The Dragon Who Didn't Fly

by C. M. Barrett

  “One,” Serazina said. “The world we know is only broken pieces.”

  A green and golden glow filled the One. As Serazina stared, a woman appeared within it. She extended her arms, and Serazina ran into their soft warmth. The woman stroked her head with a gentle hand.

  “Your job is to mend the world,” she said. “Use the glue of love.”

  “Serazina!”

  When she opened her eyes everything looked different. The outlines of all that she saw were blurry, as if at any moment they might dissolve to reveal a world of green mist and another pond, where a mysterious woman smiled at her with loving eyes and a dragon danced.

  * * *

  “It’s working,” Tara said to Orion. “The mother is complaining and ordering her to do this and that, and the girl obeys without a hiss. The woman checks to see if the sun has made the girl ill. Peacefulness won’t last long in that house, but she’s better prepared for tonight.”

  “You’ve worked a miracle,” Orion said.

  Pride and ego bared their teeth at her, but she scampered past them into a delicious trance in which the wisdom of all cats flowed through her, in which her being was one star in a starry sky.

  Orion nudged her. “Now it’s time for us to go to that meeting at the schoolhouse.”

  Tara jerked her head up in annoyance. “I was in a state of ecstasy. I understand why ignorant humans interrupt such moments, but you should know better.”

  Before she saw Orion lift his paw, she was spinning through the grass. He growled, “You should know better than to make such odious comparisons.”

  Tara shook leaves from her ears. “I didn’t want the experience to end.”

  “To hoard such experiences is the manner of a cat who stores away food, even though he’s hungry. When we trust Her, She sends us food and visions in equal measure. Let both joy and sorrow flow through you, leaping from one moment to the next, and you’ll know harmony.”

  Maybe Orion was right, but he was way too eager to knock the truth into her.

  The cats crept quietly through the deserted schoolyard, following the sound of human voices. They settled beneath the window of the place where the humans were meeting.

  “Guardian, we’ve heard that you refuse to invoke the death penalty for terrorists. We beg you to reconsider.”

  Every hair in Tara’s ears quivered as she listened intently to the human who responded. Though she had never felt the chill of winter’s winds, she experienced it now in the coldness of this human’s voice.

  “I’ve said already that we must never sink to the level of the animals who wantonly kill each other.”

  Tara hissed. “The nerve of him. The stupidity. I’ve heard enough. No pretty visions for this one.”

  “Ten deep breaths before you say another word.”

  “But—”

  “I mean it.”

  Tara slowly inhaled and exhaled and felt some of the anger-born tension slip from her muscles.

  “Good. Now, don’t pounce so quickly. It’s true that the average dead body seems to have more feeling than this human, and his stupidity is disgusting, but we may be able to reach him. Don’t listen to his words. Go deeper—but with the lightest of paw steps. You don’t want him to know you’re visiting.”

  Tara listened carefully, her heart traveling through the layers of the Guardian’s voice. First she heard a muted roar of anger, like the low growl of a cat answering a challenge. The next layer held flickering tones of fear and dragging notes of defeat. At the deepest level crouched a faint, despairing whimper of loneliness. Throughout every level, frustration sounded shrieking chords, and deep as she dug, she couldn’t find love or tenderness anywhere.

  “He’s better protected than even the turtle or porcupine,” she said, “but I will try.”

  * * *

  “But, Guardian,” a rough-looking countryman said, falling silent only when someone else nudged him.

  “Next question, please,” Daria Turley said.

  An elderly man with filmy blue eyes rose. “We’re worried about the rain. Some predict drought. Even if we are spared, we must have more water.”

  “May I answer, Speaker?” asked Malvern Frost.

  Phileas was tempted to punish him for his intemperate behavior, but he knew nothing about water. “Please do,” he said, coating his words with an extra layer of ice.

  The Councilor was unbelievably dull on the subject, but the members of this farming community listened intently. Water wasn’t an academic subject for them. It was their lives.

  “Our researchers are working continually,” Malvern said. “Last winter they developed a new fertilizer that lowered plants’ need for water. So far, our reports indicate its effectiveness.”

  A young man timidly raised his hand. “Councilor, some say that the beans of the first crops have a peculiar taste.”

  “Peculiar beans fill the stomach more adequately than none at all,” Malvern said. “If we must adapt the preferences of our taste buds, I’m more than willing to do so for the greater good.”

  Phileas had to concede that this was well said.

  “Still, it won’t solve all our problems. We must have more water, not only for the fields, but also for the needs of our growing city. That’s why we have the Water Commission. A young woman from our own community participates on it. Elissia Clare is a credit to all of us.

  “We’re investigating many possibilities. Though it’s premature to describe any in detail, one, if adopted, will be especially agreeable to the citizens of Oasis West.”

  Phileas felt an unaccountable chill at Malvern’s words. What was he hiding? That was the problem with appointing independent commissions. They met without his guidance and scrutiny, and all too often they fomented disaster. He would question Malvern closely and soon.

  Succeeding questions were easy to answer. He was just beginning to congratulate himself that he’d gotten off easily when a tall, angular woman rose.

