by GARY DARBY
You see, I’ve never gone to school, and I’ll never be able to go. School is for those who can afford to pay, such as the villagers’ children, and not for someone who hasn’t a farthing to his name, like me.
My school is his shop at night, and Master Phigby and his books are my teachers. He makes me read to him and actually gives me lessons most nights. Thank goodness none of which are about dragons, or I’d never go back. The fact is, I may lose sleep in visiting his shop, but it’s worth every lost moment of slumber. I just have to be extra careful not to get caught by Malo or another dragon worker. If I did, that would be my last night of visiting the book shop.
I once asked Master Phigby how he came to know so much. He swept his arm around his shop at the rows upon rows of books. “In here,” he said, “I can take a journey to the farthest realms on Erdron; to Majorca and Keeni in the west to Homeron and Batel in the east.
“I can sail the Great Oceans and visit the Merpeople or walk the deserts of Falandon and see six-legged kamels lope across dunes that appear as giant waves cresting through an ocean of sand.
“I can visit the high north steppes and marvel at the grand lights that play in the night as if the gods were twirling their fingers in the heavens and making the stars dance.”
He took a breath before saying, “From my books I can learn how to combine sulfur and saltpeter together with just a pinch of charcoal and dye to make sparklers for the children. Or, how to mix the leaves of dandelions and willow tree bark together to cure a fever or lessen the pain of a broken arm.”
He swept both arms wide and bellowed, “And all from books, Hooper, that open your eyes, your thoughts, your hopes, your dreams, and your imagination to what can be instead of just what is.”
I can’t say that I’ve read all of his books, but when I started, I was reading the books on the lowest shelf, the children’s section. Now, I have to get his tall ladder to reach the topmost row and the books I haven’t read yet.
However, from early spring when the sunlight begins to return to the fading light of fall, we dragon workers work the high meadows and Draconton is too far for me to walk. So I have to wait for my once-a-month trip with the cooks into town to pick up provisions and after we’ve loaded the wagon, and the cooks are in the pub, I hurry over to visit Phigby.
He always seems to know when we’re coming because he’s waiting for me, thrusts a book into my hands, and sends me outside to lie on the grass beside the Mill Pond to revel in a few luxurious moments of nothing to do but read.
While I’m reading, Scamper typically takes a keen interest in the Whistle White Swans, the Anser Geese, and Maller Ducks that float and paddle through the pond’s clear, smooth water.
Every so often, he tries to see if a lily pad will hold his weight as he tries to get to the birds, but, of course, it doesn’t, and he falls into the pond. He scurries from the water, sputtering and chittering angrily because he’s soaking wet and acts as if it’s the fowl’s fault.
I still haven’t figured out if the swans honk and the ducks quack because they’re laughing at him or warning him to stay away.
I always have to return the book, of course, because I have neither money to buy nor another one to trade. Besides, if the other Draconstead workers ever caught me with such a thing, they’d just take it away from me, whether I’d actually bought it or not.
“So,” Phigby says, bringing my thoughts back to the here and now. “You want to know about dragon tear jewels.” He holds the book up for me to see. “This little tome might tell us something about them.”
“What’s it called?” I ask.
He holds the book out so that I can read the title, Dragon Tear Jewels, Moon Stones, Sun Gems, and other Crystals of Power.
“Crystals of power,” I murmur. “So a dragon jewel has some sort of magical ability?”
“Let’s find out,” Phigby answers and places the book in his lap. He opens the cover and mumbles, “Now, where shall we begin?”
A gust of wind comes up, ruffling the pages as if some invisible hand were turning them rapidly until they stop about midway through the manuscript. “Ah,” he says and puts his finger on the page, “quite so.”
“Master Phigby,” I ask timidly, “did you do that?”
“Eh?” he answers as he peers at me, “do what?”
“Make the wind turn the pages.”
