If A Dragon Cries (The Legend of Hooper's Dragons Book 1)

by GARY DARBY

  In the firelight, its hue seems to spread from my hand to illuminate all of our faces in a soft radiance.

  Cara utter’s a little, “Oh . . .” and both Helmar and Amil suck in quick breaths. Phigby’s wide eyes appear as if they’re in a trance and his mouth sags just a bit.

  I hold the gem out and start to speak when suddenly, I hear the plodding footsteps of the dragons. I peer upward, and now my own eyes go wide.

  The four adult dragons, led by the golden, along with the sprogs, lumber over to form a semi-circle behind us, each gazing intently at the jewel.

  They’re drawn by the dragon jewel, just as Golden Wind was attracted to the Gaelian Fae pillars; the gemstone calls them.

  I’ve never been to church, but I’ve heard that it’s solemn and reverent. In this moment, I can’t help but feel that we and the dragons are in a sacred place. The night air grows still, with only the small fire’s crackling disturbing the silence. Even Scamper joins the circle, his eyes on the crystal, too.

  I glance at the gem and see that not only has the tiny frond fully unfurled, but the gemstone itself now radiates with an emerald hue, which to me is the final sign that what I’m about to do is absolutely correct.

  “This is a dragon tear jewel,” I whisper. I stop and glance at the golden. “Given to me by a very special green dragon just before he died.”

  I take in a deep breath and let it out in a shuddering breath. “I’ve had it for some time, but,” I choke, “it’s not mine to wield its powers. I was called to be merely its caretaker, to carry it until I found its guardian.”

  I hold the gem a little higher. “Why I was tasked to carry it I don’t know, I only know that this belongs to the true Gem Guardian, the one who can exert its powers.”

  I take in a breath, hold it for a moment before saying, “Which isn’t me.”

  My companions’ eyes are questioning, puzzled, even a little fearful, and flick between my face and the jewel. The gem’s soft glow seems to fill the small glen.

  “In my own way,” I give the golden a quick, little glance, “and with a little help, I’ve been searching for the guardian and now I’ve found him.”

  I can’t help myself and laugh lightly. “Believe it or not, thanks to that cursed arrow, it pointed me straight to him.”

  I take in another deep breath, take two steps and hold the gemstone out. “Helmar,” I murmur, “you are the Gem Guardian.”

  His mouth parts and I can see his breathing quicken. His eyes hold a certain eagerness, and he starts to grab the jewel from my hand. At the last instant, he hesitates with his fingertips just touching the gem. “Are you sure, Hooper?”

  “I am very sure,” I answer and cock my head toward my injured arm. “And this proves it.”

  I lick dry lips and nod toward the dragons. “Just as the gem draws them, the jewel draws other things — ” I glance at Phigby with my mouth screwed to one side.

  “Like an arrow with a Wraith Worm spell meant for the Gem Guardian. For all intents and purposes, it was an accident that I got between you and that shaft, nevertheless, it proves to me that you are the guardian.

  “When I woke, I suddenly realized that through all this, if I had died before I delivered the jewel . . . ” my speech trails off almost to nothing before I can go on.

  “If I died before I had the chance to deliver the jewel, then perhaps the gemstone would be lost, and we would not have its great power to counter Vay and her evilness.”

  I point at the seat I left and almost command, “Helmar, sit down, for there is one other thing. In my dreams, I saw how the jewel and Phigby’s book go together.”

  I glance first at Phigby and then at Cara. “I know how to open the book, or rather, I know how the Gem Guardian can open the book.”

  I meet Helmar’s eyes. Mine are firm, knowing, while his — well, even with the eagerness, there is the tiniest hesitation, born perhaps from confusion, or even fear. A look I know all too well, but one I’m sure will pass once he holds the gem in his hand.

  He sets his face in the firm features of the Helmar I know, and with quick strides, makes his way around the log’s gnarled end and plants himself into the spot I vacated.

