The Riddle of the Meteor

The Riddle of the Meteor

Prestor curled his tail around the hill of books behind him and leaned back to read the first sentence again—just in case he had seen in Lewis’ writing something that wasn’t… Among the hills a meteorite Lies huge; and moss has overgrown, And wind and rain with touches light Made soft the contours of the stone. This had to mean something marvelous was hidden in plain sight. A meteorite from beyond the world had landed in the ordinary landscape, and the earth had camouflaged its origin. He felt confident enough to go on to the next sentence. Thus easily can Earth digest A cinder of sidereal fire, And make her translunary guest The native of an English shire. Prestor squinted, his green-gold eyes glowing in

A Dragon in the Book Mines

A Dragon in the Book Mines

D.A.R.K. may have barred the doors to the Humanities Hall, but Prestor had flown around the library long enough to know where to hunt for scraps of manuscripts allegedly written by humans. There were deep shafts in the North Wing that sunk down into small caves known as the book mines. It was in these mines that the keepers of the library banished loose pages and tattered books. Only in very special circumstances and with great ceremony was anything ever discarded. So, for reasons of both value and worthlessness, these fragments piled up in these dark and forgotten places. Prestor was a frequent (and lone) visitor to them. He had a faint memory of finding something with the word “Miracles” in one of them. Whether

Proof of Doubt

Proof of Doubt

There had been a sound—a small sound—before the books tumbled to the floor. Something like silk sliding over marble, fast, delicate, smooth. Like a fragile spell-cast. There had been movement too. On the other side of the room, near his toy province, something had stood. Something with eyes. But could he admit that to anyone? Even himself? Could he trust his own senses? Only seconds before he had wished a human would make itself known to him, prove once and for all that humanity existed. Nothing prepares the mind for misinterpretation like wishful thinking. By the Angorians! He was a professor. He should be logical. Rational. For him, proof should rest solely on research and analysis. How had he become so enamored with the idea

A Spell Without a Name

A Spell Without a Name

Prestor’s thick dragon lips curved into a smile. It was finished: his own toy garden laid out in the lid of a biscuit tin, just like C.S. Lewis’. It was full of moss, twigs, pebbles and red spiral (a hardy plant only found in his province). He even laid a row of speckled stones diagonally across the lid to represent the Angor Mountains in which the library lay burrowed deep in the western ridge. It was quite a surprise to the dragon when he realized he had created not a garden, but a miniature map of his entire province. But never mind all that. It was time for the test. Prestor leaned over the lid, waiting for moss and stone to do what it had done to

A Toy Garden and a Real Dragon

A Toy Garden and a Real Dragon

Prestor’s tea had gone cold. It was, of course, the fault of Mrs. Audley, a silver ridgeback with a finlike tail and a ghastly northern accent. She’d taken the liberty of invading his private study to inform him of the recent dragon raids on Evecott tower in the lower marshes of Switch (a subject he was not so very interested in as she assumed). For twenty minutes she lectured him on how dragons should respond to other dragons who acted so abominably and what Evecott tower should do to prevent further raids. All time lost, in his opinion. Evecott was so very far away, more than a hundred miles from their province. But now, thankfully, the library’s head archivist (for so Mrs. Audley was) had