Dragon: Book Three

By Bruce Langford

In The Island Chronicles Book 1: Conscious, William is drawn by the Music to the mysterious woman, Eleutheria, who lives in the house overlooking Bourani Cove and the ancient lime kiln which still burns hot for those who know how and where to look. There, she tells him about trapping time in the old tower, inadvertently creating the dragon, and how he must contain the monster while she searches the world for a solution. In Book 2: Chopping Water—part mystery, part philosophy, and part historical fiction—William tells Lexi the story of how Eleutheria came to America three hundred years ago, eventually sailing to Orcas Island in search of ultimate freedom. He also continues to struggle with the return of Nadezhda Retovna, who died many years ago, and confronts an evil that threatens to destroy him and those he loves. In Book 3: Dragon, Eleutheria travels to Venice, Italy, and learns the secrets of the nuns at Convent San Zaccaria, before going to Cambridge, England, and discovering the last, vital piece of information she needs to vanquish the dragon. On the island, William supports the building of a new hospital, championed by Cortland and Mary Beth Van Cleave, a brother and sister with an unusual relationship. Their salvation may be William's ruin, however, since, once again, he must use, or abuse, the darkest of powers to protect those who serve his purpose. Finally, William learns the truth about the woman only he can see, Nadezhda Retovna, and her relationship with alter ego Julien Darville. More importantly, he learns why she is here, now. When Eleutheria returns, the final confrontation ensues, and we see who she has always been. We learn who survives the final battle, and who has been telling us the story all along.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781646287499

Book preview

Chapter 1

Prelude

Venice was and is full of lost places

where people put up for sale the last worn bits of their souls,

hoping no one will buy.

—Ray Bradbury

It is late in the afternoon, almost dark this time of year. Shadows elongate and a chill embraces the island. The shallow, rocky beach is carpeted with driftwood. A lime kiln, 130 years old, cold and dark, entombed by the eternal, encroaching forest, watches. Waiting.

A house with a thatched roof overlooks the cove. It is one with the rocky point that holds it aloft over the normally placid bay. Next to the house is a wooden tower, built into a large pine. Standing at the top allows things to be seen a long way off. From the caves under the house, things can be seen even further.

In the house, a tall, older man is bending over the stove, stirring something in a large copper pot. When he finishes, he stands up straight, slowly, as if the process of unwinding takes longer than it once did. He walks the length of the kitchen and, once more bending over, examines a loaf of bread baking in the open brick oven built into the east wall of the house. When he turns and walks to the sink, he either forgets, or does not bother to stand up straight.

In the living room, a girl sets the table next to the window. She arranges plates, silverware, glasses, and napkins. When she finishes, the settings are symmetrical and aesthetically pleasing.

Her straight, blond hair hangs down her back. She has been letting it grow for exactly a year, ever since she learned the truth about this house and the woman that once lived here. A woman for whom she waits.

A large brown dog lies on a brick-red-and-hunter-green tartan pillow next to the window. He is alert and appears to be looking out to sea.

Yes, yes, we know these people. We know this place. We know more than they do. And more about them than anyone else knows. Don’t we?

Christopher William Laughton came to Orcas Island in search of the truth. Now he is lost in a maze and cannot extricate himself. He pretends to be strong. He pretends to know. But his doubts make him weak and unsympathetic. Nevertheless, he is our hero. And his survival is our survival.

Lenore Ellen Peake is strong but lacks direction and is more easily swayed than she would like to be. Yet her self-awareness is strong, and when she chooses to submit, she does so from a position of strength.

The dog must be watched. He is an unknown. A variable. Like Eleutheria.

Happy birthday. William dried his hands over the sink and turned to remove the bread from the oven. I don’t think I’ve told you yet. William looked up and smiled at Lexi.

I knew you were thinking it. She giggled like a little girl, but everything else about her was more a woman than her twenty years, as of tonight, would warrant.

This may now officially be called the Annual Lenore Ellen Peak Halloween Birthday Party at Bourani House, William said, remembering to stand up straight, as he brought two bowls of steaming mushroom risotto, sprinkled with parmesan cheese and drizzled with extra virgin, garlic olive oil, to the table next to the window. Lexi decanted a bottle of Chianti Classico Riserva, 1995, Castell’in Villa. She handled the tilt of both bottle and decanter with self-assurance, managing it deftly while staring at the dragon just across the cove.

