Distopia (Land of Dis)

by Robert Kroese

  “Zoning?” said Wyngalf. “I’m afraid I don’t—”

  “And have you thought about public transportation? You’re quite a ways from the main shipping lines, you know. I only noticed you because of the smoke, and it took me most of the morning to get here. Not exactly commuter friendly. If you plan to develop this property, these are things you need to think about.”

  “Mr. Dragon, sir,” said Evena, “We don’t mean any offense, but—”

  “Ah, my apologies!” cried the dragon. “Sometimes I get so wrapped up in my work that I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Verne.” He reached down with his right claw and carefully pulled something small from behind one of the scales on his chest. As he held it toward them, Wyngalf realized it was a small card made of paper. Wyngalf took it from Verne. It read:

  Verne the Dragon

  President and CEO,

  Green Hills Real Estate

  Offering development, sales and commercial management

  services to the Southwestern Dis region

  Call Verne and “Dis land can be your land!”

  “Nice to meet you, Verne,” said Evena, who seemed to have overcome her initial terror. “This is Wyngalf. I’m Evena.”

  “Enchanted,” said Verne, with a slight bow.

  “Verne is a strange name for a dragon, isn’t it?” asked Evena.

  “That’s what people used to tell my parents,” Verne said. “Why ‘Verne’? they’d ask. And my parents would say, ‘No, he’s just small for his age.’”

  “I don’t understand what this means,” said Wyngalf, staring at the card.

  Verne frowned. “It’s a pun,” he said. “Dis land is your land. Dis land is yours, dat land is mine. You don’t get it?”

  “I get it,” said Evena, with a cautious smile. “Very clever.”

  Verne grinned at her.

  “No, I get the pun,” said Wyngalf. “I mean, I don’t understand the rest of it. You sell land?”

  Verne nodded excitedly. “Buy, sell, develop, manage,” he announced. “I’m always on the lookout for hot new properties, and this one is smoking!” He spread his wings in apparent excitement, looking at them expectantly.

  Wyngalf and Evena stared blankly at him. Verne frowned, turning to look at the pile of wood from which a barely visible wisp of smoke was rising. He opened his mouth, spitting a stream of fire. The wood burst into flame. He turned back to face them.

  “Smoking!” Verne exclaimed again, and turned to look at them. They continued to stare, unsure how to respond.

  Verne scowled, letting his wings settle to his sides. “It’s smoking,” he said. “Get it? Because of the—”

  “Yeah, I get it,” said Wyngalf. “I think you’ve misunderstood our situation, though. We’re not selling this island. We don’t even—”

  Verne nodded. “I see how it is. Hardball, eh?” He began to pace back and forth in front of him, his huge tail swishing ominously over their heads. “Look, I’m not going to lie to you. Islands are hot these days, and not just the volcanic ones. Get it? Not just the.… Everybody loves islands. They’re great for families. Why, just the other day I was showing a volcanic island to a nice family with three young kids. I love kids. ‘Don’t touch the floor, it’s lava!’ I told them. Poor, disfigured little bastards.” He stopped and turned to face them again. “The highest I can go on something like this is four hundred gold pieces.”

  “Four hundred gold pieces!” cried Evena in disbelief.

  “Alright, four fifty,” said Verne, “but that’s my final offer.”

  “Verne,” said Wyngalf. “You’re not listening. We’re marooned on this island. We lit that signal fire because we were—”

  “Holding out for a better offer, huh?” said Verne, scratching his chin nervously with his claws. “How many dragons do you think are buying real estate in this area anyway? That’s a serious question. Four? Six?”

  “To be honest, I didn’t know there were any dragons around here, much less dragons with an interest in real estate.”

  “Right,” said Verne. “Right! Of course. There are no other real estate dragons out here. It’s not like another dragon is going to see your signal and make you a better offer any minute now.” He straightened up, folding his arms in front of his chest. “So you’re stuck with mine. Four hundred and fifty gold pieces. Take it or leave it.”

  “Verne,” said Wyngalf. “We can’t take your offer because we don’t o—”

  “We’ll let you have it,” Evena interrupted.

  Wyngalf and Verne both turned to face her. “You mean for free?” asked Verne.

