The Dragon Who Didn't Fly

by C. M. Barrett

  “She does things like that, but that doesn’t mean She’ll help you squeeze out of a tough spot. Guards might come for you any minute. Let’s hurry to the swamp. They won’t find you there.”

  “Berto comes with us.”

  “Are you sure you trust him?”

  “I’ve never had to tell anyone something this big. I’m not sure of anything except that it’s too lonely to be the only one who knows. But if I can’t trust Berto . . . I can’t trust any human.”

  A wave of sympathy from the kitten enveloped her. “Tell him, but let me guide you. Begin by asking him what he thinks about the dragon. It would help if we could avoid a long walk.” She looked at the bicycles leaning against a shed. “Aren’t these good for something?”

  Serazina told Berto she wanted to take a bike ride. They took the path that led through the field and into the woods, Tara riding in the basket and complaining all the way.

  “We can’t go much further,” Berto said.

  “Let’s rest. Tell me what you think about the dragon?

  Berto tipped his head at her question. “What makes you ask?”

  “Because everyone is blaming the dragon for the drought, and the night before last they called Malvern Frost Dragonslayer.”

  “That would be enough to make anyone suspicious. I’m basing my loathing mostly on how I feel about his son, Walker, who’s a bully. And Malvern kicks doors open for Walker. This is a kid who flunked Political Science, and he’s going to Leadership College? Please. Seeing Malvern in action would make anyone suspicious about the whole dragon mystique.”

  “Mystique?”

  “Haven’t you wondered why no one has ever tried to kill the dragon?”

  “Maybe they have and don’t want to let the people know they failed. Maybe the dragon is un-killable. However, I happen to know Malvern plans to kill him.”

  Berto’s jaw dropped. “You mean Malvern Dragonslayer wasn’t just the usual bullshit? How do you know?”

  “That’s part of what I want to tell you, but I’m not ready yet. Do you have any ideas about why the dragon has never hurt anyone? What if he’s, well, indifferent to humans?”

  “I could believe that.”

  He was telling the truth.

  “But let’s get back to this dragonslaying business. How do you know?”

  Serazina clenched her fist. “Berto, I’m not on any drug, and the last thing I had to drink, which was way too much, was at the celebration. So do you get that I’m stone sober?”

  “I would know if you weren’t.”

  “Yesterday I met the dragon.”

  Berto stared at her. “Could you say that again? Because maybe I’m on a drug. You met the dragon? You’re sure you weren’t dreaming?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “But how? Did he come knocking on the door? Did you actually go to the swamp?”

  She nodded.

  “Why?”

  “That’s kind of the hardest thing to answer,” Serazina said. “I was going for a walk with Tara.”

  “I’m glad you finally named her.”

  “We’ll get to that. Anyway, she started running into the swamp, and I figured she didn’t know any better, and I was terrified, but I had to save her, so I followed, and somewhere in the middle of all that, I saw a beautiful woman, oh, but she’s really a Goddess, and Tara spoke to me.”

  “Are you sure you’re not on drugs?”

  Tara growled. Someone should teach you how to tell a story.

  Serazina thought of another approach. “Berto, I don’t expect you to believe me, but what if I showed you? Do you want to meet the dragon? He’s very sweet.”

  “You really mean it? You could take me to meet him? I don’t think I ever heard anything more terrifying in my life.”

  “Do you want to?”

  “Sure, let’s go meet the dragon. I don’t believe I’m saying this.”

  They pushed their bikes into a thick tangle of weeds and walked deeper into the woods. “Tell me more about this Goddess,” Berto said.

  “She doesn’t seem like a physical being. She kind of shimmers, but I feel love so great from Her it almost makes my heart hurt. And it’s nothing special about me. That’s who She is. She probably loves the Guardian and Malvern Frost and everyone.”

  “Hmm, I’m not sure I approve of that lack of discrimination.”

  “But, Berto, how can people learn to love others if they don’t feel loved, no matter who they are? As long as we can find reasons not to love someone, they can find reasons not to love, and it goes on and on.”

