by neetha Napew
skeletons of orange-lipped black ash that writhed and shrank in the night.
Close by the main harbor gate stood several clusters of nervous animals. Some
were in uniform, others only partially so. Behind them were several large
wagons, three axled, sporting hand pumps. The rudely awakened soldiers waited
and held tight to their axes and spears while handlers behind them tried
frantically to control the baying, hissing lizards yoked to the wagons.
Tubes trailed like brown snakes from each wagon back through the partly opened
gate and doubtless from there out into the river. It was clear that the
Polastrindu fire department was equipped to fight fires, but not the black and
purple-blue behemoth they could hear raging and roaring behind the wall of flame
that had engulfed the barracks.
"Clothahump! Where's Clothahump?" Pog yelled as the little group raced across
the cobblestones toward the gate.
The leader of one of the fire teams gazed at the bat uncomprehend-ingly for a
moment before replying. "The wizard turtle, you mean?" He gestured indifferently
to his left. Then he returned his attention to the spreading conflagration,
obviously debating in his mind if it was worth the risk of attracting the
dragon's attention in order to try to at least contain the vanguard of the
blaze.
They found Clothahump seated nearby on a low hitching bench contemplating the
fire. From time to time thunderous bellows and Hephaestean threats could be
heard from somewhere inside the blazing barracks.
They clustered around the motionless wizard, looked at him helplessly. He
appeared to be deep in thought.
"What happened, sir?" asked Flor concernedly.
"What?" He looked around, frowned at some private thought. "Happened? Oh yes.
The dragon. The dragon and I were talking pleasantly. I was doing quite well,
boy." The wizard's glasses were bent and dangled precariously on his beak. His
carapace was black with soot and he looked very old, Jon-Tom thought.
"I was rationalizing my end of the discussion efficiently when a pair of our
guards joined us unexpectedly. They wondered where you were and I informed them
you were all asleep, but they remained. I think they were attempting to prove
their bravery by remaining in the dragon's presence.
"Falameezar greeted them as comrades, a word I explained to them. We all began
to talk. I would have made excuses, but the dragon was enthusiastic about the
chance to have a serious talk with members of the local proletariat." Despite
the proximity of the blaze, a cold chill traveled down Jon-Tom's spine.
"The beast inquired about their aspirations for their huge commune and their
eventual hopes for strengthening proletarian solidarity. None of that made any
sense to the guards, of course, but then it doesn't make any sense to me either,
so I was hard put to rationalize their replies.
"But that was not what ignited, so to speak, the problem. Soon both guards were
boasting uncontrollably about their plans for leaving the army and getting rich.
I tried to quiet them, but between explaining to the dragon and attempting to
silence them, I got confused. I could not work any magic to shut them up.
"They went on and on about their supposedly wealthy friends, one of whom was a
merchant who had a hundred and sixty people working for him, slaving away making
garments for the trade. They boasted about how cheaply he paid them, how
enormous his profits were, and how they hoped they would be as fortunate some
day.
"I think what finally set the dragon off was the offer one of them made to
employ him to work in a foundry, helping to make weapons so the local police
could clear the streets of 'the pitiful beggars who infest decent
neighborhoods.' That appeared to send him beyond reason. I could no longer
communicate with him.
"He started raving about revolutions betrayed and capitalist moneymongers and
began spewing fire in all directions. It was only by tucking my head into my
shell and scrambling as fast as I could that I escaped. The two rabbit guards, I
fear, exploded like torches when the dragon exhaled at them." He sighed heavily.
"Now he insists he will burn down the entire city. I'm afraid the only thing
that has kept him from destroying more of the town thus far is his own rage. It
chokes him so severely he cannot concentrate on generating fire."
"Why don't you make him stop, wizard?" Talea was leaning close to his face and
practically shouting into it. "You're the all-powerful sorcerer, the great
master of magic. Make him stop!"
"Stop, yes? I was trying to think." Clothahump leaned his chin on stubby
fingers. "Dragon spells are as complicated as their subjects, you know. The
right ingredients are required for a truly effective cast. I don't know..."
"You've got to do something!" She looked back at the searing blaze. Then she
looked at Jon-Tom. So did everyone else.
"Now the lad's willin' and good-natured," said Mudge caution-ingly, "but 'e
ain't no fool. Are you, mate?" The otter was torn between common sense and the
desire to save his own highly flammable skin.
But Jon-Tom already had the duar swung around against his belly and was trying
to think of something to sing. He could remember several rain songs, but that
might only anger the dragon and certainly wouldn't solve the problem. Falameezar
might not burn Polastrindu down, but from the smashing and crunching sounds
issuing from behind the flames Jon-Tom judged him quite capable of tearing it
down physically.
