Thirteen Orphans

by Jane Lindskold

  It remained when Des turned his outspread hands on their sides and made a cupping motion. He pushed against the glowing band, and it contracted, then burst apart into fourteen small components. Brenda could have sworn that some of them looked like tiny Chinese dragons, but they moved so quickly that it could have been her imagination.

  Des dropped his hands, and relaxed back into his chair. “Don’t say anything,” he commanded, shoving toward each of them a couple of sheets of paper and pens he had set ready. “Write down what you saw. Don’t leave out any details, no matter how odd.”

  Brenda obeyed, aware as she scribbled of Riprap’s pen moving with deliberation across his own sheet of paper.

  I guess neither of us flunked that test, she thought with satisfaction.

  Des waited with perfect patience until they finished. Then he read each report carefully, his gaze flickering back and forth between the written accounts, obviously comparing details.

  “You both did very well,” he said. “Brenda, you are not to become competitive over this, but Riprap saw more and saw more quickly. However, the fact that you saw anything at all—especially since not only have you not come into your inheritance, but that inheritance seems to have been sealed from the Rat himself—speaks exceptionally well of you.”

  “What did Riprap see that I didn’t?” Brenda asked, hoping she didn’t sound contentious.

  “A little more detail at the end is all,” Des said. “You thought you saw tiny dragons. He did with enough detail to describe a bit about their traits. He also saw faint manifestations of the winds—a much more difficult thing to see, since wind, by its very nature, does not have a form.”

  Brenda decided she could live with this, and gave Riprap an approving nod and a thumbs-up, just so he’d know she wasn’t sulking.

  “Now,” Des said, “if that has not exhausted your patience, I would like to start teaching you the Dragon’s Tail. The protection I cast should keep us safe for several hours at least.”

  “I’m game,” Riprap said.

  “Me, too,” Brenda agreed.

  “Good,” Des said. “You just witnessed me casting a spell that was immediately needed. What I’m going to do is teach you to cast a spell in a manner that will permit it to be stored for later use. As you saw, casting a spell takes concentration. If our unknown enemy comes walking down the street toward you, a bit of paper in his hand with your name on it, stopping and concentrating isn’t going to do you much good. He’d have you before you could get the first element in focus.”

  “I’d wondered about that,” Riprap admitted. “Are we going to write something out?”

  “Not quite,” Des said. “For one, I doubt that either of you write Chinese well enough to manage an accurate transcription with the tools needed. An ink brush takes considerable practice to learn to handle correctly. Secondly, throwing the paper toward a target is a special skill.”

  “I’d wondered about that, too,” Riprap said, a deep chuckle underlying the words. “I’ve had nightmares about the moment the paper came at me. It moved like a knife. I think the only reason the man missed is because I’m pretty good at getting out of the way of things heading at me … . Baseballs hurt if they nail you anywhere but your glove.”

  “There’s one drawback to what I’m about to teach you,” Des said. “The item you create is good for one use only.”

  Brenda remembered how the strip of paper had melted into her father’s face. Would these do something like that? She covered a shudder of aversion with a nod. As Riprap would probably say, they had to learn to play the game by its own rules, not by the ones they’d like.

  “Okay,” Brenda said, hearing her tone a bit too bright. “What’s the first step in making this Dragon’s Tail?”

  “First you’re going to lay out the tiles so that they’ll aid concentration,” Des said. “Either of you have the Dragon’s Tail limit hand memorized?”

  Brenda tilted her head to one side. “I think I do. It’s a hard one, requires a run of one to nine in a single suit, and then a pung of dragons and a pair of winds—or is it a pung of winds and a pair of dragons?”

  “Either,” Des said. “Remember what I said about the Chinese dragon being associated with the elements? In this spell, the winds can stand in for a dragon. There are reasons for the variations, having to do with tailoring the spell to certain types of protection, and to the specific traits of the caster. Today we’re going to focus on a protection from magical attack, since that’s what you’re likely to face. For that you want not a grouping of three dragons, but of the winds most closely associated with your sign.”

