Out of Here

by Patty Jansen

  Everything said: this is a dragon's place. Only powerful dragons would sell things to countries beyond the big sea.

  A strip of light peeked from under the door of the office. Li Li knocked, but there was no answer so she turned the handle and entered the room.

  A man slumped over the desk, his head on his arms.

  Li Li said, 'Excuse me?' Li Li said. In the silence, her little girl's voice sounded loud.

  The man's head jerked up. His name was Zhang Ming. He was young, with thick glossy hair and eyes free of lines. 'Girl? What are you doing here?'

  'Are you the . . .' The question died on her lips. In his eyes, she saw the power. Yes, he is a dragon.

  He just looked at her, a mixture of surprise and bewilderment in his face.

  Li Li had nothing to lose. At least he wasn't throwing her out, as all the other dragons had. 'I need your help.'

  'My help?' He laughed, leaning back in his chair. 'Who wants my help? My money, yes, plenty of people want that.' He clawed through piles of paper on his desk, scattering sheets onto the floor, taking them in his hands and waving them in the air. 'See? Everyone wants my money.' And he laughed again, but his eyes were sad.

  Mad, certainly. Li Li shivered. She had no choice; he was the last on her list. 'You are one of the last dragons.'

  He let the bundles of paper sink to the desk. 'I am one of the last what?'

  'Dragons. When Nuwa defeated Gong Gong and fixed the damage he did to the world, she and her lover chose thirteen dragons to stand guard so that Gong Gong couldn't perform his mischief again. The blood of the original dragons lives in the sons of their sons. You are a dragon. The land is safe and prosperous because of you.'

  He laughed. 'Nice try, girl, but the land doesn't do well out of me at all. I may be a dragon, but if I can't pay the rent, I'll be as poor as you.'

  'You don't believe me!'

  'Show me why I should believe in old fairytales? I'm a dragon--great! Gong Gong, ha! Parents frighten their children with stories of him. Why do you come to me with these tales, girl?'

  'Because I need your help. The man who used to be my lover doesn't believe in magic anymore, and I need magic to fix the bridge. The first train that crosses it tomorrow morning will fall into the river. This train will carry all your factory workers.'

  He took notice of her then, his eyes widening. 'The workers have been saying for years that the bridge creaks when the train crosses it.'

  'Yes, and we must fix it.'

  'I will write to the government about it.'

  'They will not do anything. Not in time.'

  Another silence. He shook his head. 'And you think you can do something about his? You're only . . .' The words 'a little girl' died on his lips.

  'I have been fixing the bridge for years, with magic. And now my magic is running out. Dragons have magic. That's why I'm here. To ask you--'

  'Show me the magic.'

  'All right, I will show you.' Li Li dragged a box from the corner of his office. She opened it, ripped the plastic and grabbed a handful of fake fur, turning the box upside down. An avalanche of miniature horses cascaded over Zhang Ming's desk, heaping on his unpaid accounts and bouncing soundlessly onto the floor.

  Li Li closed her eyes and gathered strands of magic. It came reluctantly. She thrust her hands into the furry pile and let the magic flow from her hands into the stuffing, tossing little heads and wriggling legs. When she opened her eyes, a herd of miniature horses marched around the office.

  Zhang Ming stared.

  The sleeves of Li Li's tunic now covered her hands.

  * * *

  Li Li and Zhang Ming went out into the stifling darkness of night. They walked between the rails, Li Li trying not to trip over her trouser legs. Zhang Ming walked next to her, still in his business suit. Following them were thousands of stuffed animals.

  Where the bridge joined the riverbank, where Li Li dared to go no further, she put her small hand into Zhang Ming's. 'We need to put the magic in the bridge,' she said.

  Zhang Ming gave her a sad look. 'I've never learned how.'

  Li Li should have foreseen this. It was just that lately . . . her world had become so much smaller. Like sunlight focused on one spot under a lens, her experiences had contracted, as if she were the only person alive. 'Hold my hand. Touch the metal.'

  He did as she said.

