“You . . . what?”
“Come on, let’s go back. I’ll tell you everything I found out about the dumb brutes. I know where they’ve been hiding; it’s easier to track them from the beach.”
“But the . . .” I look up. The faces have gone.
Arun nudges me again then starts swimming.
“The humans,” I ask, “they . . . saved you?”
“You know, I don’t think we’re that palatable to them.”
I can hear my father before we even reach the hatch. He’s seen the whole thing and his voice is smug. “I told her she didn’t need to go.”
THE NEXT EVENING, ARUN and I flop out of the hatch again but this time we swim across the rock baths in a leisurely glide. The humans are there again; some with fishing rods, others with electronic devices. This time though, Arun can see them.
“Amazing,” he says as we crawl out the shallow end, over the rock plains to the beach. “It’s so colourful out of the water.” He gazes at the green land-coral on the tall cliffs. “It’s also easier to find the dumb brutes from here—you see?”
I do. Mostly brown and yellow, they’re hiding among the rocks. Finally we’ll get the data we need.
“Butter-binkin, butter-binkin.”
Behind me, the humans are crouching low again, and pointing as we dive from rock pool to rock pool for breath.
“Butter-binkin, butter-binkin.”
“You know what, Leah?” Arun asks, his sight sensors wide. “I think the humans like you.”
“Butter-binkin.” The faces move closer again, bare their teeth. But I understand now this doesn’t mean they wanted to eat us.
“For once, Arun,” I say, widening my sight sensors too. “I think you’re right.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: ZENA Shapter writes from a castle in a flying city hidden by a thundercloud. Her writing reaches across ages and genre into the heart of storytelling. Author of ‘Towards White’ (IFWG 2017) and co-author of ‘Into Tordon’ (MidnightSun 2016), she’s won over a dozen national writing competitions—including a Ditmar Award, the Glen Miles Short Story Prize and the Australasian Horror Writers’ Association Award for Short Fiction. Her short work has appeared in the Hugo-nominated ‘Sci Phi Journal’, ‘Midnight Echo’ (as well as their Australian Shadows Awarded ‘best of’ anthology), ‘Antipodean SF’ and Award-Winning Australian Writing (twice). Reviewer for Tangent Online Lillian Csernica has referred to her as a writer who “deserves your attention”. She’s a movie buff, keen traveller, story nerd, and inclusive creativity advocate, who’s founded community creativity projects for writers such as the ‘Art & Words Project’ and the award-winning Northern Beaches Writers’ Group. She’s also a writing mentor, editor, book creator, HSC English tutor, Service NSW Creative Kids Provider, and short story judge. Find her online via every major social media platform and zenashapter.com
Fire Dragons by Sarah Gover
AN OUT-OF-CONTROL FIRE was threatening Kas’ grandmother in Mallacoota. She knew the dragons could help, but would they risk exposing their secret existence to aid her?
When Kas was younger, she continually pestered her parents. “Do the street artists actually see the dragons they paint? Why do the gargoyles on the buildings look like dragons? Do dragons watch the dragon boat racing at Docklands? Do dragons exist? Do dragons like dragon fruit?” Her parents never provided a satisfactory answer.
That changed the day her grandmother came to visit and took her for a walk along the Yarra River. They passed thousands of people going to the Australian Football League Grand Final. A patch of daisies, near the water’s edge, caught Kas’ attention. Kas wandered over to them and looked out over the river. Air bubbles were rising to the surface. Looking closer, she realised something was swimming under the water. She grabbed her grandmother’s hand and scrambled behind an old gum tree. Slowly, she peeked around. She gasped. A family of dragons was playing in the Yarra! She clapped her hand over her mouth as the dragons stopped swimming. Boldly, she walked over to the river’s edge. One dragon emerging from the river shook itself dry and drenched Kas. Laughing, Kas strode around the dragon, mumbling to herself, “Sixteen steps long and five steps wide.”
She stopped nose-to-nose with the dragon. Looking over her head, the dragon spied Grandma and stared. Grandma stared back. Kas sneezed. Both her grandmother and the dragon laughed. Happy, deep, trusting laughter.
