SPARX Incarnation: Mark of the Green Dragon (SPARX Series I Book 1)

by K. B. Sprague

  “I didn’t,” I said.

  Paplov looked about the room and sized up the situation. I had been quite far from the door.

  “Must have been the wind, then,” he said. “Apologies for accusing you.”

  “I felt the air get sucked right out of the room,” I said.

  “I’ll have to look out for that. A good lesson anyway – don’t walk around looking down an arrow shaft.” He shook his head, probably counting his blessings.

  “Did you hit the bullseye?” I said.

  “And why is it so dark in here?” he complained, glancing about. “You can’t possibly work like this.” Paplov put the arrows down on the table and opened the shutters.

  “Bullseye, of course!” he replied at last.

  I picked an arrow up and examined the fletching. Paplov never allowed me to practice with the arrows he made for Fyorn.

  “Maybe you have a few extras to spare… for target practice?” I said.

  “Regular arrows are best for that.” Paplov said, “They’ll keep your aim honest.”

  “But I can shoot from a lot farther now than ever before. If I adjust my sighting for regular arrows, your arrows fly high when I shoot them.” Something about staring down the shaft of a deepwood arrow imparts a focus that literally blurs out the world around – blurs out everything but the target. Distracting at first, after some practice I came to rely on it. I could hardly miss the bullseye at ten paces. At fifteen paces, I was still on target more often than not. There was definitely something weird about Paplov’s arrows.

  “How do you know that?” he said.

  Stupid. I was not so clever that morning at all. I knew it was wrong to sneak his true-strike arrows onto the range, but sometimes I did just that, making sure to return each and every one of them before he discovered they were missing. I didn’t even try to forge an answer.

  “You’re adjusting your aim for distance? Hmm… Well, just try aiming at the target as if you were half as far away,” he replied. With one sharp nod, he declared it the final solution.

  “Easier said than done,” I said. His recommendation solved nothing. “I don’t know exactly how far away I am when I shoot. I just make my best guess based on… I don’t know, what feels right.”

  Paplov took a long minute to think things through, as he often did before coming to even a minor decision. “Well, now that you’re of age, maybe Fyorn will see fit to take you hunting with him. He can let you in on a few secrets.”

  “Really? With seekers?”

  “Of course with seekers! What else? He taught me a thing or two about hunting when I was your age, that’s for sure.”

  His words caught me off guard for a moment, until I remembered Uncle Fyorn’s lineage. Paplov looks so much older than my uncle does.

  “It’s time we made you enough deepwood arrows to get you through a good, long deer hunt.”

  “Uncle Fyorn really knows a lot about hunting… and nature,” I said. “Doesn’t he?”

  “Fyorn knows a great many things about a great many things.” Paplov smiled.

  “And little about little,” I added.

  “He is one of the Elderkin, after all,” said Paplov.

  “Trees especially, right?” I said.

  “I suppose.”

  “Ancient trees?”

  “What? Well… I don’t know. I guess.”

  Uncle Fyorn was also the most well-traveled person I knew; always talking about his adventures in far away lands. He was the only one I could think of that might know more about my mystery stone than Mer, other than the Diviner. He was also trustworthy, and he trusted us with his secrets – like deepwood, for instance. He would definitely keep my secret, and he would know what to do. But Paplov wasn’t due back to the woodsman’s cabin for several months.

  “Are you planning an extra trip to Fyorn’s?” I said, innocently.

  Paplov stopped his whittling for a moment and nodded in the direction of the woodshed. “I already have more deepwood than I know what to do with. Last visit was right after a wicked wind storm and I had to charter a pack lizard at the Handlers’ Post just to get it all into town, without you there to help out.”

  I ignored the jab.

  “But… uh… do you have enough for the both of us?” I asked.

  He stared with his mouth half-open, head tilted down, and spectacles half-way down his nose. His eyes begged for an explanation.

  “What I mean is, I was thinking about maybe taking up woodcraft like you. I’d like to learn more about the arrows, especially… and the carvings too. Have you ever made a lantern?”