  “Yes,” said Evena. “On one condition. You have to give us a ride to the mainland. You have to take us to Dis.”

  Wyngalf bit his lip. He was not at all sure that asking a dragon for a ride was a good idea. Dragons, he knew, were irredeemably evil creatures, and accepting assistance from one would seem to indicate a weakness in his faith. But what if this was their only chance to get off the island? Would the Noninity forgive him for temporarily allying himself with a dragon if he did it so that his holy mission might continue?

  Verne cocked his head at her suspiciously. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Do you even own this island?”

  “Finders keepers,” said Evena. “We claimed it when we got here two days ago.”

  “Claimed it, did you?” said Verne skeptically. “Then what’s the island’s name?”

  “Its name?” asked Evena.

  “You can’t claim a piece of land without giving it a name. If you didn’t name it, it’s still up for grabs, legally speaking. Personally, I would call it Verne’s Island.”

  “Oh, the name!” Evena exclaimed. “Yes, we gave the island a name. Of course we did. Didn’t we, Wyngalf? When we first got here, I said, let’s call it, um…”

  Wyngalf’s brain went blank as he tried to come up with a suitable name for the island. He found himself saying, “Ta…”

  Evena added, “…ba…”

  “…ka,” Wyngalf finished.

  “Tabaka,” Evena announced. “Yep, that’s what we called it.”

  “Tabaka?” asked Verne. “What kind of name is Tabaka?”

  “In our native language, it means…” Evena started.

  “Green dragon,” offered Wyngalf.

  Verne cocked his head to the side for a moment, considering this. He nodded. “I like it. Tabaka it is. Okay, you have a deal. I’ll give you a ride to Dis in exchange for a one hundred percent interest in Tabaka.”

  “Evena,” Wyngalf said nervously, turning to face the girl. “Perhaps we should discuss this before we sell, um….”

  “Tabaka,” said Evena.

  “Right. Before we sell Tabaka.”

  Verne nodded. “I understand this is a big decision for you folks. I shall give you a moment to conference.” The dragon stood, pivoted on his huge, scaly feet, and settled down again facing the opposite direction. His tail whooshed back and forth over their heads.

  “I’m not sure I trust this Verne,” Wyngalf whispered. “Dragons are notoriously devious.”

  “This is our only chance!” Evena whispered. “You said it yourself. There’s no hope of a ship rescuing us.”

  “You just need to have faith,” Wyngalf said. “Illias the Interceder will send someone.”

  “He did!” cried Evena. “He sent Verne!”

  “Dragons are vile, wicked creatures,” Wyngalf snapped. “The Noninity wouldn’t send a dragon. A hippogriff, perhaps, or a wyndbahr.” This was the problem with Evena’s sort of faith: with no real grasp on the scope of the spiritual struggle in which they were engaged, she seized upon the first possibility of rescue that came along.

  “Well, you can stay here and wait for the next hippogriff,” said Evena. “I’m going with the dragon.”

  “You can’t do that!” cried Wyngalf. “He’ll drop you in the middle of the sea!”

  “Wyngalf, if Verne had wanted to kill us, he’d have done it already.”


  “Dragons are sadistic,” Wyngalf insisted. “He’s probably just toying with us.”

  Evena sighed in frustration. “Isn’t your God omnivorous?”

  “Omnivorous?” asked Wyngalf, confused.

  “All powerful,” said Evena.

  “You mean omnipotent?”

  “Yes! Omnipotent. He controls everything, right?”

  “Technically, yes. Each of the Nine Persons of the Noninity is responsible for different aspects of—”

  “Good. So if he controls everything, then everybody ultimately works for Him. Including dragons.”

  “That’s a vast oversimplification of how the Noninity works,” said Wyngalf. “The Noninity permits a certain level of evil in the world to refine us and allow us to reach our true potential. Dragons are part of that evil. They are not to be trusted. Don’t you see? We’re being tested. The Noninity has sent this dragon as a temptation, to determine if we will continue to trust the Noninity or if we’ll succumb to the temptation to take the easy way out.”

  “Being carried across the ocean by a dragon is the ‘easy way out’?” asked Evena. “Your god sounds like kind of a jerk.”

