“How many kinds of you are there?” I asked.
“Possibly as many as two dozen,” he answered. “Why?”
“I was just curious,” I answered. “It’s not an issue with you?”
“No. Why? Should it be? We are specialized for different purposes. I am a hunter and eat sharks. Red Mane, the first you met, is a plant eater almost exclusively. Deep Diver, the black one—his name is, I think, self-explanatory. Silver manes follow the drifting plant beds. I hunt and am fierce. Unlike the silver manes, I fear no storms, am a fast, strong swimmer, and travel in … I voyage … among the lost.”
“Am I then lost?” I asked.
“For the moment, but I will bring you home to your kin,” was his reply. “Not to Tintigal,” I said.
“No! And Igrane has a lot of explaining to do before we ever honor her with our trust again. Now get on. We have some distance to cover before nightfall.”
I obeyed.
I had strapped the flowers to my waist. Their fragrance drifted around me. And indeed, this was a place of flowers. They grew here in wild profusion. The beaches were covered with them above the tide line, golden sunbursts on succulent stems.
Violet whirls hung over the edges of the cliffs on the waterways we traversed. Mounded bushes covered by white blooms clung with twisted roots to the rocky slopes leading down to the water.
Others resembled poppies, with their brilliant colors of white, red, orange, blue, and all the shades in between—cascaded from steep cliffs adorned with broken rock. The petals of these flowers were thin and soft, and since the water the dragon swam through was dotted beautifully with their petals it was clear these blooms lasted less than a day. All this I glimpsed between patches of thick fog that lay on the water the way clouds rest on air rising from earth on a warm day.
The dragon—who, by the way, was the fastest, strongest swimmer I had ever ridden—swam sometimes around the fog patches so that we basked in the warm sun; at other times he hurried through them, and I was blinded by the thick, oddly chill vapor.
“What is this place? Why are we here? How will we get home?”
The dragon snorted and made an impatient noise. “I have no answers to these questions. At least, none that make sense to me, much less to you. The natural philosophers have some theories that I cannot begin to consider discussing.” This information was delivered in a suitably lofty tone. “But it is sufficient to say this is not a place and we are nowhere.”
“Very enlightening,” I answered.
“Ha! You think that’s bad, you should hear the explanations of our natural philosophers. But we call this the realm of the clawed bird.”
“Makes sense,” I answered. He did have claws on his wings; teeth, too.
“Yes,” the dragon said. “Yes, once he did, now he is no more. Yet we can still come here to gaze at his flowers and sip the honey made from them by the bees.”
“Bees?” I said. As we emerged from a fog bank near a cliff, I saw there were indeed bees here. Bees moreover of all shapes and sizes nesting in hollows under overhangs or small caves in the cliffs overlooking the water. Some, only as large as flies, were yellow, orange, and violet and very swift. Others were black, purple, yellow, and red and large almost as my thumb.
“Don’t be deceived,” the dragon told me. “It’s the little ones that are dangerous and will sting the hell out of you. The large black ones have another kind of protection but in return for an offering will let you drink from their combs. See them, the honeycombs?”
And I did. Some were as long as six feet, sheltered in the overhangs against the cliff face. Magnificent creations of the giant bees, colored all the shades of yellow imaginable—some so dark they were almost burgundy—running the gamut from red to brown, golden orange, dark yellow, sulfur yellow, pale yellow, and subtle greenish yellow, glowing like jewels, bright as their fostering flowers against the gray and black rock.
“The clawed bird hunts the little ones but is in a state of truce with the large black ones, and they supply him with honey for his young. But again I reiterate, don’t ask too many questions here or we might be sent home. You would not care to sojourn again at Tintigal.”
“No.” I shuddered. “But this realm of the clawed bird, it must be somewhere.”
