by LeRoy Clary
“Hold fast,” Tom called. “I think she’s going to attack.”
Tom’s footsteps pounded as he rushed about the boat, and his muttered curses clearly heard as he readied the boat. The beat of wings sounded closer and closer. Gareth heard the snort of the dragon spitting.
Tom yelled, sounding in pain. The boat suddenly lurched to one side. The sail flapped lifelessly in the breeze.
Gareth remained still, huddled in the dark under the tarp.
Several minutes of listening to Tom scurry about the boat passed before Tom finally called, “Come out and give me a hand, boy. Be quick about it.”
Gareth threw the tarp back and saw the old fisherman leaning over the side of the boat, holding one arm deep into the water as he furiously scrubbed it with seawater, his face contorted in pain. Above, three holes large enough to put his fist through showed in the sail. Smaller ones showed here and there. A single fist-sized mass of black slime lay on the floorboards in the stern, sizzling softly.
Gareth looked to the sky and verified it empty, then at Tom. “She spit on you?”
“A little wad of that stuff got me on the arm. Water’s helping some, but it burns like a hot coal.”
“Got any soda powder?”
After a confused expression, he said, “No.”
Gareth quickly searched the boat for more dragon spit, but only saw the one large, black pool, bigger than his hand, on the floorboards. The rest must have missed the boat and hit the ocean after burning through the sail. His imagination told him the likely outcome if he didn’t get the substance cleaned up from the bottom of the boat, fast. A hole in the hull big enough to put his leg into would sink it in no time.
Seeing nothing handy to gather the slime into, he quickly stripped off his shirt and wadded it so several layers of cloth protected his hands. In one motion, he fell to his knees and scooped most of it up in the folds of the shirt. He tossed the shirt over the side of the boat, and it floated away, hissing and smoking, as if angry at being discarded. Tiny wisps of smoke still rose from the damp spot on the floorboards. A hollow depression in the wood was clearly visible.
“What’re you doing?” Tom called from the back of the boat, still scrubbing his arm in the sea and looking at Gareth over his shoulder.
“She spit in the bottom of your boat.” Gareth pulled his knife and started scraping the surface of the indention as fast as possible with the edge of the blade. “There’ll be a hole here, soon.”
Tom quickly knelt beside him, pouring water from a mug onto the spot. “Didn’t know it’d do that or I’d have let my arm rot. Water might help thin it out, some.”
Gareth scraped the area as fast as he could, tearing splinters and layers of spit-darkened wood free. The water combined with the wood shavings turned it into a pulp of dragon spit, a foul combination. Small splashes stung and burned Gareth’s hands and arms, but he kept on. Finally, seeing nothing else handy, he stood and pulled his pants down, using a trouser leg to soak up more of the acid mix, then he used the other leg to wipe the depression clean and dry. He tossed the pair of pants overboard.
“You did good, son,” Tom said, inspecting the hollow in the oak and then the rest of the boat for any more black blobs of acid. “Seems I owe you, now.”
“How’s your arm?”
“Red. Hurts like I stuck it in a stove, but I think I got it all washed off. Why’d you ask me about soda?”
“It makes the dragon spit . . . innocent.”
“That’s how you did it, right? You covered yourself with soda to get close enough to the nest to steal the egg?”
Gareth stood naked and chilly while nodding.
“Smart. Guess I should carry some of it with me, just to make sure when dragons attack me. That was a joke, but if’n it wasn’t for you, my boat would soon be on the bottom, and I’d be swimming, and that is no joke.”
Gareth grinned and duplicated Tom’s manner of speech. “If’n not for me, that dragon wouldn’t be lookin’ for her egg and spittin’ on fishing boats.”
The fisherman grinned. “I’m thinkin’ both of us are speaking some of the truth. I have a foul weather slicker in that locker on the port side.” At Gareth’s hesitation, Tom pointed.
Gareth pulled out a cloak made of heavy, stained canvas soaked in rancid fish oil. Rain and water wouldn’t penetrate it. It felt odd in the stiffness of the joints each time he moved, and the fish-smell would drop a strong man to his knees. Still, he was grateful. “What about those holes in your sails?”
