by Nisi Shawl
“Be seated, Princess, and we will be off.”
Ousmani remained where she was, cross-legged before the chest, arms full of books. She shook her head. “No. I have concluded that it would be unreasonable for me to cooperate with you in my destruction. If you must slay me, it shall be here, no matter what your custom or instincts.”
“Slay you? You—my dear Princess, how did you manage to arrive at this deduction? Slay you? I am merely attempting to return you to your father’s camp.”
“I thought you were going to eat me. Like the monk.”
“At first, I admit, the thought did enter my head. But soon enough, I had already supped to a sufficiency. Again, you proved so charming that the notion of you as no more than a source of nourishment became offensive. Finally, at my age, consuming large quantities of humans is a luxury I simply can no longer afford.”
“Why?”
“Salt. You all have an abominably high salt content. It makes you difficult to resist, but I am convinced that the retention of fluids which inevitably results when I succumb is damaging to my delicate constitution.”
While Ousmani digested this novel concept, the dragon slithered to the cave’s entrance and peered out, wings flickering nervously. “This will proceed the better,” it suggested, “the sooner we depart. You wish to arrive before the evening, do you not?”
The Princess gathered her wits. “On the contrary,” she asserted, “I see no necessity for me to arrive there ever. At any time. If you explained this before, I am afraid I missed your arguments, which I hope you will not object to repeat in all their doubtless elegance.”
“Why, I—” The dragon’s glittering head drew back, and a hiss of steam came from its suddenly dilated nostrils. “It appears obvious. These mountains will soon be filled with your people, who at best will be far more punctilious than the present scattered peasants in offering me a food that I know to be too rich for my health. This while removing my accustomed dietary sources through their husbandry.
“At the worst, they will hunt me down and slaughter me. Their greater concentrations betoken a greater likelihood of success.”
Ousmani opened her hands and held them up as if to protect herself from this eventuality. The opportunity for research, the wasted knowledge, the sheer, strange beauty of the beast, lost to her father’s madness. Not to mention access to a marvelous and altogether unappreciated library. “This must not happen.”
The dragon smiled. “I am glad to see you agree. Princess, I must leave, and while it desolates me to deprive myself of your discourse, I cannot take you with me, for I know not where I go. I have some distant relatives in Sind. Also, in Hyperborea…”
“Stay!” said Ousmani. “There is another solution, one that has just now occurred to me. The more I think upon it, the more good I see. But wait—your cleric from Narbonne, had he upon him any implements for writing, or tools with which one might illuminate a book?”
“He did, Princess, though I fail to see what use such scholarly activities will prove in the face of my persecution.”
“You will see, though, for I shall show you. First, the tools. Or, no, stay—we must prepare a suitable place in which to work. A desk—I suppose a log will do, if you will roll it near the fire. And speaking of the fire, I must ask you to build it up—”
The dragon proved most pliable when apprised of the details of the Princess’s plan. It kept the flames burning brightly through the entire night, sleeping but fitfully. The Princess slept not at all, but toiled without ceasing, for penmanship was not one of her areas of greatest expertise.
“Your name,” said Ousmani, when the dragon put its head over her shoulder during one of its wakeful spells. “We ought to include your name, and I don’t know what it is.”
“My mother called me Bumpsy.… I suppose that will not do.”
“No.” The princess retied the dead knight’s garter, from which tendrils of black hair were escaping to daub themselves with gold and cochineal. “What of your victims? Did they construct any memorable epithets?”
“Their remarks were always decidedly insipid, dear Princess, unlike yours. ‘Gaaah,’ I believe, was one of the more cogent exclamations.”
“Have you no preference as to how you will be styled?”
“I never gave the matter any thought. I am that which I am.”
“You are the very seat of reason. I will name you Aegyptus,” decided the princess. “Aegyptus was the ancient ruler of a kind and learned land called Egypt. Many defenders of the faith call this place their home. Also, it is warm there.”
