Heart of a Dragon

by David Niall Wilson

  They both laughed, and he poured the wine. As Donovan swirled his before the first taste, it caught the light, deep and red. Like blood – or paint. Something was bothering him, but he couldn't put a finger on it.

  Then Amethyst stepped closer and wound her arms around him, licking the rich red wine from his lips, and whatever thought he'd been about to have melted away.

  Chapter Nine

  Salvatore sat on the sidewalk outside of his shack. Much of the surface was covered in brightly colored drawings, soaring eagles and ocean waves breaking against stones on the beach. Where he sat there was a plain, white square of concrete, and in the center of that square, Salvatore drew.

  He started with a black piece of charcoal, rough and sharpened to a point on one corner. He didn't see concrete, or even a blank slate. His mind was trapped in the dream that had driven him from sleep. The morning breeze riffled his hair, but sweat trickled down his neck and under his dirty t-shirt. He'd slept only a couple of hours, spent the rest of the night huddled on the corner of his bed, shivering and waiting for the light.

  Now he worked. He struggled to force the images from his mind. He thought that maybe, if he recreated the dream, he could be free of it. Barring that, he could share it, and maybe someone could help him find his way through to a place where he could rest again. The moment the sun had broken across the city skyline, Salvatore had stumbled out into the light.

  In the night, he'd dreamed. He'd walked again on that beach, a beach that could not exist. The dragons hadn't seen him – they had soared against the dark backdrop of the sky, winding and whirling around one another and screaming their defiance. Salvatore had found a place on an outcropping of stone to sit. The dragons were beautiful. He sat and watched them for hours, powerful and free. In the distance there was darkness deeper than anything he'd ever experienced. It didn't move closer, but it loomed like storm clouds on the horizon.

  He felt a pressure between the two – the screaming, powerful serpents and the billowing, gathering darkness. Neither advanced, but both were aware of the tension. Every time one of the dragons launched into a dive toward the waves below, his heart sang, and every time the darkness moved – sentient and malevolent – he wanted to scream. He knew that the dragons would not hear him, but he wanted to scream to them – to tell them about the danger, to warn them and protect them. He didn't know how.

  Now he sat in the morning sun in the world where he'd been born and raised, but that other place would not let him go. He couldn't erase the dragons from his mind, and worse – he knew them. He knew almost every one of those magnificent creatures, but not as he'd dreamed them. He drew a long, sinuous back and extended claws. The wings swept back and up, and the tail wound down and into a spiral. He saw the colors as well, but he needed to get the outline in place.

  Next he grabbed his orange chalk, and his yellow. He fought with the colors, blending, erasing, and blending again, trying to get the perfect gold-sheen tint. The wings were a coppery brown, and the eyes blazed gold. He drew, erased, drew again, and erased again, fighting frantically to get the colors of the chalk to match his memory. It was difficult. He had to guess, and if he guessed wrong, he had to start over, unless the color came out too light and he could darken it. The color was important. The drawing was important. He didn't know why.

  Slowly, it came to life. Salvatore didn't see the waves breaking against the shore, but he heard them. He felt the sand beneath his feet, but he concentrated his thoughts on the movement of his hand, the sensation of chalk dust pressing through the pores of his skin. It was as though the colors melted into his bloodstream, and after a while, he no longer thought about it when he picked up the red, or the green. He worked steadily and the world dropped away.

  Sound insinuated itself, and he thought – just for a moment – that it was the cry of the dragon, floating to him on the breeze. Then something touched his shoulder, very lightly, and that other place receded. Salvatore jerked his hand back, afraid he'd make a stray mark, or smudge his work. Groggily, he sat back and shook his head, glancing around for the source of the interruption.

  He looked up, and the anger melted to terror in the span of a second. The man who stood over him was tall, over six feet and weighing more than two hundred pounds, if an ounce. Next to Salvatore's slight form, he seemed like a monster. Salvatore recognized the man from the meeting at Martinez' home; It was Jake, the Dragon.

  "I said," the bearded stranger growled, "it's awesome. You don't talk?"

