by Lyn Worthen
“But my family…,” she said.
“I will have them brought to the city if that is your wish.”
Meifeng’s mouth opened and closed without words.
“They have not done anything to you. Do not punish them. They had too many children and we were starving, so they gave me to this foreigner. I will go with you, but do not tear them from their home. I will be your servant now.”
Sir Asato shook his head, the top knot bobbing with the movement.
Cornwall cried out. “This beast is mine! I spent good money on him!”
Sir Asato shifted his gaze from Meifeng to the archers. Then he made a casual gesture. One of the archers stepped forward and strung his bow.
“The silver dragon was not yours to steal. You have a choice. Surrender and leave by nightfall or…” He glanced at the archer whose bow stood ready. “Or you die.”
The merchant gulped and looked at his men, but they shuffled their feet and said nothing.
“You dare?”
“I do.”
Sir Asato turned his attention back to Meifeng although his men were clamoring for his attention. “You misunderstand, Meifeng. It is not my intention to make you a servant. A talent like yours is much prized, child. There has been little need for dragon folk in these years when there have been no dragons in this kingdom. You will be much sought after as the one who can speak to Shukan.”
Meifeng shrank back as though she wanted to collapse to the ground. Shukan put his front leg out so she could lean against it.
Wind rushed over Sir Asato's face and a few drops of rain fell in his hair. More rain fell until a steady mist filled the sky. The power to bring the rain came from within Shukan, but it was weak and the mist quickly tapered off.
“I did not know of such a thing,” she said and glanced at Shukan. He lowered his head and butted her. Her face brightened and she laid a hand on his nose. His whiskers twitched.
Why do we not just fly away?
You are weak and need more food and silver. We would not get far. They can give us what we require.
He pictured himself as the dragons in his memory, gleaming in metallic shades and other colors like green and blue, soaring through the sky. Right now, he was a pale imitation of a dragon. He had little talent and was still starving for all the things he'd been denied.
“It is not spoken of. Shukan has been much neglected and will need your help to heal. He should be twice his size. That fool kept him chained and hungry. He could have done him severe damage.”
“Sir Asato, we should go,” said his second in command.
Shukan moved toward the cluster of men by the merchant's chair. His claws and body kicked up dust and the men pressed back as he walked. Sir Asato's men bowed, their posture that of reverence and respect. Cornwall shrieked and shrank back into his chair.
“You are lucky that our dragons are benevolent creatures and not the fire-breathing ones of your culture. Else you would be ashes. We are taking Shukan, Merchant Cornwall. You stole the egg and now he is restored to us. Leave our country at once. Otherwise we will hunt you down.”
The merchant barked a hasty order and his soldiers began retreating to the interior. He turned to face Sir Asato, his face red.
“I concede no battle, Asato, but you have the best of me. We will depart your wretched country. I hate Cathay anyway. You will pay me for the dragon and my servant girl.”
“I will give you nothing. The time for financial bargaining is over.”
“Sir Asato, we should kill him,” his second-in-command said.
Sir Asato shook his head. “I would rather he take the message back to his countrymen that we do not suffer thieves in our kingdom. If he comes back again, I will cut off his hands…, and then his head.”
Cornwall blanched at Asato’s words. He followed his men, his back as straight as his weight would allow.
Shukan returned to Meifeng. She reached up and stroked his nose and whiskers.
“We must go, Meifeng,” Sir Asato said, extending a hand to her.
“I will go with you if Shukan will.”
Will you? Her mental voice was small and timid.
If that is what you want to do.
I do. She paused. Otherwise we are on our own in a hostile world.
I am not afraid of such a thing, but I am weak and need to regain my strength. If we decide later we want to go, then we shall go.
Sir Asato seemed impatient, tapping his hand on his sword pommel. Shukan stared at him and the warrior ceased.
Meifeng bowed low, her dark hair swinging across her face. “Shukan says he will go, but I cannot guarantee he will stay.”
