The Seadragon's Daughter (Dragon de la Sangre)

by Alan F. Troop

  “Mowdar believes in tests,” she mindspeaks, getting up, walking toward the inside of the ledge, returning with what looks like a blanket. She hands it to me. “A Pelk wove this from seaweed. It is rough but it will warm you.”

  I wrap the stiff, scratchy thing around me. “So at least did I pass your test?” I mindspeak.

  She smiles. “You are here and you are alive, are you not?”

  “No thanks to you or Mowdar.”

  Lorrel shrugs and walks away, back toward the inside of the ledge. Ancient wooden chests, the same sort as Father used in our treasure room, line the floor in front of the rear wall. Three rows of rough stone shelves full of bottles, wood boxes, clay urns and cloth bags run the length of the wall above them.

  “Whatever this place is, it looks well supplied,” I mindspeak.

  “It has to be,” she mindspeaks, taking a small bag from the shelf. She returns with it, kneeling by the depression and pouring powder from the bag into its water. Once the bag empties, she swirls the water with one hand and the green glow brightens, chasing any remaining shadows into the furthest recesses of the cavern.

  The Pelk turns toward me and grins. “Phosphorescence. We make it from dried plankton. We call this a glowpool. You think you are so advanced. You with your generators and electric lights. Our srrynns have been using glowpools, making their own light, since long before the Great War.”

  She motions to the shelves and chests, the stone walls and the whole cavern with a large sweep of her arm. “Pelk built this safe hold before any Undrae first thought to name himself DelaSangre.”

  I wander over to the shelves, open a chest and wrinkle my nose at the rancid smell of the slabs of dried fish it holds.

  “Make all the faces you want,” Lorrel mindspeaks. “We have enough food and supplies for the two of us to live here for over a year. If necessary a small srrynn could live a month without leaving this safehold. How do you think we hid from you Undrae in the old days?”

  “Actually, I never thought about it,” I mindspeak, thinking how little my father ever taught me about the history of my people. “Until Chloe told me about the four castrylls and the Great War, I didn’t even know the Pelk had ever existed.”

  “We exist.” Lorrel joins me by the shelf, reaches for a small antique glass bottle and hands it to me. “This is your antidote. Drink it.”

  Turning the bottle over in my hands I examine it and the cork stopper that seals it. “Did the Pelk make this too?” I mindspeak.

  “Why would we bother?” Lorrel mindspeaks. “Thanks to the humans’ ineptitude, there are shipwrecks everywhere. We take what we need from them.” She looks at the bottle in my hands. “You should drink your antidote, Peter.”

  I shake my head. “Not until I know you’re telling the truth. I’ll drink it once I feel the poison, not a moment before.”

  She hisses at me. “Undrae, you are a fool! That is the only dose of antidote we have. You will die if you lose it.”

  Tucking the small bottle in one of the front pockets of my damp cutoffs, I mindspeak, “I don’t intend to lose it.”

  Lorrel turns silent, takes a slab of dried fish and sits by the edge of the stone ledge, dunking the fish into the water and munching on it. When I mention wanting to go back to the boat, she shrugs her shoulders and mindspeaks, “Not until the tide changes.”

  “How will we know when that is?”

  The girl smiles. “When the time comes, Atala will breathe.”

  I sigh, sit down beside her and say nothing more. If Lorrel can pass the time in silence, then so can I.

  The slab of fish has long been eaten and the green phosphorescence has lost half its brilliance by the time the water beside the ledge ripples ever so slightly. “Atala,” Lorrel mindspeaks, standing up.

  I stand up too, staring at the disturbed water, wondering what comes next.

  The Pelk girl takes one of my hands and tugs me back from the edge. “It is coming now,” she mindspeaks.

  Water leaps before us, spraying wet as a giant belch of fresh air erupts into the cavern. “Atala’s breath!” Lorrel mindspeaks. “Come! We have little time!” Still holding my hand she rushes forward, tugging me along, mindspeaking, “Take a breath!” just before she lets go and dives on the far side of the net.