  Li Li grasped her magic. His was strong, but wild, and fought her. Whatever she could catch, she fed into the bridge.

  The metal lit up; magic shone through the cracks and joints, but then faded. Tears in her eyes, she said, 'Try again.' She knew she could muster no more. She had learned to use magic when she was seven, and her body was just about to slip below that age.

  A voice shouted, 'Wait!'

  Li Li turned and gasped.

  There was Grandfather Peng, running towards them. Far in the distance, on the other side of the bridge, the lights of the first train approached.

  Li Li yelled, 'No, Grandfather Peng! Get off the rails. The train is coming!'

  But Grandfather Peng moved his old legs faster than she would have thought possible.

  Zhang Ming let go of Li Li's hand and rushed to help him. Grandfather Peng had death written on his face, but his eyes burned. 'I love you, Li Li.'

  Li Li's eyes pricked. She loved him, too, but she had forgotten what that was like, and loved him as a grandfather, not like the lover he had once been. Reunited in success, or in death.

  They knelt on the tracks, which sang the train's approach.

  Fluffy toys jumped onto the rails.

  Magic flowed from hands, feet and furry paws; metal squealed.

  Light blazed out of the bridge, melting into the cracks, fusing the rails. The train's horn blasted long and loud. Its headlights lanced through the pre-dawn mist.

  Zhang Ming jumped up, yanking Li Li down the embankment in a tumble of stones and rubbish.

  The train thundered past in a cloud of sand and grit, scattering the fluffy toys. Eddies of wind dragged at Li Li's clothes. A blur of light and metal, the train swished across the bridge to the other side, taking the workers to Zhang Ming's factory.

  Safe.

  Li Li burst into tears, although she couldn't say why. She could barely sit amongst the clothes that drowned her.

  * * *

  Li Li has a vague memory of the men in grey suits who came to take away what remained of Grandfather Peng.

  Li Li knows that the same day, a little boy was born to Zhang Ming's sister. They named him Jiongtao. His eyes are wise like an old man's, as if he knows what the future will bring. Li Li knows too, but sometimes she forgets even that.

  She has a small room overlooking the river, full of little fluffy horses. They prance around the floor and make her laugh. Every day, when Zhang Ming comes home from work, he takes her to the park and pushes her on the swings. Then he tells her a story and tucks her into bed while they watch the trains rumble over the bridge. He says the youth own the future. He may well be right.

  About this story:

  In general, stories that deal with old legends are set in medieval-style surroundings. After reading about the countless Chinese workers who were evicted from their homes for the simple reason that they were in the way of construction for the impending Olympics, I decided I wanted to set a mythical tale in today's bleak reality of the working class, where poor sanitation, poor building standards often lead to disasters we never even hear about in our comfortable homes filled with cheap items made in China.

  Never on a Birthday

  Originally published in Byzarium November2008

  They said in the corridors of the galaxy, if the galaxy had corridors, that no one could throw a birthday party as fine as Hermon Feyst.

  Certainly no one did it as often. A thousand guests, magnificent food, outrageous ornaments, and the orchestra--such heavenly talent, especially that trumpet player who jumped on his chair in a magnifique solo at the end of 'Happy Birthday'. One could
of course argue that they got quite a lot of practice playing 'Happy Birthday'. But then again, one could be accused of sour grapes. If you were the richest man in the universe, wouldn't you want to celebrate your birthday every day?

  On this day on Lokona, Hermon celebrated his birthday in Lokonian years, which wasn't the same as Martian years and not at all the same as Earth years, but had he lived on Lokona, which he did not, it would have been his birthday, and that alone was worth coming here for a celebration.

  And what sort of celebration!

  As the planet's three suns threw their confused shadows across the courtyard of the mock-Spanish inn, wine twinkled in glasses and guests laughed at the giant butterflies that had taken a liking to Hermon's wife's hat, like a living, writhing, fluttering headdress. Hermon stood in the shade of a butterfly tree, the home of those deliciously ridiculous creatures, letting his gaze roam over all his friends, laughing, talking, eating.

