by GARY DARBY
Farther up, the water flows over three broad steps, one after another. Each ledge is at least waist-high in height and half as wide as the birthing barn. The gurgling water has a luminosity, like Dragon Glow, but a soft white instead of pink.
Each ledge is cracked and uneven so that the water has to bend and curl as it passes over the rock shelving, which makes for dark, wavy swirls in its radiance. After the very last step, the water drops into a full, deep pool where it slows to a meander and then spills out into the wide streambed.
The golden draws closer to the falls, slows, and then turns to one side. My eyes widen and a “Wha . . . ” slips out of my mouth.
In the center of an almost perfectly oval glen, stand three dusky white spiral-like swirls that rise from the grass-covered ground to dragon height. The coiled earth is thick at the base, but slims and narrows as it rises until its point is as thin and sharp as any arrow point. I glance around, but the glade is empty except for the three towering pillars.
I’ve never seen anything like the columns, they seem unearthly, almost supernatural. I can’t help but gawk at the spires, it’s like I’m seeing an artist’s drawing from one of Phigby’s fantasy books. I slip down off the golden and take several steps toward the columns as if I’m drawn to them, my eyes riveted on their sweeping upward forms.
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” I say, “They’re — ”
“The three Gaelian Fae,” the golden murmurs reverently.
“Gaelian Fae?”
“Yes, three of the four Fairy Queens; Osa, Nadia, Eskar, and Vay — the creators and guardians of all dragons. But these only represent Osa, Nadia, and Eskar.”
I stare at the three monoliths. To me, they appear like cream-colored clay that someone has molded into shapes that resemble swirled butter when it thickens. “Uh,” I ask, “are you saying that those three dirt columns created you?”
The golden doesn’t immediately answer, but when she does, it’s in a soft, melodious singsong,
“Four there were, the Gaelian Fae
Osa, Nadia, Eskar, and Vay
Given a place below the gods,
Where neither Drach nor dragon trod
The gods created all creatures both great and small
Some to fly, some to walk, and some to slither or to crawl
On worlds far below to the heavens high above
Some in spite and some with love
But of the dragon, the Fae lay claim
Talon and tail, and fiery mane
Brought them forth as to reign
Over hill, forest, and starry train
But Drach their equal was to be
On land, sky, and deep-blue sea
Gaelian Fae who set their scales
Green to tread through forest dales
Red to thunder in fiery fight
Orange and Yellow to shimmer in flight
Sapphire faster than even the wind
Violet to royalty its knee will bend
Blue to swim thru wondrous ocean
Each creation most carefully chosen
Seven of the bow that colors the rain
Over hill, forest, and starry train.”
I close my gaping mouth before muttering, “You and Phigby must have read the same book. You sound just like him.” I bite down on my lip, realizing that I’ve spoken of Phigby as if he’s still alive, which he isn’t.
I start to turn away from the columns, when, with a snort, the golden whips her head up and peers downstream. Her ears swivel as if she’s searching the star-studded sky and a low, deep rumble comes from her throat.
My breathing quickens. From the way she’s acting, whatever it is she’s sensing, it’s not good.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, my voice rising in alarm.
“Dragons,” she answers, “headed our way.”
“Wilders!” I hiss. “They’ll spot us!”
I frantically survey our immediate surroundings. Off to the left, a small hill rises with part of it carved out by stream floods of past seasons. There’s an overhang of sorts, but it’s too low for the golden to fit under. Just past is a thick grove of cone-shaped spruce, dark with shadows.
“There!” I cry. “Head for those trees, hide in there.”
The golden remains where she is, staring up at the sky. “Move!” I yell. I push at her big body to get her running toward the forest, but I might as well be trying to shove aside one of the Dragon Tooth mountains for all the good it does me.
I put my back against her scaly stomach and push, but that doesn’t budge her a gnat’s width. In desperation, I run to face her and yell, “The trees, you fat butterball of a dragon, get into the trees!”
She gives me a hurt look for an instant before turning and lumbering toward the forest with me following as best as I can. We slip into the tree line just as I hear dragon wings in the distance.