  I gasp air in twice and follow her, the current grabbing me as soon as I submerge. Its strength surprises me, and I find I need only to keep my body straight and let the water do the rest. Lorrel’s hand suddenly touches me on top of my head, and I realize she’s slowed herself to allow me to catch up with her.

  “The passage will only take a few minutes,” she mindspeaks. “But I know your lungs are not yet developed.” She pulls up on my hair and I let my head get guided upward, gasp as I find my nostrils clear of water.

  “As long as Atala’s breath holds we will have air to breathe,” Lorrel mindspeaks, floating beside me, letting the current take her just as it carries me.

  “What is Atala’s breath?” I mindspeak. “Where is the current taking us? And don’t tell me to ask Mowdar.”

  Lorrel trills out a laugh, and as much as she can irritate me, I find the sound of it makes me smile. “Atala’s breath is a tale the old ones tell to the children. You know there are caves everywhere around these islands, don’t you?”

  I nod.

  “And you know about the blue holes too?”

  “They’re lagoons that are connected to cave systems,” I mindspeak.

  “And sometimes round holes in the ocean bottom too,” Lorrel mindspeaks. “Some of the ocean blue holes suck and blow water when the tide changes. I’m not sure how any of it works, but I think that when an ocean blue hole connects by caves to an inland blue hole, the sucking or blowing action draws air from any connected dry caves. We call it Atala’s breath.”

  Our forward momentum slows and the girl mindspeaks, “Breathe!”

  I have barely time to gulp in air before water floods the top of the tunnel. Lorrel tugs on my hand and I follow her, swimming forward in the dark, aware of her presence only because of the turbulence her kicks make in front of me.

  After a few minutes the water begins to turn light, and I begin to make out the shape of the Pelk girl swimming in front of me. She doesn’t pull away from me until the water has turned light blue all around us. Then she shoots away, upward toward the bright surface.

  I follow, breaking water beside her, breathing deep, laughing. Looking around, blinking at the bright, late-afternoon sun, breathing in the fishy smell of brackish swampland, I swivel my head, stare at the mangroves ringing the blue hole. “Where are we?” I mindspeak.

  “North Bimini,” Lorrel mindspeaks. She points to a gap between two trees. “There is a saltwater creek over there. It will take us to the ocean. Your boat is not far from there.”

  We anchor for the night in a small deserted cove I find in North Bimini. Protected from the waves by a sandbar that runs almost fully across the mouth of the cove, shielded from the night wind by rows of tall pine trees, the Grady White barely moves beneath us.

  Between the gold glow of the quarter moon riding low above us and the brilliance of all the stars scattered across the clear black sky, I find no need to turn on any of the boat’s lights. Pulling on a light sweatshirt to ward off the night’s chill I offer one of Chloe’s to Lorrel.

  The girl shakes her head. She sits on the boat’s stern bench, staring at the dark, still water, humming a new song, one that has no discernible melody or rhythm. But still it affects me, and I find myself listening to it, anticipating after a bit when her tone will rise or dip, when the song’s momentum will rush forward or slow or stop.

  The air smells of the sea as it does on my island, and I sigh thinking of the warm lights at home, the sounds of the boats bobbing in the harbor, the voices and giggles of my wife and children. The tempo of Lorrel’s tune picks up and I look skyward.

  I consider shifting shape and flying off in search of prey, but all is so calm around me and Lo
rrel’s song so soothing that I can’t summon the energy. Going to the cooler, I take out a roast beef sandwich and hold it out to the Pelk girl. Her nose wrinkles as she shakes her head. “No more beef,” she mindspeaks. “Tomorrow I will take you hunting the Pelk way—if you still insist on waiting for the poison to attack you.”

  Humming, the Pelk girl motions for me to come sit on the stern bench beside her. I bring my sandwich, sit a foot away from her, leaning back in the seat, staring at the sky, eating, my mind blank except for Lorrel’s tune. She sidles over, close enough to me that her body warms my side where it touches, and my nostrils fill with her salt-laced scent.

