Every Wind of Change

by Frank Tuttle

  Mug remained, hovering close to Mrs. Primsbite. “They’ll be occupied the rest of the night. Would you ladies care to do a bit of exploring? We’ve hardly been aft, on the lower deck.”

  “A systematic inspection of rooms and chambers, performed in an orderly fashion?” asked Meralda’s mother.

  “Let’s just poke about,” Mug said. “You can take doors marked ‘danger’ and the like.”

  The woman laughed. “As you wish, Mr. Mug. Shall we go, Mrs. Primsbite?”

  “Let’s. Who knows what we might find?”

  “That’s it,” Meralda said. She dropped her wrench and winced at the sudden loud clatter. “Four hastily contrived, wholly untested fire-lances, just as likely to blow up in our faces as they are to incinerate the Mag.” She sank to the cold deck, resting her chin in her hands. “Donchen, I’m so tired I could sleep right here.”

  Donchen gave his tool a last hard turn before putting it down and sitting by Meralda’s side.

  “They’ll work,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulder. “And you have a bed, not far away. Celestia, what time is it?”

  “Nine o’clock, by your reckoning.”

  “We’ve worked all night,” Meralda said. “And no airship to show for it.”

  “All in good time. We do have formidable weapons now. Time for some rest. The airship can wait a few hours.”

  “I suppose.” Meralda rose wearily. “But only if you agree to rest as well. Wake me at once if a Mag scout returns.”

  “I promise.” Donchen stood, wincing.

  “You don’t have to hide that, you know,” Meralda said, as they made their way to their cabins. “Be honest. How badly were you hurt, when we fell?”

  Donchen shrugged. “A bad bruise, perhaps a slight fracture. But I am mostly recovered.”

  “Mostly recovered. How much of that statement is factual?”

  “More than half,” Donchen replied, with a small smile. “Well, nearly half.”

  “I am surrounded by infuriating persons.” Meralda halted at the door to her cabin. “Still, I feel led to kiss you goodnight. Or good morning. As the case may be.”

  “What an odd coincidence. I feel led to kiss you as well.”

  Meralda’s lips were barely on Donchen’s when she heard the frantic whine of Mug’s flying coils.

  “Mistress!” Mug soared into view, his leaves whipping, his eyes darting madly. “Mistress, you’ve got to come quick! Bring the fire-throwers! Bring the heat ray! But this isn’t my fault! Your mother did it!”

  “My mother did what?”

  “She found the dragon,” Mug said. “Then she woke it up.”

  “Muggleworth Ovis,” Meralda warned. “I am exhausted. There are no dragons aboard this ship.”

  “Begging your pardon, Mistress, but there most certainly are.” Mug circled her head. “Bigger than a house. Two houses. Come on! Donchen, we have to go!”

  Donchen chuckled softly. “I imagine you have stumbled across another simulation.”

  Meralda recalled the room of stars on the promenade deck, and her panic began to fade.

  “Celestia,” she said. “What is Mug talking about? Is there a dragon aboard?”

  “Three of the suspension tanks in the performer’s quarters do appear to be occupied,” replied the ship. “My awareness does not extend to the performer’s quarters, per Captain Resnic’s privacy statement, dated –”

  “If your awareness doesn’t extend there, how can you know these suspension tanks are occupied?”

  “Because the tanks have begun the revival process,” the ship said.

  “I told you so! There’s a great huge dragon in one, and Mistress, it’s starting to move!”

  “Celestia, is this perhaps a simulation?” Meralda asked.

  “No,” said the ship. “That would be Bruce.”

  “Bruce,” Meralda repeated. “A dragon. Named Bruce.”

  Mug’s eyes fixed themselves, every one, on Meralda.

  “Don’t speak,” she said. “Celestia. Can this revival process be reversed?”

  “Not without main computer access. Time to full revival is now eight minutes.”

  “This Bruce is a dragon? A flying reptile, given to breathing fire?”

  “Bruce signed a five-year contract with the circus,” Celestia said. “He is contractually obligated to demonstrate flaming emissions once per performance.”

  “How likely is he to tear the ship apart and eat us all?” Mug demanded.