He marched out toward the barracks, ignoring the single plea that came from
Flor. None of the others tried to dissuade him. They had not the right, and they
knew he had to try. They wanted him to try.
The near barracks' wall suddenly collapsed in a Niagara of flaming embers and
hot coals. He shielded himself with the duar and his green cape. There was a
roaring in his ears from the flames, and wood exploded from the heat ahead.
"You! Deviationist! Counterrevolutionary!" The epithets emerged fast and
accusing from the fire, though so far without accompanying arcs of flame.
Jon-Tom looked up from beneath his cape and found himself only a couple of yards
away from the glowering visage of Falameezar. Red eyes burned down into his own,
and plate-sized teeth gleamed in the orange light as the dragon-skull dipped
dowr toward him....
XXI
"Lies, lies, lies! You lied to me." A massive clawed foot gestured toward the
inner city. "This is no commune, not even in part, but instead a virulent nest
of capitalistic vice. It needs not to be reformed, for it is beyond that. It
needs to be cleansed!"
"Now hold on a minute, Falameezar." Jon-Tom tried hard to sound righteous. "What
gives you the right to decide what should happen to all these workers?"
"Workers... pagh!" Fire scorched the cobblestones just to Jon-Tom's right. "They
have the tasks of workers, but the souls of imperialists! As for my right, I am
pure of philosophy and dedicated in my arms. I can tell when a society is
capable of achieving a noble state... or is beyond redemption! And besides," he
spat a petulan
t burst of fire at a nearby market stall, which immediately burst
into flame, "you lied to me."
Since indecision was clearly the path leading to imminent incineration, Jon-Tom
replied boldly. "I did not lie to you, Falameezar. This is a commune-to-be, and
most of the population are workers."
"It means naught if they willingly condone the system which exploits them."
"How much choice does an oppressed worker have, comrade? It is easy to speak of
revolution when you're twenty times bigger than anyone else and can spit fire
and destruction. You expect an awful lot of some poor worker with a family to
take care of. You don't have those kinds of responsibilities, do you?"
"No, but..."
"Then don't condemn some poor bear for protecting his family. You're asking them
to sacrifice cubs and children. And besides, they don't have your education.
You're expecting revolutionary sophistication from uneducated workers. Shouldn't
you try and educate them first? Then if they reject the True Path and continue
to accept the capitalistic evils they live with, then it will be time for
cleansing."
And by that time, he thought hopefully, we'll be safely away from Polastrindu.
"They still willingly countenance an antibourgeois life," said Falameezar
grumblingly, but with less certainty.
Meanwhile Jon-Tom was still furiously trying to recall an anti-dragon song. He
didn't know any. "Puff the Magic Dragon" was pleasant but hardly restrictive.
Think, man, think!
But he had no time to think of songs. He was too busy trying to tie the dragon's
tale into semantic knots.
"But would it not be best for all concerned if a warning was to be given?"
Falameezar's head rose high against the glowing night. "Yes, a warning! Burn out
the evil influences so that the new order can be installed. Down with the
exploiting industries and the factories of the capitalists! Build the commune
anew, beneath the banner of true socialism."
"Didn't you hear what I just said?" Jon-Tom took a worried step backward.
"You'll destroy the homes of the innocent, ignorant workers."
"It will be good for them," Falameezar replied firmly. "They will have to
rebuild their homes with their own hands, cooperatively, instead of living in
those owned by landlords and the bosses. Yes, the people must have the
opportunity to begin afresh." He turned his attention speculatively to the
nearest multistoried building, considering how most efficiently to commence
"cleansing" it.
"But they already hate their bosses." Jon-Tom ran parallel to the loping dragon.
"There's no reason to put them out in the rain and cold. What's needed here now
isn't violence but a sound revolutionary dialectic!"
Falameezar's claws scraped on the cobblestones like the wheels of a vast engine.
"Remember the workers!" He shook his fist at the unresponsive dragon. "Consider
their ignorance and their personal plights." Then, without thinking, his fingers
were flying over the duar, the necessary words and music having come to him
abruptly and unbidden.
"Arise ye pris'ners of starvation!
Arise, ye wretched of the Earth.
For justice thunders condemnation, a better world in birth.
No more tradition's chains shall bind us.
Arise, you slaves, no more in thrall!"
At the first stirring words of the "Internationale," Falameezar halted as if
shot. Slowly his head swung around and down to stare blankly at Jon-Tom.
"Watch 'im, mate!" sounded the faint voice of Mudge. Similar warnings came from
Caz and Flor, Talea and Pog.
But the dragon was utterly mesmerized. His ears remained cocked attentively
forward as the singer's voice rose and fell.
Finally the anthem was at an end. As Jon-Tom's fingers trailed a last time over
the duar's strings, Falameezar slowly emerged from his stupor, nodding slowly.