  Phigby’s expression is troubled, questioning, nevertheless, he passes the book to Helmar. Helmar, in turn, peers up at me with his own quizzical look.

  With one last look at the gem, I slowly hold it out to and point down at the book. “It goes in the first hole,” I instruct, “like this.”

  I bend down and place the gemstone in the first depression on the left-hand side. It fits snug as if it and the book were made for each other. For a heartbeat, nothing happens, and then a warm light spreads from all sides of the book.

  Cara gasps and points. On the front, shimmer the words, The Ode of the Gaelian Fae. The glimmering grows brighter and then with a loud crack the clasp in the orb pops up, the strap snaps back, and the book opens — to blank pages, and even then, only a few; the rest of the book remains sealed.

  All of us exchange quick glances before Cara scrunches closer to Helmar to get a better look. Even the dragons stretch out their necks to peer at the pages. All except the golden. She stands there, stoic and impassive.

  The jewel glows a little brighter in its depression, and the page shines with an almost blinding light. Then, floating above the page, letters appear, each colored a light gold and shaded by deeper, glittering gold. The letters hover for a moment before they snap onto the page.

  No one says anything for several heartbeats before Cara nudges Helmar and murmurs, “I think you’re supposed to read it.” Helmar takes a breath and in a rumbling tone, reads:

  Four there were, the Gaelian Fae

  Osa, Nadia, Eskar, and Vay

  Given a place below the gods,

  Where neither Drach nor dragon trod

  The gods created all creatures both great and small

  Some to fly, some to walk, and some to slither or crawl

  On worlds far below to the heavens high above

  Some in spite and some with love

  But of the dragon, the Fae lay claim

  Talon and tail, and fiery mane

  Brought them forth as to reign

  Over hill, forest, and starry train

  But Drach their equal was to be

  On land, sky, and deep-blue sea

  Gaelian Fae who set their scales

  Green to tread through forest dales

  Red to thunder in fiery fight

  Orange and Yellow to shimmer in flight

  Sapphire faster than even the wind

  Violet to royalty, its knee will bend

  Blue to swim under wondrous ocean

  Each creation most carefully chosen

  Seven of the bow that colors the rain

  Over hill, forest, and starry train

  Vay it was who broke the trust

  Brought forth the golden to slake her lust

  One dragon to rule them all

  One Queen, to her we’d fall

  For greed, fear, and mighty power

  So that o’er all she would tower

  The dragon to rule over its own kind

  But to her, she would bend the mind

  Of the Drach and dragon, too

  That to her only, they would be true

  One Dark Queen upon her throne

  Seeds of evil she has sown

  And of the moment, we did partake

  But now the right, we must make

  From heaven above to the world below

  The gods will grant that we must go

  To set the right

  In fiery fight

  Seven have come, Seven are done,

  Four did sleep, Now three will weep,

  For now comes the eighth, Open swings the gate,

  On high the four shall align, A portent, an omen, a blazing sign,

  That chains have burst, The evil that thirsts,

  Will walk once more, On hill, dale, and rolling moor,

/>   As a seed, it will grow, Up high and down low,

  Rage and ruin, merciless death, Pain will come with every breath,

  All to slave, all to obey, All to serve the Domain of Vay.”

  “Phigby,” Cara says, “you must have read this book at some time, how else did you know the words?”

  “Yes,” Phigby slowly acknowledges, “but how and when? Truly, I don’t remember.”

  “So,” Amil rumbles, “you were right, Phigby, the Dreaded Age has begun. Vay is unleashed on our world, to rage and bring ruin and destruction.”

  Phigby brings a hand up to stroke his beard. “Yes,” he murmurs, “but there is another name for your ‘Dreaded Age’ Amil, and that’s the Age of Magic, when magic returns to our world.”

  “For both good and evil, I presume,” Helmar says.

  “I’m afraid so, Helmar,” Phigby acknowledges. “Magic is like anything else, there will be those who will use it for good, and there will be those who use it for wickedness.”