  “I am confused,” Brenda admitted. “Do you mean our birth year, or our, well, wizard year?”

  “Wizard,” Des said, “and in your case, we’re going to do everything we can to emphasize your relationship to the Rat. Your father has acknowledged you as his heir, and although he may have forgotten, you have not. It is possible that some connection remains.”

  “Why winds?” Riprap asked. “I mean, why winds when there are dragons?”

  “Because the dragons are not quite dragons,” Des said, “not in the way you think. Trust me on this. We’ll have time later to talk about the evolution of symbols.”

  “Okay,” Riprap said. “So, what’s the Dog’s wind?”

  “West-northwest,” Des replied. “Since there is no such tile, we will use west.”

  “And Rat?” Brenda asked.

  “North,” Des said. “Do you two know those tiles?”

  In answer, they each picked out three of the appropriate tiles from the selection in front of them.

  “Good,” Des said. “Now, we’re going to emphasize the dragon’s head with its two ‘horns’—the paired tiles Brenda mentioned. For these we will use the dragon tiles. The Rat’s color is black. The Dog’s color is yellow. Since neither of those are represented in the three dragons, we will make do with red instead. Red is the color of celebrations, luck, and joy.”

  Brenda and Riprap each extracted two red dragon tiles from the box. Brenda looked at the rectangle with the line through it that was printed on the tile.

  “Center,” she said aloud. “That’s another good reason for using this one, isn’t it? We’re going to be at the center of the protection.”

  Des’s eyebrows shot up and he beamed at her.

  “Very good, Brenda! You’re on your way already to understanding the nature of the dragon tiles—and why they can be complicated to use.”

  Brenda felt very good, and set the red dragon tiles in place with a satisfying snap.

  “Now,” Des said, “our last choice is which of the three suits to choose for the dragon’s tail. In the West, the suits are commonly called dots (or balls or circles), bamboo, and characters. If you don’t mind, I prefer to avoid the rather vulgar contractions that became popular in the 1920s.”

  “Dots, bams, and cracks,” Riprap said. “Yeah. I never liked them either.”

  “I’m fine with it,” Brenda said. “Those terms don’t mean anything, the others do.”

  “Okay, Des,” Riprap said, shifting a bit impatiently in his chair. “So which suit do we pick for the string of nine?”

  Des answered promptly. “The suit I would choose for your purposes would be the bamboo. Either of you want to guess why?”

  Brenda shot her hand in the air as if she were in class, but neither of the men mocked her—although Riprap’s eyes held a distinct twinkle.

  “Bamboo is flexible, and we want our dragon’s tail to bend.”

  “Right. Anything to add, Riprap? I’m not trying to pester you, but considering the depths of symbolism each tile may hold can contribute greatly to the power of a particular spell.”

  Riprap shuffled through his tiles until he came up with the eight of bamboos. He studied it for a while, then said, “Okay. How about this? Bamboo is not only flexible, but it’s evergreen and very strong. Evergreen is symbolic of life, and we want to stay alive. Strong is another advanta
ge. A weak barrier wouldn’t do us much good.”

  “Very nice,” Des said. “Let’s take a stretch. When we come back, I’ll show you how to cast a spell.”

  Brenda took advantage of the break to call home. Mom was vice-president and treasurer—that meant bookkeeper and accountant—for Unique Wonders, the company Dad had started before Brenda had been born.

  Dad had a partner at first, but had bought the other man out when Brenda was still in grammar school. This meant more travel, but Dad liked the personal contact with the clients, and Mom was very good—better than Gaheris would have been, as they both admitted—at the administrative side of things.

  Mom was glad to take a break herself. She was doing payroll, and the various government forms always drove her crazy.

  They talked about a bunch of things, but although Brenda wanted to ask if Dad was acting odd, she refrained. She wondered just how much Mom knew about the family’s weird heritage, but this really didn’t seem the time to ask.