Two years in a row make for an annual? Lexi set the almost-empty bottle on the table next to the window, with the label facing out. I feel like we are falling into a rut.

William laughed. He loved being surprised by her, which is why he invaded her mind as little as possible. Her safety and success trumped his need for entertainment, however, and sometimes access was required.

Very well, William said, pulling out Lexi’s chair for her, and gently brushing her right shoulder as he moved to his side of the table. In that case, next Halloween, we will throw a monstrous bash for your twenty-first birthday at the Gaudi House and invite the entire island.

William glanced at Winston, the large brown Malinois, who he saw was looking back.

They ate for a few minutes in silence, following virtually every bite of the risotto with a sip of the wine, allowing the tastes to blend together before being consumed.

Then softly, more to herself, Lexi said, She called it Kronos Templum.

For a moment, they were both taken back a year ago when, over the course of a long night, William had told Lexi the story of how he came to be here. The story of Eleutheria. He had shown Lexi most of what she had shown him.

Yes, she did, William said, leaning back in his chair. She named the house after the Greek god of time.

Time, of course, was the problem, which is why William continued to call it the Gaudi House. That, and because it looked like one.

Do you think she’s coming back? Lexi said as she glanced at the dragon.

You ask me that almost every day, William said, as he swirled the wine and watched it coat the glass, reflected in the prolific light of candles.

It’s because I always wonder what you know that I don’t.

Lexi put down her fork perpendicular across the top of her plate, and then adjusted the rest of her silverware so they were appropriately aligned.

They looked at each other, the older man and the young girl, for a long moment. Admission to an accusation comes with the refusal to deny it.

What the narrator won’t tell you is that tasty little bottle of 100 percent Sangiovese the kids are drinking comes in at just under $400 a bottle on the open market. He thinks if you want that information, you should look it up. Put some effort into the story. Be a part of the process. Like looking at Impressionism.

We think that makes the narrator a pretentious snob, giving him a great deal in common with our hero, who, for the record, just pulled that bottle out of the wine cellar he inherited from her.

More importantly, the narrator will only tell you what he wants you to know. For what matters you need me.

For example, he will flippantly relate that William has told Lexi almost everything he knows, and shown her almost everything Eleutheria showed him, but he will not come right out and speak the truth.

William is hedging his bets. He is unsure and, riddled with self-doubt. He has consciously chosen a path and, just as consciously, questions it.

The narrator will not tell you this. Because he does not want you to know.

Are you sorry?

William got up from the table because he did not want to pressure her. He wanted an honest answer. Not that it would change anything.

About what? Lexi asked as she poured more wine into each of their glasses. She wore a thin cotton top, through which most of her body could be seen. The long flowing sleeves required her to hold it up with one hand while the other managed the bottle. Her jeans were deep blue and tight. The small of her back was exposed as she leaned over the table.

That you know what you know, about me, this place, Eleutheria. William set the bowls in the sink before taking two blackened rib eye steaks from the cast-iron skillet and putting them on plates. It’s a heavier cross than you deserve.

Lexi laughed.

Oh god, I hope I never get what I deserve.

Lexi took two steamed artichokes from the tall copper pot on the stove and set one on each plate next to the steak. And then said, It’s not what I know. It’s what I don’t know that worries me.

There was not the slightest break in the rhythm of her work, nor did she make it a point to look at William when she said it. But that she said it was not lost on him.

William poured melted butter from a small pan into a wide but shallow china bowl. The design showed a picture of a unicorn held in the lap of a young girl who wore a tunic that fell far off one shoulder.

He carried the bowl as well as an additional matching plate to the table while Lexi brought the steaks.

When they were both seated again, and after a few bites, William, as if to answer a question the girls had not asked, said, It’s just that it’s a lot to process and not exactly—he paused for words—normal. I feel some obligation—

The girl held up her hand, stopping him before he could finish. Then, wiping her mouth with the hunter-green damask napkin and obsessively straightening her silverware once again, she looked at the older man sitting across from her at the table, and said, I think you should trust Daddy’s little girl to keep a secret.

The seriousness of her look belied the humor of the remark.

