“Dad!”
His father raised bleary eyes. Miguel had never seen such dark circles on anyone’s face.
“Hey, bud. You’re missing mom, too?”
Miguel nodded, plopping into the chair next to his dad.
“Are you sure you’re okay with me going with the Foleys this weekend?”
His father reached across and squeezed his hand. “We’ll be fine. Hopefully mom will be back by the time you return.”
“Has she called at all?”
“Yeah, yeah, she’s doing fine.”
His dad spoke too casually for him to believe a word, but what could he say? By the way, Mom’s that Thunderbird in the news and she’s in the Olympics, not Ireland. Oh, and I know that because I’m half dragon. Yet as he studied his dad’s lonely face, he chided himself for the cruelty of his thoughts. He squeezed his dad’s hand in return.
“She loves you like crazy, you know,” he said. “I mean, I know she loves us kids ‘cause we’re, well, we’re her kids. But dad, you’re the one she wanted to marry, so, uhm, don’t worry, okay?”
His father smiled, his shoulders straightening a bit as if Miguel’s words had lifted some weight. Then his dad scooted closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and drawing him into a fierce hug.
“When did you get so wise, bud?” His father kissed the top of his head. “How about I make us some warm milk?”
He nodded, and his dad rose to heat up a couple of mugs in the microwave. Neither said a word, but simply smiled at each other when their eyes met. The circles on his dad’s face had faded, and he realized his anxiety had crumbled. As worried as he was about his mom, there was nothing he could do to help until Friday. Besides, how could anything fight back against that ‘sasquatch storm’ she’d caused?
♦ ♦ ♦
The Foleys picked him up very early on Friday, the sky still dark while Carlos and Isabel slept. His dad gave him one more affectionate hug and a warning to behave himself, before slipping him a wad of cash.
“Don’t let Mr. Foley pay for everything, bud. I’ll text you if mom gets home, okay?”
“I’ll see you soon, dad,” he promised before waving goodbye.
When they arrived at the airport, however, all flights to Seattle had been canceled due to the storm. Balor quickly arranged a flight to Oregon instead, and by early afternoon they were landing at Portland International.
“Would you look at that sky!” said Aileen beside him, and he leaned across to see what she was gazing at.
They were circling, preparing to land. The sky above was bright blue, but only to the north edge of the Columbia River. He’d never seen such a wide river. On the far side, a murky grey turmoil seethed and boiled as if bumping up against some barrier. The rain fell along the river’s boundary like a curtain.
Balor tapped his shoulder from behind and he turned. From her seat next to her husband, Àibell smiled at him reassuringly.
“That’s your mother’s magic, boy,” the one-eyed man whispered. “The river has its own power, and she’s far enough away that the river can stop her magic from crossing. I’d say she’s still raging. Just wanted to let you know she’s okay.”
“Please sit back in your seats,” ordered a stewardess gently, signaling for him to put his seatbelt on. “We’ve begun our descent.”
Anxiety abruptly flooded his stomach, not because of the landing, but because what he and Balor hoped to do was suddenly real. Aileen grabbed his hand.
“It’s okay, Miguel! Breathe deep. We’ll be on the ground before you know it.”
His girlfriend misunderstood why he was nervous, but he followed her advice anyways, calming himself before any anxiety might set off another blast of magic like what had happened in school on Monday. Forty minutes after landing, a taxi dropped them off at an RV rental lot near the airport. Within fifteen minutes, they were headed north on I-5 towards the river and the Oregon-Washington border with Miguel seated in the passenger seat by Balor.
The wall of roiling clouds was stunning, rolling both east and west along the Columbia’s edge and rising upwards as far as he could see. Northbound traffic heading into the storm was light, while vehicles jammed the Interstate Bridge as if fleeing to Oregon. One SUV whizzed past them, “Sasquatch or Bust” plastered on the rear window with liquid chalk.
A few drops of rain splattered on the windshield as they crossed onto the Washington half of the bridge, blown by the strong wind gusting through the gorge. The moment they crossed onto land, however, the rain pounded like thousands of little jackhammers. The noise was so loud inside the RV that there was no point in talking. He glanced back at Aileen. She sat next to her mom on the couch, her mouth close enough to kiss her mother’s ear, although she was clearly shouting.
