“I am sorry, too,” Guide added. “I ought to have ensured there was sufficient distance between your practice spaces before focusing just on Blue.”
Fern blinked, looking between the adult dragons. “I accept your apologies,” she said softly, and Guide wondered why that ready acceptance did not make her feel any less guilty.
* * *
Later, when Fern had applied her healing salve and bandaged her burn, and the young ones were out practicing flight with Diver, Guide went down to the beach with Fern. The human seemed glad to sit and breathe the salt air while Guide poked around, vaguely searching for driftwood and keeping a close eye on the young human.
Finally, Guide said, “We have a saying in Draconic, you know.” She said the words, though she knew Fern’s human throat would not be able to imitate that combination of clangs and guttural roars. “It does not translate perfectly, but it basically means it is not your responsibility to soothe one who burns you. It is often used metaphorically, but it certainly applies literally as well. You did not have to reassure Green. We all would have understood and respected it if you had chosen not to be near one who had hurt you.”
“She’s a child,” Fern protested. “Are you telling me that if one of your children hurt you by accident, you would not soothe her?”
“It is different for parents and children,” Guide allowed. “But in all likelihood, Diver would do the soothing while I took care of my immediate needs. Anyway, it was kind of you to reassure Green while you were hurting, but I wanted to make sure you understood the basic principle. You also did not have to forgive my negligence or Diver’s incorrect guarantee. You do not have to forgive people who hurt you, Fern.”
It was a guess, but Guide could see that something in that had hit true. Fern ran a finger along the simple green bracelet she wore around her wrist. “I will remember,” she promised. “But really, of course I forgave Green. I know it was an accident, and besides, I’ve been there. I know what it’s like to accidentally burn someone you care about. And, well, I… I care for your children, Guide. Watching them grow and learn and play is worth a few burns to me. Diver gave me the best information she had at the time, and you have your hands — uh, claws — full wrangling the hatchlings for class. We all know what went wrong, and I’m confident it won’t happen again.” She tilted her head back and breathed a narrow jet of flame into the sky, well away from her own fragile body. “Being here has been good for me, Guide. I am not ready to leave.”
It was hard to estimate human ages, but looking at Fern now, Guide recognized that she was an adult, albeit a young one — adult enough to be trusted to make her own risk assessments and value judgments.
“I will say no more on it, then,” Guide said. “I believe your presence is a great benefit for us, too. The Speaker of the Sacred Falls surely knew what they were talking about, to send you here.”
* * *
Autumn
Diver knew with the first breath of crisp dawn air that it would be a perfect day to take the children out to practice their gliding. She stretched lazily, opening her eyes to see the sunlight peeking through the cave entrance, filling the cave with spots of blue and green as it hit the sea glass hanging from the ceiling. It was one of her favorite sights in the world.
And there, on the other side of the cave, was another of her favorite sights — Guide humming as she reorganized her figureheads, shifted some driftwood, and moved a painted board out of the sunlight so it would not fade. Diver watched with pleasure, enjoying the contrast of her wife’s pale blue scales against the dark browns and golds of her hoard.
Guide selected a piece of board and began heading out of the cave, moving smoothly despite the wood gripped in one claw.
“Where are you going with that?” Diver asked.
Guide twisted her neck around to look at her wife. “Why don’t you follow me and find out?” she suggested, the same challenging glint in her eye that she’d had the day they met on the beach, arguing over who had the better right to a fragment of green glass Diver had found amid the remains of a shipwreck previously claimed by Guide.
“I would follow you anywhere,” Diver said, rolling to her feet.
The blue dragon smirked and continued on her way, confident that her wife would be just behind.
They found Fern on the beach playing with the children, all working together to try and keep a ball in the air. At their approach, Fern turned, missing the ball. Gold dove to catch it, knocking Fern to the ground.
“Careful with the human!” Green said, headbutting her sister.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Fern said, sitting up and patting Green’s foreleg. “Thank you for checking on me.”