  “I cannot offer a quantitative reply,” said the ship. “Seven minutes to revival.”

  “As I mentioned,” Meralda said, “I am surrounded by infuriating persons. Mug. Lead the way.”

  Mug bobbed. “The heat ray? You’re not getting the heat ray.”

  Meralda began marching the way Mug had come. “The dragon’s name is Bruce. I doubt that a heat ray will be required.”

  Donchen caught up with her. “It’s probably a mechanical prop of some kind.”

  “You haven’t seen it yet.” Mug sailed past. “Hurry!”

  Mug led them through a series of increasingly unfamiliar corridors until at last Meralda realized she was in a new section of the ship. Here, the halls were dimly lit, decorations nearly nonexistent, and the deck showed more wear than did the forward areas.

  “We were just trying to help.” Mug came to a hover so Meralda and Donchen could catch up. “You two were working, so we decided to explore a bit. I realized the layout didn’t match the diagram of the ship on the bridge, so I asked Celestia about that. She said modifications were made, and those don’t show up on the bridge picture because the computer reverted to the factory defaults, whatever that is.”

  “So you found a dragon, and instead of telling me, you did what?”

  “I said we needed to call you. But your mother found a control panel, and she started pushing buttons. Lights flashed, and machines started humming. Then the liquid in the big clear tanks started draining.”

  They reached a closed door marked Special Performers, Private Residences. It opened when Mug flew toward it.

  “The guilty party,” Mug announced, as he flew inside. “And the dragon.”

  Meralda and Donchen followed.

  Beyond the doors was a chamber as large as that above the landing ramp. The ceiling was as high, striped in yellow and black, as were the walls. The floor was a bright green.

  Meralda stopped so abruptly Donchen ran into her.

  There, to the left, was a series of transparent tanks. The first was enormous – and inside it lay a dragon.

  The dregs of some thick clear fluid drained away as Meralda watched. The dragon lay still, with its massive head curled to meet the tip of its long, spiked tail.

  It was easily seventy feet long. Meralda recalled the dragon depicted on the waybills and realized they’d been perfectly accurate.

  The beast was covered in wet black scales. It had long sinewy legs, each terminating in massive taloned claws, also black. Each foot was larger than Fromarch’s motor-car. Meralda counted six wicked black claws on each foot, though they were now curled in sleep.

  Leathery black wings folded across the creature’s enormous back. Spade-shaped spines ran down its spine, starting small behind its head, growing taller, and then diminishing as they ran down the tail.

  The beast’s head was long and serpent-like. Also black, but with rings of bright blue scales around the tight-shut eyes. Its nostrils flared as it breathed, and the ends of gleaming white fangs hung from its upper jaw, clearly visible against the black scales of the face.

  “Everyone, be very quiet,” Meralda said. She fixed a murderous glare upon her mother, who leaned against the glass, her expression serene.

  “Hello, daughter,” she said. “Look what I found.”

  Mrs. Primsbite waved to Meralda from well beyond the end of the dragon’s clear tank. “I think he’s waking up!” she said, in a loud whisper. “He moved. We have to help him, but I can’t find a door!”


  “Which one?” Mug asked.

  “There’s more than one?” Meralda hurried toward Mrs. Primsbite though she kept a wary eye on the slumbering dragon. “Mug, you didn’t mention there were others!”

  “Just a fat man in a suit, and an ugly ball that looks like it needs burying. I thought perhaps the huge fire-breathing engine of mayhem rated top billing.” Mug followed, keeping all but two eyes on the dragon’s tank. “But by all means, let’s waste time on the shopkeeper, shall we?”

  Inside the next tank, which was much smaller than the first, thick gobs of clear fluid dripped from a dirty gray ball. The ragged sphere was nearly as tall as Meralda. She saw bits of stark white bone poking through patches of torn leathery skin. She shivered, suspecting the creature in that tank hadn’t survived the passage of so much time, and she hurried to the third container.

  There, lying on his back was a plump little man dressed in a wet black suit. One of his black shoes was off his foot, and his dark sock had a hole at the heel. His longish white hair, still soaked with goo, lay about his white face like an unkempt halo.