“Phhh,” he replies with a dismissive wave of his hand, “of course not. Nothing more than a sharp breeze that ruffled the pages. Now, let’s see . . . ”
His voice trails off as his finger traces down the page while he mumbles, “Hmm . . . yes . . . ”
He stops to run his fingers through his flowing beard while saying thoughtfully, “Of course, I can see why that would be so.”
He keeps reading and then starts to chuckle. “Why, those silly dragons.”
He flips the page while still pulling at his long beard, nods a few times, and then snaps the book shut. He tosses the book in his satchel, snuffs out the light stick, stands while stuffing the light rod in his bag, and begins to march away.
“Master Phigby,” I yelp, “wait!”
He turns at my shout. “What is it, Hooper?”
“You never told me about dragon gems,” I sputter. “Are they magical? If you have one, what can you do with it?”
“Of course, they’re magical,” he answers. “What makes you think they weren’t? But first you’d have to have one to know just how magical it is, and since you don’t possess a dragon tear jewel, it doesn’t really matter, does it?”
I bite on my lip. I can’t let him know that yes, I do have a dragon gem. Not yet, anyway. I have to bide my time, decide how I’m going to handle this extraordinary gift. “No,” I mumble, “I guess it really doesn’t matter.”
Phigby starts to turn and then stops. He mumbles as if he’s talking to himself before he gives me a sideways glance. “If, by chance, you see Cara Dracon, don’t tell her about that book of mine that I mentioned. She’ll be pestering me to let her read it from now until she’s an old gray lady.”
“I won’t,” I quickly reply.
Though Cara and I don’t really know each other, I do know one thing about her. Phigby told me once that she loves books, even more than I do. While I can honestly say that I’ve read quite a few books, Phigby stated that Cara, on the other hand, has read every book in his shop at least twice, some three times and is always pestering him to get more new books. Ones that she hasn’t read.
If she knows that he has a new book that she hasn’t seen, well, from what I know, he’s right, she will most likely bedevil him forever to get her hands on the thing.
Phigby turns and gestures toward the west. “Look, Osa’s light on the Dragon Tooth Mountains, it almost appears like the Dragon Glow that you get on the mountains just before dawn.”
I turn, and my eyes catch a soft pale pink radiance on the mountains far away. Dragon Glow, Phigby called the soft light. I call it Dragon Blood because of all the innocent lifeblood that the monsters have spilled; enough blood to cover the mountains in scarlet from top to bottom.
I turn back to speak to Phigby, but he’s gone. I spin around looking for him, but he’s nowhere to be found. I scratch my head trying to understand how he could have walked away so quickly, but I’m at a loss to explain how he just vanished like that.
With a start, I realize I’ve tarried far too long in the meadow. At my usual limping gait, I cross the fields with my basket load of sugar grass, afraid that Malo will be angry with me for my tardiness. If he asks why, I’ll tell him about the evil spirit and the green, glowing dragon.
That brings me to a halt. No, I can’t tell him that. He’ll say I’m making the whole thing up to cover for my falling asleep instead of coming straight back to the barn. I’ll have to say that it just took longer to gather the sugar grass than I expected — which is actually true — and hope that he believes me.
I hurry until I get to the stream. I sink to my knees and
splash cold water onto my face, just to make sure I’m not asleep and dreaming. I rub my hand over my eyes and shake my head hard. It couldn’t have been real, I think, I must have imagined the dark wraith. There are no such things as phantoms or glowing dragons that walk the night, I tell myself.
But, what about Master Phigby? Did I imagine him too?
I take a deep breath and hurry on, clutching my basket of sugar grass. I slip inside the barn and listen. I let out the breath I’d been holding. I’m lucky, Malo isn’t to be seen. I stop at the first enclosure and let my hand slip inside my pocket to grasp the fatal petals. It will be so easy, I think, one tiny leaf per dragon. Why, I’ll even hand-feed each one, just to make sure they eat the poison bloom.