  Berto sat down on a stump. “I have to think about that.”

  “It’s not the kind of thing you can think about. Don’t you see? It’s not reasonable. Reason says: ‘If you do this, I’ll do that.’ If someone’s nice to you, you’re nice in return. If someone does something cruel to you, the reasonable thing is to be cruel in return. We keep score, we add or subtract points.”

  She sat on the ground beside him. “But what I felt yesterday went so far beyond that. It’s like this Lady found something in me much deeper than good or bad, and she pulled it out and showed it to me. I went back to that good-bad thing the minute I didn’t feel Her any more, but going back felt awful. I don’t know how to explain it any better than that.”

  Tara sat in front of both of them and gazed at Berto, her eyes seeming to grow bigger and bigger, until all Serazina could see was golden light. Berto began to relax, as amber waves massaged his muscles and washed through his heart.

  “It’s like when I paint, when it’s going well,” he said, his voice soft as leaves glistening with raindrops. “I know that every brush stroke is sure and goes exactly where it’s meant to. The colors glow like jewels, and their pattern dances, and I dance with it. I don’t even think about deserving that gift. But it only happens when I’m painting, when I’m alone. I never thought it could have anything to do with people—except you.”

  He started to cry. “Sometimes I’m so lonely.”

  Serazina embraced him. “But that’s what it means. You don’t have to be lonely any more.”

  Chapter 22

  The Healing Library was huge, with floor-to-ceiling shelves. “I hope you know where the document is, Mother.”

  “I do, of course, but I’d still like to see whether you’re meant to find it. We can better your odds, though. Let me lead you.”

  “All right, but please promise you’ll never tell anyone about this. Can you imagine what Malvern could do with the information that the Guardian allowed himself to be led around by his mother?”

  The warmth of her hand aroused debilitating childhood memories of trust and love. A dangerous urge to weep conquered him. Shimmering tears distorted his vision and a wave of emotion befuddled his mind. He saw Serazina, joined by the dragon and the glowing form of a woman, and followed them to a row of books. His hand throbbing, he pulled out a thick volume.

  “You’ve done very well, my son.”

  Parts of the pages were cut out; inside them rested a wooden box, sandalwood, from the smell. He tried to open it, but the lid refused to move.

  “It’s waiting for your answers,” Janzi said. “Will you tell the people about what you read?”

  Reason struck. “How do I know, when I haven’t read it?”

  “You must trust.”

  Logic forced him to review his options. He had none. “I promise.”

  “Open the box.”

  This time the lid opened, and sandalwood perfume filled his nostrils. Inside the box rested a yellowed manuscript, miraculously preserved. He picked it up and began to read.

  * * *

  When people speak about the founding principles of Oasis, they always give me credit as the driving force behind them. This is one of the benefits of logic and reason, neither of which provides any evidence for the inferiority of women. I have been quoted as saying, “Habit and emotion, those foul polluters of our psyches, poison our view of women.”

  I said t
hat and many related things to Nathan while we scaled the peaks that divided Tamaras from Oasis. In Tamaras I had seen how willingly people trusted and followed him and were reassured by his confidence in the dangerous venture. His mind was clear, a fallow field ripe for the planting of intellectual seeds. Since I, during my time as a slave, had done little but imagine a better world, I had those seeds.

  And I’m not sorry I planted them, even though some of them have grown a strange new crop of ideas. I’ve thought about sharing the fruits of my harvest, but the people aren’t ready. The emotional excesses of Tamaras are far too fresh in all of our minds. We need the iron of reason and the steel of logic.

  I am going to put this document away and seal it with an Etrenzian charm. My father, as history records, was a snake charmer and sorcerer. I have described how his ability to enter the awareness of the deadly snakes in his possession made me think that might be possible with human minds, but I never talked about the binding charms he placed within the snake’s mind during his first training session. They made it possible for him to instantly mesmerize a serpent, though he extended the induction to make his audience feel they were getting their money’s worth.