  Now that was just about the lowest trick in the book, but guaranteed to work against someone as sentimental as he was. Anyone who knew Paplov well enough also knew his passion for the hammer and chisel. And he always brought up passing on his skills to me. He had many hobbies, but working the deepwood was the only one he ever made time for. He might not have been the most skilled fletcher in Webfoot, or the fastest, but he was the only one who worked with deepwood.

  “Oh?” Paplov smiled at that. He put the knife down and gave his smooth beard a tug. “Hmm,” he said, with a thoughtful nod of the head. “I don’t know much about lanterns out of wood. They’re usually made of metal and glass.”

  Not for bog stones, I thought.

  “But,” he continued, “you could certainly get started with woodcraft easily enough. You already know more than you realize.”

  I carefully studied the arrow that I held, running the shaft between my thumb and finger. Paplov started work on a new one.

  “Does that mean yes?” I said. And to seal the deal, the next words that rolled off my tongue hit the air with such sincerity that no grandparent could ever refuse them. “I just want to carve as expertly as you some day, that’s all, and maybe advance enough to trade with Fyorn like you do… some day.”

  Hearing my own words, as noble and utterly convincing as they were, I nearly believed them myself. I had no shame.

  Paplov stared down at the pile of arrow shafts and slowly bobbed his head a couple of times. He looked older than usual, as if he’d had an “age spurt” the way young children have growth spurts.

  “Tomorrow I’m to have morning tea with the new lord mayor to discuss some political matters,” he said.

  Paplov put his hand on my shoulder.

  “Then in two days I’m off to Proudfoot,” he continued, “and I’ll need you to come along with me and help out with the documents.”

  “Oh,” was all I could say. I let out an exaggerated sigh.

  “I’ll need you to learn those documents and cite relevant passages as they come up in conversation.”

  Easy. I nodded.

  “Not just memorizing either – I need you to know what it all means.”

  Not so easy. “OK,” I said.

  A warm smile crept across Paplov’s face and he added: “If I can finish up early, with your help, we can drop in on Fyorn a day or two after that… if you like. He’s been asking about you.”

  “Great!” I could barely contain my energy.

  “Then it’s settled,” he said. “We’ll leave for Fyorn’s cabin after Proudfoot, but only if you help me finish off enough arrows. That ole woodsprite was hoping to get them early anyway. Asked for bright orange feathers on them. Must be going blind.”

  Paplov laughed and passed me a handful of shafts, with a smile on his face that stretched a mile wide.

  CHAPTER IX

  The lizard handler

  Two days later, on behalf of the council, we commissioned a blue-tail and handler to carry us south to the Outland Trail. The trip to the Stout town of Proudfoot would be easier on Paplov that way. He could be stubborn about getting his hiking in, but it had been raining straight for two days. Given Webfooters’ sorry record for maintaining the Mire Trail, that time of year blue-tails were the preferred mode of transportation into and out of town for anyone sensible, especially during wet spells. Year by year, the corduroy portions of
the beaten track slowly unfurled, but still more than half lay undeveloped.

  While packing arrows in the shed with Paplov, I caught sight of one Mer Andulus strolling up the road to our hut. He wore the same tans, leathers and floppy hat as that night at the Flipside. Both hands gripped the worn, leather straps of his backpack as if they were suspenders. The old prospector chewed his whalebone pipe as he walked, and sent a thin stream of smoke trailing over one shoulder and up into the fresh morning air.

  “Just a sec,” I said to Paplov, and ran out to meet Mer at the twig gate to our yard. A light drizzle feathered my face, coating it with a warm, thin film. The prospector looked a little damp himself.

  “Gidday-gidday,” he said as one long word, out of the corner of his mouth. “Glad to see yer up and about.” He pulled the pipe out. “On my way to your bog to stake our interests. Any chance you can get yerself together? We can swing by and pluck yer partners out’a bed at the Flipside.” Mer’s voice was fully animate – nothing like the tired old coot I had him pegged for when he first emerged from his shadowy seat on the Flipside patio. His weary eyes with the bags underneath were a testimony to hard living, and his weathered cheeks to an outdoor lifestyle.