Sir Asato's mouth fell open.
“My emperor is not used to taking no for an answer.”
His ruler is not mine. I bow to no man. I go because it is wise for me to do so at this time; but I am a dragon and I do not serve anyone.
Meifeng giggled, and Sir Asato made an impatient sound.
“What is it, girl? We must be gone soon. We have far to travel and should be away.”
She put her hand on Shukan's flank.
“He says that the Emperor is not his emperor. That he bows to no man.”
The collected men murmured to themselves. Sir Asato bowed to Meifeng.
“It is as it should be. Dragons are not ours to control,” he said. “Come, Meifeng, we must go. Do you walk…or ride?”
Her mouth made a silent O of surprise. “I walk, I think,” she said, a quaver in her voice. In reply Shukan extended his neck so that she could climb on and grasp his mane. She rested her hand on his neck, but did not climb up. “I would not have Shukan hurt himself more for me. You saw him try to fly earlier. Also…, I need to get used to the idea of riding.”
Shukan snorted in disappointment. She leaned against him. Nothing felt so right as that touch.
When you are well, I will ride. I must learn how.
I will wait for that day.
“Come, then,” Sir Asato said and gestured to his men. His second-in-command picked up the gesture and the men fell into precise lines. To Shukan's dismay Sir Asato pulled Meifeng to the saddle with him, putting her in front. He hissed but Sir Asato did not falter.
“Until that day you ride the dragon, you must ride with us,” he said, not unkindly.
I could still fly.
That would not be wise.
Shukan grumbled a little but moved up to walk next to Sir Asato's horse. He moved low to the ground on his long body, keeping his legs tucked close by his sides. The wind rushed past the soldiers who now marched out of the courtyard. He swiveled his head to look at Meifeng and she smiled at him.
He wished he had a dragon to teach him, but that was not the way of the world. He sensed that the other dragons were sleeping, not dead, and they would rise again. Right now, he was with Meifeng. Much had been lost, but he had gained the most important prize of all.
He was no longer alone.
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Joni B. Haws finds scrubbing dishes and driving carpool considerably lacking in enchantment, and loves to lose herself in the magic of stories. Her left-brained, accountant husband keeps her tethered to the real world, and she loves her three children best of all her creations. If you were to show up unannounced at Joni's house – but really, call first – you might find her belting power ballads behind the blur of a crochet hook, trying to devour a plate full of nachos without taking her eyes from her reading, or restocking books in her Little Free Library.
About this story, Joni says: “I’ve always been fascinated by the cultures of the peoples indigenous to this country. When I was a young girl, a Navajo teen lived with my family for a few years to attend school, and I got my first real taste of another culture’s beliefs and system of values listening to her tell stories of the reservation, its sense of community and superstition. I was enamored with the things I learned from her. This story is my attempt at marrying my idea of a fictional dragon with protagon
ists that inhabit the world described to me all those years ago.”
Dragons come in all shapes and sizes – and, as Joni shows us, sometimes in forms we don’t expect. And sometimes, when the dragon appears, we have to reach deep inside to find the courage to answer the challenge it presents.
Blossoms in the Desert
Joni B. Haws
Rose Bylily was named after two flowers. Mormon missionaries had once told her mother they could make the desert “blossom as the rose,” and though Irene Bylily had told the two young men she didn’t need more religion, she liked the idea of a few more roses. Their little patch of the Navajo reservation, right outside Tuba City, was dry and dusty, dotted with scruffy sage, mesquite trees, and the occasional rock formation. Rose’s mother had loved the brush and red mesas of their native home, but her daughter felt the desert was no place for roses.
Still, Rose loved hearing any story about her mother, who had died when Rose was only five. She had lost so many memories in the twelve years since her death. Rose’s grandmother spoke of Irene often. “Your mother watches over you from the eyes of eagles,” she would say.