Blue snorted and leaned forward to help Fern up. All four turned to look at the adult dragons. Diver could not keep from grinning at them.
“You said you had something special today?” Fern asked, brushing sand off their knees.
“I do,” Guide said, leaning the board against a convenient boulder. “This is your final test, Fern. I want you to singe the wood, but do not set it on fire.”
The human’s eyes widened and their jaw opened slightly, glancing back and forth between the board and Guide’s tranquil expression. “Are you serious?” they said, a tiny wisp of smoke escaping from their mouth. “That’s… from your hoard.”
Diver struggled to be comfortable letting even Guide touch her sea glass and could not imagine offering her hoard up to someone else’s flame, but she was careful not to reveal her shock. She knew that Guide would be furious if Fern saw her surprise and interpreted it as doubt.
Instead, she strode along the beach to lay an affectionate wing across the blue dragon’s back and said, “Guide never makes offers she does not mean. She is consistently reliable like that.”
Guide favored Diver with a small smile before stretching her neck down to press her forehead against Fern’s. “You can do this,” she said, as soft and as hard as sea glass. “I would not offer were I not confident in your capabilities. It is you who doubt yourself, and it is that doubt which is the greatest risk to maintaining your control. I would send you home trusting yourself, Fern, as I trust you.”
Fern took a deep breath. They stepped back and bowed deeply to Guide — unable, perhaps, to find words. Diver watched as the human licked their finger and held it out to check the wind. They stepped up close, running the wet finger along the grain of the wood. When they finally breathed flame, it was so quiet and gentle that Diver nearly missed its arrival.
The curl of a stylized wave stood out sharply against the pale brown oak.
“Whoa,” said Blue.
“Fern,” Diver said, tracing the wave with a single claw. A tiny amount of soot fell from the board, but the design remained clear. “You’re an artist.”
The human stared at their work, a tentative smile creeping into the corners of their mouth. “I guess I am,” they said wonderingly. They glanced at Guide. “I still can’t believe you let me set fire to your hoard.” Laughter burst from their throat, sounding almost hysterical.
“Of course I did,” Guide said smugly. “You’re sakona.”
A furrow appeared in Fern’s brow as they struggled to regain control of their laughter. Diver noted with pride that no fire slipped out, though a few months ago, laughter like that from Fern would have meant flames spurting every which way.
“Sakona?” Fern asked finally, having caught their breath. “Isn’t that Draconic for hoard? How am I your hoard?”
Diver shifted to soak up more sunlight and smiled at the human. “No, that would be sakhona, with a guttural khuh instead of the hard kuh, but your confusion is understandable — the words are closely related. Sakhona means the items in our hoards, the physical objects. Sakona means…” Diver looked over at Guide, feeling love wash over her like the ocean’s undertow, and finished, “that which is mine.”
Guide spread her wings over the children and said, “It means family.”
And Fern’
s smile lit up the shore, as beautiful and precious as sea glass at dawn.
Leora Spitzer is a queer Jewish bibliophile and writer. She is extremely enthusiastic about queer SFF, particularly when focused on joy, found family, and, of course, dragons. Leora is currently working on a novel set in the same universe as “Sea Glass at Dawn,” which features the Speaker of the Sacred Falls and Diver’s story-hoarding cousin, Bard. She lives in St. Louis, MO, with her chosen family and her pet snake, Princess Buttercup. You can find her on Twitter as @leora_hugs.
Content notes can be found at the end of the book.
unchartered territories
by Swetha S.
I first take off the ring you sent me. This is something I have to do by myself.
This Friday is different from other Fridays because, thanks to you, I have finally learned to let go. I have learned to let go of the balloon Mum gave me for my twenty-first birthday, a balloon that is conveniently hot-pink with golden lettering. I have learned to let go of the pink headband that was supposed to discipline my unruly curly pixie. My curls would’ve found a way to break the band, anyway. I have learned to grab a suitcase, fill it with that one jean jacket you sent me from your home that is now stringy and old and stinks like mothballs — thank gods ripped jeans are a thing.