  “Guardian, we’re ecstatic that you escaped the assassin’s bullet, but during those long hours when you lay between life and death—”

  “I never lay between life and death,” Phileas said. “That may be the material for a stirring myth, but those present that day know that I stood immediately, already healing. It is, after all, my job.”

  “I apologize,” she said. “I refer to another of your jobs. Many across the land worry that you haven’t yet produced an heir.”

  He tried for humor. “It’s not like planting beans.”

  “I know, of course, but couldn’t you …” Her voice trailed off in embarrassment.

  And rightly so. Did the people want him to copulate more? Her nerve and ignorance appalled him. Did she think one shopped in the market for a new Guardian? And was he a doddering old man? Hadn’t he proved by his recovery that he was as fit as anyone in this room?

  “You have nothing to fear,” he said.

  “But, Guardian—”

  “No Guardian has ever left his office vacant, and I’m younger than my father was when I was born. I’m sure that none of you are suggesting I’ll be the first one derelict in my duty to the people.”

  One by one they fell back.

  “Forgive us.”

  “You are our Guardian; our future is in your hands.”

  “You will do what is best for our country.”

  Phileas stared at their lowered, loyal heads, momentarily possessed by the urge to strike them all off from their thick, stubborn peasant necks for the crime of adding one more worry to his substantial collection.

  Chapter 13

  By the time Phileas shook the last farmer’s hand and escaped from the schoolhouse, twilight wrapped the countryside in a violet haze. Hungry and tired, he longed to join the Councilors going back to the city. He recognized his desires as symptoms of bodily weakness and subdued them.

  Kermit Strand hung back. “Will you be all right, Guardian?”

  “I’ve a dozen of the honor guard to protect me. If they
can’t do, so we might as well all surrender.”

  Kermit still lingered. In a voice pitched so that only Phileas could hear he said, “The people are right. I beg you to give more attention to the matter of an heir.” Before Phileas could respond, he left.

  The Guardian’s car cruised down the narrow village lane, surrounded by a convoy of peace officers on motorcycles. How dark the streets are, he thought, how unnatural to let the night swallow the works of man.

  The road widened as they approached the outskirts of the village. Night hung low over the fields, and the unharmonious warbling of frogs and crickets merged with a low vibration that grew in intensity as they rode on.

  As if responding to Phileas’s attention, it shaped itself into waves of thought, but he was unable to make any sense of them.

  “What creature makes that mind-damaging hum?” Phileas asked his driver.

  “I hear nothing,” the man said, his voice low with apology. “Is it perhaps a thought only you can sense?”

  Phileas gave the man an appreciative glance. The members of his honor guard were principally renowned for physical strength and alertness. This man was an exception, one capable of original thinking and probably deserving of advancement.

  The thought only temporarily distracted him from the vexing hum. Its source was obviously a mind of great direction and force, a mind at least close in intelligence to his. Although he could make no sense of its reasoning, he sensed an inner integrity to it. This was impossible. Such a mind did not logically exist.

  “Officer, what did you discover in your preliminary security arrangements about the people who live in the immediate area?”

  “Councilor Frost and his family live in the big house over there.”

  Phileas tuned into the emanations of low cunning.

  “Just behind us is the Albregetti home. The father is a Field Supervisor. He has a son who is apparently an artist.”

  Phileas turned in that direction, brushing away the sparkles of contentment and drowsiness that flickered from the house like fireflies. “And no one else?”

  “Only the house we’re approaching now, the home of the Clares.”

  It couldn’t be her, either. Although she’d certainly demonstrated a gift for working her way into the heart of a Chief Healer who should know better, any mental talents she might possess would surely be raw. The intelligence Phileas had sensed was practiced and seasoned.

  The driver pulled up in front of the house. “Guardian, the honor guardsmen will discreetly station themselves on the property, and I’ll stand by the front door. This is Earther territory, and we can’t be too careful.”

  On foot they approached what appeared to be an ordinary stucco cottage, with the traditional vegetable garden in front. There was, however, something strange about the garden. In one area, flowers grew instead of vegetables, and they glowed in the dark. The closer Phileas and the driver got to them, the more dazzling their light appeared.

  This time Phileas decided not to make the mistake of asking his companion if he noticed anything unusual. Instead, he glanced at the man’s face, which wore only an expression of predatory alertness.

  Phileas turned back to the garden, where the lights of the splendid flowers winked and vanished. So did the flowers themselves. Some treacherous trick of country light, he decided.

  As the officer was about to knock on the door, it opened, and a big man charged outside. “Guardian, a thousand pardons! We are so honored by your visit, but an emergency has sprung up in Field Control. A new technician seems to have crashed the system. I’ve got to get it back online.”

  “An important task,” Phileas said, “especially at a time of crisis.” The man’s emotions would have been readable by a novice healer. They jumped all over the place, but this was probably due to the clash of courtesy with his impatience to solve a major problem. According to all reports, including Romala’s first-hand observation, he was known to be highly conscientious. No one mysteriously lost tools in his fields, and he gave all workers with grievances a fair hearing. He was a popular Supervisor who consistently won awards for field output. People like him helped to form the backbone of society.