It was the first week of summer break, and the weather was especially hot, having already eclipsed 100 degrees for three days in a row. Rose, shielded from the worst of the heat in her grandmother’s hogan, sat in front of a mirror practicing perfect wings with her eyeliner. She pulled back and smiled.
“Wings so sharp they could cut a bitch,” she whispered, and fluttered the neck of her tank top to cool herself.
The sizzle of fry bread hitting hot oil drifted to her from the kitchen. There were no separate rooms inside the eight-sided dwelling, only a thin partition dividing Rose’s bed and small dresser from the rest of the home.
Rose was pumping the wand of her mascara when she heard the unmistakable rumble of her father’s truck pulling up beside the hogan. Fear dropped like a rock in her stomach, and she rushed to Grandmother’s side.
“What is he doing here?” she asked.
“The crow always finds a nest,” Grandmother replied, never pausing as she flattened another round of dough.
Morning sunlight flooded into the hogan as a meaty hand pulled back the woven blanket serving as the front door. John entered, a small duffel hanging from his shoulder.
“Yá’át’ééh, shimá,” he bellowed, and winked at grandmother.
“I am not your mother,” she said without looking up. John took heavy steps to where the two women stood, making Rose stiffen. He peeled away the towel protecting the fry bread from flies and snatched the freshest piece, tearing it in two.
“Close enough,” he said.
John peered down at Rose through hooded lids. He was tall and thick-chested, his black hair hanging in limp strings to his chin, and reeked of rank sweat and liquor.
“Yá’át’ééh, Rosie.”
Images flashed in her mind of her father before Mother had died, like stock photos in a new picture frame. Her dad, thinner, smiling back at her while leading her on a pony. Her dad, licking her ice cream cone to keep it from dripping onto her little fingers. Her dad, performing a traditional dance in colorful costume while her mother looked on with pride. Now he was a man whose eyes never truly focused, a man who spit at snakes. Which was the real John Bylily, the one she remembered in snapshots, or the sneering man before her?
“That’s not for you,” she said, gesturing to the pilfered bread.
He took a bite from one half, then licked the other, his mouth still half full. “You want it back?” he asked, and let out a braying laugh.
Rose planted her feet and willed her voice not to waiver. “You should leave.”
“Well, of course I will. Just as you say.” He dropped onto the wooden-framed sofa, displacing a puff of dust. “In a couple of days. I need a place to dry out and keep cool. It’s hotter than the devil’s asshole.” His duffel clinked as it hit the ground. Rose knew that sound.
Hatred rose like bile in her throat. She ached with helplessness and wished for the millionth time there was somewhere she could escape to, somewhere every square inch of land was paved, or grassed, or stacked with restaurants and shopping centers and apartment complexes like the cities she saw on TV. Hell, she wished she could be on TV, not splitting her time between working at the Sonic in town and carding wool with Grandmother at home. The too-big sky, the endless red sand, her backwards town, they all made her feel so small. She loved Grandmother, but this hogan made her feel small too. And her father, when he showed up, made everything inside her shrink until she felt like nothing at all.
She knew she should let him sleep it off before sending him back behind the wheel, but rage filled her up like smoke from a cookfire, and she stamped her foot, pointing toward the doorway. “I said you need to leave. Now. This is not your home.”
John’s eyes grew hard. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”
“You don’t get to barge in here. You’re drunk at nine in the morning. This place is not for you. Get out!” Even as she said the words she knew she was poking a bear.
Grandmother’s hand lighted on her shoulder as John rose. He swayed slightly as he strode toward her.
Rose brought her arms up just as he delivered an open-handed strike. The force knocked her to the ground, pain divided between a burning in her forearm and a jarring ache in her head. She looked up to see Grandmother tugging on John’s arm, her small voice commanding him to stop. He placed a square hand on her chest and pushed her down. Grandmother’s gathered skirt flew up as she fell hard on her backside, exposing her thin legs.