The standstill of cars and trucks heading south through Vancouver astonished him, as if the whole of Washington was emptying itself to escape the storm. However, visibility was so poor and the freeway so flooded that they were not moving much faster. It took three hours to reach the Cowlitz River, where Balor pulled over for a break.
“That should have only taken an hour,” his mentor yelled over the rain. “We’ll be lucky to reach the campground before midnight at this rate!”
Stretching their legs meant walking around the cramped quarters of the RV, and Àibell signaled her husband. Miguel realized she was indicating she should drive. Balor nodded, headed to the back of the vehicle, and collapsed onto the bed. Soon, they were once more trudging north along I-5.
It was dinnertime when they reached the SR 101 turnoff for the coast and drove into Olympia. Restaurants were packed and the waitress said few outlying areas had any power, and large portions of the capital were dark as well. Local rivers were nearing dangerous flood levels and many people had entered the restaurant simply to dry off and warm up after having spent hours sandbagging spots where flooding was eminent.
They were back on the highway as quickly as they could scarf their food down. It was a lonely drive as the miles and hours slowly churned by. Occasionally, a pair of headlights—blurry in the sheets of rain—would break the black night’s monotony, but Àibell and Balor were spelling each other regularly. Lulled by the steady rumble of the road and the rain, Miguel fell asleep, he and Aileen leaning against each other, her head resting on his shoulder.
Sometime later, Àibell’s voice gently bore into his consciousness.
“Wake up, kids. We’ve arrived.”
Groggily, Miguel lifted his head off Aileen. Her hair was matted against his cheek. He hoped he hadn’t drooled. The only difference between the road and stopping was the lack of vibration. Rising stiffly, he stumbled to the front of the RV, trying to peer out the window. The pounding of the rain seemed less and there was no light outside save for a couple of faint balls in the distance that glowed faintly like ghost lights.
“Apparently, we aren’t the only ones in the campground,” Balor said flatly and Miguel started, finally realizing how much quieter the rain was if they could speak normally. “We’ll have to get an early start on the trail if we’re going to beat these stupid sasquatch hunters.” He gestured towards the loft above the driver’s seat.
“Miguel, you can sleep up here and Aileen, you can have the couch. Or vice versa, if you like. Try to get some sleep. That hike is going to be long—very long—and I want to be on the trail when the sun rises.”
“Father,” Aileen said abruptly, “Now that we’re here, are you finally going to explain what this trip is really about?”
Balor’s eyebrows rose, and Miguel glanced rapidly at all three of them. Surprise—almost shock—froze Àibell’s face while Aileen cocked one eyebrow as if not expecting an honest answer. After several seconds, her father responded.
“Tomorrow, daughter. You will finally learn the truth tomorrow.”
♦ ♦ ♦
When he woke, the only sound Miguel could hear was the dripping of water falling from branches and fronds, muffled plops that echoed in the raging
silence, the last vestiges of the storm. A river roared steadily in the distance. There were no bird cries, not even a faint whirr of mosquitoes. He wondered if they were as hunkered down as he and the Foleys were inside the RV.
He rolled in the loft until he could lean over, hanging upside-down, and glimpse what he expected to be the apocalypse. Instead, his eyes bulged at how thick and monstrous the trees were, noticing little else.
Quickly, he squirmed in the limited space until his jeans were finally back on, then flipped himself down to the RV floor. Aileen still slept on the couch, her long red hair splayed over a pillow and a brown blanket pulled tightly around her. He could hear one of the adults snoring in the back. He crept to the driver’s seat, staring with his mouth agape at the damp forest.
The early morning light was dim, waiting for the sunrise, but after the thick darkness of the storm, the bright greens of the overgrown plants surrounding the camping spot nearly overwhelmed him. He’d never seen such dense foliage, nor greens that were almost luminous. The trees—he knew there were firs and spruce, but couldn’t remember which was which, or what the other kinds were—were monsters compared to the midgets that grew in Tucson. Even the Ponderosas in Flagstaff seemed diminutive.