A year later, as Melbourne again turned its attention to the footy Grand Final, Kas and her Grandma went walking along the Yarra, laughing with the dragons. The dragons invited them back to their cave which was under the river, near the Princes Bridge. As time passed, she got to know, love and care for the dragons. In the evenings she would take the food waste bins from the food courts and markets, treating the dragons to a veritable banquet.
The dragons could hear the music of the street parades from their cave. Their favourite was the annual Melbourne Chinese Dragon Parade. Ordinarily, they were content watching it on TV, but one year the fog had been thick enough that they were able to fly above the parade unnoticed and could see the dragon puppet, Dia Lloong and all the people making it move. Kas’ favourite event was the annual fireworks night. Hidden by the lights and smoke, this was a night the dragons could fly around the city. Last year, the dragons invited her to fly with them. From the back of a dragon, with the wind in her hair, she believed she could do anything.
Two years ago the dragons flew Kas out of Melbourne, to the top of Mount Kosciusko. As the sun rose, they looked out over the land, and tears welled up in the dragons’ eyes. “When we arrived in Australia the land looked very different. We could tell someone was looking after it. There were often small fires burning on the horizon to open up the bushland and create breaks in the forested areas. There were patches of burnt bush. The fire had been encouraged to stay low, near the ground, protecting the tops of the trees.”
The dragon stopped speaking, her nostrils were flaring as if they were smelling the smoke of long ago. A second dragon took up the tale.
“On moonless nights, we flew above their campsite and learned from the songs and dances. We learned the secrets of the flora and fauna and how to care for the land. One wet winter, the camp flooded. Everything was wet and the fire failed. We flew down from the clouds, gently landing in the circle. Using our dragon-fire, we ignited the campfire. The warmth of the flames matched the friendship that grew between us. We had the advantage of flight and could see far into the distance. We let the people know which areas were ready to be burnt, and which could be left for another season. In return, we discovered people that cared for and embraced us. We worked together, dragons and people, caring for this land.”
“You and your grandmother reminded us of our first family. A similar love of the land was in your eyes. We cared and looked after this land. It doesn’t look very loved now.”
A cloud drifted in front of the sun as the dragons went on to tell her how all that had changed when other people came to Australia. They would hide in the clouds as the sailing boats landed. As the sailors sat around their campfires reading stories, the dragons listened. These new people told stories with paper and books, not in song and dance. With fear-filled voices, they recited tales of hunting and killing dragons. Horrified, the dragons watched the construction of a statue of St George killing a dragon in front of the Melbourne State Library. The dragons loved Australia and wanted to stay, but they were afraid and went into hiding, separated from their first Australian family. For nearly three hundred years, the dragons had lived quietly in the cave in Melbourne, safe, only adventuring out in thick fog or on moonless nights. But all that might be about to change.
Thoughts were crashing into each other in Kas’ head. The land was on fire. A hundred fires were burning in her state alone. Many were out of control. The firefighters and other emergency services were doing all they could, but would it be enough? Would the dragons come out of hiding to save Grandma in Mallacoota?
Grandma called. The police ha
d told the residents and holidaymakers that it was too late to leave Mallacoota and that they should head to the beach. If the sirens sounded, everyone was to get under the water and wait for the fire to pass over them. Thinking of Grandma made her eyes weep and her heart race.
Shaking and with tears in her eyes, Kas talked with the dragons. Even though the dragons’ cave was thick with the smoke from the bush fires, they didn’t want to get involved. What if people saw them? These fires might convince these modern people to take notice of the land and take better care of it. If the dragons solved the problem, would the people still change? Kas pleaded with them. The thoughts tumbled out of her mouth at once. Was there a way the dragons could help without anyone noticing? Could they rescue the people stranded on the beach, but in a way that the people would still want to change their ways? She considered the risks. But it was Grandma! She stopped begging and looked up. The dragons were silent. They understood. Grandma was their family—she shared their secret. Dragons protect family! So they agreed to help.
