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“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.”
Twigleg nodded and turned back to translate Ben’s words for the lama, who listened attentively to the homunculus before replying with his customary slight smile.
“The lama says,” Twigleg told Ben, “that in his opinion, it is quite possible you have indeed been here before. In another life.”
“Come on, dragon rider,” said Barnabas Greenbloom, “I’ll take you to Guinevere before your head bursts with all this wisdom. And I’ll come back for you when breakfast is over.”
“What do you think Sorrel and I should do, Professor?” asked Firedrake, putting his muzzle gently over the man’s shoulder.
“Oh, these people will go along with anything you want, Firedrake,” replied Professor Greenbloom. “Why not have a nice sleep in the Dhu-Khang? No one will disturb you — in fact they’ll say so many prayers for you that you’ll be sure to find the Rim of Heaven.”
“And what about me?” asked Sorrel. “What do I do while Firedrake’s asleep and the rest of you are drinking buttered tea? I don’t like tea and I don’t like butter, so I’m hardly going to like tea with butter in it.”
“I’ll leave you with Guinevere, too,” said the professor. “There’s a nice soft bed in our room, and she brought some biscuits that I expect you will like.”
Then he led the two of them down the steps, through the crowd of monks standing respectfully in the courtyard, and over to a small building nestling below the high wall of the Dhu-Khang.
As for Firedrake, he followed the lama into the great prayer hall, coiled up among the columns, and slept a deep, sound sleep while the monks sat around him quietly murmuring prayers, wishing all the good fortune of earth and sky to descend upon the dragon’s scales.
39. The Rat’s Report
Sorrel enjoyed Guinevere’s breakfast so much that she ate almost half of it all by herself. Ben didn’t mind. He wasn’t very hungry, anyway. All the excitement of the last few days and the thought of what still lay ahead had taken away his appetite. He never felt hungry when he was excited.
When Sorrel, having eaten to her heart’s content, curled up in a ball on Guinevere’s bed and started snoring loudly, Ben and Guinevere tiptoed out of the room, perched on one of the low monastery walls, and looked down at the river. Morning mist still clung to the mountainside, but as the sun rose over the snowy peaks the cold air slowly warmed.
“It’s lovely here, isn’t it?” said Guinevere.
Ben nodded. Twigleg was sitting on his knee, dozing off. People were working in the green fields down in the valley. They looked no bigger than beetles from up here.
“Where’s your mother?” asked Ben.
“In the Temple of the Angry Gods,” Guinevere told him. She pointed to a red-painted building to the left of the Dhu-Khang. “Every monastery in this country has one. The building next to it is the Temple of the Kindly Gods, but the angry gods are considered particularly useful because they look so terrifying that they keep evil spirits away. The mountains around here are said to be full of evil spirits.”
“Goodness!” Ben looked admiringly at the girl. “You know a lot.”
“Oh, well,” said Guinevere dismissively, “that’s hardly surprising with parents like mine, is it? My mother’s copying the pictures on the temple walls at the moment. When we’re back home, she shows them to rich people and gets them to give money to have the pictures restored. The monks can’t afford that kind of thing, and the pictures are already very old, you see.”
