Dirt

by CC Hogan

  Chapter 6 – The Shallow Sea

  Despite the constant wind, the fog swirled around the broken battlements with only the odd tantalising glimpse of light. Farthing pulled his blanket close and shivered. At least the rain had stopped for the moment.

  “I can’t see anything,” the dragon pointed out, landing next to Farthing who had climbed up to the battlements. She slipped a bit on the moss-covered stones and recovered her footing by balancing with her wings.

  “We should get up to the cliff anyway,” Farthing said. “There is no sign of this weather changing and the cloud is thick, but there are odd breaks in it and we should not miss any chance, however small. I have to get off this island.”

  “I know.” The dragon looked down at him. “Responsibility is a slave driver, isn’t it?”

  “It always has been from what I have seen. My sister would be doing the same now if it was me that was missing. We have always been like that, even when our parents were still around.” He stared into the fog, willing it to disperse. The dragon dropped a wing.

  “Come on, let’s collect that miserable magician.”

  “Are you two going to fight all the way to Taken?” Farthing asked, stepping onto the dragon’s strong back.

  “Probably.” Fren-Eirol opened her wings and glided down to where Weasel had packed up their belongings.

  “How straight down were these birds flying?” Weasel handed up the straps of the large pack to Farthing, who, with the guidance of Fren-Eirol, tied them tight.

  “Vertical, more or less. Why?”

  “Eirol, we are going to have to have something to hang onto I think.”

  The dragon sighed. “I dislike that, magician, but you are right. The turn at the bottom of the dive could throw you two off and I would hate to lose the boy.”

  “And me?” Weasel looked a bit put out.

  “I will consider that later,” Fren-Eirol replied, loftily.

  Well, thought Farthing, it was a start.

  They made their way through the rain to the higher end of the island on foot. Weasel took out some long, silken cloth that Fren-Eirol had in her pack and he and Farthing stretched it out between them as they walked, twisting and knotting it into strong ties. The magician explained these could be tied around the dragon without hurting as a rope would do.

  “What is this cloth?” Farthing asked the dragon.

  “It is, or was, part of my clothing,” the dragon said, with a touch of sadness. “We dragons like soft flowing garments.”

  “Well, Fren-Eirol does,” added Weasel, throwing Farthing another length of cloth. “Bren-Aneirin, her pairing, favoured thick leather.”

  “Yes, but he liked being the big, strong red and he never got out of the habit.” Fren-Eirol laughed, but with a touch of sadness, remembering her Bren. Many dragons never paired with another, but when they did it was often for life. When one died, it was rare that the other would pair again, or at least not for many, many years.

  They stopped before the final climb up the rocks to the cliff edge and Weasel and Fren-Eirol debated the best way to attach the makeshift harness. Farthing, sensibly, kept out of it. He knew nothing about dragon anatomy and was aware that part of this conversation was political; it might only be a couple of twisted lengths of cloth, but it had echoes of a certain, best-forgotten saddle. Eventually, a decision was made, and the cloths were tied on in readiness.

  “We are not going to tie ourselves on,” the magician explained. “If everything goes wrong, we might need to get off in a hurry, especially if we hit the water.” Farthing really did not want to think of what that might be like sitting on top of a high-speed dragon. “So, we will lie down next to each other with our arms under the ties, and our feet pushed beneath the pack.”

  “But, assuming we pull off this circus trick,” Fren-Eirol added, “I want you back to your normal positions as quickly as possible. These ties might be practical, but they are also distasteful.” She sniffed and looked, for a moment, surprisingly petulant. Farthing hid a grin and Weasel, tactfully, found a small stone on the ground to stare at. “So, shall we do this, boys?”

  Up the rise towards the cliff, the mist thickened and the edge was barely visible. Farthing crept forward and once again lay flat, looking over the rocky edge. Ahead of him somewhere, he could hear the clucks and cries of the birds; despite the heavy clouds and rain, they were still flying. To his relief, below the cliff edge, the mist cleared quickly and he could make out the sea far below. He returned to where the other two waited.

  “It is thick mist straight ahead, but it is clear below. We can do this,” he said. “Fren-Eirol, yesterday the birds were lifting off at the edge of the cliff and hovering about thirty or forty paces out before they made their dive. It looked like they were looking to find the right place, maybe where the updraught is less? I can’t see them clearly today, so I don’t know if they are doing anything different. I can hear them, though, and they are still flying.”