The proclamation of Aegyptus’s conversion to Islam and renunciation of his former dragonish ways was complete by mid-morning. After a lengthy nap, the Princess declared herself much refreshed and not at all hungry. So they set off at once in order to be able to deliver the proclamation during the call for evening prayer.
Unlike her previous ride, this trip afforded the Princess a splendid prospect. Partially obscured by her mount, marguerite-embroidered valleys and dazzling waterfalls fell behind her. The wide-winged shadow of the dragon’s passage stained white snows with purple, scattered flocks of sheep and dark-winged birds, rippled over grey fog-banks, growing larger and more distorted with the lowering of the sun.
All too soon, the last straggling slaves and pack animals of her father’s train slid into view, plodding wearily through the dust of their superiors. Next she saw a broad, marshy looking meadow full of half-erected tents. Above the noisy wind of their passage, Ousmani asked Aegyptus to circle higher, that they might wait for the most opportune moment unobserved.
It seemed forever coming. The horses, understandably nervous due to the hovering draconic presence, took forever to settle, and the tents were pitched and re-pitched in a futile search for dry ground. In fact, the camp was still in total disarray when the piercing cry of the muezzin floated up to Ousmani’s ears. But those with prayer rugs procured them and rolled them out aside those less fortunate, all prostrating themselves on the damp, green ground. All aligned with the hope of the faithful, the source of enlightenment on Earth, with Mecca and the East. “Now,” shouted Ousmani in her dragon’s ear, and they soared out of the West, swooping over the backs of the astonished congregation.
Circling back, Aegyptus held his huge golden wings fully unfurled, gilding them again with the light of sunset. Impossibly, they seemed to pause, and Ousmani held her breath, expecting to drop helplessly from the sky.
“There is no God but Allah,” intoned the dragon into this unnatural silence. “And Mohammed is his prophet.” With that he lowered his tail almost to the ground, and uncurling it, deposited the parchment scroll detailing his conversion exactly at the head of the alarmed and immobile Imam. Glancing back as they flew away, Ousmani saw him rise to stand, still reading.
“Success!” she screamed into the wind.
“Perhaps,” Aegyptus equivocated. “I have my doubts.” Suddenly veering, the dragon flew in an unfamiliar direction. Presently they came to the base of a steep cliff. Aegyptus climbed the updraft, circling like a hawk. Again, it was startlingly quiet.
“You are as much a Muslim as I,” she tried to reassure her mount. No, her friend. “More, for you have never consumed alcohol, nor rebelled against the wearing of the veil. The scroll we left for my father tells nothing but the truth. You decided to convert because of my example.”
“But even if they believe you, will they not abominate me as an—an abomination?”
Ousmani had considered this carefully, from the instant in which she formulated her plan. “Some might,” she replied. “But my third cousin thrice removed, the most merciful Caliph of Al-Andalus, Abd-er Raman III, is of a liberal turn of mind. If I were you, I should prepare myself for guests. Interesting and illustrious ones.”
“Of a certainty?”
“Of a complete and utterly ravishing certainty.”
“It is necessary, then, that we make adjustments in the economy of our household, do you not t
hink?”
And the dragon and the princess turned homeward to do just that.
The Raineses’
A bell hung below the back porch. It was as big as Anniette. She wanted to ring it, to shove the dirty, cobwebby metal hard enough to swing it; back and forth, back and forth. It looked like it would make a lovely clang. But it was only for emergencies. Like a fire, or if somebody broke a leg. Gransie said. So the bell stayed still under the dark, creaky wood, over the drifted scraps of last year’s fallen leaves, half in cool shadow, half in lake-reflected light.
Walking over the bell, you could go lots of ways. The porch went all around the house, though it changed in nature several times during its journey. To the left it widened into a verandah furnished with dusty, deserted deck chairs. To the far right was a door into a long glass passage, which, as Anniette realized one rainy and intuitive afternoon, was really the porch with windows on. It led to the front hall and the archery range.
But usually she went in the doorway that was right, but not so very far right as that. This led to steps that she had promised never to go down, and to another choice: left or right? Right was a tiny yellow room, crowded with narrow wooden chairs, a lace-covered table, and lots of cupboards with glass behind glass doors. So most of the time she went left, into the big broad kitchen.