  Wyngalf stared at her, stunned by the unthinking blasphemy of her comment. This is why one didn’t discuss theology with children. He needed to change tacks before she said something truly unforgivable.

  “Look,” he said. “You were never supposed to come along in the first place. This is my divine mission, not yours. “How about if we ask our friendly dragon to fly to Skuldred and tell your father where we are. He can send a ship to rescue us. You can return home where you belong, and I’ll go back to Svalbraakrat, where the bishop can organize a proper expedition to Dis.”

  Evena regarded him for a moment, and then began to nod.

  “So you see the wisdom of my plan?” he asked.

  “I see that you’re a coward who is going to die alone on an island,” replied Evena. “I’m going to Dis with the dragon. You may do what you like.”

  “Evena!” cried Wyngalf. But it was no use. She had stood up and caught the end of Verne’s tail in her hand to get his attention. The dragon gingerly turned around to face them.

  “Have we made a decision?” Verne asked genially.

  “I have,” said Evena. “I’d be much obliged if you could take me across the sea to Dis.”

  “My pleasure, Miss,” said the dragon. “I take it your friend has decided to remain here?”

  “I’m afraid my religious beliefs prevent me from making a deal with a dragon,” said Wyngalf. “I mean no offense.”

  “Sure, sure,” said Verne. “I’m not going to pressure you to do anything against your principles. Just make sure you’ve cleared out by the time I get back.”

  “Cleared out?” asked Wyngalf, puzzled.

  “If I give Evena a ride, the island is mine,” said Verne. “That means you’re trespassing. Anyway, clear out by the time I get back and we won’t have a problem.” He turned to Evena. “Ready, dear?”

  “Ready,” she said.

  “Excellent,” said Verne. “Climb aboard.” He rested his head on the sand in front of them, and she moved to climb onto his neck.

  Wyngalf regarded Verne uncertainly. “What if I can’t get off the island by the time you get back?”

  “Well, you’ll be incinerated, of course,” said dragon.

  “Incinerated!” Wyngalf yelped.

  Verne frowned. “Wait, what’s the word for when somebody gets kicked off an island?”

  “Evicted?” Wyngalf asked.

  “Right!” Verne said. “Sorry, you’ll be evicted.”

  “What does that mean exactly?”

  “It means you’ll…” Verne frowned again. “What’s the word for when somebody gets burned to ash?”

  Wyngalf swallowed hard. “You’re going to burn me alive?”

  “Not if you don’t want me to. I had assumed you would prefer a quick incineration to being dropped in the middle of the sea, where you will eventually drown. I apologize if I was being presumptuous. Right between the wings is your best bet.” This last was directed at Evena, who had gotten onto Verne’s back and was crawling to the flat section of his body between the wings. “That’s it,” said Verne. “I’ll try to be careful, but you can hold onto the base of my wings to keep from slipping off, in case there’s turbulence.”

  Evena spread herself flat on the dragon’s back, gripping the base of his right wing with her right hand. Verne sank into a crouch, spreading his wings as if to leap into the air.

  “Wait!” cried Wyngalf.

  “Yes?” said Verne, with a touch of impatience. “You’ve made your position on negotiating with dragons quite clear, Mr. Wyngalf. Frankly, I admire your willingness to be incinerated rather than sacrifice your principles. You don’t see a lot of that kind of pig-headed idealism these days. Hold on, dear.” Verne made to leap into the air again.

  “Just wait a second!” cried Wyngalf again. “If I accept a ride from you, you agree that we’re trading the island for transport to Dis. Once we get to Dis, we’re even. We don’t owe you anything else. We both go our separate ways.”

  “That was the arrangement,” said Verne, sounding bored. “But I’m not going to wait around all day for you to decide. If you’re going, get on board now.”

  Wyngalf bit his lip. “What if I refuse to sell? The island is half mine, you know.”

  “Then neither of you gets a ride to Dis,” said Verne. “This is an all-or-nothing deal.”

  “Don’t you dare,” said Evena, glaring at him from on top of the dragon. “Come on, Wyngalf. This is our only chance to get off the island. Don’t let your faith blind you to what’s right in front of you.”

