by GARY DARBY
For an instant, she holds back the firestorm, then an aura of light surrounds me and the dragons. I feel the presence of the three, their strength added to mine. Vay’s scream of No! is so loud, so desperate and angry that I fear that the paving will crack under us, and we will be crushed by an avalanche of stones.
Then there is an explosion of flame and black smoke, and when it clears, Vay is gone as are her three sisters.
The dragons cease their fire, and I slump over, for the moment drained by the confrontation with Vay. The dragons settle to the walkway, and I hear hurrying footsteps.
Amil puts an arm around my waist to hold me up. “Are you all right, Hooper?” he asks.
I nod and murmur, “Yes, I think so.”
“Well,” he answers as he scrutinizes my limp body, “to tell you the truth, you may say you’re all right, but right now you look like an old limp sock that someone has wrung dry after washing.”
I give him a faint smile. “And that’s just about how I feel, too.”
I straighten and turn. Standing together, looking at me, are Phigby and Helmar while Cara helps her dazed father sit up on the blackened paving stones. Cara peers at me, with an expression as if she doesn’t recognize me, or perhaps, doesn’t want to recognize and acknowledge me after what just happened.
Phigby wears a satisfied look, whereas Helmar has an expression that’s part anger, hurt, bitter disappointment, and a large part that’s surprise.
The surprise part I understand well.
Phigby strides up to me and with the golden looking on, says, “Well done, Hooper Menvoran.”
“Hooper Menvoran?” I stammer, “What — ”
“It’s Gaelian, Hooper,” he answers. “It means ‘the one who guards the gems.’”
“How did you know?” I sputter, “I truly thought that — ”
He holds up a quick hand. “Now is not the time, we’ve bought ourselves a few moments of freedom, I suggest we put it to good use.”
Without another word, Helmar helps Cara get Master Boren up on Wind Song, and the others scramble for their dragons. I tuck the gem away, and as I do, I feel a warmth and a faint pulse against my skin.
I let out a breath. The gem is back where it should be, and I feel the weighty mantle of guardianship descend.
I have no doubt now who the Gem Guardian is, but will I be strong enough to bear the burden, to wield its power as Pengillstorr would have me, in honor of his sacrifice of the heart?
Only time will tell.
Thoughts of Golden Wind
Treachery. Evilness. Tainted and lost lives. Disappointment and anger.
Victory coupled with the wretched sorrow that only a loving and caring parent can know.
The true Gem Guardian finally revealed.
A tiny seed planted but will it sprout? Do we not all start small in mind and spirit? The question is whether or not we stay that way our whole lives. Only we can answer that query.
How then, to help this seed grow? To reach for the light when it is so much easier to stay in the shadows and accept the darkness as the right and real world?
How can I help Hooper see what he must do, to carry this burden? Its weight will be heavy, perhaps even more than that which he already carries.
A vibrant seed needs fertile soil, adequate water, and plentiful sunshine to grow. Otherwise, it shrivels and dies. As it is with seeds, so it is with souls whether they be dragon or Drach.
My eyes see that Hooper’s journey will find him planted deep in the soil of adversity, tragedy, heartbreak, rage and ruin but also enduring comradeship, friendship, love.
There will be times that he will be showered in temptation, weakness, cowardice and only faith, strength, and courage will protect him from drowning and losing his fight.
May the abundant sunshine of truth and light forever break the dark clouds of wickedness that begin to sweep across the world and may Hooper’s inner light guide and protect him from partaking of the Evil One’s guile and temptations.
Otherwise, he too will become a lost seed that shrivels and dies.
For all of us, pray that that does not happen.
Chapter 29
As we sky toward the woodlands, I glance back to see Prince Aster with his sword held high and in one final fit of rage, heaves it at us. Daron, on the other hand, stands beating his blade on the bastion wall, sending sparks shooting into the night.
I take a certain sense of satisfaction in seeing the two like that, but as I bring my glance back to my companions, I see tears in Cara’s eyes that slide down her face in long streaks that she makes no effort to wipe away.