"Yes, you are right, comrade. I will do what you say. For a moment I forgot what
is truly important. Compassion was lost in my desire to establish proper dogma
among the proletariat. I had forgotten the more important task before us in my
rage at petty injustice." His head drooped low.
"I lost control of myself, and I apologize for the damage."
Jon-Tom whirled and frantically waved his arms, shouting the all-clear.
Immediately the wagons of the Polastrindu fire brigade trundled forward,
trailing hoses like brown slugtracks. Hands and paws were laid to pumps, and
water was soon attacking the burning barracks. Thicker dark smoke filled the sky
as the flames were pushed back and hot embers sizzled.
"I shall cause no more trouble," said the downcast dragon. "I will not forget
again." Then the great lean skull turned to one side, and a crimson eye locked
on Jon-Tom. "But before long we will make revolutionary progress here, and the
bosses will be thrown out."
Jon-Tom nodded rapidly. "Of course. Remember that first we have to defeat the
most repressive, most brutal bosses of all."
"I will remember." Falameezar sighed and a puff of smoke emerged from his mouth.
Jon-Tom winced instinctively, but there was no flame. "We will strike to protect
the workers." He curled up like a great cat, laid his head across his right
foreleg.
"I'm very tired now. I leave the night in your hands, Comrade." With that he
closed his eyes, oblivious to the activity and smoke and yelling all around him,
and went peacefully to sleep.
"Thank you, Comrade Falameezar." Jon-Tom turned away. He was starting to shiver
now, recalling the feel of heat on his face and the fury in the dragon's gaze
when he'd first confronted him.
His friends were cautiously running to him. Their expressions were a mixture of
relief and awe.
"What in hell did you sing?... What spell did you use?... How did you do it?"
were some of the amazed comments.
"I don't know, I'm not sure. The words just came to me. Old studies that stick,"
he muttered as they walked back toward the city gate.
Clothahump was waiting there to greet him. The old turtle solemnly offered his
hand. "A feat worthy of a true wizard, whether you believe yourself that or not,
my boy. I salute you. You have just saved our journey."
"I'm afraid my principal motivation was to save myself, there at the last." He
couldn't meet the wizard's eyes.
"Tut, motivation! It is accomplishment and result that count. I welcome you to
the brotherhood of magicians." Jon-Tom found his fingers clasped in the cool but
emphatic grasp of the elderly sorcerer.
"Perhaps it would be a good thing if you were to teach me the words to that
spellsong, in case something were to happen to you. My voice is not particularly
melodious, but at least I would have the words. It sounded especially powerful,
and may serve to control the beast another time."
"It specializes in control, for all sorts of beasts," Jon-Tom replied.
The others listened as well, but the words had no special effect on them. Across
the courtyard the fire brigade was bringing the last of the blaze under control.
Falameezar snored unconcernedly nearby, his rage spent, his conscience assuaged.
Possibly it was because of Fa
lameezar's tantrum, but in any case the summons to
council came the following day. A much subdued beaver informed them that the
representatives they'd wished to meet were already assembled and waiting for
them.
Jon-Tom had spent much of the previous night coaching Caz in socialist jargon,
realizing that Clothahump could not remain behind this time. The fact that the
rabbit had volunteered to remain behind and keep a watch on the still somnolent
dragon pleased Jon-Tom.
The fact that Talea and Flor had decided to remain and assist him did not. So he
was in a foul mood as they neared the city hall.
"My boy," Clothahump was telling him, "if ever you live to be half my age you
will learn that love is a lasting thing, while lust is but transitory. Are you
so sure that you've sorted out the degree and direction of your feelings?
Because if you are drowning in the former, then you have my wholehearted
support. If merely the latter, then I can only sympathize with your subservience
to the follies of youth, which are locked to but physical matters."
"It's just physical to me." He slammed the butt end of his staff angrily into
the road with each stride. "Anyhow, you can't be objective about it. Aren't
turtles by nature sluggish in such matters?"
"Occasionally yes, sometimes no. What is important is one's mental reaction,
since it is the mind that makes the separation between love and lust, not the
body. You let your gonads do your thinking, my boy, and you're no better than a
lizard."
"That's easy for you to say. I'd imagine the internal fires are barely simmering
after two hundred and a few odd years."
"We are not talking about my situation but of yours."
"Well, I'm trying to control myself."
"That's the good lad. Then I suggest you stop trying to find water beneath the
street."
Jon-Tom eased up on his staff.
Mudge strode cockily alongside the youth. He was basking in the attention of the
pedestrians who stopped on the street to stare at them, in the curious looks of
others peering down from windows. Pog fluttered and soared majestically
overhead, darting past aerial abodes with seeming indifference to their
feathered inhabitants. While Clothahump did not anticipate treachery, he'd still
insisted the bat remain safely out of arrow shot. Pog was their link with the