“We’ll take it easy so they don’t tear out. A rip will have us mending them at sea. When we get to Priest’s Point, I’ll drop the sails and sew some new patches over the old ones. Those sails are getting to be more patch than sail. These days’ fishermen learn to sew almost as much as they fish. You have family, boy?”
Gareth objected to continually being called a boy, but without a beard, many considered him younger than his true age. “I don’t know of any family. Probably not. Just me for as long as I remember.”
Tom kept wary eyes on the sky, which thankfully remained flat blue and empty. No clouds floated above that a flying dragon could hide behind, but once a far-off seabird made him do a double-take. A low strip of blue ahead of the boat evolved into land. Late in the day, a piece of land jutted from the rocky shore. Several houses and outbuildings stood in a clump near the water’s edge.
“Priest’s Point,” Tom confirmed, as he knelt to check on the depression in the plank where the dragon spit landed. Apparently satisfied all was well, he stood and continued speaking, “Would’ve been a long swim if’s you didn’t think quick back there. I’ll be needing a new plank laid in the hull before long. That one’s pretty thin in the middle, so don’t step on it.”
“New plank for the hull and new sails. Anything else you need?”
Tom turned to look at him, shrugged, and showed brown teeth. “I could use a new hat. One that looks like those the captains on big ships wear.”
“Never seen one. Never seen a big ship, either. But if I manage to sell my egg, I’ll get you a plank, sail, and hat. Maybe even have a little left over for your purse.”
“In that case, I’d appreciate it if you put that bag with the egg in a nice soft nest you make from the tarp you hid under. Then put it under the seat. Don’t want you tripping and breaking the thing, or foul weather smashing it. Do you think a new net for my fishing is a possibility to add to our bargain?”
Looking past Tom to the tangled pile of gray netting in the bow, Gareth pulled at the stiff, oiled cloth cape wrapped around him and said, “Get me something to wear besides this stinking cloak and we have a deal.”
They laughed together.
With the sea calm, the breeze brisk, the boat continued sailing ahead, but slowly. Tom had spilled much of the air from the sail in hope of preventing any holes from running into a tear and making them useless. The boat advanced causing hardly a wake. He took a long pull of water and handed the jug to Gareth, and then sat and ate some hard tack, chewing slowly as he watched the sea, land, and sky, all without talking.
Gareth watched him. Every movement by the old man had reason and seemed to consume the least amount of energy possible. He sat at the tiller and adjusted course minutely, compensating for the wind, tide, and the natural tendency of the boat to veer to the right. While Gareth understood little of the tasks, he figured out most of them without asking questions, a trait that Tom seemed to appreciate.
After a time, Gareth said, “You should bring a book out here to pass the time. Let the boat take care of itself.”
“Can’t rightly fish and keep an eye on all this if you’re reading a book.”
“You look like you’re just sitting.”
Tom smiled a little, showing maybe ten teeth, all stained a deep mahogany. “Be a mistake to think that.”
The shore drew closer, and Gareth saw over twenty wooden structures, all unpainted and looking forlorn. At the water’s edge, the docks were on crooked poles ho
lding them up. Eight boats were moored. Six were similar in size and shape to Tom’s, obviously fishing boats. One much larger vessel carried a cargo of small logs. The last boat, moored all alone, was long and narrow, with a single mast standing taller than any other. A small house-like structure sat near the stern. Every brass fitting reflected the sun, not a spot of rust showed, and a fresh coat of white paint had recently been applied.
Tom nodded in its direction. “We stay away from that one.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“And fast. It belongs to a greedy pig of a ‘trader’ who works these waters. He’d as soon slit your throat as not, like they say he’s done to others. Little more’n a pirate if’n you ask most good people around here. He’s a smuggler, bounty hunter, thief, and killer. That’s before he finds out about your egg, then he gets mean.”
“Does he fish?”
“To own a boat that shape and size, a boat that don’t really do any work like fishing or hauling cargo, the owner has to kill off more’n one man to afford it, you see? Name’s Flagon. He’s someone to fear. If there were another place to replenish our supplies, I’d be heading there.”