I clutch the flower, my hand trembling at the thought. I stay that way for several heartbeats before I slowly bring my hand out. Empty. I can’t do it. My life is one miserable day after another, but still, it is life, and I can’t bring myself to face a death warrant.
I’m a coward, it’s that plain and simple.
I reach into the basket and with a savage toss pelt the first sapphire dragon in the face with several handfuls of grass. I move from stall to stall, bombarding each dragon with the pale plants as I go along.
It doesn’t take long to spread the foliage among the birthers. Then I reach the golden’s stall, and stop to stare at her. The beast is lying down near the enclosure’s farthermost wall, and no matter how much I would love to chuck the grass into her face, she’s too far away for my puny throws. I dump the remaining foliage into the stall. She notices what I’m doing and with ponderous steps comes to the grass to eat.
The golden lowers her head and sniffs the stem deeply before she snorts through her nostrils. Abruptly, the ugly thing jerks her head up to stare at me and for a moment, I see what I think is surprise, maybe even bewilderment in her eyes. I shake my head and turn away thinking that I must be seeing things again because I know that dragons don’t have feelings.
I hear her moving, following me down the railing. I look over my shoulder, and her eyes seem to stare straight at me. She hasn’t touched the sugar grass and her gaze never leaves me. She’s never done that before, and I grow a bit apprehensive so I turn quickly away and take several steps.
But for some reason, I stop and turn around after just a few steps. The golden is standing at the corner of her paddock, still staring as if she were studying everything about me. Her intense stare is unnerving, so I whirl and hobble away at my best gait.
As I do, I shake my head, thinking the witch and the green dragon were just a dream, an awful dream, nothing more, just like Phigby said. Just as you’re dreaming that the golden is examining you or showing appreciation for the sugar grass, you brought her.
Remember, I tell myself, it’s all a dream and nothing more.
Thoughts of Golden Wind
Hooper? No, it can’t be, but it’s true. I thought I had lost my senses, but I haven’t.
Hooper carries the Voxtyrmen, the Jewel of Growth and Life. I can feel its essence, its radiance, even though Hooper believes he has it hidden under his tunic.
I admit, I have not known many Drachs, but of those, I would not have even begun to consider him as one fit to carry such a wondrous gift. I have a most difficult time accepting the fact that Hooper is the Gem Guardian.
Is it possible that Pengillstorr made a mistake? Could Pengillstorr make such a monumental error considering all that is at stake? My instincts say no. There is one other possible answer though it too would be unfounded speculation on my part — but it may make the most sense.
What if Pengillstorr, for some unknown reason, couldn’t find the guardian and with death at hand had to find a caretaker, someone to protect the gem until the actual guardian appeared? It is the choice of last resort, and if Pengillstorr chose Hooper, he did so with good reason, for it is evident that Hooper is weak and not just because of his physical limitations.
His eyes do not see, his ears refuse to listen, and his heart, except for a few brief moments, feels only one emotion.
If he is to carry the Voxtrymen, then he stands on a precipice that could lead ultimately to the slavery of mind, body, and spirit. I wish that I could tell Hooper what he faces, but that is not yet possible. Worse, his carrying the Voxtyrmen along with his own unbending hatred will only draw evil to him.
Somehow, we must find the guardian and quickly for only he or she can wield the gem’s power against the Wicked One.
Chapter 6
The next morning, just as the orange-red sun slides over the horizon, I’ve finished with my kitchen chores and had my early meal. I managed to snag a second small flat cake while Marly the cook wasn’t looking and shared it with Scamper. Even before he chomps down on the corn loaf, I can see that the little tub’s tummy is nice and round, so I know he’s had a successful evening hunting worms and crunchy beetles.
Me, I had a less than lucky night trying to make the dragon gem work. I spent half the night muttering what I thought were mystical words over the thing to see if I could get a response. Common phrases like “abracadabra” and “williewilliewishmewishes.”
I even tried saying the words backward but arbadacarba is even harder to say, and I stumbled over it several times, with my tongue all knotted and twisted before giving up.
