Melissa took a long drink from the spring. “You generated a new question. How can we converse today?”
“Thanks to Silvertongue, the mute. She was compelled to use gestures in place of her tongue. Members of each klatch refused to learn the language of any other, but in pity, acceded to the necessity of learning her language, lest she be excluded from fellowship with her kind. The offspring of a Black and a Blue, and close cousin to a Silver, she was the only one of her color. Silvertongue roamed our world as a stranger. Poor in health and possessing none of the seven gifts, she nevertheless restored unity to our world. Silvertongue found the first Hands and proposed their language for our common speech. Each klatch added their own words and idioms, and so we owe our language to one who could never use it herself. To honor her, some from every klatch still study her silent words, to preserve the unity she delivered to us.”
Melissa bowed her head. “Thank you for sharing. Knowing one weak and alone can accomplish much good is a comfort. I’m glad the voice of the thunder restored my knowledge of how to speak like her.”
K'Pinkelek crawled to a fallen tree and pried a branch from it. He coughed up a fireball and set it alight. Clutching the burning brand in his teeth, he walked over and spit it onto the ground at Melissa’s feet, smoldering. “Did I restore the flame in that branch?”
“Not restored, but started. It wasn’t burning before.”
“Before today, White Talon never spoke siglissik.” He sat down, stared, and waited.
“You know this?” Melissa recalled her dream and closed her eyes. Now she understood the gestures the dream lissair used. It was a cry for help, mixed with confusion at White Talon both feeling and not feeling like White Talon. Had this lissair projected the knowledge of siglissik directly into her mind? Or had the lightning that jumped from K'Pinkelek onto her transferred some of the Red’s knowledge? “Last night I dreamt of a lissair signing in siglissik, pleading for help.”
“Who? Describe him to me.”
She traced out his likeness in the dirt with her claw, described the passion and wisdom in his eyes, his silver mane, and the gold band on his right arm.
K'Pinkelek gasped. “Silverthorn is alive!”
Chapter 11: What the Osh Pits Spit Out
April 6th, Remenee Osh Pits.
The wind was a skillful liar. Under Melissa it cushioned and comforted. The wind made of her wings hands to scoop freedom from the fetid air. If she banked right or left and coasted on she could outrun her problems forever. She glanced at K'Pinkelek and interpreted the goading of his tail and wing: Wind Lord calls, whose direction cannot be questioned.
He wouldn’t stop her if she escaped, and the Hands couldn’t, but another lord’s binding exceeded the pull of the world and the power of its creatures. Below spread the expanse of the Remenee. Heaping green tangles of moss suffocated the trees’ frustrated reach for the sky. Stringy tendrils like manacles bound arbors to their stations.
Flashes of orange leapt from branch to branch, announcing the ceaseless foraging of acrobatic leskers. Hidden among passive stranglers were the writhing moroshticles. A party of three darting leskers lit upon a muscular vine; only two followed with another leap. The moroshticle latched onto the prehensile tail of the third and drew it toward what passed for its mouth. After an instinctual calculus, the rodent-like lesker doubled over, grabbed its captured tail in its long fingers, and bit down hard. The tail was severed, the moroshticle’s dinner shrank, but the lesker’s desperate move plunged it into a thick, bubbling pool, to sink into tarry oblivion. The osh pits had claimed another unusable, mammalian meal.
Melissa banked into a spiral and surveyed the expanse clear to the horizon. She couldn’t see a single dragon-sized spot to land. Only the foothills of the northernmost reach of the Talon Mountains to the west offered solid footing. The suction of the viscous, black ooze was not as strong as the pull on her heart. One promise bound her to White Talon, and another to Shoroko. Another’s crime bound her to Hand law, and the illusion of her Lissine identity bound her to klatch traditions she didn’t even know. How many more restraints would fasten onto her? It took transfer to another world to dislodge the claws of her Chinese heritage. What would it take to dispatch the rest?