  He draws in a breath. “It’s all a matter of choice, and Vay and her minions have chosen the evil path.”

  Phigby pauses before saying, “There is also this, the portal is widening, but it does not mean that it is entirely open.”

  “So are you saying,” Amil asks, “that like a door opens with just a small crack, it must be swung completely wide for the full measure of Vay’s power to come through?”

  “That’s right,” Phigby nods in assent. He flicks his eyes my way and then says, “For sixteen seasons, at springtime, the time of new birth, the moons have come close to aligning.”

  He pulls at his beard. “Throughout those seasons, a little more each time as the moons grew closer, Vay’s evilness and influence have seeped through to our world.”

  “And now,” I whisper, “they’re fully aligned. The door is opening wide.”

  “But,” Cara says, “doesn’t that also mean the same thing for Osa, Nadia, and Eskar? That, their power is pouring through too?”

  “It does,” Phigby sighs in response. “Fortunately, for our sakes.”

  “Is Vay stronger than the three?” Helmar asks. “Is that why she’s appeared more?”

  “No,” Phigby answers firmly. “Her magic has no more power than her sisters’; at least for the moment.”

  “For the moment?” Helmar questions. “What does that mean? Are you saying that she could grow in strength to do more than she has?”

  Phigby reaches down and picks up four small stones, all practically equal in size. He holds three in one hand and one in the other hand. “When the gate opened, and the four came forth, their power was the same, like these stones, are close to the same in size.”

  He reaches down and adds small pebbles to each hand. “Good or evil,” he says, “only grow when you and I first acknowledge them, then accept them, finally embracing them, and acting accordingly, either for the good or for the bad.”

  He shakes the pebbles in his hand holding the one stone so that they clump together as if he would make a larger stone. “Vay’s power increases when others join her cause, choose to follow — to embrace her dark arts.”

  “Or, if,” he mutters low, “she uses vile methods to bring others under her influence.”

  “And we, Phigby?” Cara asks in a small voice. “What have we chosen?”

  He drops the stones representing Vay and holds out the hand with the three stones. “We have chosen well and good, my dear,” he answers Cara, “and unless we have a change of heart, we shall continue to do so. And because of our choices, and others’ who will reject Vay and join our cause, the three will grow stronger to counter Vay.”

  As Phigby finishes, I take a step toward the log’s end. My charge is over, I’ve completed my task, delivered the jewel to the guardian, and my burden is lifted. But then, I hesitate and turn back to the others. A feeling that I’d left something undone sweeps over me. But what?

  “Phigby,” I ask, as a sudden thought enters my mind, “we’ve already heard most of what was written there.” I point to the book. “Is it possible that there’s more?”

  “Eh?” he replies and bends over to peer intently at the book. Suddenly, there’s a gust of wind, and just as back in the forest when Phigby had held his book in his lap, the page abruptly turns.

  Instead of being blank, these pages glow in a light green luminance. Lifelike illustrations of trees, bushes, plants of all sorts, adorn the page, all of them swaying as if a gentle breeze ruffled their leaves. Small, green dragons seem to move in and about the foliage, lifelike in their movement and mannerisms.

  Then, amazingly, rising from the page, an image begins to take shape. It wavers for a moment before it grows bright and sharp.

  My eyes grow big and round, and I take a step forward. I can’t help the sharp intake of breath as the form raises its head and gazes at me with a kindly expression.

  It’s Pengillstorr. But instead of being old, he’s young, vibrant — alive.

  He bows his head to me, as if in gratitude for safely delivering his jewel to the Gem Guardian, and then his image fades away and in its place appears emerald-hued lettering, floating above the page.