  He learned that spell from his mother, a powerful witch who lived in the deep desert. She was a wealthy woman, and she spellbound her wealth in boxes that could not be open except by her.

  So I will bind the box in which I will place this manuscript. I will hide it in the Healers’ Library. The right person will find it when it is most needed.

  It occurs to me that you must be that person. Congratulations and good luck. You’ll need it.

  Zena Vash’ti Turley

  My Last Testament to the People of Oasis

  You are, of course, fully aware that the supremacy of the mind is the foundation of our society, at least in theory. We work every day to inculcate a deeper discipline in every citizen.

  That discipline, as I have stated above, has been and is still a necessary counter balance to the Tamaran excesses. However, foreseeing the time when the pendulum must begin to swing in the other direction, though not to its previous extreme, I have written this memoir and testament.

  My husband and Oasis’s first Guardian, Nathan Turley, died in his prime, his mental faculties fully intact, despite what anyone says, despite what I believed when I heard him express sorrow and regret over the course Oasis had taken. Though I faithfully recorded his words, I decided that none but the Guardians to follow should ever read them. I noted in my introduction that my husband’s deluded ramblings would test their fidelity to our principles. For my part, I regretted that an exemplary life had ended in such drivel.

  My sudden aloneness threatened my own mental well being. I didn’t wish for a new life companion, but I felt the urgency of finding a purpose for my life. Our son, Ronan, was now serving as the Guardian. He sought my counsel, but not as often as Nathan had, and this was appropriate. Each Guardian must find his own way.

  I sought a way to serve the people and decided I could be most effective in studying those among whom the doctrine of mental supremacy had had least effect, those who worked in the field. From the beginning, field work was assigned to those with the smallest mental talents. I felt, though, that we needed to draw our farm workers more into the loop of mental activity, to stimulate their minds, and especially to create an environment in which their children wouldn’t naturally drift into the same occupations.

  I decided to spend some time among them to discover how best to elevate their mental abilities.

  I was fond of horseback riding, finding the exercise valuable and enjoying the clarity that being in the open air encouraged. Every day I rode out to the fields and spoke with the workers. They were hesitant at first, fearing that what they said would earn them official repercussions, but I assured them that I had little authority.

  Many told me that they would like more formal education and an expanded library system. Often they complained that hard physical labor left them too tired to go into the city at night to take advantage of its cultural opportunities. They wanted plays in the villages where they lived, and they wanted a broadened curriculum in school for their children. I duly noted these requests and promised to pass them on to those in power.

  Once I’d familiarized myself to the people, I turned my attention to their environment. I spent my early years in the great desert of Etrenzia, a harsh, dry land conducive to the development of mind. It is far from an unbroken stretch of sand; even outside the oases, there are areas of green where wildlife thrives. I knew the aromas and bright colors of flowers and the darting motion of snakes and lizards. I was not unaware of the physical lure of nature, but when I was captured and enslaved in the city of Tamaras, the tall buildings and the stench of too many humans living too close together erased those early memories. The artificial sensuality repulsed me, and my retreat into the private world of my mind was my salvation.

  Now I rediscovered nature in an atmosphere far more lush. The smell of growing things, the cries of birds, and the sinuous movement of animals in the tall grass dulled my mind and opened up a kind of dangerous sensuousness. This was not the poison of Tamaras, based on overindulgence in food, wine, drugs, and sex. It seemed almost innocent in its effect. Yet, I was sure it could not be.

  I decided to ask the rural workers whether this atmosphere had any effect on them. Many of them, understandably cautious, said they didn’t notice; they were there to do a job. A few who had come to trust me, admitted that they found their thoughts affected by the myriad of scents, sounds, and sights.

  Yora, a tall, pale Dolocairner, said, “It distracts me. It takes me back to my babyhood in Dolocairn, toddling through the snow to a patch of green, screaming in excitement. I know that’s a most unhealthy feeling.”