  “That would make sense,” Fren-Eirol said. “Trying to dive right at the edge might suck you into the cliff wall.” She peered through the mist, pondering what they were about to do. “I want to fly out a little and see for myself first,” she said. “Then I will come back and we can try. You two wait here.” Without another word, she leapt into the air, caught the wind, and sailed over the edge.

  “You will want to close your eyes when we do this,” commented Weasel. “I have been on the back of Bren-Aneirin when he was diving straight down close to the ground and it is probably the most scared I have ever been. Up high it is wonderful, but this won’t be.” Farthing was rapidly learning that though the magician complained or worked his way around things or tried to make his life easy, fear was something that he did not suffer without good reason. If he found the prospect of the dive scary, then Farthing should probably be very anxious indeed. Before he had time to contemplate his bold idea further, the dragon returned.

  “Those birds are spectacular,” she shouted out as she came to rest. “The speed they reach on the way down is breathtaking.”

  “You can do it then?” asked Weasel.

  Fren-Eirol grinned. “I will have to go faster than them, and the turn at the bottom is going to knock the breath right out of you, but yes, I can do it.” She dropped a wing. “Now is as good as time as any!”

  If Farthing had expected any long build up to the ride, he was utterly mistaken. No sooner was he and Weasel lying down on the dragon’s back than she had taken off and flown out over the cliff. There were a few, tense moments as she moved farther out, and Farthing saw that they had been joined on each side by four of the great birds. Suddenly, the birds snapped their wings back against their bodies and dropped. The dragon was but a heartbeat behind them and, head pointed down towards the deadly ocean, she fell like a stone.

  The roar of the wind hit Farthing like an explosion and he laid his head flat. Any idea of looking down was pointless; in the rush of wind, he would not be able to see a thing looking ahead. He risked a careful glance sideways and saw that they and the scimra were keeping pace, but as they neared the sea, they slowly pulled ahead of the birds, the wind howling, almost screaming around the dragon’s body. One by one, the birds flapped out their wings, appearing to shoot backwards as they made their turns and headed into the clouds, but Fren-Eirol had yet to commit. Farthing’s heart started beating faster. Why wasn’t she turning? Had something gone wrong? Had she passed out? He tried to lift his head, but it was impossible; the wind was pinning him to her back.

  Then Fren-Eirol pushed her wings out a short way and he was pushed against her hard spine. She was starting to turn. Her wings flew out straight and his weight seemed to triple and he felt her skin slap into his face. The scream that filled the air came from the wind rushing over her wings, or perhaps she was screaming. Perhaps he was! The world was one of pain and disorientation. His stomach felt crushed, his ears were
popping and his heart beating like it would burst through his back. And then they were heading back up. He could move again, though he felt sick and dizzy and his eyes ran. The dragon had billowed her wings out like sails and the updraughts lifted them straight into the clouds, through the fog, the damp, and the dense greyness. The dragon started beating her wings, harder and faster than Farthing had yet seen. He felt her heart pounding through her back against his chest.

  “Sit up!” Weasel shouted at him. “Let her get her full stretch!” Farthing realised that lying next to each other was limiting the dragon’s ability to get her wings fully back. He sat up as best as he could and the magician pulled himself behind, his feet curled up out of the way. They looked like a couple of racing jockeys with their heads leant forward, almost up on their knees, hanging on for their very lives. The dragon screeched and her wings stretched back above her, touching at their tips, and powering down again beneath her. Then they burst out above the clouds and into the sun, the strange, mythical land disappearing behind them, hidden in its ever-present shroud. Around them the air was full of hundreds of Scimrafugol, hovering in a huge circle, crying and shouting out at them, applauding their feat.

  “Bloody hell!” shouted out the breathless dragon. “An audience!” Weasel whooped in glee and banged Farthing on the back.

  “Boy, your idea was crazy, but she has done it! What a girl!” Farthing, soaking wet from the clouds, slowly untied the silk ties and wound them up without saying a thing. He was close to tears with relief and giddy sickness.

  Fren-Eirol, proud like a young dragon, span in a tight victory circle, the two men shouting in surprise. Then she lifted her beautiful white body with her great, glistening, blue, silver and grey wings, and powered to the east over the dense storm, leaving the huge birds to return to their island, to their nests and their young. For them this would no longer be the terrible, mysterious, hidden isle, Tir Cuuth. From now on it would be the isle of the magical scimra, and they would leave it in peace.