  His suit was threadbare and a bit too large. His waistcoat had a large burn on the front, just below his breastbone. In the center of the puckered scorch mark was a neat circular hole that let a patch of wet pink skin show through.

  His arms were outstretched, palms up, fat little fingers open and still.

  His eyes were shut, and unlike the dragon, he didn’t seem to be breathing.

  Mrs. Primsbite, her eyes wide, beat her fists in frustration against the glass. “You there! Do you hear me?”

  “Shh,” Mug hissed.

  The man’s eyes flew open.

  He coughed, rolled onto his side, and spent a moment spitting out fluid. Then he seemed to become aware of Mrs. Primsbite.

  He sat up and then stood. He smoothed his long hair back with his hands, produced a wet handkerchief, and mopped his face with it.

  “Good evening, lass,” he said, before lapsing into a fit of coughing. His words were intelligible, though his accent was strange and the tank muffled his voice. “Pardon me,” he said, grinning. His teeth were even and white. A flush of pink returned to his cheeks. “Bless me, I never expected to wake up at all. Certainly not in the presence of such beauties.”

  He tried to bow, slipped on the remaining goo on the tank’s floor, and fell on his face.

  Mrs. Primsbite, turned to Meralda. “There must be a door. We can’t leave the poor man trapped inside a jar!”

  The man laughed, rising with some difficulty. “Lass, don’t fret, the release is right in front of me.” He slipped his foot back into his right shoe. Then he made his way carefully to the glass, his hand poised as though to knock. “Now, as pretty as you are, I’m led to ask – who might you be, and how did you come to be here? Pardon an old man’s caution, but you’re none of you crew.” He looked to Mug, regarding him from beneath bushy white eyebrows. “You, laddie, are a most unusual fellow.”

  Meralda walked to Mrs. Primsbite’s side to face the man. “My name is Meralda. This is Mrs. Primsbite. The unusual fellow is Mug. The other gentleman is Donchen, and the woman with the knives she’s about to put away right this instant is my mother.”

  The wet man nodded with each introduction but did not move his hand.

  “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet one and all,” he replied. “I’m Mr. Gliff. I see to things, you see, aboard the ship. Now, if I come out there with you, there won’t be any trouble, will there? Because I tell you as politely as I know how I won’t deal kindly with pirates or scrappers.” He winked at Mrs. Primsbite. “Even pretty ones.”

  “We are neither,” replied Mrs. Primsbite. “We are travelers who’ve lost our way. We mean you no harm. On that, you have my word.”

  The man tapped the glass in a complicated pattern, as though working buttons Meralda could not see.

  When he lowered his hand, the glass walls around him began to rise, swallowed up by the ceiling. A powerful fan hidden in the ceiling blew, quickly drying the ooze from him. “Celestia,” said the man, when the fan stopped. “What is the date?”

  The ship replied with numbers that made no sense to Meralda.

  The man nodded, his smile dying on his lips. He reached into his jacket pocket, withdrew a battered silver flask, and drained it in a single long draw.

  “Well, that’s that, then.” He lowered his flask. “Seems the jabberwock was right after all. I did outlive the circus. By many a score of years.”

  “Um, Mistress, not to interrupt, but that ugly dead thing may not be as dead as it looked,” Mug said, gesturing to the tank beside him.

  “I’m not alone?” asked the man, stepping out from his former cage. “Who else is here?”

  “There’s a dragon,” Mug said. “And a – well, I have no idea what it is, but it’s moving.”

  Mr. Gliff walked quickly to the next tank. “Well, I’ll be,” he said. “The jabberwock.” He tapped on the glass, and the ball’s faint stirrings stopped for a moment. “Wake up in there, Miss. I’m eager to see a familiar face, even if it’s yours.” His right hand fell to the hole in his suit, and his eyes widened. “Oh. I’d quite forgotten about that.” He probed his chest, as though looking for an injury. “Healed up nicely, it did. Doesn’t even sting.” He gave the glass one last hard knock before turning back to face Meralda. “I ken you’re in charge. Mind telling me who you are, and how you came to be here?”

  Meralda quickly recounted the story, keeping the leathery ball in plain sight as she spoke. Mr. Gliff listened patiently, asking a question now and then.