  Wyngalf regarded Evena and then the dragon. This test—if it was a test—was getting more complicated all the time. On one hand, all of his schooling warned him that dragons were not to be trusted. On the other hand, if Evena was going with the dragon, was he not obligated to go with her to see that no harm came to her? Perhaps the test was not simply to resist the dragon, but to resist his fear of the dragon—to have faith that the Noninity would protect him from harm even while he was in the clutches of a dragon. If he could discuss the matter with Bishop Frotheckle, he had no doubt they’d be able to come to some theologically satisfactory conclusion to the conundrum, but he didn’t have that luxury. He needed to make a decision, and fast. In the end, he concluded that the Noninity could overcome any obstacle, including Wyngalf’s own lack of discernment. He strongly suspected that the bishop would call that sort of thinking rationalization, but the bishop wasn’t here to play his part in the dialogue.

  “Fine,” he said. “Let’s go to Dis.”

  “Ask nicely,” said Verne.

  Wyngalf gritted his teeth. “I would be much obliged, Verne,” he said, “if you would carry us both to Dis.”

  “Certainly,” said Verne. “Climb aboard.” He once again rested his head on the sand in front of them, and Wyngalf climbed onto his neck. Wyngalf crawled up the long neck and settled in next to Evena, gripping the base of Verne’s left wing.

  “Ready?” asked Verne.

  “Ready!” cried Evena. Wyngalf shut his eyes tight and molded himself to Verne’s back as best he could. Evena, to his right, reached out to clutch his left hand. They were pressed hard against Verne’s back as he launched himself into the sky, and Wyngalf felt powerful muscles shifting beneath the scales, working hard to keep them aloft. He had to admit the dragon was an amazing creature, even if he was an irredeemably wicked beast. They continued to gain altitude for some time before leveling out. Evena shrieked in exhilaration, and Wyngalf forced himself to open his eyes.

  They were soaring several hundred feet above the ocean, which was an endless plane of blackness broken only by barely discernible white crests. Wyngalf’s eyes watered from the wind, and he blinked away tears. Looking up, he saw a layer of puffy clouds sliding slowly past overhead. Occasionally they would break through a low-hanging clou
d and Wyngalf would feel a sheen of water vapor condensing on his cheeks.

  “Ordinarily I’d fly above the clouds,” Verne called back to them, “but the air is a bit thin and cold up there.”

  Wyngalf nodded silently. He was already shivering as the wind pulled the heat from his body. Dragons were built for this sort of thing; humans were not. It struck him that for an irredeemably evil beast Verne was extraordinarily attuned to the needs of his passengers. Perhaps dragons weren’t so bad after all—or this particular one wasn’t, anyway. If he intended to kill them, he was certainly taking his time about it.

  Wyngalf had no idea how fast they were traveling. Faster than any horse could run, for certain, and probably ten times as fast as the Erdis Evena traveled. Still, the journey took several hours, and it was late afternoon by the time the dragon finally set down on land.

  “Here we are,” said the dragon, as they slid off his back. “You didn’t specify where you wanted to go, so I just landed on the nearest promontory. The town of Sybesma is just over that ridge. If you start walking now, you should be able to reach it by nightfall. I’d get you closer, but I tend to make a bit of a scene when I land near towns, as you can imagine. If the locals hear how I rescued you from that island, they’ll make a big deal out of it, probably insist on throwing a party in my honor, keep me up all night with toasts to my health and proclamations of gratitude, that sort of thing. We dragons tend to be a reclusive lot, and frankly I’m exhausted from the journey. I hate to be rude, but I’d prefer to just get back to my lair and get some sleep.”

  “Quite understandable,” said Evena. “Please don’t feel obligated to do any more on our account. We’re already deeply indebted to you for saving our lives.”

  “Yes,” mumbled Wyngalf begrudgingly. “We would certainly have died on that island if you hadn’t rescued us.” He was grateful, but he couldn’t help feeling a bit foolish about his prejudices toward the dragon.

  “No trouble at all,” said Verne. “I’m happy to be of assistance. It was a pleasure doing business with you both. Well, I should be going. Good luck on the rest of your journeys.”