Evil seemed to surround the white boat. “I’ll stay away from it.”
Tom snorted. “You’ll do more’n that. About now, I want you to drag that old tarp back across the bench seat there in the middle and make yourself sort of a tent. Be quick about it. You get under it, takin’ care of our egg when you do. Don’t talk or move till you know we’re back at sea again, and only then come out when I tell you.”
Gareth hadn’t missed the change in Tom’s speaking from “his” egg to “our” egg. Somehow it didn’t upset him as he carefully moved the egg under the bench-seat before adjusting the tarp. When he had created a small space under the seat, he inspected it from above to ensure it appeared the tarp was carelessly tossed there, and he crawled under. Tom lowered the sail and pulled out the oars for entering the port.
Gareth found he wanted to go ashore and see the town, which would be only the second town in his life, but knew carrying the egg with him would be a fatal mistake. Leaving it on board unprotected while he went ashore was unthinkable. He heard Tom call out a greeting to someone, and felt the motion of the boat change as it bumped gently into the dock. He heard and felt the shift in the boat as the old man climbed out.
Then he heard nothing but the gentle sighs and moans of a boat tied to a pier. Soon he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Two days and a night without rest caught up with him. The night whispers came immediately. As usual, they had no words, only feelings, and hints of things to come. They hissed of impending danger. Images of dragons and teachers in pairs spread fear to his sleep. Somehow Tom’s image became mixed in with the impressions.
He woke briefly, scared, and stiff from the cold. Or from the angry whispers. He rationalized that they warned him not about Tom, but of any who tried to intrude on his ownership of the egg. They didn’t know Tom and probably had never faced the dangers of being in a small boat in a large ocean.
But it hadn’t seemed so.
The whispers made him shiver more than the cold.
CHAPTER EIGHT
He lay awake in the bottom of the boat for a time, trying to sort out the meanings of the whispers and the feelings of dread and fear they spread, wishing they’d leave him alone. Whispers and nightmares. At first look, both were the same, but no. The nightmares were his. The whispers came from elsewhere, and from a mind not his own. He felt sure of it. Finally, he fell asleep again.
Urgent whispers woke him.
Not the night whispers this time, but nearby voices. Two of them. Neither was the old fisherman’s voice, yet they were close. Probably standing beside the boat on the dock, not more than a few steps away. The minimal amount of light filtering under the edges of the tarp indicated it must be after sundown, and the yellow light may be a lantern. He listened without stirring.
One young voice said, “Not me. I ain’t setting foot on that boat. Besides, I don’t see much worth stealing.”
“Go on, chicken. You can make a quick search before that old man comes back. Must be something down there on the damned boat we can take that’s worth a few coppers,” a different voice said, sounding older and more daring.
Gareth gently reached a hand near his head and made sure the egg was still safely lodged near the seat, and then placed the hand on his knife, wishing he’d taken the time to sharpen it after scraping the hull where the dragon had spit. He tensed, ready to spring from under the tarp and challenge the boys as the first of them came aboard.
Before the boys quit arguing a third voice, louder and one with the ring of authority, sounded from farther away, “You trouble-makers step one foot onto that boat, and I’ll bust your heads in before you can get back onto the dock. Best you get back to your mama before she finds out what you’re up to and takes a switch to you.”
“Ah, you dang fishermen always stick together,” the younger voice said.
“Go mind your own business,” the other boy snarled. Then footsteps moved reluctantly away, down the dock. Gareth imagined that people with boats had to look out for one another, much as Tom had mentioned about helping each other when out at sea. For seamen, there were two kinds of people in their world. Boat people, and the rest. He suspected if the situation had been reversed, Tom would have reacted the same way to intruders on another man’s boat.
He forced himself to lie still, not knowing who else might be watching from only a few steps away. Movement under the tarp would alert them to something unusual, and any curiosity in others was unwelcome. He drifted off to sleep again, unable to stay awake after the day’s events. Tom’s voice woke him. He ordered someone to stow supplies in the bow, on top of the fishing nets, and Gareth felt the boat move as someone stepped aboard. One person. He resisted the instinct to lift the corner of the tarp for a look.