William, caught off guard, laughed and then nodded an ever-so-slight agreement. Following an almost imperceptible tip of his wineglass in Lexi’s direction, he said, Clearly I have done that.

Lexi smiled.

The two ate in silence for a while, enjoying the sensual combination of food and wine. Periodically, each would look across the water at the dragon.

They saw different things. But neither saw a cold, dark, harmless pile of decaying rocks.

Finally, Lexi broke the silence.

So how are the newlyweds, after two long months of wedded bliss?

William shrugged as though he did not have any more information than she did.

He’s your father. You tell me. William smiled.

Oh, please. Lexi rolled her eyes and looked at Winston. I’m sure you know their favorite position.

William feigned shock, as he spread his right hand across his chest.

As though I meddle in other people’s private affairs.

This caused the girl to laugh out loud as the dog rose, walked over, and put his head in her lap.

Obviously they have a lot to think about these days, Lexi said as she pet the dog and gave him several bites of steak. A lot has happened to them in a couple of months.

Do you feel replaced? William asked, inviting a vulnerable response.

Lexi shook her head with a smile.

I don’t have time for that, she said as she brushed his leg with her bare foot under the table. I have a lot to think about as well.

Lexi looked out to sea, through the windows at the south end of the room, as though expecting to see a giant three-masted schooner sailing into the harbor. She remembered that the enlightened pirate Agustin Blanco preferred speed to size.

Then she said, People are still talking in town, you know.

Lexi moved from the chair to the floor and put her arms around Winston. The dog tolerated it with love and compassion.

About what?

Of course, William knew exactly what. He was just making conversation. Listening to her music. Filing it away to use later.

What happened to the mayor, right in front of everyone, with you just standing there.

The girl did not look at the man when she said it, but rather buried her face in the dog’s fur.

I stood to ask a question. William finished the last of the wine. That’s all.

I heard you were the only one standing.

Lexi glanced up at William to gauge his response.

Perhaps I was the only one who had a question.

The girl clinging to the dog on the floor nodded, having heard exactly what he had told her.

William watched a surge in the dragon’s power and wondered if Lexi had seen it. Was able to see it. Perhaps the dragon knew what was coming as well.

How had it come to this? It seemed like so long ago there had only been an ancient kiln, entombed in the forest, and the odd little house with the thatched roof.

William blames this story on random events, at least tonight. Tomorrow, if there is one, he will imagine it came as a result of choices he made.

He will leap from one explanation to another because he knows that ultimately it doesn’t matter. The fact is, he is where he is and the only thing to be done is to live the plan until a better one comes along.

And yet, because he was programmed to be, he remains discontent. He wants to know the answer, for the answer’s sake. He also believes, at a level he seldom acknowledges, that knowing what is ultimately true will somehow result in immortality. Or at least a piece of it.

He is delusional.

After they finished dinner and cleared the table, Lexi went out onto the deck overlooking the ocean to the south and Bourani Cove to the west to smoke her pipe. William washed the dishes and put them in the wood drainer next to the sink while Winston took a short walk into the forest.

By the time Lexi returned, William had opened an Inniskillin Cabernet Franc ice wine and placed it along with two chilled glasses on the parquet table in front of the couch, upholstered in images by Hironimus Bosch.

As the girl returned to the kitchen, William turned toward her, holding a chocolate truffle cheesecake topped with twenty glowing candles.

The girl paused for a moment, uncharacteristically. Her face went blank, as though she were watching her brief life play out in the flames. Slowly her gaze rose from the candles to the older man holding the cake out to her like a diamond tiara on a satin pillow. His eyes, locked onto her, reflected the candlelight.

He’s tired, she thought. I can see it when he stops. Stops making music, telling stories, giving speeches, running people’s lives, struggling with the dragon.

The girl did not smile, but rather walked toward the man, stopped in front of the cake, and watched him. Looking directly into his eyes, she made her wish. And then, without taking her eyes off his, or looking down, Lenore Ellen Peake took a deep breath, and blew out all the candles.

When the last wisp of smoke disintegrated into thin air, Lexi reached up and kissed William on the cheek, and walked into the living room.

By the time William arrived with two plates, each with a slice of the cheesecake, Lexi had poured the ice wine and put one glass on the table by the large, leather chair next to the wall of glass at the south end of the room. Then she curled up in front of the chair with her back to a bookcase, Winston’s head in her lap, and her wine in her hand.