  Salvatore stared up at the man. He took in the broad shoulders, the dirty jeans and hair so long it was braided in back, like Salvatore's mother had worn hers. None of this had the impact of the man's vest.

  It was denim, sleeves cut away, faded with dirty fringe around the edges. Salvatore could not see the back of the jacket, but even so he knew what he would see. He had seen it many times before. Jake was a Dragon, and in the Barrio, that meant Jake was a man to be avoided, or feared. If Salvatore had not seen him with Martinez, he'd never have found the courage to speak.

  "I...thank you, Sir," Salvatore said at last. His eyes turned to the sidewalk once more, focusing on the nearly completed image of the dragon, his face flushed.

  "No reason to be scared," the big man said softly. "I like dragons." The chuckle that followed should have sent chills down Salvatore's spine, but for some reason he believed them. "Where did you find this one?"

  "It ... is something I have seen," Salvatore said softly, his blush spreading down his throat.

  Jake leaned closer, his eyes sweeping up and down the image on the sidewalk. He reached down, tracing the design with his finger. "You did more than draw a picture here, kid. I can feel flames; feel the heat, the warrior behind the dragon."

  "He is old," Salvatore blurted. "I . . . I have seen this one many times. I had to draw him, to get him out of my head."

  Jake looked at him then, eyes dark. "What do you see when you look at me, kid?"

  Salvatore watched the big man's eyes, concentrating. He stared, face flushing as he knew he'd stared too long, but unable to look away. Then he closed his eyes, sat back, and rocked gently.

  The image was very clear. Greens and golds, magnificent, slender and sinuous like a serpent. The dragon leapt to the forefront of Salvatore's mind, and he nearly gasped at the sudden clarity. None had ever asked him to see, to understand.

  "Salvatore," he said softly.

  "Huh? You see what?"

  "My name," the boy repeated, is Salvatore, Senor Jake, and I see your dragon."

  Jake leaned back, rocking on his heels. He did not look at Salvatore, his gaze was fixated on the dragon that sprawled, nearly complete, across the dirty sidewalk. He reached out once again, as if to touch the design, and then pulled away.

  "It's funny," he said. "I look at your picture, Sally, and I see things too, familiar things. I see a man, someone I've known. You drew this dragon, but I see Vasquez. Don't know if you've heard about Vasquez - Tony wasn't anyone special, not to anyone but the Dragons. He died just the other night. Your picture brought him back to me."

  Salvatore's eyes shifted quickly to meet the big man's gaze. "He was a tall man, Senor Jake? Tall with long, dark hair and a scar high up on one cheek?"

  Jake stared at Salvatore for a long moment before nodding slowly. "He was. He was also my brother."

  Salvatore lowered his eyes to the dragon, thinking. "It is a magnificent dragon," he said at last. "It is Senor Vasquez's dragon. I saw him many times in the Barrio, parked near the market, or the park. It was there I first saw the dragon."

  "Why did you draw it?" Jake asked softly.

  "I have no choice, Senor. The dragons, they call to me. I see them, and I brush them aside. They do not leave me alone. I see them again, and again, in my dreams, in the soft glow that surrounds the streetlights at night, in the flashing lights of the policia. Always I see them - until I set them free."

  "That is a gift," Jake breathed softly.

  "I wish that th
e gift were less painful," Salvatore blurted. "I wish that I could sleep, and that they did not wander through my dreams."

  Jake was silent for a long moment, then he spoke. "Set mine free, Sally. I want you to set my dragon free now. You won't be haunted by it then, and I will see it, as you do. I want you to paint my dragon."

  Salvatore's heart nearly stopped. The dragon had already formed in his mind. The moment he'd glanced up and felt Jake's shadow fall over him, he'd seen it and known it. He'd expected to carry that image with him, holding it and sleeping with it, sharing it with Old Martinez and waiting. The Dragons were a fearsome lot, but they had a habit of disappearing, one after another. It was never until one of the Dragons died, or had been taken away, that Salvatore released the images.