Tears of joy at finding her father alive. Soul-wrenching anguish at seeing her father’s torment over Daron. Tears of love for her brother and tears of hatred for what he has become.
My face slackens as I realize that my sense of satisfaction is hollow, compared to the depth of Cara’s loss. And my own loss will be not seeing Cara smile for a long, long time.
The golden takes us quickly to a small meadow, and I point down. “The sprogs!” I call to Cara and Helmar. The three sapphires glide to the glade while the golden circles overhead. Cara and Helmar quickly get the sprogs into Wind Song’s saddlebags and then we’re ready to go.
Moments later, with Master Boren back on his beloved Wind Rover and Amil riding behind, Helmar and Phigby on Wind Glory, and Cara on Wind Song we’re skyborne. Once they’re aloft, Golden Wind again takes the lead, and we sky away from Dunadain Keep.
“Where are we going?” I call out.
“Where we are supposed to go, Hooper,” she answers back.
“Where’s that?”
“You’ll see,” is all she says.
She turns us away from the river valley and toward a line of small hills to the west. We follow the rolling peaks for a long while before she slows and heels to the left in a long arc. When she straightens, my eyes widen at what I see in the moon’s glow.
“Mountains,” I state.
“Yes, Hooper, those are the Denalian Mountains. The boundary that marks the Golian Domain.”
“Oh,” is all I say. In the moonlight, their snowcapped peaks have a glistening silver sheen. They’re so tall I wonder how their tops don’t scrape against the stars.
“Is that where we’re going? To the mountains?”
“There and beyond,” is her answer.
We sky through the night until there is a brightening to the east. The golden swings gently to the left, gliding just above the trees, whose green and orange leaves flutter in the light breeze. We sail over a river, its turquoise tint noticeable even in the early morning light.
She glides down to a soft landing in a small meadow. In the distance, the mountains stand sharp and tall, the peaks catching the first of the dawn’s pale pink light.
It’s Dragon Glow, only I don’t see blood anymore, just the light’s beauty against the mountains.
I prod Golden Wind off to one side under some low hanging trees, away from the others for the moment. Scamper is quick to bound from the golden and head off on a hunting foray.
I slide off the golden, stroke her neck for a moment and murmur, “Thank you for saving me back there. If you hadn’t, Scamper would have one less friend.”
She swings her head around to me. “As would I.”
Friends? I take a deep breath. If you save someone’s life, does that mean that they’re your friend? I’m not sure. I haven’t forgotten that it was dragons that murdered my family. And that memory will forever be deep and tender.
But still, can I judge Golden Wind by those dragons?
Is that right? Is it fair?
I turn and see Cara and Helmar helping Master Boren toward some fallen logs where he can sit. Pain, deep, enduring hurt is etched on his and Cara’s face, and it’s not from weariness, the long sky ride, or a physical wound. Their agony goes deeper, straight to the soul.
I let out a breath. “Cara and Master Boren grieve.”
“Two good peop
le,” she murmurs, “wounded deeply.”
“By Daron,” I mutter in disgust.
“Yes,” she murmurs, “what little hope that Boren had left for his son has been crushed under Daron’s choices. Daron has broken his heart, left him angry, particularly at himself. He blames himself for his child’s waywardness and terrible decisions.”
She lets out a long sigh. “In his mind, his hopes that Daron would be a formidable soldier for good, for right, have been crushed, cast aside in a cascade of decisions that have left Daron nothing more than one puny member in the pack of evil ones.”
I gaze at the two, my heart crying for Cara’s sake. “And Cara,” I respond, “is not even trying to hold back the tears, which isn’t like her. She must hurt so very badly.”
I peer at the golden. “Is there anything I can do to help? To ease the pain? Will she ever smile again, be happy?”
“For now Hooper,” she answers, “this is a time for she and her father. Hopefully, at some point when the pain subsides, she will smile again, feel happiness in her heart.”
She sighs, “But all in its own time Hooper, all in its own time.”