  Besides, both Des and Pearl had told them not to discuss particulars over the phone, and had hinted at dire consequences if they were caught doing so.

  As she was walking back to her room to stash her cell phone, Brenda heard Riprap making arrangements to have someone cover for him as coach of some team.

  “I know it’s sudden, Larry, but it’s a chance I couldn’t pass up—and it may pay off for the kids one of these days. Sure. Call me anytime.”

  When they settled around the dining-room table about half an hour later, Des had assembled a curious array of items. None of them looked particularly arcane. In fact, Brenda thought it rather looked as if Des expected a group of kindergartners to arrive any moment.

  “Now,” Des said, “not only are you going to learn how to cast a spell, you are going to learn how to fix that spell in an item so that you can draw upon it at need.”

  Brenda, whose American soul had been getting just a little tired of Des’s praise of all things Chinese, couldn’t resist.

  “But isn’t that just what you were sneering about ‘Western’ magics for doing—locking the wizard’s power into a staff or wand?”

  Des looked momentarily indignant. Then he grinned.

  “Sure sounds like it, doesn’t it? The difference here is, if you continue to follow the art, you’re going to reach the point where you can dispense with such assistance, whereas the Western wizard becomes increasingly bound to items of power.”

  Brenda grinned back. “Fair enough. What do we do?”

  “Something that is quite difficult for most of us raised in modern America: concentrate on doing one thing at a time. I don’t suppose either of you has studied meditation?”

  Brenda shook her head. “All the books I ever looked at started with ‘clear your mind,’ and whenever I try to clear my mind, it only gets busier.”

  Riprap said, “I haven’t tried even that much.”

  “Don’t worry,” Des said. “Skill in meditation might have been useful, but we can manage without it. What you’re going to do is make the physical representation of the fourteen tiles that represent the elements of the spell. While you’re doing that, you’re not to let your mind drift. If you find yourself daydreaming, think about something related to the spell: the meaning of the tile you’re crafting, what dragons look like, even why you want to be protected. Obviously, the more focused you can be on the specific tile the better, but what you don’t want to do is think about something completely unrelated—how well you slept last night, what Pearl is doing, how much you’d like steak for dinner. With me?”

  “So,” Riprap said, “we’re not making an item into which we’ll later put a spell; the two tasks are intertwined. Well then, I’d better tell you, I’m no artist. I’m no better at carving bone than I am at meditating.”

  Des patted the largest of the packets in front of him.

  “Not to worry. This is where modern technology comes in. What I have here is polymer clay—the basic white modeling compound. I also have molds that will let you form the tiles, and help them hold their shape while you inscribe them. The molds even have marks to show where to pierce them so you can wear the finished tiles as beads on a bracelet. You need to concentrate on the act of inscribing the characters, not on making perfect tiles.”

  “We’re going to need to write Chinese?” Brenda asked.

  “Copy it,” Des corrected. “The hardest tiles are going to be the winds. The red dragon is a simple ideograph—a rectangle with a slash. Except for the one of bamboo, the bamboo are represented as cylinders marked with lines. The one bamboo should resemble a bird, but it doesn’t need to be elaborate.”

  “Do we get time to practice first?” Brenda asked.

  “I think not,” Des said. “I want your concentration pouring into the task.”

  He spent a few minutes showing them how to fit the white polymer clay into the molds, how the various trimming and inscribing tools worked. He explained that they could color the inscribed tiles after they were baked. He gave them a short time to see which tools worked best in their hands; then he rose to his feet.

  “Dogs and Rats are, each in their own ways, quite competitive, so I’m going to have Riprap move to a table in the living room. You’ll both be where I can see you, and offer help when needed, but you won’t be able to see each other and start racing.”