While everyone sat glued to their televisions, watching the tragedy unfold, the dragons took to the sky. They flew, thankful for their owl-like eyes that allowed them to see through the putrid smoke-filled air. They flew over the land they loved, crying as the flames ate the trees they had lovingly tended. Arriving in Mallacoota, they headed to the beach, where the people were huddled on the pier. The noise as the fire approached was deafening. The smoke thickened, blocking out the sun completely, and letting the dragons head to the fire-front through the darkness. Standing together, they beat their wings, causing a blustery wind that changed the fire’s direction. The people down by the water waited, but the fire didn’t come. The sirens remained silent.
“The fire was nearly on us, but the wind suddenly changed. It was a miracle,” said one holidaymaker to the television reporter.
Kas turned off the television, smiling. As the dragons flew home, she gathered the food waste bins from the casino and prepared a welcome feast. Grandma was safe! She hoped that maybe this time, people would re-think how the land and fire were managed. Maybe this time, the stories in song dance would once again be respected.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: SARAH and her family first saw the signs that dragons lived in Melbourne while living in Gippsland. She taught her three sons to see the “possible” and the “maybe” in the world, and not to limited by the “always is and always will be.” She is currently procrastinating job hunting by volunteering for several community organisations. She loves encouraging people to dream. This is her first attempt at a short story.
Homeward Bound by Gordon Clarke
THEY SAY ON A CLEAR day you can see forever. At their height, above the winter weather, this was certainly true. Looking out of his navigator’s window, Chuck could see water droplets coalescing into ice, forming contrails from the wings of the Superfortresses around him. It was too good a day to go to war.
The 1945-46 winter had been a severe one, restricting bombing operations drastically. In fact, today’s operation was the first one in nearly a fortnight, such were the adverse weather conditions in late January and early February of ‘46.
Below, the North Sea retreated from the Dutch mainland, which was covered by snow. At 25,000 feet the white dusting was clearly visible between the clouds, but now was not the time to sightsee. He looked back at his maps and calculations proud they had been visually confirmed. They were on track. Today’s target was the ferociously defended Peenemunde, home of German jet and rocket testing and manufacturers. His crew of Superfortress ‘Homeward Bound’ had drawn the short straw. There were 71 painted bombs behind the aircraft’s name, one for each mission, a testament to its survivability. It had taken one crew through a tour and now was about to have a second.
Looking up at the photo he’d pinned on the board at the end of his desk, his shaking, gloved finger caressed his fiancée’s face. He had wanted to propose last year but there were too many missions to go before his tour was up. Three weeks ago there was only this mission and one more. He couldn’t wait any longer. Sally said yes without hesitation.
“Our little buddies have turned up,” remarked Mac, the Central Fire Controller for the machine-gun barbettes.
“A wonderful sight,” remarked one of the gunners.
“Can I have a look Mac?” requested Chuck.
“Sure.”
Unbuckling his harness, Chuck made his way to the perspex dome that was the controller’s position. Climbing in, he looked up at the multitude of small contrails. It was comforting.
“See ‘em?”
“Sure do,” replied Chuck, “millions of our Shooting Star and Pommy Vampire jet fighters.”
“Yep. A glorious sight.”
Back at his desk Chuck re-checked his calculations, then keyed up. “Skipper, 20 minutes until we make our departure.”
“Roger that.”
To the waiting Germans, the 1,000 bombers looked to be targeting Berlin. However, only half of that number would hit the city, the other half would turn roughly north before Berlin and bomb Peenemunde.
“Over Krautland, Skipper,” added Chuck.
The Allies still hadn’t made it over the Rhine by this time, but a breakthrough was expected any day now. Also, the Russians had been held up in the east and the harsh winter had given the Germans time to take stock and build up for the onslaught. It would be a bitter fight.
“Right. Everyone keep your eyes peeled and connect up to oxygen.” Although the aircraft was pressurised a cannon shell or rocket would put paid to that very quickly.