  “So you’re castaways,” he said, with a sigh. He buttoned his jacket, covering the hole in his vest. “When I saw you, I was sure you’d been sent by Captain Resnic to wake me up and bring me home. But it’s been far too long for that, I reckon.” He paused. “You say the ship can’t fly?”

  “Not at the moment.” The thing in the tank shook, and bits of bone began moving about beneath the scraps of leathery skin. “Is that creature injured?”

  Mr. Gliff snorted. “I doubt anything could injure the jabberwock. Now look here, lass, when she wakes up, don’t be alarmed. Her visage is fierce, and I reckon it ought to be, but as long as you folk mind your manners and show some respect, she’ll be as friendly as you please.”

  “What’s a jabberwock?” Mug asked, positioning himself close to the glass.

  The ball of bones spasmed. Then it rolled halfway to the glass, shook again, and slowly unfolded.

  Mug flew back a few paces. Meralda forced herself to stand still. Mrs. Primsbite gasped, and Donchen moved closer to Meralda.

  The outmost layer of the ball unfurled like a bleached bat’s wing. The skeleton was clearly visible between the pale membranes, which glistened with the preservative fluid. One wing became two, and then they both extended, straining and flapping, sending gobs of thick liquid splashing against the glass of the tank.

  The head emerged next, rising between the wings on a sinewy neck. Vertebrae reshaped themselves, stretching up and apart like the bellows of an accordion until the massive birdlike head straightened and shook.

  The creature’s beak was bone-white and hooked like a hawk’s. Its head was as big as a horse’s, and its eyes, when they opened, were slitted and blood-red. A crest of white feathers rose from just behind the beak, passing between the eyes and merging with a sparse feathery mane down its back.

  The creature, which Meralda realized had been on its knees, stood. Bipedal and rangy, it towered up and up, until it stood ten feet tall. Its three-toed feet were taloned and wickedly curled.

  The jabberwock turned its head toward Meralda and blinked, regarding her with curious crimson eyes.

  “Remember what I told you.” Mr. Gliff rapped hard on the glass. “Oh, and don’t agree to give her your last breath. She’s a positive fiend for asking, sure she means no harm, but best to just say no.” He rapped again and shouted to the jabberwock. “It’s me, Miss. Come on out. We’re in a spot of
trouble, and no mistake, but these people are not to blame.”

  The beast turned its head to and from, regarding each of Meralda’s party intently for a moment. Then it furled its massive wings, shrugging and shifting in a way that suggested it was struggling to don a particularly difficult coat. When it stopped, a pair of bony arms hung at its sides. Each arm was part of the wing, and the membrane that draped from the bones gave the creature the appearance of wearing a cape.

  Long fingers unfolded at the end of each arm. Mostly bone, each digit was tipped with a gleaming white claw.

  The jabberwock walked to the glass. Despite its skeletal appearance, its movements were graceful and fluid. It turned its angular head to fix Meralda in a single red eye and raised a hand so its claws could tap at the glass, as Mr. Gliff had done.

  “Now let her read her cards, Miss – Meralda, was it?” said Mr. Gliff.

  Meralda nodded. “Cards?”

  “Um, has everyone forgotten about the dragon?” Mug said. “Shouldn’t we be, I don’t know, finding somewhere else to be?”

  Mr. Gliff chuckled. “You let me handle Bruce,” he said. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “He’ll need a bit of a talk, you know. Quite a shock, our situation. Let me speak to him privately, before we make introductions. If you please?”

  “Of course.” Meralda laid her hand on the man’s now-dry shoulder. “And thank you.”

  He reached up to tip a hat that was not there, caught himself, and bowed slightly instead. “I see to things, ma’am. It’s what I do.”

  He set off toward the sleeping dragon, Mrs. Primsbite at his side. Donchen remained with Meralda, watching the glass as it rose up out of sight.

  The jabberwock stepped beyond it, not waiting for the fan. It towered over Meralda and Donchen, then knelt so that its eyes were level with theirs.

  Something in its icy unblinking gaze unnerved Meralda. Those eyes, so large and old and piercing. It seemed to be staring right into her mind, and Meralda wondered for a moment if the thing could hear her thoughts or see the racing of her heart.