The dragon laughed. “Only to your limited mind, and also to mine,” he added with a touch of humility. “But consider the kingdom of possibility. You would say it was an enormous one, would you not? All those things that might be and all those that ever existed. Our natural philosophers believe that anything that ever struggled into existence carved out its own special niche in that kingdom. And there it will remain irrespective of time, since time does not exist there.”
I rolled my eyes. “Sounds like Kyra’s possible.”
“Hmm?” the dragon asked.
“She tells me to wash down as far as possible and then wash possible.”
“ ‘Possible’ being a euphemism for the human reproductive area?”
“Yes,” I said.
“You ought to be ashamed to play with the language like that. But then, the natural philosophers say you primates are especially gifted that way. But, I’m glad we keep our equipment inside our bodies. Enough said. I’m going to dive, so take a deep breath. And shut up. If you try to talk under water, you’ll drown.”
He was right. I would. You see, we weren’t talking with our minds. We both made sounds. He could make sounds under water, but I couldn’t. I’m certain some sort of mind contact helped us understand each other, but the specifics were verbal.
I took a deep breath and we sank. We didn’t dive. I don’t know how they do that, but it’s very effective. I’ve seen snakes do the same thing. I wouldn’t compare the dragons to snakes, not while they were within earshot. I wouldn’t, because they consider snakes a very much lower life-form. But I have no doubt the same principle is involved.
Down here the world was blue and silent, though the water was sunstruck, and strong golden rays penetrated the depths. Down and down we went, making for an opening I could see as a dark cave in the cliff face. The kingdom of possibility—all things that ever were—had a niche there. Did that mean my mother was still somewhere within that kingdom? I had only one dim memory of her, and I wasn’t sure if it was a real memory or only something Dugald told me about her later.
Her hands were cold and her face thin and pinched. She was handing me over to Dugald and saying, “She is a brave one and doesn’t even cry at the icy touch of my hands.”
I learned later that she was dying.
If what the dragon said was true, someday my mother and I might meet beyond the world and speak with each other. Heaven, Dugald told me about heaven. But even he isn’t sure everyone goes there. In the church there are a lot of quarrels about it—who has the right to enter, who doesn’t, and where they must go if they can’t get in. But the kingdom of possibility sounded like a much more inclusive place. Maybe she was there.
Then we reached the entrance to the cave and plunged into darkness.
I closed my eyes. It’s better to close your eyes if you can’t see.
The whole gang of us had a big argument about it once. Kyra said it was comforting. The Gray Watcher said humans prefer an illusion of control, and Dugald says it awakens all the other senses. Black Leg said it was entirely possible they were all right and why couldn’t we spend an evening eating fire-cooked venison without attempting to solve all the conundrums of the universe among ourselves. He and Mother were about done up, and he had never seen such a quarrelsome bunch in his life. And to shut up and let him eat and get some sleep.
At any rate, I closed my eyes. As I did, I felt my arm come to life and I knew it was glowing because I could see the fire even through my eyelids. But I wasn’t afraid and didn’t feel any great need to breathe.
When we surfaced, the air was as blustery as it had been soggy in the other place, and after the heat, the breeze was cold on my skin. I opened my eyes and saw we wer
e off a coast, riding the swells. I saw no signs of any human dwelling. The forest came right down to the shore.
The dragon’s body gave an odd tremor.
“Are we home?” I asked.
“No,” he replied, and there was real fear in his voice. “We are supposed to be home, but we aren’t, and I don’t know why. See?” he continued. “This is Tintigal.”
It was. I could only just barely recognize the shape of its rocky coast. And it, too, like everything else I could see on land, was covered by dense forest.
The sun was riding low on the western horizon and casting a strong light over the ocean, the beach, and the forest beyond. I am a she-wolf, first and foremost. Dugald formed my mind. Kyra and Maeniel taught me the skills needed to survive. But Mother left me her heart.
She lives in mine, and to a wolf is the wisdom of first things first.
I was but lightly clad. My dress had been burned away and what remained of my shift stopped at my knees. I was already cold and if I tried to ride the dragon all night, I would likely perish from exposure.