I hastily slide down to the ground and hide under the overhanging limbs of a good-sized spruce. The golden goes deeper into the grove, careful not to brush too hard against the trees and set them to swaying, a dead giveaway that a dragon is moving through the forest.
I wiggle forward and peek through the needle-like leaves to watch the open glen. Moments later, the pulse of dragon wings sounds through the night. I can tell by the slow beat of their wings that the dragons are gliding in for a landing.
And that’s the last thing we need right now. After all, what good is someone, me, who can barely notch an arrow, let alone hit anything with it going to do against armed and angry Wilders?
Die, that’s what.
I start to back out of my hiding place to follow the golden deeper into the woodlands when I stop and with a grin so broad that it hurts, I scramble to my feet. I know the sound of those wings! I’m almost choking as I stumble from behind the tree. It can’t be, but it is.
Sailing just over the treetops comes a sapphire. It cups its wings before extending its hind legs and settles to the ground. A second later, a second dragon drops to the ground, and then a third. Three sleek sapphires, and to my eyes, miracle dragons.
By the time the second sapphire touches down, I’m already running at my best pace toward the first. It’s Wind Song, and riding her is the beautiful, and very much alive Cara Dracon. She slides to the ground holding a wriggling bundle. She opens her arms and a dark-grey wad leaps to the ground and bounds toward me in that funny, sideways rolling gait that I know oh so well.
It’s Scamper.
The little grub digger hits me in the chest, nearly bowling me over. I drop to the ground, and an almost childlike giggle escapes my lips as Scamper licks every bit of my face. I squeeze him tight in my arms. I’ve never been happier in my life.
Finally, Scamper stops giving me a tongue bath, puts his paws on my chest and juts his face at mine. Grrwaaayyy, he says in a stern and accusing voice. “Yes,” I answer in my most apologetic tone. “I went away and left you.”
I draw in a deep breath. “And, I’m very, very sorry I did. I didn’t mean to, I — I tried to find you, but I couldn’t. I promise I won’t ever do it again.”
He eyes me for a second, considering whether my apology was sincere enough. It must have been because his little nose quivers before he drops down in my lap and searches my tunic with his paws. Eeeeet? he asks.
I scratch him behind his rounded ears. “Sorry, fella, I haven’t had anything to eat either. We’ll have to find something later for the two of us.” With that, he ambles off, no doubt to forage and find his own late-night meal.
I look up. Cara is standing nearby, a little smile on her face. I scramble to my feet and all but stumble over to her. There are so many things I want to say, but I fumble my words and sound like a gibbering fool. “Cara — you’re alive — you’re — I’m so — how — are you hurt?”
She laughs and throws her arms around me and to my astonishment gives me a hug. “Of course, I’m alive, silly,” she says. “I told you we weren’t going to die. And no, I’m not hurt, but Helmar is.”
She steps back and with a serious look on her face asks, “The golden?”
I swallow and point. “In the woods, she’s fine.” I start to say, “But there’s something you should know,” when Cara draws in a deep breath and lets it out in great relief. She gives me another hug while whispering, “Thank you, Hooper.” She lets go of me and runs back to the sapphires.
I quickly follow her to find Helmar easing himself down to the ground, grimacing in pain and holding his left arm. “You’re hurt,” I state.
“Just a nick from a Wilder arrow,” Helmar answers bluntly. “I didn’t duck fast enough.”
“Nevertheless, even a nick needs tending,” a familiar and welcome voice comes from the side.
“Master Phigby!” I yelp. “We thought you dead.”
“Near enough,” he answers, “but it appears my time is not yet.”
Before he can say more, Helmar reaches out to turn me toward him. “The golden?” he demands.
“Safe,” I reassure him and point toward the dark tree line. “I hid her in there when I heard dragon wings. I was afraid you were Wilders.”
“Wilders there be,” Phigby grumps, “but, for now, we’ve left them behind.” He points to the hill’s overhang. “Let’s get Helmar under that so that I can brew up the medicine I need to tend to that wound. I’ll get my kit.”