  As they flew away from the island and the dragon soared up to catch the high winds above the clouds, it brightened up to a crystal clear day, and beyond the storm, the sea was shimmering in the morning light, the heavens turning a smooth, cheery, light blue with few clouds to be seen anywhere. They were at least a day behind, which would mean the boat was even further ahead, and on board Farthing’s sister and the Prelate’s daughter. Farthing was less in need to rest than he had been the first couple of flights, and he relaxed and enjoyed the journey, feeling the breeze on his face and looking through the spectacular, delicate crown-like horns that swept up and back from the dragon’s head. The magician had fallen asleep in his usual cross-legged pose and Fren-Eirol had reduced her wing movement to a smooth, gentle beat that took full advantage of a cool westerly. He was not sure how far they would fly today, hopefully farther than before, but he was relieved to be away from the island and the imprisoning grey cloud of the storm. Surely it was a magical place, but Dirt was a world where magic was seen as little more than tricks played in the market square, or the strange abilities of those like Weasel who trod an uneasy road between actual talent and fraudulent charlatanism. The island was a strange place indeed, and Farthing believed he would never really know the truth of it.

  He had seen nothing truly magical about the supposedly ancient man asleep against the packs. He had old eyes but a strangely younger face, though weather-beaten and worn by the years. Farthing was having to take Weasel’s finding talent on faith and the trust of those like Geezen and Barkles who had been guardians while he and his sister had grown up as orphans, fending for themselves. For all he knew, the man was guessing wildly and taking them on a frummage chase. Yet, the dragon trusted the magician and for some reason that Farthing could not fully understand within himself, he trusted her judgement. He did not know her, the poor of the Wealle had nothing to do with the trade done with dragonkind, but he couldn’t see anything in her that would be deceitful. Whatever the truth of it was, he had no other option than to believe that they were taking the right course on their flight to Taken Isle in the middle of this vast ocean. Perhaps there he would learn more. He desperately needed some sign that he was doing the right thing. As yet, that was still two or more days away. Farthing settled down to watch the sky and to take this day as it came.

  Farthing jumped out of a deep sleep when Weasel shook him awake.

  “Island hunting time!” the little man announced with joy. “And not a fog bank or bloody raindrop to be seen anywhere.”

  Farthing smiled. “How long have we been flying?”

  “Six hours,” the dragon shouted back. “We have had an excellent wind, I have had a superb flight, and covered many, many leagues, but now I am tired. A nice, ordinary red island please, young man, nothing clever.”

  For the next half an hour or perhaps longer, the three stared out across the sparkling sea for signs of an island, but found nothing. Then Weasel rose onto his knees, shielding his eyes from the sun.

  “Is that red?” he shouted. “Right over there, slightly to the south of our eastern line.”

  Farthing peered out. “It might be. It doesn’t look quite right, but it may just be a long way off.”

  “Well, I am going to chance it,” said Fren-Eirol, turning slightly towards where the magician indicated. “I can go a while longer if absolutely necessary,” she assured them. “It is a good wind and I am having to work less than before, but I can’t keep it up forever.”

  For the next hour, they headed towards the faint red horizon. There was definitely something there, but as they moved towards it, the colour changed to orange and then to white as it lost the artificial hue given to it by the sun.

  “Oh, no!” Fren-Eirol called back. “I know where we are.”

  “Where?” asked Farthing, trying to ignore the imaginative swearing that was coming from the magician behind him.

  “The good news is that we are farther east than I thought, though rather more south than I want to be, and we are possibly only two flights from Taken.”

  “The bad news, however, is that is no island,” interrupted Weasel. “It is the Shallow Sea. Bugger!”

  “What is the Shallow Sea?” called back Farthing. He had never heard of such a thing.

  “It is a group of old, sunken islands, reefs and sandbanks,” the dragon explained. “It stretches for twenty leagues in all directions and at its shallowest is but a couple of feet deep, but very, very little of it is above water. It will depend on the tides.” Dirt had two small moons, Megen Mona and Efen Mona, which, being nearly half a revolution apart for much of the time, balanced the weak tidal flows out. Once a month their paths brought them closer and the tide was bigger.

  “It was Ealmona two nights ago,” Farthing pointed out, referring to the time when the moons’ paths seem to cross and both were in the sky. “We won’t have the small tides yet.”

  “Well, let’s hope that it is low enough then,” the dragon called back. “It is a hundred years since I have been here.”