Melissa looked east and south, where the Hand caravan was making its arc around the impassible marsh. Inside her eyes, she felt the intricate telescoping, stretching, and dilation of a pure White’s pride. The horizon rushed toward her and her neck twitched left and right to dodge the illusory approach of bird and aerial saurian. The line of quaggas, carts and marching men surged into focus, and then were gone. One face filled her vision and she forgot the rest. She’d bound her hope for freedom to a man she hardly knew, whose complex motivations did not include loving her.
Shoroko looked into the sky. To Melissa, it was as if he were gazing into her eyes, captivated. Her heart beat faster, her pulse rose, her eyes teared, but only hers, because he was close to her, but she was far from him.
A near collision with K'Pinkelek wrenched her from her reverie. They were supposed to find Jessnee, plying the sludgy marsh in a pole boat to procure healing herbs. Shoroko said he was really chasing rumors of the black pool angel, who lifted unfortunates from the osh and set them on solid ground, but whose form was never seen, apart from a shapeless churning of the tar. For hours they’d flown and seen nothing, but as Melissa became adept at controlling her peculiar eyes, she spotted the finest line disturbing the uniform green of the algae. A boat had passed by. She signaled to her partner and they crisscrossed the path, swooping under branches where the canopy blocked their sight.
Melissa spotted Jessnee, standing in his boat with his back to her, pole in hand. His shoulder-length hair and long, leather coat matched Shoroko’s description. She looked for a spot to land, and selected a fallen willow now growing sideways. As she descended, she saw what captured Jessnee’s attention: a large bubble forming twenty feet away. She pulled up and circled. The syrupy consistency of the swamp restrained the bubble from bursting to the surface, so it swelled until it was bigger than the boat. The bubble elongated and reached for the vessel.
Fearing a sludge monster moving to upend the boat and drag Jessnee down for dinner, Melissa dove, extended her claws and sunk them into the ooze.
Pop! Gurgle, flurgle, sputter, pop. A putrid assortment of compressed gasses squirted from the punctured bubble, engulfed the olissair, and kissed the pilot light at the back of her throat. Crack! The flash blinded her, the retort of the explosion deafened her, and the engulfing fireball deadened her sense of touch. She caught her right wing on a tree branch, lost speed and balance, and plunged into the tarry muck.
Coated in tar, Melissa thrashed and clawed, but there was nothing to grab. She stretched her neck and held her snout in the air as long as she could. For an instant she could hear again.
“Bite the vine! Bite the vine!” It was Jessnee’s voice, but someone else’s as well.
Melissa felt something flexible slap against her lip. She bit down. The vine was hollow and she began to breath. She sank. As she went down, she alternated between a panicked struggle to swim, which exhausted her meager air, and calm surrender to her viscous prison to slow her pulse. Minutes stretched into hours. Whenever she felt a tug against the vine, she followed, walking in the thickness along the bottom. Thrice the vine guided her to a rise, but before she could break the surface, her weight toppled the poorly rooted tree, or collapsed a void beneath the mound, and the island plunged with her into sticky darkness. The resistance exhausted her until she could move no further. If she fell asleep, she’d lose the vine, her air, and her life. Melissa rested before a last attempt beside the largest island yet. Three times she crawled up, up, up, lost her grip and slid back. She almost bit the vine in two. I wanted to rescue this world. Who will rescue me?
In answer, the roots of the moroshticles coiled about her limbs. From every direction she felt the vegetable tug tighten like a winch, pulling her wings apart an
d spreading her legs. Then one made a play for her breathing vine.
Help! Save me!
For an instant the tugging ceased. You will be rescued, but not by me.
Melissa shouted in her mind. Is someone there?
You must be rescued. Next time, be clear. I have a name.
The voice inside her head ceased. It had not been White Talon or Silverthorn. It was merely a voice; but underneath her was a force. That force grabbed the disabling tentacles and snapped them. It slipped around her waist and hoisted her free. She rose, and soon the suffocating resistance ended. She was deaf and blind, but her aching chest gulped sweet air and her mind welcomed sleep at last.
* * *
Shoroko rode Fear at the front of the caravan. They’d seen K'Pinkelek land ahead beside the only fresh spring within half a day’s journey and were picking their way through the brush to meet him. The raspy chatter of the leskers and the whoo-wup-owee of the birds signaled anger at the water-hogging Lissai ahead. As he circled a moss-draped rock, a clearing appeared beside a pool of clear water. K'Pinkelek stood over Melissa’s osh-covered form, opened his jaws, and sprayed fire over her scaly surface.