A few minutes later, another delivery arrived. Again, Gareth wanted to see what and who, but again he resisted the urge. Then, completely unexpected, he felt the motion of the boat change. Not the rocking of more feet coming aboard, but the gentle glide of a boat untied from the pier and drifting on its own. The oars creaked, and the boat surged ahead. Tom whispered, “Don’t get excited and try to climb out, yet. Eyes are always watchin’.”
The regular motion of the oars and the surges with each pull acted like a rocking chair. Gareth cradled his head next to the egg and closed his eyes, again. Finally, he woke with a start and noticed the sound of the oars had stopped. He kept his voice low, “Can I come out?”
“Bout time, you did.”
Gareth poked his head from under the tarp and winced at the brightness of the sun. “I guess I fell back asleep.”
“Your black dragon mama returned earlier, right after sunup. Flew over one time and gave us a look-see. Then she went looking off to the south, probably still searchin’ for any sign of you. Haven’t seen her since.”
The little hairs on his neck twitched with Tom’s words, and Gareth hastily glanced up to ensure the sky was still clear.
“Water jugs over there.” A hand showed the way. “And thick slices of cheeses and some hardtack. Got some dried pork, too. Pants and shirt layin’ on top of the seat you were sleeping under.”
Gareth reached for the clothing and paused. “These are new.”
“Seems like your old ones saved my boat when you wiped that dragon spit from the bottom hull. So, fair enough to get you new ones. Besides, I know a woman back there in Priests Point who sews clothes, cheap. I said to make them tall enough for me, but heavier. Only took her a while to cut and make them while I provided excellent company for her.”
Gareth smiled as he pulled on tan trousers made of a soft, heavy material, not unlike the sails, and buttoned them. The length of the legs was perfect. The shirt was pale green, with a trim of red ribbon around the neck. It felt a little loose, but it was nicer than any he’d ever worn. He imagined he looked good enough to court a girl, even Sar
a, Odd’s daughter. He scrambled to the bow and the water jars and drank more than half a bottle in a single swig. The cheese and hardtack lay to one side and a rag wrapped around dark strips of dried pork. He glanced at the old fisherman.
“Growing boys need food. Eat what you want.”
Gareth grabbed some hardtack, a slice of cheese, and two strips of pork. He settled on the seat that he’d slept under and faced Tom. The sail was up. He glanced at it to see if the holes the dragon spit had spread and found none. He did see several cleaner patches with new, white stitching on the edges.
The old man noticed the inspection. “Didn’t take long. Used a lantern to see by, but I wanted to leave Priest’s Point in something of a hurry last night and had to sew it in the dark. Seems the Brotherhood livin’ near there are searchin’ for a beardless man about your size and age. Got a sizable reward posted.”
“Brotherhood?”
“Men of the cloth. They watch and observe most everything. Sometimes they teach at a school or such.”
The word ‘teach’ alerted Gareth. He swallowed hard and tried to conceal his fear. “They wear long green robes with hoods?”
The fisherman took a wide look around, ensuring everything on the boat, in the sky, and on the sea, was as it should be before speaking. “They do. Shave their hair and eyebrows too. Seems like you’ve heard of them. Now I have a question or two for you to ponder. I want you to think on these questions along with me because they form a puzzle that I can’t seem solve in this old mind. I observed with my own eyes, the dragon that carried you from your village over on the other side of those mountains near Dunsmuir. I saw it dunk you in the ocean and attack you. So, I’m thinking there’s only one missing young man the Brotherhood is lookin’ for, and that’d be you.”
Gareth chewed on a piece of hardtack and washed it down with another drink without meeting Tom’s intent gaze. “Sounds about right. But I can’t tell you why they want me. I don’t know. I swear.”
“Okay, okay, but just follow my thinkin’ for a while, here, because I’m not concerned about the why, yet. See where I’m heading, first. That nasty old dragon snatched you up near your home across the mountains around first light yesterday, and flew you all the way to the Dunsmuir Sea, clear over the mountain tops.”