When William arrived, he glanced at her, then at the couch, and then back at her.

Okay, he said and handed her the cake before settling into the well-worn chair.

It is important that you see what happened just now. William declared a plan and, a place to be taken. She declared another one, and he acquiesced.

Those moments are significant. Those are the moments that tell the real story. The story of who they are and who they are becoming. The story that matters.

The rest is just a medicine show.

For several minutes they ate in silence, once again following each bite of cake with just a sip of wine, savoring the seductive dance on the tongue.

Finally, as William knew she would, Lexi asked, Have you learned more?

To ask, More about what? would have insulted her considerable intelligence.

So, William merely said, Yes.

The sensual girl with the long, blond hair nodded, confirming what she knew.

Tell me. She licked her lips as she said it.

The man paused. None of this came as a surprise. But it’s one thing to see the story coming and plan a response. It’s quite another thing to live it in the moment, in the actual environment. The fading light, the scent of leather books, the candles, the sight of her offered up to him, without arrogance or pride. As natural as breathing in. And breathing out.

I could be wrong, William said, looking away from her and rising to get the bottle from the table in front of the couch.

He poured the wine for both of them, shuddering slightly at the sight of the girl resting her glass on the bookshelf behind her, then settled back into his chair.

Lexi set her plate next to her on the floor, and then said, I understand. She looked at William. Tell me what you know.

As you recall—the tired man began—while Eleutheria built this house, starting in 1952, she also traveled. She collected books and information wherever she went, in hopes of discovering a way to put the genie, or in this case, time, back in the bottle. Florence, Barcelona, Athens, Alexandria, and Nepal are just some of the places. In addition, it seems that over a period of about ten years, between 1955 and 1965, she made several trips to Venice.

The letter, Lexi whispered, remembering how William had drawn it lovingly from the first printed edition of Dante’s Divine Comedy, exactly one year ago tonight. It had been addressed to Mio Libertas, and signed Silvonique, on stationary from the Hotel Danieli in Venice. It was erotic and filled with mystery. She had thought of it many times since.

Yes. William nodded. That’s part of the story.

We live in an age of immediate gratification. No one embraces the process anymore. Relishes it. The erotic pleasure of pursuit has been lost in a frenzy of give-it-to-me-now. But the best things take time.

We know that, don’t we? We have read this far. We have invested. And we deserve to know the truth.

The music began, like Vivaldi on an electric harpsichord, backed at first by drums and timpani, and then joined by strings. Vibrant and, percussive, the sounds of sexual frenzy. It evoked both the sensual abandon of the Baroque and the lawlessness of the twenty-first century. The love child of passion and despair.

And William said—

Chapter 2

Eleutheria I

By day it is filled with boat traffic, water buses, delivery boats, gondolas,

if something floats and it’s in Venice, it moves along the Grand Canal.

And by daylight it is one of the glories of the Earth.

But at night, especially when the moon is full,

and the soft illumination reflects off the water and onto the palaces,

I don’t know how to describe it, so I won’t,

but if you died and, in your will,

you asked for your ashes to be spread gently on the Grand Canal at midnight with a full moon,

everyone would know this about you,

you loved and understood beauty.

—William Goldman, The Silent Gondoliers

The sleek black gondola slid over the canal. Like a knife drawn through a painting, it rippled the picture of buildings perfectly reflected on the dark green water, in the fading light of a day coming to meet her evening lover. Behind the gondola, the picture coalesced again, as though the silent boat had never been there.

The buildings along the canal, alternately worn red brick and pink marble, were joined periodically by stone bridges, which disappeared into the walls on either side of them. At each bridge, the gondolier would bow gracefully, slipping underneath it like a dancer below the arm of his partner. In his traditional black pants and stripped shirt, he was not a young man. Far from that. He had seen many things on the canals. It was why he was chosen.

His boat was carpeted red, with a delicate silver filigree decorating the pointed bow. The only seating was a single bench, draped with a cashmere blanket and scattered pillows, just a few feet in front of the gondolier. This was where the lovers sat.

It was a simple time, a decade before the fatalistic frenzy of the sixties, when every extreme was but a mockery of the one before it. And so, people stared.

The girl had thick black hair that curled precisely under her chin.