Slowly, as the early morning light grew and his eyes adjusted, he realized not only how damp everything was, but that most of the camping spot was covered with storm debris, especially broken branches. Then he noticed the moss stalking up the bark of most trees, nearly as thick as the blanket covering Aileen and as bright as the plants. More hung from branches of trees, long and brown like old spider webs. The moss seemed everywhere, and he could no longer resist the lure of seeing it close up.
He pulled on his sneakers and cautiously opened the door, but almost closed it immediately. It was so cold after the desert heat! And wet! He took a deep breath to steel himself, then tried again. Knowing what he faced, he stepped down, his shoes squelching in the mud and fir needles. The forest was like weeds gone wild. For a couple of minutes, he simply gaped. Then the scents began to assault him.
Not even Thanksgiving dinner had smelled so vibrant! It was damp and trees and moss and snow from the mountaintops. The underlying scents of decay and dirt and some kind of animal joined the cacophony. For a few moments, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.
This must be what time smelled like before we measured it, he thought. It was crisp and ancient at the same moment. Finally, he opened his eyes, this time gazing upward, astonished by tree tops that seemed higher than the clouds.
“Those aren’t even the big ones, boy,” a raspy voice sounded from behind and he jumped, whirling. Balor stood there, his black duster held tight against the chill, his eyes roaming. Any anger at being surprised dissipated as he realized his mentor’s awe matched his own.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“There are trees in this forest that dwarf even a dragon. You could stand beside their trunks and no one would notice you any more than they’d spot a mouse. This place is ancient, boy, and the further up and in we go, the greater the magic. If you don’t feel it already, you’ll feel it soon. Now come back in. The sooner we’re ready, the sooner we can find your mom.”
An hour later, Aileen was repeating his awe, breaking into a little jig before turning towards them.
“Father, why have you never brought us here before? This place is wonderful!” She spun, her arms stretched out. “It almost feels like…I know this will sound silly, but…it almost feels like magic!”
He glanced worriedly at her parents, who stared at each other. Melancholy settled into Àibell’s face, her large dark eyes instantly sad. Balor’s face tightened, regret clearly visible.
“What?” she asked, then her brow furrowed. “This place has to do with learning the truth, doesn’t it?” Her mother nodded, who extended a hand toward her daughter.
“Come, sweetheart, take a short walk with me. There’s a trail nearby, the Hall of Mosses, and I will tell you.” Àibell looked at her husband. “Better give us a half hour, my love.”
“Stay on the path,” Balor warned. “After that storm, who knows how weak the barrier between our reality and the faery reality is.”
Àibell nodded, then took her daughter’s hand, leading her away. Aileen glanced over her shoulder at Miguel and waved. Her eyes danced with anticipation.
“What will she tell her?” he asked Balor when the other two were out of earshot.
“Enough. She’ll know she’s adopted by faeries and that you have magic. She’ll know Thunderbird is real, but the dragon part I’ll leave to you. She’ll learn you and I go to meet your mother to fight a battle against some very wicked faeries.”
“Will she believe any of that?”
Balor’s dragonfly wings sprang open behind him, fluttered rapidly for a few seconds, then retracted.
“Oh,” said Miguel. He hesitated, then blurted, “Do you think she’ll still like me?”
Balor chuckled. “That’s the same thing her mother and I have often wondered. Once the truth is out, it can’t be shoved back into the trunk we buried it in, can it? Come, sit with me, and I will also share some truth with you. My version of the truth, anyways.”
It was too cold and damp to sit at the wooden picnic table, so he joined Balor inside the RV at the small dining table for breakfast and listened as the man shared his story of Lord Changeling in Finaarva’s court, and the slow change in his life after his sudden marriage to Àibell.
This would have made a great movie, he thought partway through as Balor described the day the dragons destroyed the dome of magic. No one but me would believe a word of it, though.
Abruptly, just as his mentor was describing the confrontation between his mom and Finaarva, a sudden sharp prickle stung him. It took a moment to realize it was his gut that had been jabbed, the place where his magic usually began, and not a physical sting.