To be entirely honest, it isn’t just you who helps me give up. It is also my mother, who looks me in my eyes and asks, “Why do you do these things that just make you unhappy in the end? Why can’t you be like the rest of us?” I see the wisdom in her words and say good-fucking-bye.
I book a car to the airport as my mother lists all the sacrifices she’s made for me. When I load the luggage into the car, my mother stares with disbelief from our house’s gate. She’s precariously tossed a towel across her chest to hide it as if her baggy nightie doesn’t do a good enough job. Soon, I’m in the car, and I’m surprised as my mother and her breezy gown disappear in the background, giving way to the jogging comb-tooth houses of the street. It’s strange that she can disappear. I used to believe she’d always be here; she’s always been everywhere.
When I reach the airport, I’m so happy, I don’t even haggle with the taxi driver. Instead, I hand him the three hundred rupees he demands and drag my light suitcase towards the counters. I don’t have to wait in line to buy a ticket. Instead, I head to the tree that the airport officials have hesitantly placed in front of the airport. Oh, the faces of my country’s politicians when your people wheeled out a cute tree wrapped in a cotton bow as a gift to our airports — I saw it all on TV. They weren’t sure if they should accept gracefully or proclaim war. Thankfully, they’ve accepted it and placed a board next to it with instructions.
As I scan the instructions, I wonder briefly why they’re only in English. What if I want to read Tamil, I almost ask it, and the letters change instantly, allowing me to read the Tamil instructions. But as I struggle to understand some words in Tamil, those words flit and change, letting their English translations slip through. I look around, wanting to show this to others. This was your idea and I’m incredibly proud. But no one seems to notice, and I realise this is likely just visible to me.
Privacy — my language preference is known only to me. Of course.
From our earlier conversations, I know that the unchartered territories’ Transport System requires no money for its tickets. The only requirement is true desire to go to your destination. I’m glad I didn’t have to take this system when I used to head home from college for vacation.
Following the instructions on the board, I place my palm on the tree trunk and whisper, “I want to go home.” I expect there to be more magic, but a leaf simply descends from the tree. It floats and twirls in zigzags, and I open my palm in time to catch it. I’m not sure if I should thank the tree or not, but I do so anyway. As I head to the airport entrance with the leaf in hand, I look around and see that there are boards stating “This is not the tree to unchartered territories” placed next to every tree in the counter’s vicinity. I giggle a little — I wouldn’t be surprised if people had tried to talk a random tree into dropping a leaf.
It doesn’t take me long to show my passport and leaf to the men guarding the airport with giant guns. One of the men holds my leaf against the sunlight and twirls it softly. The leaf is transparent in front of the light. It looks like some sort of lace, with a million designs embedded in it, rippling green and yellow. He hands the leaf back to me.
As I head in, my phone rings. A call from my mother.
I consider tossing my whole phone in the garbage can. I won’t need it now that I’m coming to you. And you could always buy me a new phone if I need one. I thought my trip to your home should be a surprise — it sure is, to me — but I also vaguely know this is reckless. Besides, you’ll text me soon to complain about how inconceivable your colleagues find your ideas regarding your home’s borders, and I have to be there to reply to you.
I can already picture you in a boathouse on a river somewhere, talking to the leaders of the three conflicting states in your home (I want to say country as I call mine, but your home is not a country). They want to know who gets what part of the river. They think you have a grand answer that will somehow favour them and betray the others. Only I know your proposal — how about we don’t let anyone own the waters?
