Catching the Wind(95)

And Maya began to read her story.

Fire flared from the dragon’s breath, his throat and cheeks seared with burns. He was ugly and fierce and tortured the villagers who tried to fetch water at the town well. Each night he paced through the streets, searching for anyone who dared to leave their home. Some nights he sprayed fire on the houses and the residents were forced to run.

Maya turned the page, and Quenby saw the little girl dressed in a simple brown cloak, her hands clutching the handle of a cup.

Maya continued reading her story, turning the pages slowly so Quenby could appreciate the artwork. As she read, the children began bringing Quenby flowers and she bundled them together as a bouquet.

One little girl lived in town all alone. She’d waited for days to fetch water, and now she was so thirsty, she thought she would surely die without a sip.

All she had was a tin cup, dented from the dragon’s heat. On a cloudy night, she crept through the narrow alleys until she saw the well ahead. As she tiptoed forward, she prayed the dragon was asleep. Or that he’d left their town.

When she reached the well, she uncoiled the rope with the bucket, dipping it down into the water like her mother used to do. Her first sip of water was cool and sweet on her tongue. There was life in her tin cup, streaming down her throat, filling her empty stomach.

When the cup was empty, she refilled it and began to drink again.

But then the dragon rounded the corner, its beady eyes searching the broken buildings around the square until it found her.

The girl trembled at the dragon’s roar, water spilling over the sides of her cup. It tromped slowly toward her, and she knew she should run, but the fire would find her, no matter which direction she fled.

She was terrified of the dragon, but the creature had taken her mother and her father and her beloved brother. It had stolen away her grandparents and auntie and her sweet dog.

No weapon could kill the dragon, but she would fight back, the best she could.

She flung the drops of cold water toward the dragon and braced herself for its fire. But the most marvelous thing happened. The dragon reared its head, blew out of its nostrils, but no fire came. Instead it was only smoke.

The little girl filled her cup again and threw it toward the dragon.

The creature began to shrink, and other villagers rushed out into the street, escaping their shuttered windows and doors. They filled their cups and buckets and began drowning the dragon until the creature was so small, a gust of wind swept into the town and blew the ashes away.

As Maya closed the book, she looked up at Quenby with expectation.

Quenby blinked back her tears, quickly slipping on sunglasses so the girl wouldn’t see her cry. “That was a beautiful story.”

“I dedicated it to my brother.”

Quenby didn’t ask about her brother’s whereabouts. The sadness in her voice made it clear that he wasn’t here.

Maya passed the book to Quenby, and she held it in her lap, the dragon and the girl staring back at her, until the door slid open behind them. Bridget drove her scooter back outside, trailed by a thin woman of timeworn beauty, a woman Quenby recognized from the movies as Hannah Dayne.

“May we speak with our guest?” Hannah asked Maya.

“Her name is Quenby,” Maya told her. “And her boyfriend is waiting outside the gate.”

“Is that correct?” Bridget asked.

“Lucas is a friend,” Quenby replied. “And Mr. Knight’s lawyer.”

Bridget shooed Maya off the bench with her hand. “Go let him in.”

Maya kissed Quenby on the cheek before she raced around the house.

“Her story is remarkable,” Quenby told both women.

Bridget reached for her hand, squeezing it like Mrs. Douglas had done. “There’s power in story,” she said slowly. “We may be powerless at times in this life, but on paper, we can chase our demons away.”

“Do all the children here write their own stories?”

“Most of them do,” Bridget said. “There is a lot of healing to be had, and we think it helps.”

Quenby slipped off her sunglasses. “Where are their parents?”

“Many of them died on their journey,” Bridget said.

Hannah motioned back toward the house. “Could we talk inside, Miss Vaughn?”

Quenby blinked, surprised at the woman’s use of her last name. “You know who I am?”

Hannah nodded. “I saw your picture with the series on refugees.”

Bridget stayed on her scooter, watching the children play, while Quenby followed Hannah toward the house. She’d already admired the woman for advocating for refugees, and her admiration grew as she saw the private work they were doing here, far away from the spotlight.

“My sister is very old,” Hannah said as they walked through the sitting room, into the library. “She’s lived a good life, helping me when I was young and then caring for a number of children. There’s no need to exhume the past.”

Quenby sat in a chair across from her. “It’s not about exhuming. It’s about redeeming what has been lost.”

Hannah looked over at the window. “Redemption comes in different forms.”

“It’s wonderful what you’re doing here.”

“The work has transformed all of us, but unfortunately, our funds to keep up a house like this are diminishing quickly.”