  "I..." He said softly, "I do not paint. I have my chalk, the sidewalks and the walls of the Barrio. I work where I can and when I can. I have no paint, Senor Jake."

  "I think I can help with that."

  Martinez had come up on the far side of Salvatore's drawing silently. Salvatore turned, startled. Jake glanced up as well, apparently just as surprised to see the old man.

  "I can make paints," Martinez said. "I have been working on them and gathering what I need. This," he waved a hand at the sidewalk, "deserves so much more. The wind and the rain will find it…it will fade."

  Jake knelt down and brushed his finger very gently along the edge of the dragon, not really touching it.

  "He will never fade." He said. "This drawing…this is a drawing of something that has already passed. I never saw him –not like this – but Sally did. He saw it, and he remembered it," Jake turned to stare at Salvatore. "And he honored it. This is…"

  Jake stopped talking then. There was a tremor in his voice, and Salvatore saw a tear glistening in the corner of his eye. Salvatore looked away. It was a private moment, and he knew that if Jake was to share it with anyone, it would be the dragon. It would be his friend…his brother. Vasquez.

  "You never answered the question," Martinez said softly, laying a hand on Salvatore's shoulder. "Will you paint Jake's dragon? Will you set it free? I will provide the paint."

  "I have nothing to paint it on," Salvatore said.

  It wasn't a denial that he could, or would do the painting, only a statement of fact. Salvatore owned very little. He had his home, which had been abandoned by a family who moved on. He ate because of Martinez and a few others, generous people who brought him things and let him do menial jobs. He had no money for supplies. His chalk had been gathered, donated, found in strange places. He had charcoal that had been drawn from the remnants of fires in old oil barrels. He had pencils, but they were very short – discarded and found on the streets.

  "I know where you can paint it," Jake said. He rose from the sidewalk, where he'd been staring at the drawing.

  Martinez turned to him, and Salvatore stood, finally, though he kept his eyes downcast. He was confused, and excited, and absolutely uncertain what to say.

  Jake faced them, tears streaming openly down his cheeks.

  "This vest," he said, "has the colors of The Dragons on it. I would give it to you, but I can't. It's…I just can't. But I have a jacket. It's leather. I wear it to protect me. I wear it like armor. I'll bring that jacket to you, if you'll paint my dragon on it. If you have seen …"

  Jake waved at the dragon on the sidewalk. He didn't look, because he was beginning to regain control of his emotions, and he didn't want to break down. They all knew it, but no one said anything. They let him talk.

  "We're in the middle of something big," Jake said. "I don't know how it will end. We know how it ended for Vasquez. I may have to go into the next battle and find that same ending; I would be honored," his voice broke, but he pressed on, "if I could wear my dragon. I want to see it before I die."

  Salvatore's vision blurred. He felt his knees grow weak. He started to speak, but the words swam in his mind, and he couldn't reach them. Then everything was dark.

  Chapter Ten

  The world whirled slowly back into focus. Salvatore stared at the ceiling over his head. It was not his own, but at first he couldn't place it. There were sounds, too, but he couldn't separate them from the rushing sound in his ears. Finally, after closing his eyes and lying very still, he was able to think. It was Martinez' home. He was lying on the floor on a thin pad. His head rested on some sort of pillow and he was covered in an old blanket.

  He heard footsteps and turned toward the sound. Martinez was walking slowly about the room. Salvatore glanced up and saw that there were a number of items arranged on the table. Martinez steadily added to the pile, first going to one shelf, and then to another. Salvatore sat up slowly. He must have groaned, or made some sound, because Martinez turned and smiled.

  "Back in the world of the living, I see," the old man said.

  Salvatore opened his mouth to speak, but it was dry. His lips were gummy and stuck together. Martinez saw and was at his side in a moment with a small cup of water.

  "Drink this," he said. "You've been sleeping for several hours."

  "I am sorry," Salvatore managed after a second sip of the cool water.