  “Don’t let me delay you, Citizen Clare. I wish you success.”

  “Thank you, Guardian.” Clare darted down the road toward Field Control.

  A woman came to the open doorway. Phileas was sorry not to have the opportunity of observing her interacting with her husband, but he noted small pools of bitterness in the black depths of her eyes. Romala was right; a problem brewed here.

  No emotion, however, dulled her voice when she greeted him. “Please enter, Guardian, and honor our home with your presence.” Her handsome Etrenzian features were solemn. At first glance (and courtesy deemed that he go no further), her mind was quick, incisive, and informed by reason. If discontent lurked beneath her intelligence, it was well hidden by the focus on meeting an important man’s needs.

  “The honor is mine,” he said as he followed her inside.

  The room he entered was a model of Oasan austerity: plain, though well-constructed, wooden chairs and a couch with the thinnest of padding, a rug woven of grasses, the only wall adornments reproductions of portraits of Nathan and Zena. Everything was immaculate, and well-placed windows allowed refreshing cross-ventilation.

  The girl, Serazina, sat on a chair next to a young Tamaran man of her age. Both of them jumped to their feet and placed their hands in an inverted V in front of their foreheads when they saw the Guardian.

  “We’re deeply honored,” they said in unison.

  He inclined his head. “You, of course, are Serazina, and you?”

  “Berto Albregetti, I was sitting next to Serazina when she saw the assassin, and I thought perhaps I could be of service. I’ve made an effort to recall my impressions.”

  Here was a fine mind, one that should have been noticed by someone in the dismal rural school system.

  Berto was worth exploring, but he constituted an obstacle to Phileas’s intention to examine the girl’s mind in solitude. He would hear what the young man had to say and dismiss him.

  “Sit, please.”

  They did, and he seated himself in the nearest chair to Serazina. “I must thank you for saving my life.”

  She ducked her head, more a Dolocairner colt than a gazelle. He sensed that her footing on the bridge between adolescence and womanhood was unsure. She moved fearfully, as if worried that a plank would break or a railing give way. Her eyes were fixed not on the destination ahead but on the roiling waters below.

  This, of course, would make Romala adore her. A shy, vulnerable girl would be meat and drink to the Healer. Close contact with Romala had made Phileas appreciate her abilities. However, like all those of even partial Tamaran descent, she was cursed with a deep vein of sentimentality. Her efforts to control it were ongoing but not always successful.

  Phileas, as he often did, blessed his ancestress, Zena, who had never allowed maternal feelings—perhaps the most dangerous of all emotions—to color her judgment. Women of other races were not so disciplined. For most, the urge to protect their own young—and by extension, all helpless ones—and the willingness to sacrifice comfort, safety, and even life itself, approached animalistic passion.

  Yet had that passion to protect not been active in this girl, he would be dead. Had not Romala, acting out of that same female urge, nursed him tirelessly, he would still be bedridden. This line of thought produced unpleasant emotions. He regarded them dispassionately, as if they were insects pinioned and squirming on laboratory trays.

  I resent them both, he thought, because I’m in debt to them, and this puts me in emotional bondage—a condition not desirable for a Guardian. I must discharge this debt quickly. I’ll help the girl find a rewarding career; as for Romala, I’ll think of something.

  He ordered his mind to be at peace.

  “Show the Speaker the ring,” Fiola said.

  The girl extended her right hand. Phileas bli
nked; the once-opaque jasper was luminous and glowing, its light a nimbus that seemed to envelop the girl.

  His unease returned. Neither knowledge nor training explained how a stone could so change its properties. The phenomenon was as irrational as the mysterious apparition of glowing flowers. He looked around the living room, seeking reassurance from the sturdy beams of the ceiling and solid carpentry of the floor. Everything was built well, built to last, in the same way that Oasis’s laws and social structures had been built. Yet the deep unrest that threatened the country was very present here. Tension hummed in this room.

  A commotion outside distracted him. The chief security officer opened the door. “Some people trying to get close to the house, neighbors, I guess. They want a look at you, but the situation is under control.”

  “Everyone’s very excited about your being here,” Serazina said.

  “And they’ve allowed excitement to overwhelm their manners,” said Fiola.

  She left the room and returned with a tray of tea and cakes. Phileas was about to decline when he remembered that to refuse food in a host’s home was the most profound breach of manners. How could he have forgotten? Here was evidence that it had been too long since he’d visited a home of ordinary people. And he wondered that people feared him.

  “It would be an honor to eat your food,” he said.

  “Of course, we live on the food provided by the government, but for special occasions …”

  “Unthinking austerity is as mindless as gluttony,” he said, “and prideful austerity is worse.” He allowed his eyes to slide to the tray, which held an Etrenzian spice cake, stuffed with almonds and dates.

  Phileas took the offered plate and ate as slowly as he could. “When I was very young, my mother baked this cake,” he said, setting his plate down with reluctance. “She said that its sweetness was a reward for our people, who ate more sand and dust than anything else.”