Phigby stumps back to the third sapphire and my eyes widen when I catch full sight of the blue dragon. “That’s Wind Rover,” I stutter.
I turn to Cara. My announcement has brought a mist to eyes that turn sad and bleak. She holds a hand to her mouth before saying, “Somehow, she made her way back to Draconton, but father wasn’t with her. Nor was there any sign of Daron and his crimson.”
She takes a deep breath. “Phigby said there wasn’t any blood on Rover, so that’s a good sign.”
“But where is — ”
“We don’t know, Hooper,” Phigby growls as he rejoins us. “Save your questions for later.” He motions for Helmar to follow and as they do, Cara says, “Hooper, bring Golden Wind over by the overhang, I’ll get the sapphires in close.”
I give her a quick nod and head for the trees. I push past the jutting tree limbs to find the golden lying on all fours. “C’mon,” I say, “it’s Cara, Scamper, Master Phigby, and Helmar. They’re all right, except Helmar has an arrow wound.”
“I know,” she replies.
“You know?” I reply. “Then why did you stay hidden, why didn’t you come out?”
“Because I wanted you to have your moment with your comrades and friends. I would have been a distraction.”
She rises and together we walk back toward the small hillside. Helmar is sitting on a small log and Phigby is helping him get his tunic off. I can see the blood streaming down Helmar’s arm from the puncture-like wound that still has the arrowhead and a shortened piece of the shaft sticking out of his shoulder.
As Phigby presses a cloth on the wound to stem the bleeding, he glances up and barks, “Get wood for a fire, I need hot water.”
He tosses several water flasks at me. “Fill them, and hurry.”
Helmar wipes at his sweating, grimy face and says, “The Wilders may see the fire’s glow.”
“Maybe they will, maybe they won’t,” Phigby grunts. “But, without hot water to brew the medicine I need, that wound of yours could fester and the poison will spread through your body. If so, then your life glow will surely end.”
I glance around and say, “The dragons.”
Cara turns and asks, “What about the dragons?”
“We could bring them in closer,” I answer, “form a screen. The overhang will prevent the fire from being seen from above, the hill shields it to one side, and the dragons will mostly block it on the other.”
Cara peers up at the overhang before she turns to Helmar with a questioning expression. He nods in return. “Put the golden in the middle,” he orders, “she’s the biggest and will block most of the light.”
Cara says to me, “Get the water, Hooper, and I’ll arrange the dragons. When you get back, help me with the wood.”
I start to turn, but Helmar calls out, “Hooper.”
I face him, and he says, begrudgingly, “Nice work getting the golden out of the barn.”
I give him a sheepish grin. “All I did was get a barn door open, which I couldn’t have done if you and Cara hadn’t so thoroughly distracted the Wilders. Not to mention that there are a lot fewer of them going back to their lairs thanks to you and Cara.”
I lean closer to Cara. “And I do thank you for saving my life back there.”
She smiles in return, but the moment is quickly over as Phigby snaps, “Now that we’ve stopped patting each other on the back, Hooper go get the water. Cara get those dragons in place and then the both of you collect some wood.”
Before I hurry out, I say to Cara, “Just so you know, the sprogs are asleep in the golden’s carapace.”
Her eyes grow wide. “You did save them!”
I give her a quick smile in answer and dash off to get the water. I hurry down to the river to fill the flasks and find that Scamper is fishing. “Having any luck?” I ask. His front paws are wet which means he’s made at least one attempt to snag a fish, but missed.
Brrrrrt, he says and shakes a few drops off one paw. “Yes,” I reply, “the water’s cold, but keep trying, I hear brook trout are very tasty.”
I rush back with my filled water flasks, squeeze past the dragons to find Cara pushing together a pile of small twigs and branches that she apparently found under the overhang. She reaches out for the water flasks, and I hand them over.