“I will go ashore and make a fire,” I told the dragon. “If you can catch me a fish or two, it would be greatly appreciated.”
“The danger,” the dragon said. “Think of the danger. No one can tell what lurks in that forest.”
I nodded. “But I am in greater danger from the cold once the sun sets.” And I raised my right arm. “Fire is always with me, whereas you are protected from the cold by the fat under your skin. I am not. And it is imperative that I find shelter before nightfall.”
He made no further objection and began swimming toward shore.
We found a sheltered cove where the wind was not so bad. I waded ashore and collected stones and made a fire pit. The driftwood I found went up with a roar and sufficient coals were left to cook the fish the dragon caught.
Then I picked the warmest spot I could, lay down, and slept.
I woke deep in the night. The world was completely dark, the only sound the wind whispering in the forest. The fire was long burned out, but the rocks were still warm. I was thirsty. I had wrapped the fish in seaweed to steam it. I had wanted the salt. My exertions were such that I craved it. But it had awakened thirst in me and the water nearby was all salt.
I waded into the sea. I had to relieve myself and wanted to leave no traces. In the morning, I would scatter the rocks from the fire pit below the tide line and brush out any marks I made on the beach. And then what? I didn’t know, but I knew worrying about it right now would probably help nothing.
I waded back to the shore. My thirst grew. All up and down the coast there was darkness. No lights. That’s what bothered me, I decided. Near humans there were always lights—torches, hearth fires, lanterns, candles. Even the fishermen brought light with them on the water, setting a torch in the stern of their boats when they fished at night. But here—nothing.
I was not afraid of the dark and had good night vision. But this darkness was overwhelming. I felt like I had when I traveled in the wilderness with Black Leg and Maeniel.
The wind had died down and though the water was cold, it wasn’t freezing. I lay down and tried to go to sleep, but my thirst grew, tormenting me.
Finally I rose. It wouldn’t help to wait. In the morning, I would be no nearer to fresh water than I was now. I would have to make the same walk along the shore in search of a place where the runoff from a brook or stream reached the sea. I might as well look now. It might even be safer. Maeniel taught me to move about in the darkness, and taught me not to carry light the way most humans do.
Even wild creatures are frightened at the dead of night; but to a creature like a wolf that can see with its ears and nose, the earth under its pall of shadow is as cozy a place as a house with a warm fire and a barred door, besides being a lot more varied and interesting.
I am not as able a night walker as Maeniel, but I can do well enough if I try.
So I set out along the beach. I walked toward the headland that was Tintigal, all the while wondering where I was and how I had been sent to this particular place. I wasn’t sure but I thought I had been moved in time.
That fear made my skin crawl. I had heard tales of such enchantments from Dugald and that the druid opponents of Patrick had tried this against him and he had to fight his way back. But then I remembered something else Dugald told me: the universe has its own rules and laws. For example, if you jump from a high place, you fall. And She, the infinite mother, does not take kindly to those who violate those rules. Merlin was the one who probably sent me here and tore the fabric of the cosmos to do so. She, who does not think but is, would be trying to heal the breach, and likely I would be eventually sucked back home in the same way a branch caught on an obstruction in the current of a river is eventually pulled free to tumble along toward the call of the sea.
I knew, looking up at the cliffs visible in the ghostly light of the star blaze. There was no moon but that is when you know the universe shines with its own light—as did the coast of what had been, or would become, Dumnonia. I knew that the sea was now lower. It broke against the cliffs I could see beyond the beach. The dark forest I now skirted was submerged in my day and Tintigal an island, not the peninsula it was now.
I had to wade into deeper water. The current had driven a big pile of driftwood against the beach, just where the swelling of land that was Tintigal began. I had to wade to get around it.
I met the dragon there. He was drifting on the gentle swells of the darkened sea, his head curled over against his back like a bird sleeping. He woke when he heard me splashing about.
