by LeRoy Clary
The rain slacked off near sunset and then stopped. Steam rose from the blankets, and from Shell’s clothing. He removed his blanket, and it was almost dry. It was also warm to his touch. He removed the other from Henry and placed the warm, drier one on him, then spread the other on top of that one for additional warmth.
His blanket had felt like it weighed ten times as much as normal even though he’d wrung it out several times. He sat on the wet ground trying to dry his clothing without taking it off because of the cold, and trying to avoid catching it on fire, which he’d almost done twice.
But without the drizzle, and with the fire cheerfully burning, he gradually warmed. Henry lay still under all three blankets, but breathed hard through his mouth and he probably had a broken nose. It was swollen closed. Shell’s anger returned, then his thoughts again turned to the wolf.
He reached out and invited it to join them at the fire. The wolf refused. Shell had the impression the rain hadn’t bothered the animal, and it didn’t like fire.
Instead of sleeping, Shell tended the camp fire for most of the night, drifting off to sleep now and then only to wake damp and cold to add wood to the dying fire. While adding more wood, he let his mind wander as he planned his next moves. He asked the wolf to reposition herself to the top of the saddle between the hills and warn him if anyone followed.
Then he sat in the dark under low, dark clouds. So far, his great adventure had placed him on the run from a whole valley full of people. His actions endangered the Dragon Clan. He traveled with a mutant wolf, a miniature dragon, and a wounded boy who couldn’t take care of himself.
Besides those things, Camilla had spurned him. He didn’t like her, probably. She didn’t like him certainly. He thought he was lost in the mountains. Quester, his only friend, had remained at Bear Mountain, so he was alone. And his attempt to do a good deed for the young stranger sleeping beside him had totally gone wrong.
He glanced around. His staff and bow were missing. How had he been so stupid to go after the Simpson family without taking his staff? It had been there right beside Henry, but he had rushed out to seek revenge and left it. Then, in the confusion of escaping, he forgot it.
He considered going back. The staff had been with him most of his life and his hands would feel empty without it. But it was gone.
Depressed, he finally fell into a fitful sleep, only half-waking several more times to feed the fire. When dawn broke, he refused to wake even though he knew it was time to get up and be on his way. He felt stubborn and resistive. His world had crashed in on him during the last few days, and he wanted to fight back.
Finally, he rolled to one side and looked at Henry. The boy looked back from one eye, the other swollen completely shut. Red and yellow bruises covered most of his face. Blood crusted on his forehead. Henry twisted his jaws attempting to open his mouth, but it refused. Between swollen lips, he struggled to speak and eventually said, “Good morning,” which sounded more like “ood orning”.
With those two words, the veil of sadness surrounding Shell lifted as if it had never been. The wolf sent him an image of it prancing in a meadow, chasing a butterfly. At least one of the three travelers was happy. Shell said, “Why don’t we walk a while and then eat?”
Henry nodded, winced at the pain the action brought, and tried to get a knee steady on the ground to lever himself to his feet. Shell leaped to his assistance.
Shell gathered their things and stuffed his backpack. When it was full, he used leather strips to tie the rolled blankets to the outside. The sun peeked above the hills, and just the touch of sunlight made the world feel warmer. He pointed west.
Henry went first and set the pace along a muddy path. Fleming lay that way. Shell didn’t know exactly where or how far, but that was okay. When they got closer, they would begin asking about Henry’s relatives. His hand touched his purse and felt the coins inside. Henry didn’t know about them yet, or the future money he would receive from the crops each year.
Shell considered telling him, but the boy could barely walk, let alone comprehend a business deal. They paused at a stream to drink and eat.
Henry said, “Are they chasing us?”
Shell realized Henry didn’t know anything of the dragon or burning farm. But the boy was obviously scared the Smithson family was chasing them. “I think they have other problems right now. I sold your farm to a nice family across the road and down a way. We can talk about it later, but the price was more than fair.”
“They paid money?”
“Some silver and a portion of the crops for five years,” he said lightly to prevent detailed questions until later. “You’ll be able to buy a place of your own near Fleming, I think, not a whole farm but maybe a house.”
Henry walked silently for a while, then observed, “I see why the Smithsons beat me. They always expected to take our place because they have so many boys and need the land. Now I don’t know what they’ll do.”
“Oh, don’t worry about them,” Shell said, surprised the boy had the compassion to think of the problems the people who beat him were facing. It told him of character. “They might build a new house big enough for all of them. They might even live in their barn until the new house is finished.”
“I never liked them from the beginning. They were mean to Ma and Pa, always threatening and even stealing our cattle. I guess someone will pay them back for all that one day.”
Shell refused to smile, although he felt like it, but the events of the previous day were too traumatic, and he vowed to keep the story from Henry unless he was forced to share it. At the most, the boy couldn’t be older than fourteen. He was not old enough to take on the responsibilities for what had happened, even though none of which was his fault.