“Stop!” Shoroko unslung his bow, notched an arrow and drew the string.
Jessnee burst from the brush at the other side of the pool and waved frantically. “It’s not what you think! Drop your bow, Shoroko!”
K'Pinkelek took no notice and continued burning the sticky substance off Melissa. Afterward, she crawled into the pool to finish the job.
Jessnee walked around the pool while Shoroko dismounted. The others entered the clearing and watered their beasts. The Hand sported a full, brown beard and carried a spear for a walking stick. Jessnee put his hand on Shoroko’s shoulder. “Your sister was a dear friend. Nehenoth grew richer at our expense.”
“How did you…?”
K'Pinkelek turned his head and nodded.
Jessnee said, “Help me transfer the plants I gathered to your wagon. My boat is tied up a mile – sorry, two hundred lisstai away, on the edge of the Remenee. The bales aren’t heavy; leave Fear to forage.”
They walked. Shoroko filled Jessnee in on the public version of his adventures, and Jessnee described his finds. “A new strain of aliosha. I’m hoping it’s more efficacious than the variety growing near us. Twenty plants I’ve never seen before. I’ll concoct and test teas and poultices when we get back. If even one helps us combat disease during the migration, it’ll be worth it.”
Shoroko sensed a nervous tension about his friend. “What about your other projects?”
“I tracked the moskat as far as I could. When it comes to hiding, it’s definitely more mouse than cat. It got stuck in the osh pits, then got free.”
“Why do you care about that pest? Only thing it’s good for is stealing milk and grain from my farm. And charming your daughter with its purring.”
Jessnee ignored him. “Critter’s too weak to free itself. I followed a trail in the algae from the point where the moskat reemerged, until those lumbering dragons descended and I lost the trail.”
Scurryings in the brush induced them to become silent. They reached his boat, hefted bales of cuttings tied with vines onto their backs, and grabbed baskets of berries. When the sounds of the watchers stopped, they resumed talking.
“White Talon’s heavy,” said Shoroko. “How’d you free her?”
Jessnee tugged his beard, then put his forefinger on his lip. “That I’d like to know.” From his pocket he pulled out a flake half the size of his palm.
Shoroko took it and turned it over in his hand. Under crusted-on tar shone radiant gold. “It’s a scale. Lissine?”
“No. And not fan-fan or any other lizard I’ve seen. It was stuck in White Talon’s claws.” He retrieved the scale from Shoroko and pocketed it.
“You think?”
Jessnee nodded. “The angel of Remenee rescued the hlissak, and my moskat as well.”
Shoroko stopped to shift his pack. “What could live in that muck?”
“Only a hlisskan. What’s remarkable is its altruism.”
“Why your interest in this creature?”
Jessnee ticked off his answer on his fingers. “Where it came from, how it got here, and does it hold the secret of how to return.”
Shoroko was skeptical. No passive beneficiary of the force that bestowed immortality on the elect could understand the mechanics of the miracle. Before he could voice his doubts, they arrived back at camp. They loaded the greens onto the wagon and proceeded to the pool, carrying berries to contribute to their evening meal. The olissair lay sprawled beside the pool, sunning herself contentedly, eyes shut. The other Hands were tending fire for supper on a flat rock, out of earshot. As the two men approached the pool, Jessnee hummed an unfamiliar tune, before singing gibberish. “Gebek, gebek, gebek taweru hunsbee lawgand.”
Half asleep, Melissa said dreamily, “That you, Jingles? I didn’t hear you come in.”
Jessnee stopped in his tracks, and Shoroko bumped into him, spilling half the fruit. Before Shoroko could scowl or toss a cuss, he took stock of the bewilderment on Jessnee’s face. Is the golden creature here? He spun about looking for who knows what. When he looked again, Jessnee was on his knees in front of the napping olissair.
“Is she here? Have you seen Melissa?”