“Are you insane, like all the rest of your species?” he asked with some asperity.
“No, I’m very dry. I was looking for some fresh water,” I told him.
He sighed deeply. “Fine—wandering about the forest at night. How will I protect you if you encounter some much larger creature that wants to eat you?”
“I am not that easily made a meal of,” I told him somberly. “And, besides, if we are to travel tomorrow, I will need to find something to drink.”
“I hadn’t thought,” he said. “Why can’t you drink seawater like any normal being?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “Why can’t you drink fresh?”
“I can,” he said, “but I find it rather flat.”
“Well, I must find the runoff from a spring or a creek. If I don’t, I’ll be in trouble tomorrow.”
He sighed again deeply and began to sniff the air. I knew the Gray Watcher could smell water, and to a limited extent I could, too. I supposed a dragon might have much the same ability.
“Damn!” he whispered. “There is a spring on that promontory.” He indicated Tintigal with his head. “But you can’t get to the runoff, it’s under that pile of wood.”
“Then there is no help for it. I must climb up through the woods.”
“You can’t,” he snapped. “Look at that brush at the edge of the forest.”
“Likely,” I said, “it’s only a screen. It grows thick at the edge, but once under the trees where there is but little sun, the ground will be clear.”
So I plunged in and found myself right—under the trees it was very dark but the going was much easier. I had to avoid the clearings. They were thick with bracken, fern, and coiling masses of blackberry vines.
There were no paths. I followed the slope and hoped the spring would be among the rocks I could dimly see above. I did have some guidance, though, because I could smell the moisture now and the odor grew stronger the higher I climbed.
The ground grew more rocky; and the trees became less a thick, smothering darkness. The thin soil wouldn’t support the tall pines and ash and oak found below.
I walked among birch, ghostly in the faint starlight, and rowan filled with pale flowers at their many crowns. Coming up from the darkness of the thick woods, I began to feel the wind again. I looked up at the stars, thinking to read them and find out how near dawn it was. And I found myself r
eeling. They were not my stars.
Oh, there were no big differences. Instead, they were small and rather subtle; but they were there and I was truly frightened by them, for the stars changed slowly. The Gray Watcher told me they did change, but it took many more than one human lifetime to notice the differences. And night after night we lay on the hillside and he and Kyra taught me to know them, and we marked the watches of the night by the rising and setting of the Seven Sisters and the strange, certain beauty of the pole star. Kyra taught me the tales of her people. For they knew each star pattern and had songs for each one. The salmon, the warrior, the maiden, and all the rest. And I learned the ancient wisdom that allowed Kyra’s people to sail among the islands on the coast. The kingdoms of ice and snow to the north and the kingdoms of honey, wine, and oil to the south from whence came the Romans.
But as Kyra said, long ago there were no Romans, and her people sailed their hollow ships wherever they wished and traded for what they wanted. Much as the Veneti do now.
There was never a time in my life when I could not look at the heavens by day or night and, taking the seasons into account, not know where and when I was, to the hour—until now.
I was really frightened now. The sheer terror of my predicament struck me, and I felt the stone in the belly that is deep, mortal fear. But I am no fool. And, besides, I was brought up by four beings—one woman, two men, and a wolf—and none of them had any sympathy with a fit of the vapors. I found a flat rock to sit down on and put my head on my knees. And soon I was right again.
I repeated my look at the sky and found the changes were not all that profound. Besides, I had no firm appointments. If I were off a little on the time, it wouldn’t matter. Not long, I thought, an hour or so before morning.
So I moved forward toward the moist odor and saw in the starlight the faint white of the falls, where the spring emptied into a pool among the broken rock. For some reason I felt uneasy and shivered. And I remembered Maeniel’s warning: “Have a care when you approach water at night.” He knew by experience it was a favorite spot for predators. He had, when hunting alone, often waited there himself.
The Dragon Queen Page 24