Still, Shell felt like he managed to draw misfits and outcasts to him like a herder who gathered the weakest and most helpless sheep to his flock. He got swept up in their problems like trees and branches getting swept along in a river current until they jammed up at a bend. He felt his life a log jam. He had become more involved in the problems of others than his own.
Not that he blamed any person or animal, but when he thought of himself as the only person without major problems in his life, he realized that somehow he managed to make the problems of others his. While they walked, his mind wandered and sorted out the issues. He concluded, helping others was not so bad. Their problems made his seem petty.
He reached out with his mind to the wolf as if it were normal, and he’d done it his whole life. The wolf sent back the impression it was happy and enjoyed the mountains and ample food more than the grasslands. It seemed to enjoy exploring the thick forests as it trotted up one hill and down another, never tiring, always interested in what it saw next.
They descended deeper into the canyon to follow the lay of the hills. The walls of the hills on both sides of the valley sloped down to a small, fast-moving river. There was no valley floor as on the other side, no flat areas, no farms, and little evidence that anyone had ever traveled that way before.
A disconcerting thought leaped into his mind that contradicted him, and at the same time told him the wolf was listening to him. Both thoughts jarred him, and he didn’t know which was worse. He questioned the wolf for more information.
Images and impressions formed until they formed a single word in his mind. Camilla.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
He had forgotten the wolf had her scent and would recognize it when he came across it again. Like the red leaves Myron had explained, the wolf must smell scents left by Camilla. “How long ago?”
He asked with his mind, but must have spoken out loud because Henry said, “What?”
“Just thinking.”
The wolf sent an impression of a sun rising and setting. One day. That was good because he didn’t wish to catch up and encounter her again. She’d think he followed her and she would make more accusations. Better to move slow and let her gain some distance. Besides, Henry was struggling to move quickly a
nd needed rest to heal.
In Henry’s condition, we should have stopped long ago. Shell said, “Hey, I’m tired. Do you mind if we find a place and rest for the afternoon? Dry our things?”
Henry took a few more steps and said, trying to sound reluctant and failing, “Okay, if you want to.”
“We can make up for it tomorrow.” Shell looked ahead and noticed an opening in the trees that might be a clearing. When they reached it, he found a small meadow not far from the river, and rocks placed in a circle with black ashes inside. A small pile of firewood lay beside.
The girl? He asked the wolf.
The confirmation contained a hint of humor of irony. It seemed to ask, who else?
The mid-day sun was almost hot, the sky clear. As Henry sat and rested, Shell took the time to empty his backpack and spread everything in the sun, including the three wet blankets. He removed all but the shirt that hid his dragon mark, spreading them to dry in the sun. He placed his boots there too, making a mental note to buy or trade for oil to soften and make them waterproof again.
He turned to Henry to help him undress and found the boy fast asleep. His clothing would dry in the sun, although not as fast. As he silently wished Henry happy dreams, like his mother, had taught him to do, he realized that he hadn’t been having the dreams of the night whisperer calling to him anymore. It hadn’t happened since he’d first encountered the red dragon.
Had the small red dragon been the one calling to him for all that time? Did it know it called to Shell? All Shell knew for sure about it was the adage of members of the Dragon Clan calling down dragons to help them when they were in trouble. Even though he had intended to take on the entire Smithson family, the rage that first seethed, then boiled over, had perhaps called the dragon to his rescue. The five of the farmers would have beaten him as senseless as they had beaten Henry, or worse, without the appearance of the dragon.
No, that was not completely true. If the dragon had not appeared, the wolf would have charged into the fray and probably done as much damage, or more. So, he somehow had two animal protectors. He pulled on pants that were dry and tucked his shirt, then spread himself out on his blanket, confident that the wolf would wake him, if needed, and surprised at the confidence he had in the animal after knowing it only a few days.
He slept until late afternoon. When he woke, Henry was still out, snoring softly. He gathered more firewood than would be needed for one night, but more was better than less. He cut a green stick and roasted venison that gave it a smoky taste and warm texture. At the river, he drank and went back to his backpack.
The pouch with the barbed iron hooks and thin, woven hand-line were one of his prized possessions. He carried a strip of venison to the shore, baited his hook with it, and tossed it into the water. It floated down with the current, sinking slowly.
He felt a slight tug on the line and reared back, setting the hook. He pulled in a perch, reflecting yellow and orange in the bright sunlight. Soon he had six of them, all small but the numbers would make up for that.
He rebuilt the fire just before dusk and used green sticks with the bark removed to skewer the cleaned and scaled fish. Henry woke, either from his movements from the aroma of him cooking the fish. Shell watched him painfully sit and asked, “How are you doing?”
“Better,” he winced when forced a partial smile.
He didn’t look better. The bruises had spread and turned darker colors, from pale yellow to the darkest reds and blacks. His one eye was still swollen shut, the cuts and scrapes on his forehead were scabbed over, and his nose bent slightly to one side. Shell knew he should try to move it back into place before it set in that position, but the thought of the pain it would cause the boy prevented him.
But if he did nothing, Henry might never breathe through his nose again. “Your nose is crooked.”
“Broken. You can say it.”
“You know.”