I can already see you sitting on a bamboo chair, looking ahead into the water. You wear a black kurta, but you’ve opened the first two buttons just so casually because you can’t deal with the heat. You’re bobbing your head from side to side to their complaints. You’re rubbing your neck and glaring at the sun as if you’re disinterested in the conflict, as if it is all beneath you. And that somehow works. Oh, I can’t wait to mock you for it. You’ve done this before. You’ve solved a hundred-year national territory conflict by convincing everyone to give up their borders, and that somehow worked. They titled the place “unchartered territories” and they’ve shed the capitalisation of their home’s name and their nation status. I’ll call it the easy way out. But I’ll secretly smile, proud of how you managed to convince everyone.
After I do the whole check-in thing, I hesitantly shuffle through the airport, carrying just my purse, leaf, and phone. The airport has Indian-ness slapped onto it — many stickers of rangolis and mango-leaf streamers; in the middle of the baggage carousel, a Tanjore thalayaatti doll stands with its hands in position, its head bobbing from side to side; the counters are filled with women in sarees, flashing warm smiles at everyone. I’m suddenly reminded of the Tanjore doll my mother had bought for me, of how I’d lie next to it on the floor and flick my thumbs at it, watching its head bob.
I sit on a steel chair and refresh our chat multiple times just to make sure I haven’t missed your messages. I pause on the beating heart you last sent and wonder if technology has grown to the level of tracking people’s heartbeats and transmitting them to their loved ones. Perhaps that’s what I’m seeing, your heartbeat. But then I figure this is a futile exercise, plug in my earphones, and pine to ‘90s Tamil songs instead. And yet, the songs remind me of my mother’s early morning singing. She’d stand at the kitchen counter and sing over the sizzling of curry leaves.
I’m called for visa clearance. But when I’m at the counter, the immigration officer takes one long look at my leaf and returns my documents without asking for my thumbprints or photographs. Before I leave, they ask, “You’re heading there? To unchartered territories? Using that thing?”
I nod.
“What purpose?” they ask, though I doubt they’re required to.
“To see my girlfriend,” I reply.
They squint at me, wondering perhaps if I’m a boy. I want to say I’m not. But I can’t be bothered to explain away the light beard I have thanks to PCOS, my nearly flat chest, and my pixie with an undercut that almost got me thrown out of my house. I instead head towards the gate, leaving the officer to puzzle by themself.
I wait at the gate. I bounce my feet anxiously, tug at my shirt, and
run my hand through my hair. Soon, I’m told my transport to unchartered territories is ready. I rise to my feet and take one long look around — at the textile stores that have suspended their colourful sarees from the ceiling, sweet shops that sell mysorepak and palkova, and decoction coffee stalls scattered through the airport. It is strange to think I may never return again. I notice a saree in the shop that is pink — my mother’s favourite colour. If I were returning to her, I’d buy the saree. But I won’t have to worry about that anytime soon. The smell of dosas and chutney tempt me to remain. But they’re not strong enough. I quickly open my purse, take out the ring you sent me, and slip it back on.
I’m only a silhouette as I head through the sunny bridge towards the Transport System.
The Transport System is in the middle of a giant square of land. It is a garden, bordered with lush hedges, carpeted with fresh blades of grass. I clutch my purse tighter as I head through the trellis archway that marks the garden’s entrance. Once inside, an employee smiles at me. She steps forth and makes sure I have no luggage in my hands. “It is dangerous to carry heavy items,” she explains. “Your items will be brought by our trained employees with the help of a suitable device.”
She then leads me to the middle of the garden, to what looks like a lotus pond. But, as we inch closer, the pond ignites, and a soaring flame rises from its middle. It’s now more a pit of fire than a lotus pond. I look to the employee with horror, and her smile falters.
“Is everything all right?” she asks me.
“Um, that is a flaming pit,” I reply.
Her smile bounces back, just like that. “This room amplifies your desires. What do you see around you?”
I glance around at the tiny garden smack-dab in the middle of the airport apron. “A garden.”
“Good. That means you truly want to head to your destination. But the flame might mean you’re not very certain about leaving. So, a part of you is trying to dissuade you.”
It Gets Even Better Page 9