  'Oh, Hermon, aren't they delightful?' Esmeralda cocked her head, and a few butterflies tossed themselves into the air. 'Why do you think they like me so?'

  'Because you are the loveliest woman at the party.' Her hair might be silver, and her body might no longer be young and firm--for body modifications were so last century--but her beauty lay in her heart.

  Seated on her other side Teddy laughed, waving butterflies out of his face. His twinkling grey eyes met Hermon's. 'Mother and I were just discussing how we can use profits from the Avrilia Mining Project to build a shelter for refugees on Europa.' Teddy had his mother's eyes, but unfortunately his father's rounded belly. Now in his seventies, flecks of white dotted his ginger hair.

  That's when a knock of something hard on wood silenced the merrymaking.

  Hermon looked over his shoulder at the heavy wooden doors that led into the inn's foyer. On unsteady legs, from having drunk too much, Hermon crossed the courtyard and creaked open the door.

  A gust of cold blew in, ruffling Hemon's white hair and the sign on his chest that said 'Birthday Boy.'

  'I have come,' rasped a wheezy voice, no more than a whisper.

  'I can see that.' Hermon chuckled, but the sound fell flat. The man dressed in the blackest of black. His hands hid within the folds of his cloak, his face under a heavy cowl.

  'Can I come in?'

  Hermon half-closed the door. 'Pardon me, I think you're at the wrong address. I don't know who you are, mister. I didn't invite you.'

  'I know that,' the man said and chuckled in the depth of his hood. 'I often come uninvited.'

  Another cold breath crept over Hermon's bare arms, making him shiver. 'No one comes uninvited to my party, scarecrow. Begone with you!'

  He slammed the door shut, and under curious eyes, strode through the courtyard, past the butterfly tree, to the staff quarters. The pilots and technicians were playing with astro-stones, the coloured chips laid out on the table. The chief pilot of Hermon's private space ship glanced up. 'Who was that, boss?'

  Hermon didn't answer the question, but charged across the room where Jock sat snoring on a couch, his chin resting on his chest, a glass tipped over on his stomach, its contents having seeped into his shirt. 'Jock!'

  The astronomer jerked up, letting the glass clatter to the floor. 'What?'

  'Where are we off to tomorrow?'

  The astronomer fumbled for his holo-projector in his pocket. He flicked it on.

  Jock scratched his head. 'Uhm--where are we now?'

  'Lokona, you idiot. Just because we discovered the pattern repeats every 1326 days, that doesn't mean I have no need for an astronomer--or one who is drunk when he shouldn't be.'

  'Uhm--yes boss.' Jock swallowed hard and blinked to focus his watery eyes on the projection. 'Tomorrow, we will travel to Ameran, Dota system. According to this table, it will be your 113th birthday there.'

  'Ameran then it is.' Hermon whirled back to the pilots. 'Are the ships ready?'

  * * *

  Ameran it was. They travelled through the wormhole at night and arrived at the planet the very next day.

  Ameran's climate was less pretty than Lokona's, so the locals, by now accustomed to Hermon's turning up every year, had erected a huge tent.

  Here, the guests partied and danced while rain pelted on the canvas roof. Hermon sat next to his wife for that magical moment when the orchestra played 'Happy Birthday,' keen for that magnificent trumpet solo.

  But it never came. The orchestra finished the song, to raucous applause.

  Hermon called out, 'The trumpeter, what happened to the trumpeter?'

  The conductor downed his stick, and coat tails flapping, he ran through the crowd. He kneeled, red-faced and sweating, at Hermon's side. 'I am so sorry. I have bad news, boss. I didn't want to give it to you on your birthday.'

  'Every day is my birthday. Out with it.'

  The man cringed. 'Our trumpet player died last night.'

  'Died!' Hermon roared. 'That's impossible!'

  The conductor cringed again. 'Yet, it is true. We left his body on Lokona to be collected by his family.'

  Hermon turned to his wife. 'Esmeralda, just come with me for a bit.'

  She took his hand, and they walked to a corner of the tent. The partygoers watched him, which Hermon didn't like; he never kept secrets from his friends.