“I feel it grind when I talk or chew. It hurts all the time. But I intend to eat some fish.”
“I saw a boy get his nose reset one time about ten years ago.” Shell kept his eyes from giving away the rest of the story by looking out at the darkness as if there was something interesting out there.
“Did it hurt him?”
“Oh, yes. He screamed, but it worked. He said it hurt less right away after it was set, but he’d never want to do it again.”
Henry paused, his voice choked, and he said, “You didn’t have to tell me that last part.”
“A true friend would.”
A silence fell between them. Henry opened his mouth and worked his jaw, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Do you remember how it was done?”
“I think so.”
“Do it.”
“Henry, I’m telling you that the boy said it was the most painful thing he’d ever experienced, far worse than breaking it in the first place. Besides, I don’t know if I can do it to you. Make you hurt that bad, I mean.”
Henry held his nose between his hands, gently moving it from side to side and wincing. He said, “It hurts constantly, and probably will for weeks. After it heals, I will look crooked in the face, and it still might hurt.”
“I was going to offer, but I’m not sure I know how.”
“How did they do it before?”
“My father put his thumbs against each side the boy’s nose. Then he pulled down.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh does not tell of half the pain. He pulled hard as he set it. And he had to do it more than once to get it centered right.”
Henry was quiet as they watched the fire. He looked up suddenly, drawing Shell’s attention. “What if he pulled too hard and it got too long?”
Shell shrugged, not liking the thought and not trusting what words were about to cross his lips. Instead, he said nothing.
“That was a joke, but I can’t laugh.”
“Oh.”
“I want you to do it.” Henry sat still and drew a few deep breaths. “Tonight. Now.”
Shell stood and went to Henry. He gently touched his nose, but when Henry pulled back in pain, he said, “Maybe you should try. First, move it side to side. Just a little.”
Henry did, and the lower part of the nose moved easily through the swelling.
Shell said, “Okay, use your thumbs to start at the top and gently pull down, sliding your thumbs downward.”
The boy did as told. As his thumbs moved downward, the nose suddenly shifted position and changed shape. Henry moaned, and tears streamed down his face, but he said, “Almost. It already feels so much better, but it’s still not right.”
He moved his thumbs to the top of his nose again, ignoring the snot and blood flowing freely from his nostrils. The thumbs came down gently, and Shell saw the nose slightly shift again, and Henry looked up at him, a sort of bloody smile trying to emerge. “How do I look?”
“Not exactly great,” Shell laughed, “but better. How does it feel?”
“Not exactly great,” Henry said, using the same tone and words as Shell, “but it feels so much better. I can even get a little air through it. Probably half the pain just went away.”
“We should have done that sooner, I guess. Right after it happened.”
Henry tried cleaning himself, but with only one eye and the obvious pain he was still in, Shell said, “Here, let me get cold river water to help clean you, and maybe the cold will ease the pain.”
Shell used the corner of his blanket to soak up water and rushed back to Henry. It took four trips to get him reasonably clean, and the scrapes and cuts wiped, during which time Henry never said a word of complaint.
They ate the fish in silence.
Henry finally glanced up and said, “I’m going back there, you know. I have to.”
“To your farm? It belongs to someone else now.”
“No, to face Smithson. And his sons. I can’t just leave and let them think they can do this to me. Beat me and get away with it.”
The statement
brought Shell to attention. So far, he hadn’t shared much of what happened after they beat Henry senseless and he lay in the mud. How much of the tale to share was a problem. How could he explain a dwarf dragon falling from the sky and attacking them and burning their house while a giant wild wolf ripped out the throats of their stock?
“Listen, I think you are about even with them. While you were unconscious, a few of them were hurt, most of their stock died, and their house burned. You will not have to go back and punish them.”
The boy peered at him with his one good eye. “You did all that?”
“I guess so,” Shell said, trying to make the explanation truthful but vague.
“Oh. I think I need to go to sleep, now.” The boy lay on his blanket and pulled the other over himself. He was asleep in moments, his face peaceful.
Shell remained awake, watching the fire and feeling guilty for not telling all he knew, and for not setting the nose sooner. The boy was exhausted.
The tingle of the dragon touch drew his attention. He realized it had been there for some time, but his mind had been elsewhere, and the feeling was slight but persistent. While he didn’t know where it was, but the dragon roosted for the night close to him. He shifted attention to the wolf that roamed the edge of the river. She had just caught a frog and ate it.
Camilla probably sat near a campfire much like his, perhaps along the same river. When she looked up at the sky, she saw the same stars and low smoldering clouds threatening more rain. His mood turned morose. He sat, thinking about the great venture he’d planned for a year or more, when the reality said there was no maiden to save, a wolf had attached herself to him, a pygmy dragon stayed close, and a boy he didn’t know was so beaten he could barely walk.
There was supposed to be beautiful women to save, dashing young men fighting for the rights of the world, and majestic dragons trying to bond with him. By now his name should be on the lips of thousands of the Dragon Clan. The warriors of Breslau should tremble at the mention of his name.