He had no right. He had no right to come into Grandmother’s home and push her around. Rose determined to scratch out his eyes, even if he killed her in the process.
A sound behind her made her turn. A lithe young man stood in the doorway, an onyx braid falling over each shoulder. It was Jarvis, breathing hard like he’d run all the way from his small home a mile up the dirt road. He probably had. With both hands he clutched a revolver, pointing it at John as he stepped in front of Rose.
“Go!” he said.
“Jarvis, be careful,” Rose cried, though she knew he couldn’t hear her. He hadn’t heard a thing since the illness that took his hearing nearly a decade ago.
John looked from Jarvis to Rose and back again, as if weighing the worth of wrangling with this young buck. John lunged a little, faking an attack, and grunted through a half-smile when Jarvis flinched. Then he pulled his keys from his pocket and held both hands up in surrender.
“Alright, little boy, if you need a gun to feel like a man, go ahead. After I go you can shove it down your pants where your chxo’ should be.” John stepped out of the hogan and climbed in his truck.
Rose ran to the duffel her father had left behind and pulled out two full bottles of tequila. As the engine of her father’s truck boomed to life she bolted outside and threw them at the passenger door in turns, where they shattered, the spilled liquid making dark stains in the dirt. She screamed at the truck as it pulled away. Jarvis stood beside her while the truck disappeared into a cloud of dust.
# # #
Jarvis wished there was something he could say. Rose stood beside him, shoulders rising with each sharp breath, then she braced her back and paced in a tight circle, red toenail polish clouded over with fine, orange soil. Grief and anger dripped from her features like dark jewels.
Just one more year, he thought, tucking the gun in the waistband of his denim shorts and letting his shirt fall over it. There were no bullets in it. He knew Rose was dying to get off the reservation. After graduation next spring she could spread her wings. Jarvis was tied to this land, and Rose would never know how it would hurt him to see her go. As he stood beneath the baking sun, watching her pace like a caged coyote, he felt a pang in his heart, and fought the urge to put his arms around her.
Jarvis hadn’t been the same since his illness. His confidence had gone the way of his hearing, and he and Rose had grown like the diverging branches
of a juniper. But he had learned to read the rumblings of his house, knew which vibrations came from strong winds, slamming doors, or vehicles passing by. The signature tremor of John Bylily’s truck always made him uneasy, like a passing shadow pulling him off balance. In his silent world, Jarvis had come to discern the emotions behind facial expression and posture. John had a way of marking Rose, sometimes with physical bruises, but always with tension and fear, like she’d been stitched up with thread and cinched tight.
Without warning Rose bolted, sprinting from the hogan down the dirt road that separated their houses. Jarvis saw her grandmother standing in the door and he met her eyes, which gleamed like polished stones from her impassive face. He nodded to her and jogged after Rose. I’ll catch her. If she’s falling, I’ll catch her.
# # #
Dry air blew Rose’s hair into her eyes, the ends from the non-shaved side of her short cut just long enough to stab rather than graze. The open windows of the old Ford truck did nothing to cool them, but did keep her and Jarvis from sweating too much.
“Sorry the AC doesn’t work,” he said. He had no trouble speaking, having been old enough before he lost his hearing at age eight to have already learned to speak, but his speech had adopted a slight nasal twang. The kids at school snickered when he spoke, and though he couldn’t hear them, he wasn’t blind. It had been a long time since Rose had heard him say anything at all.
She gave him a thumbs up to indicate it was okay. Though he could read lips pretty well, his eyes were on the road.
After her father had driven away, the frustration had ignited like a dragster engine inside her and, barefoot as she was, she’d taken off in a sprint. Jarvis had followed behind, guiding her by the arm when she was spent. They walked together in silence until they reached his house, where he slipped inside and came back with the keys to his brother’s truck.
“Klah will kill me,” he said, grinning.
Now they headed south on the highway out of Tuba City. Rose didn’t know where they were going and didn’t care. Maybe Jarvis didn’t either.