The kitchen sparkled blue and white. Painted cupboards gleamed, floor to ceiling. The linoleum was skating smooth. On a little platform two tall-backed benches curled up together over a pale blue table-top. That’s where Gransie was, with her breakfast.
Gransie had made Anniette her Maypo. Steam rose up from the solid, green-rimmed bowl on the table. Gransie always made her hot cereal for breakfast, even in summertime.
“Your hands clean?”
Anniette nodded. They had to be; she hadn’t done anything yet. Just run out into the morning to make sure that it was there.
“Let’s see, then.”
She held her hands out for inspection, pink palms up.
“The other side. All right. You be sure and wash em, though, after you’re through eatin. Specially if you’re plannin on playin inside again. I don’t want you messin up with none of Miz Raines’s things.”
Butter melted in her mouth, mixed with cream and sugar. “I want to go swim. In the lake. Can I?”
Gransie frowned. “You better wait. After an hour you can go in. I’ll let you know. Stay where I can see you until then.”
“Yes, Gransie.” Anniette finished her cereal and washed her bowl and hands in the low kitchen sink, then headed back outside. This time she went through the “morning” room, out onto the verandah. Cement steps swept down to the lawn, cradled by fieldstone arms. Anniette walked along the curving stones. The sun struck through distant trees, making pretty patterns on the big white house and the empty, weedy lawn. At the end of the steps she looked around, deciding what to do. The rose arbor beckoned. She jumped to the ground and ran obediently toward it.
The rose arbor was an arching trellis of soft grey and white wood. The roses were just beginning. Later in the summer they smelled so sweet and sent spent petals drifting down, covering the seats. But now they were secret, dark green and closed.
Anniette picked one. She sat down and tried to peel back the first layer with her nails.
“It won’t work. What you’re trying to find isn’t in there, yet.”
Anniette looked up. It was a tall, grey-clad woman with straight brown hair pulled back in a bun. She had a white scarf around her shoulders. She was one of them from next door.
“I’m not trying to find the flower,” Anniette explained. “I’m trying to find what makes the flower.”
“A budding botanist.”
“What’s that, a botanist?”
“A botanist is someone who studies plants.” The lady took the other seat. She did it without brushing aside the twigs and leaves lying there. “Someone who dedicates their whole life to the study of plants.”
“Unh-unh,” said Anniette. “That’s different than what I want.”
“Really?” said the lady, sounding like grown-ups always did when they thought that she was cute. “What exactly is it that you want, then? Do you know?”
Anniette thought how to say it. “I want to know what makes things. What makes everything happen.”
The lady laughed. Not in a mean way, but she laughed. “A little colored philosopher-girl. How fine. Things have truly changed. And we actually are related?”
There were layers of pink, packed tight under the green. They were thin, pressed way down from what they were going to be. She pulled one petal off, held it up to look through at the sun. The lady was gone.
She had on her swimsuit. Gransie said it was okay. As she walked, tiny wrinkles of blue and green stretched and bunched together in a way that pleased her. This was the favorite swimsuit she’d ever had, with seahorses like in Daddy’s aquarium.
Dirt steps boxed with big boards led down to the lake. It was called Maple Lake. Most of the trees were on the other end. This side had reeds and lily pads and that strange, hollow grass that squeaked when you pulled it apart.
She went out to the end of the dock and waved up at the house. Gransie waved back from the kitchen window. She was not supposed to go in past the bleach bottle buoy. Maybe later Uncle Troy would come by and take her out to fish.
She sat down, careful of splinters in the weathered wood. She slipped her bare feet into the dark green water. It was cold. Maybe she would just sit there with her feet in for a while. An enormous lavender dragonfly streaked past her head to land glittering on the tip of a nearby reed. The reed, bent under the insect’s weight, arched and quivered in the breeze.