I step around to face her and for some reason, I reach up and scratch her between the eyes. Her eyes get a blissful look, and I swear, she practically purrs. I give her a good, long scratch, and when I’m done, I step back.
She opens her eyes, gazes at me for a moment before murmuring, “What was that for?”
I shrug. “Oh, I don’t know. You just seemed to need it, that’s all.”
Have you ever seen a dragon grin? It’s not pretty, full of fangs and smelling a bit of sulfur, and certainly not like one of Cara’s stunning smiles, but still, I sort of liked it.
I glance toward the mountains. For some reason, I’m pulled to them, and I wander over to a small knoll to stare up at the mighty granite ramparts. The Dragon Glow has given way so that each peak shines as if it has a bright beacon lit on the very top.
I hear plodding footsteps and know the golden has followed. Moments later, I hear lighter footsteps. The rest of the company has joined me in gazing at the mountains.
Phigby rubs shoulders with me, and without looking at him, I say, “Phigby, I am so confused.”
I touch my tunic where the emerald lies, “How is it that I’m — ”
“That you are the guardian and not Helmar?” He peers at Helmar, who is listening intently, his own questions showing clearly on his face as well as a certain stony hardness. “Helmar is a good man, big, strong, and keen of eye and mind.
“However, it’s not the physical stature of a man or woman that makes them who they are, but rather the fullness of their heart. You needed to empty yours first of bitterness and hatred, and fill it instead with purpose and humility.”
“But, I’m not a cutter’s son,” I protest.
“Ah, but you are,” Phigby firmly replies and lays a hand on my shoulder. “Your father was a woodcutter.”
I suck in a breath as the image of my childhood home fills my mind. “The logs of our cabin — ”
“Hewn from the forest by your father and brother,” Phigby answers.
“But, Phigby,” Cara objects, “you said that Helmar — ”
“Was and is a cutter’s son too,” Phigby replies, “but I never stated that he was the Gem Guardian. I only repeated what the ode said, that the Gem Guardian would be a cutter’s son.”
“But you implied that I was,” Helmar says bitterly. “Why was I led to believe that I was the guardian?” His tone is not only harsh, it’s demanding.
Helmar is not taking it well that he’s not to carry the gemstones. He thought he’d found his way to climb up that ladder of his only to have the ladder jerked out from under him.
Now, instead of standing on the mountaintop’s grandeur, for all to see, he’s been shoved back down the mountain slope, and worse, by someone like me.
By a Hooper, someone who is nowhere close to being a Helmar.
Phigby takes in a deep breath and in an apologetic tone answers, “I am sorry, Helmar, that was my doing. You see, I suspected that Hooper was the guardian all along.”
He pauses and then says, “It is possible that a dragon gem might be passed to a caretaker for certain reasons, but under the circumstances of how Hooper came to acquire the jewel, I highly doubted that that was the case.
“Pengillstorr came into Draconstead willingly, just to find Hooper, also knowing that he would have to give up his life in doing so. I do not believe that he would have carried out such an act if he was merely giving his heart stone to a caretaker.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I was fairly confident that Hooper was the guardian and not you, and only he would be able to wield its powers.”
“You used Helmar,” Cara states in an ice-cold voice. It is more of an accusation than a simple statement.
She too is having a hard time accepting that Helmar, with all his abilities, is not the chosen one. She flicks her eyes toward me. I can see confusion, disappointment, the building anger. I can see how easily it would be for her to hate me.
Even more so, now that it’s evident that Daron is siding with Vay and the Wilders, her frustration, her embarrassment and loss runs deep, and she’s not ready to accept that Helmar, her love, has been pushed aside for the likes of me.
“Yes,” Phigby freely admits. “But for a good reason. Until Hooper was truly ready to accept the mantle, we needed to keep Vay distracted, have her attention diverted elsewhere until he would be able to stand and face her.”
“You could have gotten Helmar killed,” Cara protests in a raised, harsh voice. “Vay thought he was the guardian and focused all her evilness toward him.
