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Firedrake came closer, too, and put his head over Ben’s shoulder curiously. “He’s right, Sorrel,” said the dragon in surprise. “That figure does look like you.”
“Ah, well,” said Sorrel, shrugging her shoulders, although she couldn’t suppress a proud smile, “dragons have always had a special liking for brownies. Everyone knows that.”
“I can see one difference, though,” whispered Twigleg from his perch on Ben’s shoulder. “The brownie in the picture has four arms.”
“Four arms?” Sorrel took a closer look. “So it does,” she murmured. “But I don’t think that means much. Take a look at the rest of the pictures — almost everyone in them has any number of arms.”
“You’re right, they do,” said Ben, looking around. Many of the pictures on the walls did indeed show figures with several arms each. “What do you think that means?”
“Come look at this!” cried the professor. “The dragon rider left something here long ago.”
The lama led them to a small wooden shrine standing in a niche beside the altar of the prayer hall.
“These,” Twigleg translated again, “are the sacred moonstones given to the monastery by the dragon rider. They bring health and happiness and keep evil spirits away from this valley.”
The stones were white as milk and not much bigger than Ben’s fist. They glowed as if moonlight were caught inside them. “Break the moonlight!” whispered Ben, looking at Firedrake. “Remember? Do you think the djinn meant for us to break one of these stones?”
The dragon thoughtfully nodded his head. Barnabas Greenbloom translated what Ben had said to the lama. The monk smiled and replied, looking steadily at the boy.
“He says,” Twigleg whispered in Ben’s ear, “that after the morning meal he will give the dragon rider back his property, and he can do with it what he came here to do.”
“Does that mean he’s going to give me one of the sacred stones?” Ben looked first at Firedrake, then at the lama.
The monk nodded.
“Yes, I think you’ve got the general idea,” said Barnabas Greenbloom.
Ben made a shy bow to the monk. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you. But don’t you think the luck may be lost if I break one of these moonstones?”
The professor translated Ben’s question to the lama, who laughed out loud and took Ben’s hand.
“Dragon rider,” Twigleg translated the lama’s answer, “no stone can bring as much luck as the visit of a dragon. But you must strike hard to shatter the moonstone, for those you wish to conjure up like to sleep soundly and long. After breakfast, I will show you the stone dragon’s head.”
Ben looked at the monk in surprise. “Did you tell him all that?” he asked the professor quietly. “What the djinn said, I mean?”
“I didn’t have to,” Barnabas Greenbloom whispered. “He already knew. You seem to have the knack of fulfilling prophecies, my boy. You’re right in the middle of an ancient legend.”
“Amazing,” murmured Ben, looking around once more at the shrine containing the moonstones. Then he and the others followed the lama outside. The sun was rising in a red glow above the snow-covered peaks, and the courtyards of the monastery buildings were now swarming with monks. To his surprise, Ben saw that some of them were even younger than he was.
“Look, they have child monks here!” he whispered to Barnabas Greenbloom.
The professor nodded. “Yes, of course. These people believe that we all live many lives on this planet. So any one of these children could really be older than the oldest grown-up monk. Intriguing idea, don’t you think?”
Ben nodded, feeling confused.
Suddenly the peaceful activity in the monastery courtyard was interrupted. Firedrake had put his long neck out of the door of the Dhu-Khang. Most of the monks were transfixed by the sight. Raising his hands, the lama spoke a few words.
“He says,” Twigleg whispered to Ben, “that luck will fall like moonlit snow from Firedrake’s scales, and you and Sorrel are dragon riders who need their help.”
Ben nodded and looked down at all the faces gazing up at the dragon in amazement but without fear.
“Ben,” whispered Barnabas Greenbloom, “breakfast will be tsampa, roasted barley flour, and hot tea with butter. It’s very healthy and good for you at these altitudes, but you may not like it much when you first taste it. Shall I make your excuses and say you’ll keep Guinevere company instead? I’m sure she can rustle up something you’d prefer to eat.”
Ben looked at the lama, who returned his glance and smiled. Then the lama whispered something into Twigleg’s ear.
“The lama says,” translated the homunculus, “that he understands a few words of our language and will by no means think it uncivil of you, dragon rider, to seek the company of the professor’s clever daughter instead of enjoying tsampa and buttered tea.”
“Th-thank you,” stammered Ben, returning the lama’s smile. “Twigleg, tell him I like it here very much, and say” — he added, looking at the mountains rising on the other side of the valley — “that I somehow feel at home here, even though it’s very different from where I come. Very, very different. Tell him that, would you? Only put it better, please.”