  “Is that all you’re bringing?” I said, motioning to his pack.

  “Pick, hammer and shovel,” he said. “The rest is already out there.” He laughed to himself. I could not help but smile back.

  “Sorry, but I’m off to Proudfoot today on a diplomatic errand,” I said.

  Now that sounded important. With a squint of one eye and a slight rise of the chin, Mer gave me an examining look.

  “Horses won’t be seen for another two weeks, give or take. Are ya taking a lizard or flip-flopping?”

  “Blue-tail,” I said.

  “Yep. What else,” he said. It was not a question.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow. But then shortly after I’m off to visit… an Elderkin associate.”

  An Elderkin associate? “Yes,” I should have added. I am so important that I regularly meet with Elderkin nobles, and they always ask about when I can come back to honor them with my presence. I might mention your name to them…

  Mer raised his eyebrows at the mention of Elderkin and then just shrugged his shoulders at the change in plans.

  “What are you going to do out there, in the bog?” I said.

  “Well, everything we discussed I s’pose.”

  I waited for a long moment while the prospector took his time to give me that evaluating look of his again, all the while stroking his tangly beard. His eyes measured my worth.

  “You don’t remember, do ya?”

  “Well…”

  “I worked six summers with a frog-faced old-timer by the name ‘a Clop. Remembered everything to the N’th degree, ‘cept all the stupid things he did after a few barkwoods.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh is right. Let me remind ya’s. I’m off to check on that spot where the ole glowing tree spit turned up – lookin’ fer staking posts to see what’s claimed by HME and what’s not.”

  “Who’s HME?”

  “Harrow Mining and Exploration – they’re just about everywhere in the bog lands these days, according to the town clerk, Old Remy.”

  “I know him,” I said. Paplov relied on Remy a lot for anything to do with maps.

  “Problem is though,” said Mer, “half the claims data’s in his thick head, so’s I have to go find the stake posts myself. Remy only seems to know where they’re s’pose to be, but where they’re pounded into the ground is what counts. Interest’n he says this one’s the first claim south of the trailhead.”

  “Humph,” I said.

  “By the way,” Mer went on, “we’re going equal splits on the financial side, ‘cept you and Gariff get double weight, ‘case you don’t remember that either.”

  “OK.”

  “OK is right. And don’t forget you promised everyone a treasure hunt day.”

  “Who’s everyone?”

  “Well, myself fer starters, but I might not make it. The two Stouts, the well rounded Pip, as you might say, and the girl you were making googly eyes at. That’s everyone.”

  “Oh… OK.” My knees shook a little at the fact that none of this sounded familiar. I must have looked stunned to the prospector.

  “Nud, you ready?” called Paplov from the hut.

  “Well, alrighty,” said Mer Andulus. “Hope ya have a good one, and catch ya at the Flipside. We’ll keep it fast and loose ‘till then.” He turned to go.

  “Wait,” I said.

  The prospector halted and looked back over his shoulder.

  “Nud?” called Paplov.

  “In a minute,” I called back to Paplov.

  I turned to Mer. “Can you swing by the Flipside on your way out anyway?” I said, “…to pass some news to Bobbin – the round one.” Mer gave me a slow nod. “Tell him to be ready to hit the trail in a few days, right after the Elderkin… meeting. Bobbin can tell Holly and the cousins.”

  “Gotcha covered,” he said. “And while I’m out and about in loon goop, I’ll keep an eye on the trail and an ear on the Handlers’ Post then.”

  Mer took a step back and raised a hand in salute. “Go easy,” he added with a nod.

  “Go easy,” I replied with half a wave. The words felt strange, borrowed. I could never own them the way he did.

  Proudfoot lay cradled between two rivers, a full day’s march away. Any delay would see Paplov and me on the trail at dusk, which is never a good idea in the open wetlands or along the forest edge. I convinced Paplov to have us dropped off midway.

