure," Sig answered. "What did you think it was going to be? That was
the back porch, so it opens from a kitchen." Somehow the sight of that
ordinary-looking sink and the stove made him feel more at home.
There were two doors. Artie opened the first to show steps leading
down into the dark. He closed it hurriedly.
"Basement!"
"Yeah." Sig was gaining confidence, though he did not want to explore
below. However, he was sure that Mrs. Chandler's locked rooms were not
in the basement.
The other door gave into a much smaller room, which had glass-doored
cupboards all around it. The glass was heavily coated with dust. Sig
rubbed away a patch to look inside, but he saw nothing there except a lot
of dishes.
Another door from this room brought them into a big dining room.
Artie sneezed.
"Sure is dusty. Say, this is a big house. Look at the size of that table.
Could feed our whole family for Thanksgiving and we have about fourteen
people, counting the Grands and all. One guy, living here alone, must have
felt queer with so much room."
Sig was already ahead into another dim room, where the shades were
pulled down, making it a gloomy cave. The flashlight showed them tables,
chairs, a sofa. Some of the furniture had been covered up with sheets, even
newspapers. Beyond was a hall with two more doors. The first opened on a
room with a big desk and a lot of shelves, a few books still lying on some.
The next one, though, did not open to Sig's tugging. He turned excitedly to
Artie.
"This is locked! Must be one of those rooms Mrs. Chandler talked
about."
Artie grabbed the knob in turn, tried to open the door.
"So it's locked, so now how are you going to get it open? Recite
something to it, maybe, like that guy in the fairy tale I read to my sister
last night." Artie stepped back, threw up his hands as if he were about to
perform some feat of magic, and said in a deep voice, "Open, sesame!"
"You wait, you just wait!" Sig could not be defeated, not now, not with
Artie grinning at him that way. He ran back to the front room and got a
poker he had seen by the fireplace. But when he brought it back Artie
looked surprised—not only surprised but frightened.
"Now look here, Sig, you go breaking things up and you'll be in bad
trouble. There were a couple of guys I heard about that got into a house
and broke up stuff. And then they were arrested, and their folks had to go
down to the police station and get them. I don't want any part of breaking
stuff up. It's late, my mom will be wondering where I am. I'm going right
now!"
"Go on," Sig retorted. "Go on. You won't get any of the treasure."
"There's no treasure, anyway. And you're just asking for trouble, Sig
Dortmund!"
Artie turned and ran. For a moment Sig was ready to follow him. Then,
stubbornly, he went back to the door. There was a treasure, he knew there
was. And he would have it all to himself now. Let Artie beat it; Artie was
chicken.
Sig raised the poker awkwardly, but when he touched the door it just
swung right open. It was not locked, after all. He dropped the poker, to use
the flashlight. There were two windows, but they had shutters closed
tightly across them. Sig had never seen shutters inside a house before.
Usually they were hung for trimming on the outside. In fact, he had not
known they could be closed. There was a table right in the middle of the
room, a chair by it, and nothing else at all. Except a box on the table. Sig
crossed to look at it.
Velvety dust all over, which he smeared away quickly. Then the
flashlight picked up bright colors, so bright they seemed to glitter. There
was a picture, or rather four pictures, for the top of the box was quartered
into four sections. And the pictures—were pictures of dragons!
The dragon at the top was a silvery color and it had wings. It was
holding up its clawed forefeet as if it were going to attack. Its red tongue,
which was forked at the end like a snake's, stuck straight out of its mouth,
and its green eyes stared directly at Sig.
To the left below was a red dragon with a long tail which curled up and
over its back, ending in an arrow point. The right-hand dragon was coiled
up as if asleep, its big head resting on its paws, its eyes closed. It was
yellow. The dragon at the bottom had the queerest of shapes. Its body was
more like an an animal's, with paws in front but hind feet like big bird
claws. Its neck was long and held high, and its head was small, like a
snake's. It was blue in color.
Sig opened the box and his surprise was complete. It was full to the
brim with parts of a jigsaw puzzle, queer-shaped bits all tumbled together.
Except that they were so brightly colored, they glittered almost as if they
were, indeed, diamonds, emeralds, rubies. Sig ran his fingers through the
jumble of pieces and snatched them away. They had felt—queer! And yet
now he wanted to touch them again.
He put the lid back on the box and picked it up, holding it close to him.
He could not take it home, there would be too many questions asked. But
he was going to keep it; he had found it after Artie had gone, so Artie had
no claim on it.
But Artie was right about one thing—it was getting late. He would just
hide this and come back tomorrow to look it over. Also, he had not
explored the rest of the house.
Hide it—where? There were all those covers in the other room. Suppose
Artie came back on his own or told someone? This was Sig's treasure and
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