From his bag, Phigby pulls out a small jar, takes the lid off, and sprinkles some tiny gray pellets in his hand. He tosses them into the wood, mutters something under his breath, and the wood catches fire. I’m not the only one with an amazed expression at what just happened, but before I can say anything, Phigby points to the tree line. “More wood,” he orders, “this little fire won’t suffice for what I need to do.”
Cara starts to turn, but I reach out to stop her. “Stay here and help,” I say, “I’ll get the wood.”
She nods gratefully, and I can see the weariness in her eyes. I push past the golden who’s lying with her head on her forelegs, eyes closed. The sprogs are still asleep, having slept through all the excitement.
It doesn’t take long for me to gather a bundle of dried, broken limbs and branches and start back. I don’t see Scamper anywhere, but I figure he’s given up on his fishing expedition and is rooting in the hillside for worms and beetles.
I glance upstream to where the three pillars stand tall and dark. The clouds part and a beam of moonlight falls on the columns. I suck in a breath. In the pale light, I see three faces staring; their cool, blue eyes centered on me. The light passes, and they’re gone. “No,” I whisper to myself. “Please, please no more witches.”
I scurry back with my load and quickly drop the wood by the small fire. I gulp and start to point toward the pillars. Phigby, who’s laid out two gray, metallic cups and several jars, takes one look at me and snaps, “Well, what is it? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
My mouth works, but nothing comes out. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the golden raise her head, peering at me with an intent expression. Phigby glares. “Hooper!” he grumbles. “Out with it, or let me get about tending to Helmar.”
I shrug my shoulders. “Nothing,” I murmur, deciding that I must be seeing shadows in the night, faces that really aren’t there.
“Humph,” Phigby replies. “In that case, put more wood on the fire.” As I do, Cara unloads the sprogs off the golden and places them near the fire for warmth. They’re snuggled together, except I notice that Regal has wormed his way into the middle of the pack, gaining even more warmth off the other sprog’s bodies.
Phigby dips two fingers into a lime-colored jar and pulls out a pinch of green-tinted flakes. He drops those into the first cup, adds water, sti
rs with a small wooden spoon and sets the cup next to the fire.
He pours water into the second cup, adds a sprinkle of fine granules from a white jar and a liberal amount from a small, dark red pot. After stirring, Phigby sets that cup, too, next to the fire. It’s not long before steam begins to rise from the first cup and he pulls it away from the coals.
He stirs the olive-colored liquid, letting it cool before he hands the cup to Helmar. “Drink,” he orders. Helmar brings the mug to his nose and sniffs the steam. He jerks his head back and wrinkles his nose.
“Phigby,” he scowls, “if that tastes like it smells, I’m going to end up spitting it all out. What happened to that delicious cinnamon and honey molasses concoction you gave me when I had the cough?”
“I don’t tell you how to train dragons,” Phigby retorts. “Don't tell me how to tend arrow wounds. Now, drink.”
Cara gently touches Helmar’s hand. “Go ahead,” she says encouragingly, “I know from experience it doesn’t always smell or taste good, but Phigby knows what he’s doing.”
Helmar wrinkles his nose again. “I’m not so sure,” he answers. He takes another sniff, grimaces, but then takes a deep breath and downs the liquid, making a face when he finishes. Seeing his expression, I know from experience exactly how he feels.
He coughs, gags, and says in a raspy voice, “I was right, it tasted every bit as bad as it smelled.”
“Be that as it may,” Phigby answers, “that will help defeat the poison, just in case there was any.”
“Poison?” I ask.
“Wilders sometimes use the juice of the pison berry on their arrow tips,” Phigby explains. “Even a tiny scratch results in a horrible death. Someone who has such a wound begins to writhe, foam at the mouth, and — ”
He stops, seeing the distressed look on Cara’s face. He reassuringly pats Helmar on the shoulder. “You show none of the symptoms, lad, so be at ease. I only gave that potion to you as a precaution.”
He reaches over and pulls the other steaming cup away from the fire. He rummages in his bag and pulls out several long strips of cloth. He hands those to Cara and lifts up the cup to Helmar. “Drink just a bit of this but no more than one small swallow or you’ll be sleeping for three days and that we can’t afford.”