  Esmeralda spoke in a soft voice. 'You look upset, darling.'

  'I am. Our trumpeter has died.'

  'You are angry about that?'

  'I don't understand. I liked the man. I loved his playing.'

  Esmeralda shook her head. 'Hermon, dear, people die, whether you like them or give them permission or not. Just because the prophecy says that you won't die on your birthday, that doesn't mean that others won't.'

  In the moody light from the flapping candles, Esmeralda's face looked very old.

  * * *

  Hermon found a new trumpeter, not as good as the old one, but good enough. The company travelled through a wormhole every night, and every day there was a party. He was almost happy again.

  That was until they came to celebrate on Morack.

  Hermon didn't like Morack, although he had often celebrated his birthday there, for it was a planet which tightly orbited a cool sun, and had a short year.

  A world so ancient that all its mountains had ground to sand and sea and land had mixed until the entire surface was a marsh bog perpetually ravaged by tides under the influence of its single--and huge--purple moon.

  Hermon's pilots had trouble locating the capital, which, as it turned out, had followed the drift of the Great Sand Spit south. Someone had dragged Hermon's floating party hall to a new location and left it stranded in a bog full of smelly seaweed, like a discarded shipping container, which in fact, it had been in a previous life.

  Hermon requested a comm link and blustered at the authorities. They were very sorry, they said, but since a flood had destroyed the old capital, their priority had been to save the people sent adrift by the spring tides.

  'Fair enough,' Hermon said, and donated a good slice of funds to the homeless of Morack

  But he still didn't like it.

  He sat at his table next to Esmeralda and while she chatted to Teddy about charitable project--bless his son's good heart--Hermon said very little.

  'You are so quiet, dear.'

  Hermon sighed. 'Something is going to happen. I know it will.'

  Esmeralda took his hand. 'Oh dear, you worry too much.'

  'I know.' Hermon blew out long sigh. 'I guess I'm getting old.'

  She laughed, that tinkling sound he loved so much. 'Of course you are, older than any human in the universe. But I love you, Hermon.'

  'I know. I love you too, and you as well, Teddy.' He reached out and drew his son closer. Teddy patted him on the back. 'I love you, Dad.'

  Hermon felt a little better, but still he was hardly surprised when the thin cloaked figure showed up.

  He met the stranger at the door. 'You again. You must like birthday parties.'

  'Indeed.'
Today he wore a blue cloak. Contrary to the black one, it was the right length, and didn't hide his hands. They were strong and tanned.

  'What's with the new cloak?'

  The visitor chuckled. 'I thought it was time for something more friendly. Don't you like it?'

  'I don't care about the outfit. I don't like you. Get out!'

  As he turned around, he almost bumped into someone. One of his pilots, an expression of horror on his face. He only asked, 'Who?'

  The pilot said, 'Jock.'

  * * *

  Jock had been a useless drunk, Hermon told himself over many of the following birthdays, and the wormhole-hopping from planet to planet in between. See, the pilots were now finding their own way. They didn't need the astronomer anymore.

  But Hermon had liked Jock, even though he had blustered at him so often. When they next came back to Morack for Hermon's birthday, he stood at the door of the party container, and threw a wreath of flowers onto the marshy ground where Jock had been buried. Behind him, the guests clapped and cheered at the orchestra's 4176th rendition of Happy Birthday. Hermon couldn't muster more than a wry smile. The music wasn't the same without the trumpeter and the party wasn't the same without Jock. The new astronomer was a young fellow, who trembled each time Hermon spoke to him.

  He let his gaze roam all his friends in hall, and got a shock. The stranger was in the audience. He must have wormed his way in and sat at one of the tables, tucking into the food.

  Hermon charged across the hall, and grabbed the man by the back of his cobalt blue robes. 'Did I invite you in?'

  The stranger yanked his cloak coolly out of Hermon's hands and rose from his chair. He stood taller than Hermon. In the shadow of his hood, Herman could almost make out the man's face. His teeth blinked white when he spoke. 'You can try to keep me away, but you are powerless.'