The sound of a car engine swooped up the driveway and shut off. A car door slammed. She looked up. Uncle Troy was taking a suitcase out of the trunk of his car. It must be some of the Raineses. She couldn’t see who. She waited, swirling the water with her toes. They would be down here soon, if it was anybody nice. She wasn’t supposed to get in their way.
Footsteps on the dock. “Anniette, is that really you?” Miss Margaret came up and sat down beside her.
“‘Course it is,” Anniette said. Grown-ups.
“I didn’t recognize you; you’ve grown so big since the last time I saw you.”
“Thanks,” Anniette said. Trying to be polite she added, “You look like you’ve grown too.” That wasn’t quite right; it sounded like she was calling Miss Margaret fat. She didn’t know what to say to make things better, so she shut up.
Miss Margaret was quiet too, for a while, then went on. “Well, I have. I’ve been at college for a whole year, now. But Mama still fussed about me staying in Chicago all alone while she and Daddy went to meet Bruce in New York. So we compromised. Do you know what that means, Anniette?” Anniette shook her head no. “It means we neither of us got what we really wanted. She didn’t get to drag me to New York and dangle me in front of all her phoney-baloney friends, and I didn’t get to stay in Chicago with Roger.”
“Who’s Roger?”
“Oh, he’s someone very special! He’s a painter, Anniette.” Miss Margaret moved her round, serious face closer to show how important this information was.
“Pictures?”
“Yes. Wonderful pictures. Oh, Anniette, maybe he’ll come here, maybe you’ll get to meet him. Mama didn’t say he couldn’t. She and Daddy and Bruce won’t be up till the end of next week, at the earliest.”
Good. She still had time to explore the house. She looked up at the sky. Hazy clouds melted imperceptibly into the blue. Maybe tomorrow it would rain, and she wouldn’t feel so bad for staying inside.
Uncle Troy came down the stairs. His white T-shirt had little dark spots of sweat around the collar and big ones under his arms. “Your bags all up in the Rose Room, Miss Margaret. If there’s anything else?”
“Not at the moment, Troy. I might ask you to go into town to pick some things up at the drugstore; I packed in kind of a hurry, and I’m not su
re what I missed.”
“If it’s all right with you, then, I’ll just use the boat and take Anniette out on the lake.”
“Fishing? Wrong time of day for that, isn’t it?”
“Well…”
“Tell you what, save the fishing for evening. See if Aunt Nancy’s got anything for you to do. I’m sure she can find something. This place is getting to be a wreck.”
“Yes, ma’am. But Anniette…”
“Oh. Well, Anniette, you’re going swimming, aren’t you?”
Anniette nodded. There was nothing more to say. She slipped into the water and dog-paddled away.
The gentle mutter of rain through the eaves troughs woke her. Her room was high up, a turquoise-colored place full of bunks and cots. Lots of people used to stay there and help out around the place. But now there was only Gransie, and sometimes Uncle Troy drove over from Paw Paw.
Gransie stayed downstairs as much as she could because of her rheumatism. So during her visits Anniette had the whole room to herself. She slept in the top bunk, opposite the window.
Scorning the knotty pine ladder, she jumped down onto the sea-grey carpet, then crossed to the window seat. The sash was already up. All she had to do was rest her forearms on the white enameled sill, press her forehead against the dark, rusty screen, and breathe.
Cool. The scent of grass, of wet clover. The exhalations of worms, writhing in the earth. And closer, sad, pungent mildew rose into the air, remembering itself from other rainy days.
Clouds hung low over the lake, almost seemed as though they would touch the trees. The rain would be here for a while, for all day probably.
She put on her clothes: red corduroys and her black-and-yellow-checked cowboy shirt. There were stars sewn over the pockets and pearl snaps instead of buttons. A shirt to have adventures in.
She went down to the back porch and stood over the bell. The rain was louder here, falling in fine streams from the porch roof, splashing on the sidewalk. Breakfast smelled good. She washed her hands and considered how to approach the day’s project: top to bottom, or bottom to top? Miss Margaret wasn’t up yet, so downstairs first, she decided.