All gunners checked their ammunition and gave a short burst on their machine guns. Chuck fidgeted in his seat and looked at the photo again. All he had to do was get through this mission and the next.
“Five minutes to turn Skipper.”
“Rog—Shit!” The pilot and co-pilot instinctively ducked.
The Superfortress in front of them exploded, spitting shrapnel in all directions as its tail dropped away. The front fuselage of the wrecked aircraft, with the wings still attached, flew on momentarily, then gravity took over.
“Right outer engine hit Skipper,” added flight engineer Stu, as some shrapnel thudded into that engine from the exploding aircraft. Chuck listened in silence.
Their aircraft lurched, shuddered, then dropped its nose. Disaster! They were leaving the formation.
“Front-upper get that shit head,” yelled the controller. “Rear-lower what’s coming up at us?”
“Someone go back and investigate! Control is a bitch.”
“Rear-upper five o’clock high.”
“I’ve lost connection to my turret!”
“I’ll go, Skipper,” called Chuck, grabbing his oxygen cylinder.
“Rear-upper in your six o’clock—” Chuck disconnected his audio cable. Stepping onto the steel catwalk he made his way to the pressurised bulkhead. Steadying himself with his free hand and cradling the oxygen bottle in one arm he opened the circular door and was almost knocked back. In that split second he’d seen enough.
His oxygen cylinder clanged on the floor. Close, close, he willed the door as he fought with all his might inch by inch to close it. With a hiss, it sealed and Chuck fell to the floor. Thud! Thud! Ping! Some dints appeared in the inner wall of the pressurised fuselage. Cannon rounds had pierced the outer fuselage skin. One made it through, falling on his leg, burning him before he frantically flicked it away.
Getting to a comms board, he plugged in.
“Where’s our little bastards?” cursed someone.
“What the shit is happening back there?”
“Fighter at seven o’clock.”
“I think it is one of ours.”
“Skipper,” screeched Chuck, “gaping holes in the rear—”
“It’s one of ours.”
“Watch out, five o’clock high.”
“Shut the fuck up, Navigator!” yelled the pilot.
“Three huge holes. Three gun positions all out. Don’t know ho
w the tail plane is still attached.”
“Hammer that bastard at five o’clock.”
“Get back to your desk. Need to know where we are. Have to get rid of this bomb load,” yelled the pilot.
“I got him! I got him!”
“Shut up and get the next one.”
“Ok, Skipper,” screamed Chuck. Then, disconnecting the audio cable, he stood and took a step or two. The aircraft banked to the left, continuing its descent. Chuck fell against the fuselage, righted himself, then crawled along the metal catwalk.
Flopping back in his seat he looked at the photo of Sally, then out his window. The snow looked like icing sugar scattered over a cake below. He had no idea where they were. He knew they had banked left. He knew they had lost some height. They were no longer with the bomber stream and that was the sum total of what he knew. He plugged in.
“Feathering inner right engine,” screamed Stu.
“Fuck it. Ditch the bomb load, now!” screeched the pilot.
“Here comes another. Three o’clock high!”
“Look out a frontal attac—” There were screams, then nothing but silence for a whole second.
“Above us. Hammer the bastard, hammer him.”
“Chuck get up here,” ordered Stu.
He gave a frantic look at his photo, grabbed the oxygen bottle and staggered forward to the cockpit.
Opening the pressurised door, Chuck pushed with all his might and squeezed into the cockpit. There were gaping holes in the forward glassed area. Stu was removing the limp body of the co-pilot from his seat. On the floor was the lifeless body of the bombardier, flying suit fluttering in the air stream. The pilot still had his hands on the control wheel, but his head moved back and forth as if nodding asleep.
Hanging onto anything he could, Chuck forced his way forward to the empty seat. The engineer indicated for Chuck to sit. He buckled himself in. Looking to his left, the pilot was still hanging onto the wheel, behind him there was blood smeared across the window. With head flopping around the pilot turned towards Chuck. There was a piece of shrapnel projecting from his left eye and part of his skin was peeled back exposing the skull. Chuck grabbed his control wheel.
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