  Riprap rose obediently, and helped Des gather up what he’d need. Brenda arrayed the fourteen tiles in order. On a whim, she arrayed the three winds that were the dragon’s head into a triangle, set the red dragon tiles to the sides of that head in roughly the place that an Oriental dragon’s horns would be, and then nudged the others so that they made a curving dragon’s body, swimming sinuously through the air.

  Des looked at what she done and nodded approval. “Anything you can do to help you concentrate is good. If either of you need me, just stick a hand into the air. Take your time. I have a good book, and I won’t mind having time to read.”

  “What if we have to get up, like to use the bathroom or something?” Brenda asked. She knew she was being argumentative, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “Go now,” Des said, “and if you need to go later, go, but I think you’ll find that you won’t.”

  A little sheepishly, Brenda obeyed. When she headed back to her place in the dining room, she heard the other toilet flush and felt a little comforted that Riprap had decided to take precautions as well.

  Settling into her chair, Brenda used a dull-edged plastic knife to cut a chunk off the large block of polymer clay. She’d played with the stuff before—an experience that gave her an edge over Riprap, whose interests had been almost wholly restricted to sports. Polymer clay was basically the perfect beginner’s modeling medium: flexible and nondrying, able to be hardened in a kitchen oven without cracking. Des had repeatedly reminded them that if they messed up, a line could be rubbed out with a fingertip and drawn in again.

  “And as long as your characters are close to those on the mah-jong tiles,” he reassured them, “don’t worry. I’ll make sure you don’t write the wrong word, and there are variations in handwriting styles for Chinese calligraphy, just as in Western script.”

  Brenda settled in. Packing the clay into the molds wasn’t difficult. Des had recommended they inscribe the sequence in order, so she started with the north wind, the character for which always reminded Brenda a little of the New York Yankees’ logo. The first wind needed to be redrawn repeatedly, but by the third she felt her confidence growing.

  Compared with the north wind, the red dragon tiles were simple, so simple that Brenda had to force herself to pay attention. She looked back over the five completed tiles before moving on to the first of the sequence of nine bamboos.

  Her peacock looked a bit cartoony, but Brenda stopped reworking lines when she realized she was obsessing. Drawing columns that represented stalks of bamboo was easier. She quickly grasped that the best technique was to etch each in faintly, then even out the shape, giving it
a hint of dimension.

  When Brenda reached six bamboo, fitting the lines of bamboo onto the increasingly tight space became an obsession in itself. She realized she was sweating, although Des’s house, with its thick adobe walls, was not in the least warm. Other than that momentary awareness, however, she completely forgot her body. Each stalk of bamboo in the increasingly complex patterns became a part of a forest, and through that forest a long-bodied dragon moved, ready to come to her aid, ready to place itself as a wall between her and any danger.

  Brenda hadn’t realized that Des was standing behind her until she looked up from completing the crowded array that represented the nine of bamboo. She tapped the tile from the mold and ran a bit of wire through the marks on the sides, so that when the tile was baked there would be a hole.

  “Looks good,” Des said. “Want to stretch while I bake them?”

  “Are they right?” she asked. “I don’t mean the shapes, I mean, well, will they work?”

  “I’ll test them,” he promised. “Stretch. Riprap’s outside shooting baskets. You’ll need to get the kinks out of your muscles before you do the coloring and sealing.”

  Brenda nodded. Sparing one more proud glance for her creations, she went out through the front door. Riprap was in the driveway along the side. There was something rhythmic about how he bounced the basketball, and she smiled to herself.

  And he says he knows nothing about meditation … . Brenda strolled down the street for a few blocks, enjoying the evidence of spring’s rapid transition into summer.

  When she came back to Des’s house, it smelled faintly of cooking plastic.

  “The tiles are nearly done,” he said, “and they all look great. Are you ready to start painting? Those inks will go on equally well on warm or cool tiles.”

  “I want to finish,” Brenda said. “Do the inks wash off if I mess up?”

  “With some effort,” Des said. “But don’t think about failure. Think about dragons.”