  When the handler finally arrived, only half-dressed it seemed, Paplov took the seat up front with him and I sat in the rear with the baggage. The handler wore naught but tattered shorts, a wide-brimmed hat, and a belt with a long knife in its sheath. He was so thin and wiry that the bones in his elbows and shoulders looked as though they might punch through his leathery skin. He didn’t seem to care about the drizzle. I doubt he would have blinked if it rained newts. Wyatt was a real bogger.

  “How do you keep the flies off,” I said to him. “The midges must eat you alive out of town.”

  Wyatt glanced back and flashed me a one-tooth smile. “Bugs don’t bug me anymore,” he said, “only snot-nosed little boys do.”

  Snot-nosed? I’m almost sixteen!

  Paplov laughed at the look on my face, and louder still when I wiped my nose with my shirtsleeve. He leaned over to whisper something.

  “Don’t mind him,” he said. The whisper was loud and the bogger could not help but to hear it. “Old Wyatt’s just sore.”

  “Damn right I’m sore,” he said. “Eleven years as a prisoner in Harrow is enough to make anybody sore.”

  “Prisoner? How did you get out?” I said.

  “Well, they let me go when I finally gave them what they wanted – a secret I swore I would never give up.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Are ya sure ya want t’know?” he said.

  I nodded.

  “The one I swore it too ‘disappeared’ – poor bastard. They told me I was next. I never gave them any more than the half of it anyway.”

  “Is that true?” I said.

  “’Course it’s true,” said Wyatt. He shook his head in frustration. “Look at that, a snot-nosed kid calling me liar. Are you calling me a liar?”

  I shook my head.

  “They’ll come looking for the other half once they figure it out,” said Paplov.

  Wyatt didn’t answer. He just kept his eyes to the trail and handled the mount. It was common knowledge that the youngest of the riding lizards – the so-called “blue-tails” – were paired to the oldest, grumpiest handlers. That was certainly the case with Wyatt. That isn’t to say that young riders make better handlers. Young blue-tails can be difficult to control and tend to go off on their own or flip over, whereas older redheads are so worked in, even a novice can handle them.

  Although the topic had
grown stale, a question still burned inside of me. Asking Wyatt another question felt like pulling out his last tooth, but I did it anyway.

  “When you were in Harrow, did you see any other prisoners? I mean anyone you knew, like another Pip… or someone?”

  Wyatt looked to Paplov. They stared at one another without either saying a word. I didn’t know what it meant, but it meant something.

  “Nope,” he said. “Not a one from the Trilands.”

  Wyatt loosened up a bit by the time we reached the watergrass homes. The first bit of gossip out of his mouth concerned a crazy story about a glass trinket with a firefly trapped in it, waved around by some party-boy at the Flipside a few nights back. “I was there,” he said, “And with my own two eyes I saw him holding it over the pretty girls’ heads, begging for kisses. Then I heard he got a slap instead from some girl. Half the town is talking about it!” I shrunk down between the traveling bags and felt my face, wondering if it stung a little. Maybe.

  It seemed as though I had managed to contain my secret for little more than half a day, and the count for those in the know was substantial: two friends from the Hills, one Webfooter who worked at the busiest establishment in town, a pretty Proudfooter I had never seen before who also worked in the busiest establishment in town, a traveling prospector who had been just about everywhere and that I had never seen before, and a tavern full of patrons from lands far and near.

  Soon, the conversation migrated to politics – it always did with Paplov. As the blue-tail strode along, I could see that the handler kept himself in tune to the lizard’s every sway and step. The subtle calls, the slight taps on the sides of the lizard’s neck, the pushing and pulling of the reins – it all blended together in complex ways to form one simple command: “GO STRAIGHT.” At times, the handler would grunt and squeeze his bony ankles into the lizard’s sides. And every so often he’d follow with a string of frustrated remarks, pull a fish out of the side bag, and pitch it well ahead. Our mount dashed at the offering, scooping it up in his bridled jaws, mid-stride. As we rode on, I noted that whenever the lizard began heading off-course or became a little testy, the handler would squeeze. Whenever that wasn’t enough to set her straight, he’d toss her another fish. They didn’t teach that at the riding school – all reins and whip.