  "No reason to apologize. You've not been sleeping well lately, and what you are doing – the dragons you are drawing – that effort is draining your energy as well. We are going to have to find you some food before you start your painting. Jake will be dropping by your home this evening with his jacket. I told him I'd get you back on your feet and ready to work. He's very excited."

  "Will it be okay?" Salvatore asked. "The painting – the dragon. I see them, but I don't understand. I have never drawn one until …"

  "Until after the man was dead." Martinez finished. "I know. This will be different. This jacket will be very special to Jake, and it will help to protect him. It is a good thing you are doing, and soon I will complete the paints that you need for the job."

  There was a soft knock on the door, and Martinez opened the door. On the step a young girl curtsied shyly. She held a covered bowl in her hand.

  "Evangeline," Martinez said. He leaned and took the bowl from her hand. "Where is your mother?"

  "She could not come, sir," the girl said. "She is serving at the church tonight. They are making soup."

  Martinez slid a hand into one pocket and pulled out a folded bill. He handed it to the girl.

  "You make sure to give her my thanks. Tell her she has been a help to me, and that I will not forget. Can you remember that?"

  The girl nodded. Salvatore knew her – he'd seen her playing in the park on sunny days and running errands for her mother in the streets. They seldom spoke. Most inhabitants of the Barrio ignored Salvatore. They though he was odd, and they knew of his connection to Martinez. Salvatore watched her, and when she caught him gazing, he blushed and smiled. He wished at times that he had more friends near his own age – those he could share his dreams with and not worry that he sounded foolish.

  The girl, returned his smile, tilted her head prettily to one side, and then turned. With a quick flash of white cotton and tan legs she was off down the steps and into the street. Martinez turned back to Salvatore.

  "Her mother, Maria Santiago, is a very fine cook. I have helped her when her children were sick, and I looked after her husband when he was injured in an accident several years ago. She sometimes sends me food. I asked her to send me something for you. I believe it is bean soup. I have some bread, and a bit of cheese. I want you to eat all of it, and have some milk. Then you must rest. When I am done here, we will carry the paints to your home, and wait for Jake."

  Salvatore sat very still. He was unused to anyone looking after him. He was also, he realized, starving. He couldn't say when the last time he'd had anything that resembled a real meal, or anything to drink other than tepid water. His eyes pooled with tears, but he blinked them back. He did not want to humiliate himself in front of Martinez.

  "What you are doing will help us all," Martinez said. The man's voice had softened slightly. "E
at. I have much to do before we will be ready."

  Salvatore rose and took a seat at the table. Martinez placed the soup before him with a large spoon, a chunk of bread, and a moment later followed it all up with some cheese and a cup of milk. Salvatore didn't know where to start. It smelled delicious.

  Martinez went back to his preparations. As he ate, Salvatore tried to pay attention. There were three simple earthenware bowls on the far side of the table. Between each and the window there were metal stands from which colored crystals dangled on chains. Martinez worked slowly and carefully. He mixed ingredients first in one bowl, and then the next. The first two were flanked by blue and yellow crystals. The last had a red crystal, and it was on this bowl that most of Martinez's attention was spent. The old man consulted often with a printed sheet of paper.

  Salvatore was fascinated. He'd seen paints before. He'd even used them once or twice when the church gathered young people in the summer. They allowed him to attend, even though he had no parents to vouch or sign for him. Salvatore enjoyed those times very much, interacting with other young people, working on the crafts and hearing the stories of the priests. He listened carefully and never forgot a tale. The others, the children from better homes, and those who attended school regularly, seemed to take the words for granted, but for Salvatore stories were magic – almost as appealing as the images he created, day in and day out, to fill his ours and free his mind.

  Martinez worked at the three bowls with a pestle, grinding the ingredients into a paste. He added oils and some water, and worked at each again. The old man was patient, and though he could not hear the words, Salvatore saw Martinez was speaking constantly as he worked. The mumble that was discernable was rhythmic, like a chant, or some sort of incantation. Salvatore very much wished he could hear, it but there was the cheese, and the cup of milk to consider, and he was afraid that if he spoke, or moved closer, he would interrupt the old man's concentration.