  “Look for wrecks,” Weasel shouted from behind Farthing.

  “What?” Farthing was confused.

  “Traders get themselves wrecked on the sands or the rocks if they stray this way. If any of the boats remain, we might be able to land on them, if there is enough of them left, or they will show us where it is shallowest. Either way, look for wrecks.” Farthing signalled his understanding and the dragon flew down towards the reefs and sandbanks.

  “I will get lower,” she said. “It will be easier to see anywhere to land.”

  Within fifteen minutes, the dragon spotted the remains of a boat. There wasn’t much of it left, but the castle at the rear was still sticking out of the water. The dragon landed heavily and skidded on the deck.

  “Damn, it is slimy!” She managed to stop herself sliding farther by grabbing hold of the remaining stub of a mast, and her two passengers leapt off.


  “Well, it is not perfect,” Weasel commented. “But it is above water.”

  “We will rest for an hour,” the dragon said. “And then we’ll try to find some land. The sandbank this boat has struck is only a couple of feet deep but is just sand. There is a good chance that one of the rockier areas is above water and we can rest properly.”

  This had to be the dragon’s decision since she was doing all the work. She undid her pack and the two men grabbed it and secured it to the mast to stop it sliding into the sea. Fren-Eirol stretched her wings out, shook them and pulled them in with a sigh of relief. Farthing walked up to the rail and looked down at the water. The wind had dropped and the sea was dead calm.

  “Will you be able to get height from here?” he asked.

  “The sea is so shallow here that the water warms up,” Fren-Eirol told him. “That should be enough to get some lift. I don’t really need an updraught, I would be marooned most of the time otherwise, but then I don’t normally have you two weighing me down. I don’t have a problem at all on the mainland.”

  Farthing sat down on the deck. “I wonder what this was.” He tapped the boat. “What was it carrying?”

  “It will be a trader, though maybe not a legal one,” Weasel said. “Anyone looking for treasure would be disappointed. Some scavenging types patrol around here looking for wrecks. They grab any loot within days of a boat running up on the rocks or sands, and are not squeamish at helping any surviving crew on their way to the next life.”

  Farthing looked a little startled.

  “Don’t worry,” the dragon assured him. “They only appear when there are new wrecks to be had, usually after a storm. They won’t be around at the moment. No fresh pickings!”

  “Why is most of the trade around the coast?” Farthing asked.

  “Better economics and safer,” Weasel said. “You have seen some of the problems on the way across already. Plying trade east to west and back across the Prelates Sea is a risky business and some of the ocean is impossible for boats.”

  After an hour, they headed off to search for something more robust than the balancing act they had been doing on the half-a-boat. Weasel spotted it this time, and to everyone’s relief it turned out to be not just a large wreck, but a small rocky island. It even had two sad looking trees and some wild grass.

  “This is a rarity,” the dragon commented as they made camp. “This one must be permanently above the water line or these trees would not have survived.” Farthing walked to the centre of their new land, which took him just over a minute. He reckoned that it must be all of six feet above the sea. At a guess, though he was no seafarer, the tide was about at its highest, and with the shallow sands, the little island probably grew considerably at low tide. There was nothing to eat here, but they had some food left and if the dragon was right, they could be at Taken Isle in the next couple of days. He thought of his sister. Would she be at Taken? From what he had learned from his two wiser companions, it was very unlikely, but there was the chance they would get some sort of fix on her, a sense of which direction her captors had chosen. He hoped Weasel was as good as the others seemed to think he was.

  “Is there any wood up there?” the magician called out to Farthing.

  “No, not a lot, though there is some grass and dry moss for starting a fire.” Farthing gathered a few fistfuls of fire making debris which he could light with a flint. There were a few twigs that would serve as kindling, but the wrecked boat out on the rocks would have to supply the rest. He walked back to the shore and stripped off to his shorts.

  “I will have to wade out to it,” he said. “The tide is still coming in a little, but I think it must be about to turn.” No water marks were showing on the rocks, so the tide had to be near its peak. Farthing grabbed their small machete and walked down to where the rocks jutted out of the sea. Considering they were not much above water level, the rocks were surprisingly jagged. He had expected them to have been worn smooth, but they seem to splinter easily into strange angular sculptures of flats and points. He made his way carefully around them, paddling in the shallow water. A cut from the rocks was the last thing he needed right now; infection from rock cuts was a significant hazard in coastal communities, despite the cleansing nature of saltwater.