  The warmth of her touch builds and I think of Chloe and move away a few inches, finishing my sandwich, turning my head, breathing in air clear of the Pelk girl’s aroma. Lorrel’s tune turns plaintive and slow, somehow magnifying the languor that always overtakes me after meals. I fight to keep my eyes open but find myself sinking into that twilight place just before sleep.

  The girl sidles close again and, as much as I wish it were Chloe instead, I welcome the warmth of her touch. “Relax, Peter,” she mindspeaks. “I know you are mated. I accept that we cannot do such things with each other.”

  As close as she is, her humming almost vibrates through me as her tune softens even more. I force myself to point forward, toward the Grady White’s small cabin and mindspeak, “I should go below and turn in.”

  Lorrel’s song intensifies, filling my mind, and I nod when she stands and takes my hand, tugging me upright. “I should sleep too,” she mindspeaks.

  Below I stretch out on one of the two vee berths and sigh, my muscles relaxing, my body ready to give itself to sleep. Lorrel, still humming, sits down beside me. I point to the other berth and try to form the words to tell her to lie down there, but no words come.

  She takes my hand and guides it down to the side of my body. “Really, Peter,” she mindspeaks, her saltwater scent overtaking me, her humming vibrating through my body. “I told you that I understood your commitment to your mate. But we Pelk women are taught certain things. It would be silly for you to not let me soothe you to sleep.”

  Placing my head in her small lap, she strokes my temples with her small fingers, her song slowing, growing quieter, the fresh saltwater scent of her blanketing me, the warmth of her skin almost burning me where mine touches hers.

  Her bikini still holds just the slightest trace of dampness. I smile at the contrast between its coolness and the warmth of Lorrel’s skin as her touch and her strange song take me deep to sleep.

  18

  Heat wakes me. I open my eyes to find Lorrel stretched out at my side, pressed against me, both of us sticky with sweat. Holding up my arm, I check my watch and find we’ve slept past ten, long enough for the sun to bake the cabin. Sitting up, I nudge Lorrel.

  The Pelk girl sits up too, grimacing. “It’s too hot!” she mindspeaks. She stands and rushes out of the cabin. In a moment the quiet, wet sound of her body slipping into the water follows. Pulling off my sweatshirt, following her outside, I put up the boat’s blue canvas bimini top and sit by the wheel under its shade. The clear, cool water in the cove tempts me, but I shake my head at the thought of joining the girl.

  I shift my body in the seat and something hard in my pocket pokes me. Remembering the small bottle of antidote in my pocket, I pull it out and examine it in the morning light. Its amber glass prevents me from seeing the color of the liquid inside.

  I pull the cork out and sniff, prepared to pull my head back if it’s vile.

  To my surprise, except for a hint of something citric, it gives off no odor. I consider for a moment drinking the damn thing, getting on with the trip to Lorrel’s srrynn, but instead I push the cork back in place and put the bottle in the map compartment below the wheel. By the afternoon after this I’ll know for sure if she truly poisoned me.

  Something splashes near the boat’s starboard side and I turn and look. A large Carribean lobster flies into the cockpit, followed by another and then two more. Lorrel appears next, pulling herself up, over the side, standing, dripping, a smile spread across her face.

  Picking a lobster up, twisting off its tail and slicing it open with one finger transformed into a sharp claw, she offers its near-translucent meat to me. Because of Chloe I’ve eaten lobster—but cooked white and firm, not raw and quivering like this. I shake my head.

  “It is time you learned to eat like a Pelk,” she mindspeaks, still holding the lobster tail out to me. “Try it. It will not harm you.”

  I take the tail and bite into it, the meat firmer than I thought it would be, its lack of smell and its sweetness surprising me. Gulping it down, I watch Lorrel separate and cut open the others.

  After we’ve consumed all the lobster tails, we both dive into the water to rinse off. Lorrel swims close to me and I back away, treading water, shaking my head. “You need to stay further away from me,” I mindspeak.

  “Why?” she mindspeaks, treading water too. “What have I done that is so wrong?”

  “I have a wife and children. . . .”

  Lorrel nods. “I know. I have seen them.”