“Did you even think about that or were you so intent on protecting Hooper that you were willing to sacrifice the strongest of our company just for Hooper, the weakest among us?”
I bite down hard on my lip, but I don’t speak up. After all, she’s right. If Helmar were a mighty dragon heart tree, I would be the tiniest sprig in the forest. That’s why I’m still in shock over where I now stand and wondering if it’s not a mistake, that Phigby is wrong, and I really should be handing the Voxtyrmen back to Helmar.
Phigby’s eyebrows furrow in profound sadness, and he places a hand on Helmar’s broad shoulder. “Yes, I knew the chance that we were taking with Helmar’s life, and if Vay had succeeded in her evil plans, it would have been as if she had thrust a Proga lance deep, deep into my heart.”
His eyes met Helmar’s. “It was a bitter, bitter thought to contemplate and I would have been miserable for the remainder of my life.”
He pauses before straightening to say, “However, though I fully admit that that may well have happened, we must remember and accept the fact that we are in a war with Vay. A war that will extend beyond the Northern Kingdom’s boundaries and determine the fate of our world.”
He takes a deep breath and gravely murmurs, “And, we must all accept the fact that each of us may be called upon to offer up the ultimate sacrifice.”
He touches my tunic where the gemstone lies. “Just as a very special emerald dragon did,” he says of Pengillstorr, “so that we now have his gemstone with which to face Vay and her minions.”
I glance up at the golden. Her ears are forward, listening, but her expression is impassive, stoic. I give her a little glare, and she returns my look with a dignified, unapologetic gaze. I can’t help but wonder if she too, knew all along.
I turn back to Phigby and shake my head. “I still don’t understand, Phigby. Of all the people on Erdon, why me? I’m the least — ”
“Hooper!” his bellow is like one of the distant mountains, towering, massive. “Even the least among us has worth and dignity, and that includes you!”
He takes a breath. “And never, ever forget that.”
I hear thudding footsteps and turn to see the sapphires gathering behind us in a semi-circle. The golden joins them, and they lift their heads to let out a giant roar that rolls across
the meadow and the forest beyond.
The little sprogs join in and do their best to mimic the dragon’s thundering roar, but it’s not much more than a loud squeal.
As the dragon’s roar fades away, Scamper comes bounding up to nuzzle my legs, and Amil takes a step forward to study my face before he speaks. “In all honesty, Hooper,” he rumbles low, “with something as precious as a dragon jewel, I would prefer someone who can wield a sword or ax, and can string his own bow.”
Such as Helmar, I think to myself.
He takes in a deep breath. “However, in all my travels I’ve learned that it’s not always the reach of your sword arm that determines how far one’s heart can stretch.”
He holds his great ax up. “My blade is yours.”
Slowly, with obvious reluctance, Helmar puts a hand on his sword hilt. “To protect the golden and the gem, you can count on my sword and my bow.”
“And I pledge my bag,” Phigby quickly states.
That brings a lighthearted moment, but I can see that Master Boren has a frown on his face as he glances first from me, and then to the golden. The expression on his face tells me all that I need to know.
He cannot accept that his former dragon dung shoveler now rides the mightiest dragon in the world.
For an instant, I see a pang of jealousy cross his face. I nod to myself in understanding. If anyone should be riding Golden Wind, it should be the greatest Dragon Master, and not Hooper, the mightiest manure mover.
After all, the stench of dung still scents my clothes, my body is still scarred and weak. In their eyes, I’m only a few days removed from being the guardian of the slurry pile. And instead of wielding a dragon gem, I should be brandishing a rake and shovel.
It’s obvious that Master Boren and Cara are holding back, neither acknowledging me as the Gem Guardian. Cara’s eyebrows are furrowed together, and her face is a bit darker than normal.
Her mouth is skewed to one side, and her eyes don’t have their usual sparkle. Then, slowly, as if she did so reluctantly she takes her father’s arm and both turn away from me and the others. Helmar quickly follows the two.