  “Indeed,” I said.

  Mardon, a laborer with acute intelligence said, “This world is alive for me. Sometimes the sight of a hawk soaring overhead lifts my spirit. Sometimes, despite my best efforts to keep my mind calm, joy floods my being, and my body comes alive. And I ask myself why this should be wrong, and I can’t come up with an answer.”

  He looked at me, troubled, and I found that I had no answer, either. I had, however, devoted my life to an idea, and I became desperate to justify it.

  I wondered if the forests would induce similar effects and asked the laborers who went there. They answered that woodsmen spent time among the trees, especially now that the pine plantations established many years ago were being harvested. Hunters also roamed the forest in season. (Nathan and I had been undecided about allowing hunting. It seemed an utterly primitive activity, but the symbolism of humans triumphing over beasts seemed worth encouraging, and it was a way to provide the most skilled with a material bonus in the form of meat on the table).

  Assured that the forest held little threat, I decided to explore it and found this area to be even more dangerous than the fields.

  The farmland was open country, crowned with a sky that was often a pale blue streaked with clouds in a calming pattern that could induce mental coolness. The constant breeze kept the air from growing dense and stagnant.

  No such relief existed in the woodlands. A ceiling of foliage trapped the air and the dampness of the forest floor. Moss and ferns grew everywhere, and assorted vile fungi. The light that filtered through the leafy canopy was a sickly yellow.

  Nature at its most pungent held little seduction for me, and every shadow that darkened the paths of dead and rotting leaves aroused the crippling emotion of fear. The sounds of the forests seemed equally menacing, and I felt small and insignificant among the ancient trees. It was unforgivable to imagine that these towering oaks and beeches had awareness, but these were the murky trails my thoughts traveled.

  Still, I returned day after day, determined to conquer this shadowy world. In time, the drone of insects, the dank fragrance of the forest floor, and even the lurking shadows failed to damage my mental clarity.

  I pause here, for I must use t
he utmost care in choosing my words. How can I communicate what happened next without future generations deciding that Zena ended up crazy as a coot? Forget my whining ego, how can I convince you, the reader, that what I experienced was true, especially when what I called truth became challenged by it?

  You’re still reading. Good. Now, be prepared to throw out everything you’ve ever learned. Come to these words like a newborn baby, fresh, bright, with an open mind and an open heart.

  Phileas’s hands began to tremble. “I don’t know if I can go on.”

  “You can,” Romala said. She touched his hand, and he thought that maybe he could.

  I can never be sure that my own knowledge of Nathan’s last words didn’t influence the series of events that now unfolded. Let me try to describe it logically and sequentially. It began this way. One day I was riding in the woods, troubled in my mind over a certain course of events my son, the new Guardian, was bringing into effect. I thought he was wrong. He failed to listen, and his refusal deepened my sense that I’d lost power to affect events in Oasis. More disturbing, I saw clearly how over the years the vision Nathan and I had shared would erode.

  Why, I wondered, did we bother? I cannot describe the weariness and depression that made my limbs heavy. Had I not been mounted, I might have sunk into a damp bed of moss.

  Slowly, I became aware of an odd sensation, like the humming of a thousand bees, the smell and taste of honey, the feeling that the golden syrup poured through me, healing my wounds. This was followed by a voice that whispered, Fear not. All will be well.

  I thought the voice only my own higher intelligence, urging me to rise from the quagmire of despair and to climb the pinnacle of reason. A few days later I returned and heard it again, the voice more distinct this time, a tone soft as the newly opened petals of a flower, yet also resonant with age and wisdom. Know me, it said.

  I rationalized my unendurable longing to do so by assuring myself that it was surely my duty to investigate this extraordinary occurrence. A circular clearing in the woods lay ahead (I half-noted that I had also been near this place the first time I heard the voice). Some ancient shamble of stones stood in its center, too primitive to have been built by humans. In front of it sat a pool of water, fringed with reeds. It seemed a good place to dismount and investigate.