Balor sat up straight, pausing in mid-sentence.
“What was that?” Miguel asked.
“Oh, dear god, no…” The one-eyed man’s voice trailed off, and he leaped to his feet. Miguel followed in an instant as they rushed out the door.
“This way!” said Balor. “Have your magic ready!”
They ran as quickly as they could through the campground, slipping a few times on the glossy, narrow trail, but soon reached a wooden sign pointing towards the Hall of Mosses entrance.
Steam rose from the verdant moss-covered logs and ferns as they stepped onto the muddy path, the ground too slick to run without sliding. Green and brown lichen draped branches, often blocking sunbeams as effectively as curtains. Where the early morning sun did cut through, the reflection off wet leaves was almost blinding and the scent of damp and dirt was just as overwhelming. Àibell and Aileen’s footsteps were often quite clear, the only people who had walked this way since the end of the storm.
The deeper they went, the stronger the sense of magic grew. It had its own scent, like freshly turned dirt, rich and earthy, yet eternal, as if it stood apart from time. He could only guess how far they had gone, a half mile maybe, when the smell suddenly grew as pungent as fresh animal droppings, yet rotten as well, the way Javier’s dead cat had smelled when they had found it three days after it had gone missing.
Balor stuck out an arm, blocking Miguel’s path.
“Careful, boy. We’re near a weak spot in the prison.”
“What do you mean, a weak spot?”
His mentor frowned. “Miguel, the magic your mother created to form our prison hides faeries from humans. The faeries are there—we were there—but our reality was a half-step away from this reality, so to speak. There were always a few weak spots where we could cross through, but the Skookum guarded those, so only we changelings could evade by appearing to be animals. But never were there weak spots this low in the valley, and never was there such a reek. Be wary, boy. Is your magic ready?”
Miguel nodded. They continued cautiously for several more steps until they spotted a meadow
a short way from the path. The sun shone brightly on vibrant grasses and wildflowers. A single fallen tree of great girth lay across the field, freshly uprooted. The bottom was as big as his house, the roots reaching for the sky. Then he spotted it: a blue-grey swirling mist in the hole the fallen tree had left in the ground.
Balor grabbed his arm as soon as he stepped towards it.
“Not yet, boy.”
He tried to pull away “But they went through that…that foggy thing! I can feel it.”
“Hold!” Balor commanded, and he stopped struggling. “Listen to me. We are not alone here. Stay still and watch. Look in front of that tree. Do you see how the grass is flattened?”
Despite wanting to run to find Aileen, Miguel peered at where the one-eyed man pointed. Sure enough, a long swath of grass was matted, as if a gigantic cat had been lying there.”
“Call her, boy. Call your mother.”
He looked at Balor incredulously. “My mother?”
“Do you think she’ll appear for me? Call her!”
“Uhm…okay…” he said. “Mom?”
“Don’t be timid. Loudly!”
He glanced about to be certain no one was watching, although now he could sense that there was someone else nearby. Taking a deep breath, he raised one hand to his mouth. “Mom!” he called.
For several moments, as the echo of his shout died away, nothing happened. Suddenly, however, the air above the flattened grasses shimmered. He was dimly aware of a huge shape like a coiled snake. The shape gained color, a glistening crimson. Before he knew it, the most improbable form had appeared.
It was a dragon.
An elongated head with a drooping red mustache lifted off the snake-like body, the snout turning towards him, and green Chinese eyes studied him.
Despite their size, he knew those eyes. He would know them anywhere.
“Mom?”
Chapter 28
The Faery
The dragon’s round green eyes flared and smoke puffed from each nostril on the long snout. For a moment, Miguel was certain she did not recognize him and took a step back, reaching for his magic. Her belly never glowed, however. Instead, her shape blurred. Moments later, his mother stood before him. Her eyes drooped, but whether with sorrow or weariness or both, he could not tell. Then she held out her hands and he ran to her, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist. Her embrace was equally fierce.
Blood of the Dragon Page 31