  “I can’t have you sleeping in my bed. I don’t want you humming any more tunes around me.”

  “We only slept, Peter. I only soothed you. It is what Pelk females are taught to do.”

  “And I was taught that Undrae mated for life.”

  The Pelk girl turns away from me. “We did not mate! If a simple song can turn your heart, if sleeping next to someone like me tempts you so much, maybe you should question what you were taught. I am not responsible for your weaknesses.” She dives out of sight.

  The sun rides high in the sky and my cutoffs have long dried by the time Lorrel decides to come back to the Grady White. She pulls herself onboard and stands dripping, wringing out her long black hair with both hands as she mindspeaks, “We should leave now. We have many miles to go.”

  She says nothing else as I pull up the anchors, start the motors and guide the boat out of the cove into the open water. Then she points southeast, waiting until I round Bimini and set course in the general direction of Andros Island before she sits down next to me, making sure to leave over a foot between us.

  “Are we going to Andros?” I mindspeak.

  Lorrel shakes her head. “We are going to Waylach’s Rock. We will leave your boat there.”

  “And then where will we go?”

  The Pelk girl hisses. “You will learn then, Undrae. I would not have come back at all if I had not promised Mowdar I would bring you. Now drive your boat and leave me be.”

  By the time we reach Waylach’s Rock most of the afternoon has passed. The tiny island seems to consist of nothing but rocks and stones jutting out of the water, far from any other island, Andros just a low shadow rising on the horizon. I circle the island three times without finding either a sandy beach or a protected anchorage. “We can’t leave the boat here,” I mindspeak. “The first storm that comes up will either set it adrift or drive it into the rocks.”

  Lorrel shrugs. “You wanted to bring it.” But on our next circuit of the island she points to an indentation in the rocks. When I pull the Grady White close to it, I find a narrow channel running between two huge boulders and leading to a small protected cove.

  After guiding the boat in, I go up to the bow and drop the anchor. Then I turn to Lorrel. “And now what?” I mindspeak.

  The Pelk girl stands up, pulls off her bikini top and drops it. Pulling down her bikini bottoms, she steps out of them. Kicking them to the side, she mindspeaks, “You said you do not want to go to my srrynn until you know I have spoken the truth to you.” She pirouettes so I can see every bit of her, the flush of her pink nipples, the tight curve of her buttocks.

  Lorrel grins at me. “I know my body makes you uncomfortable, Peter, but I have no more need for human clothes now. We are near my srrynn. If you were not so stubborn, we could be there tonight. I see no reason to sit with you and hold your hand whi
le you wait for the poison’s pain to come.”

  Standing by the wheel, she takes off her grandmother’s gold ring and tucks it in her mouth, between her teeth and her right cheek, her body growing and stretching, her pale skin turning dark and forming shallow, smooth scales. “I do not understand why you like your human form so much,” she mindspeaks, purring out a groan. “This feels so good.”

  I stare at the Pelk female. Far smaller than an Undrae woman, her form reminds me more of a sea otter’s body—thinner, more elongated, more obviously adapted to the water than an Undrae female. She turns her back to me, showing off her tail, the flared tip at its end. “We are not like your women, are we, Peter?”

  “No,” I mindspeak, shaking my head.

  “I will not force my presence on you any longer. I will return tomorrow after the poison makes itself known.” She walks to the side of the boat and slips into the water with barely a sound.

  Alone, with nothing to do but wait, I find it impossible to stay in one place on my small boat. I sit at the stern for a few minutes, then move to the seat at the helm. I wander to the bow to check the anchor line and then rush to the stern to check the motors. I eat the last of the roast beef sandwiches, standing, throwing crumbs from the stale bread into the water, hoping at least to attract a fish.

  Nothing comes. No fish. No birds. No signs of boaters on the waters outside the channel. The day drags to an end and I embrace sleep as soon as dark takes over the sky.

  I wake late in the morning to a cloudy day full of blustery winds. The water in the island’s small cove moves more than I care for, and I dive below to make sure that my anchor has set properly. I find it resting on the rocky bottom, hardly dug in enough to hold the boat fast.