The result? Absolutely nothing. Not even a tiny spark or flame out of the gem.
So I lost sleep and woke up grumpier than usual, but I did resolve to get a look at Phigby’s book that he had last night. I’m positive it has the answer to how to unlock the jewel’s secrets. Secrets that I badly want to learn because I just know that they will lead me away from this wretched life I lead.
Just at high sun, I’m finishing with the last outside paddock when Malo scurries up. He throws me a hunk of bread for middle meal. “Make for the top meadow,” he orders bluntly, “and do a count. Everyone else is on guard, and Master Boren wants an accounting by the time he gets back. I’ll take care of the lower two pastures.”
He snaps his fingers at me and gestures at the nearby open glades. “Go! Make it fast and don’t force me to come looking for you either.”
“What about these four?” I ask, pointing at the sprogs rolling around in the dirt.
“Leave’em here,” he says in an irritated tone. “I’ll fetch 'em back to their mothers.”
“With pleasure,” I mumble under my breath. I can’t believe my luck. I not only get away from my dung duties, but I get to leave my pests behind, too. The world must be coming to an end. What else can account for such miracles happening all on the same day?
I hurry over the creek and hasten toward the meadow’s center where the bulk of the upper dragon herd now roams. I pass by two drogs, who stand atop a small knoll, watching over the meadows. A bit farther down, I see two more plodding along the tree line.
I give them all a wide berth; nevertheless, the breeze carries their scent, and I scrunch my nose up at the odor. I stare at them and confirm my suspicions. Drogs never bathe and the olive-colored streaks running from their jutting jaws down to their protruding bellies is what I smell.
Dragon blood.
And I have no doubt where it came from, either.
I jerk my head away as I abruptly realize that I’ve gazed at the closest two for too long, and now they’re returning my scrutiny with a hard, threatening stare. I scurry away and glance over my shoulder, once, to make sure they’re not trailing. They follow me with their eyes, but thankfully, they stay where they are and let me continue into the meadow.
I hurry on till I’m wading almost knee-high through the pasture’s lush grass. The high meadows are a series of three broad and spacious glens that step their way down from Draconstead toward Draconton, where the lower, warmer winter pastures begin.
Most of the dragons are lying in the soft new spring grass and not moving around, which will make my counting a bit easier. Folded tight against their bodies are their leathery wings, held there by body chains, making
it impossible for them to fly, and the drog guards ensure that they don’t leave the meadows and wander into the forest.
The dragons are free to roam throughout the three expansive green pastures, but the drogs prevent them from going anywhere else. Sometimes, a dragon will try to make its way down to the lower fields where the goat and sheep flocks are kept, but the drogs drive them back, usually.
Last season, a crimson dragon managed to evade the guards and made its way all the way down to the winter meadows. The beast had a grand feast of several heads of mutton, which, though bothersome to Lord Lorell, he wouldn’t have minded all that much.
But when the dragon somehow caught m’lord’s favorite black stallion for dessert, well, let’s just say that we never saw that drog pack leader again. I suspect he became drog stew.
Not only do the drogs keep Draconstead’s dragons in the meadows, they also prevent the occasional wild dragon from getting into the glades. The Dragon Master is very careful with his breeding and doesn’t want any other dragons, especially wild ones, intermingling with his herd.
And lastly, the brutes ensure that no one but stead workers enter the pastures, either. Lord Lorell has made it known far and wide that if a dragon thief is caught by the drogs attempting to pilfer one of our dragons, m’lord will not turn him over to the king’s High Sheriff, or to Draconton’s Low Sheriff.
The drogs administer their own brand of justice.
It’s been quite a while since anyone tried to steal one of Draconstead’s dragons.
I catch sight of one big red moving ponderously near the tree line. It’s Wind Thunder, one of Wind Boomer’s offspring. Already his size is causing a stir among the Dragon Knights as well as some of the other Houses. They would like nothing better than to have a sire like Wind Thunder in their stables.