Are you mad? Shoroko ran up and pried Jessnee’s spear from his hand, carelessly held with its point inches from Melissa’s eye, and seconds from provoking a defensive reaction from K'Pinkelek. Only then did Jessnee’s words catch up with him. What’d he say? Melissa?
Melissa opened her eyes wide, blinked, opened her mouth to speak, reconsidered, and closed it again.
Shoroko saw amazement in those eyes. This is dangerous, and Melissa’s face tells me she feels the same. I only guessed when I told Thedarra this White Talon impostor had a woman’s spirit, not a bird’s. Now I know. Does Jessnee suspect? Or just think Melissa arrived on Kibota same as he did, and White Talon has spoken with her? When Melissa never shows, will Jessnee think White Talon killed her? Will he blurt something that’ll make K'Pinkelek wary? Shoroko put his hand on Jessnee’s shoulder. “Watch your distance, councilman. The hlissak needs to recover. Whoever this Melissa is can wait. I’ve seen White Talon gaze upon the other world searching for signs of Silverthorn; maybe while doing that she saw your friend.”
Jessnee stepped aside and batted Shoroko’s hand away, but grunted and became silent.
* * *
How did you end up on Kibota, Jason? Melissa tried to slow her breathing. I lost you, gave you up for dead, dried my tears, and you turn up here? Now? No way is Shoroko going to buy my bird story now, and what’ll I tell my cunning Red escort? Should’ve gulped tar, drowned and been done with this. The turmoil caused her to lose breath control. She exhaled a puff of flame which blew back into her face and made her eyes tear. Great. Smoke gets in my eyes. No, my heart is not on fire, and I will not be made fun of by a pop tune. But Jason knows me. If I tell him, he’ll still love me, right? Shoroko can have that wench and I get the doctor. She looked at the doctor, then at Shoroko. Smart or strong? Oh, what’s it matter? I can’t get either; I’ve got long, pointy teeth and big claws and smell like a fish kill. Father, I’ll take that Chinese husband now, and the safety manager job at Jinsay Ju Long Refineries. You win. Just give me back my folded eyes and black hair and I’ll hop the next tragedy back to Earth. White Talon, you listening? I’m ready to switch back and take my chances with the Sudanese army. Inside her head was silence. The voice from the osh pits said it would rescue her if she got its name right. Hello, voice in my head. You can start by telling me your name. I don’t care what it is, just tell me and I’ll call on you right now. More silence.
The rushes stood unbent. The quaggas had drunk their fill and departed, so the pool was still. K'Pinkelek narrowed his eyes and scrutinized White Talon, Jessnee and Shoroko. Two Hands and two Lissai kept switching their gaze from one to another, convinced the others were hid
ing something and not wanting their own secrets disclosed.
A wing of seven Whites flew over and saw White Talon below. “Eldest and wisest, how is your rest?”
Melissa rose and bowed. “Seeing brothers and sisters in flight refreshes me like this spring.”
“May we add wing to wing, and claw to claw?”
They wanted to land. Refusing would add suspicion. Accepting would multiply stress, yet afford time to formulate an explanation for K'Pinkelek and Jason. While waiting for her answer, the leader flew closer. It was Soorararas the swift. While he spoke, his tail and wings shifted subtly. K'Pinkelek’s throat fluttered. He’s subvocalizing. Soorararas is greeting K'Pinkelek in siglissik, and K'Pinkelek is telling him to be quiet. This ancient sign language is no patriotic hobby, it’s a secret code for a cross-klatch group. She decided. “My wings are healed, my claws are strong, but I have other uses for you. Please, join us.”
Customary greetings led to supper. Soorararas pronounced the blessing. “O ancient Blacks who tilled the plains, tended trees, and gathered grain, who spent themselves to stop the scourge, may our paths in death again converge, that we may give our thanks to you whose courage gave us life and bore our pain.”
While soup, bread and berries were passed, Melissa reflected on the fate of the Black Lissai. To stop a plague that slipped in from her world, they did not hesitate to give their lives. To save the world from new dangers, she needed like courage, but how? A person with such courage would tell the truth, wouldn’t they?
A Most Refined Dragon Page 11