  They hang there for a moment before they snap onto the page, each letter glittering bright green and edged in gold. Helmar needs no urging and begins to read,

  Green its scales were set to be

  Green to match both leaf and tree

  Created to wander forest and dale

  Given to roam over hill and vale

  Born it was to live life free

  And to stand on unbent knee

  Three as sentinel both day and night

  They to watch with clearest sight

  Ever to watch for the one to come

  Three to guard the cutter’s son

  And for him tis the hilted stone

  Emerald of power to hand and bone

  And from this jewel, the gift to grow

  Life itself it may control

  Voxtyrmen to give with final breath

  Voxtyrmen to bestow upon his death

  And for this, I gladly do my part

  A willing spirit, ready to depart

  Always together, never apart

  To remember ever, the sacrifice of the heart.

  Phigby leans back and strokes his beard slowly before saying, “Well, I guess that indeed settles it.”

  “Settles what?” Helmar questions.

  Phigby points to the page. “That the guardian must be a cutter’s son.”

  Helmar starts as if surprised. “My father,” he says slowly, “was a tanner.” He returns Phigby’s stare. “He cut leather.”

  He lets out a long breath. “I am indeed a cutter’s son.”

  “And the jewel is to go to a cutter’s son,” Amil mutters. “It appears that would be you, Helmar.”

  Cara squeezes Helmar’s arm. “The Gem Guardian,” she murmurs, holding him with her eyes before she turns and asks, “Phigby, what does it mean, ‘Voxtyrmen to give with final breath, Voxtyrmen to bestow upon his death’?”

  “Every dragon tear jewel,” Phigby explains, “has a unique name and special powers. In the Old Tongue, Gaelic or Gaelian as some call it, Voxtyrmen roughly translates as the Jewel of Growth.

  “If I understand the ode correctly, its power is over the greenery of Erdron, plants, trees, grass and the like.”

  “An emerald gem with power over the greenery,” Cara murmurs. She turns to Phigby, her face scrunched together as if she’s thinking hard. “So — does that mean that there are other dragon jewels, with different powers?

  Phigby nods and slowly replies, “I believe that would be a good assumption.”

  Cara glances sharply at me before saying, “And does that mean that a tear jewel only comes from a dragon who is about to die?”

  Phigby strokes his beard several times as if pondering her question before taking a deep breath. “I can only assume from the way Hooper was given this jewel and from how the ode speaks of a sacrific
e of the heart that that may well be the case.”

  No one speaks for several moments before Amil places his big hand on Helmar’s shoulder. “Well, what now, Gem Guardian?”

  As if answer, another gust of wind whips the book, and another page appears. This time, the lettering doesn’t hover above the page, it seems to float up through the page before it firms itself in lime-colored lettering outlined in black. Helmar swallows and reads,

  While many will choose the life of slavery

  Others will elect to fight back bravely

  From Erdron’s four corners an army will march

  Hearing the sounds of freedom, they will hark

  But just a few at first to join the light

  But many will come to stand at the last great fight

  But until that time, until that day

  When might and right shall battle against Vay

  One deed alone must be done

  One act to ensure that victory is won

  For in that time when the gate is riven

  Unto you, a golden is given

  And unto you, she shall be

  The one who holds victory’s key

  For if she falls into Vay’s vile hands

  Then evil and death shall sweep the lands

  To hide the golden from Vay’s many eyes

  A journey to take from mountains to isles

  There is no trail, no easy way

  The burdens that come most heavily weigh

  But before you lies the first path to take

  To the giants you now must make

  And remind them there with humblest bow

  Of Escher’s promise and Queenly vow.

  With that, the book snaps shut.

  “Well,” Phigby mutters, “that’s certainly clear enough.”

  “What do you mean, Phigby?” I ask.

  “Weren’t you listening, Hooper?” Amil answers. He turns and points off to the west. “We’re very close to the Golian Domain, the land of the giants.”

  He motions to the book. “If we can believe that, then that’s where we’re supposed to go.”

  “Only, we’ve already been there once,” Helmar points out. “Is this saying, we’re to go back?”

  To Amil’s puzzled expression, Phigby recounts the battle between the Wilders and the Golians. Amil sucks in a breath. “You’ve been to the Colosseun Barrier and lived to tell about it?”