  The Shallow Sea was remarkably clear. There wasn’t much seaweed and the continually shifting sands were white and clean beneath the water. It would cloud up in a storm quickly, he had no doubt, but right now, what waves washed over the sands were but inches high and the water had a milky, light-blue hue, tinted a subtle pink from the sun. The stone of the protruding rocks dotted over the waterscape was near white with the odd fleck of black or red, and it glared in the sunlight. It was a beautiful yet strange place. Farthing wondered how many other unfamiliar places he would see before this adventure was finished. He felt almost homesick for Truk’s well and the dangerous pies made by Barkles.

  Tucking the machete into his belt, he waded out to the wreck. The sea was far too shallow for anything to navigate that was bigger than a rowing boat. All the channels around here were shallow and it must have been a mighty storm to have washed this large, twin-masted trader from its safer, deeper course. The boat was half lying on its side and was broken in several places, the wood was bleached, worn smooth and smothered with barnacles below the water line. Much of the boat resembled a skeleton of some great beast. Farthing could not begin to guess how long the boat had been wrecked here, but it was probably many, many years. Needless to say, it was stripped clean of anything useful by the scavenging wreckers who plied these waters following a storm. There was no rope, no brass labels, no ties, no sails and the cargo was long gone, but then Farthing only needed wood and of that, the boat still had much to offer. Grasping one of the exposed ribs, he hauled himself onto what remained of the sloping deck, braced himself against a worn windlass and hacked at the broken planking.

  He could hear Fren-Eirol and Weasel talking as they made camp though he could not hear the words. He was constantly amazed by the dragon. Her front arms and hands, though much bigger than his own, were remarkably dextrous and she could help set up camp as easily as any of them, given enough room. And yet she was this huge, magnificent beast. He stopped hacking at the deck and looked over to where she was standing, reaching up as if listening to something. Sea dragons, the Draig Morglas, were much slenderer than the vast red mountain dragons. Their necks were slim as were their heads with their long, gentle snouts, rounded at the nose, and around their heads fanned out delicate spines and horns like a vast crown. These they often decorated with thin threads of sparkling chain or beautifully printed, silk scarves that flowed out behind their head for ten feet or more. When they wished to impress, the result could take your breath away. With a sigh, Farthing hacked off a few more planks then jumped back into the water and turned to grab them off the boat. It only took an instant, but a long, thin tentacle brushed passed his leg and the agony shot up through every nerve in his body and he blacked out.

  Fren-Eirol looked up at the cry and saw the young man fall back into the water throwing the wood all around him. “Weasel!” The magician looked up and his face went pale.

  “Onga!” He jumped up and ran down into the water. “Eirol, help me!” He grabbed the young man, stiffening and shaking in his arms. The dragon waded into the water behind him and picked up Farthing like he was a child. “Take him; he has been stung by an Onga.” Weasel frantically looked around him in the water. “Damn!”

  Fren-Eirol placed Farthing by the cold fire while the magician dug through his own bag desperately looking for something, anything to help.

  “He is relaxing,” the dragon said as Farthing stopped shaking and went limp.

  “That is not a good sign. That means he is succumbing to the poison. Oh, damn it! I haven’t anything to make bitterwyr. This is not good. This is not good at all.”

  “Can you do nothing? You
have some healing talent?” Weasel looked up at her.

  “I have some, but I don’t use it much. I am out of practice.”

  “Why don’t you use it?”

  “A finder who can also heal? And is also a wave talker?” he snapped. “What does that make me, Fren-Eirol?” Fren-Eirol pursed her lips. Magicians were not trusted and were ridiculed throughout the world. As long as they did no harm, they were left alone to do little jobs of magic for those that needed it. But magicians who could do more than one trick? Those were rare, almost mythical, and many thought they were dangerous. So-called Great Magicians, those that could really do everything, they were from the days of legends and unknown now, the truth about them forgotten. Fren-Eirol had always known Weasel was unusual and had bits of other talents, but she had never thought it through; hadn’t wanted to. How many talents did he have? Enough for him to be careful obviously.

  “Whatever, Eafa, can you help him?” she asked, frantically.

  The magician knelt by Farthing and put his hands gently on his brow. Closing his eyes, he willed his mind into the limp, sick body. The sweat started building up on his forehead and his face, then down his arms and even through his clothes and robe. He went red in the face and shook violently and suddenly he cried out and went limp, only just stopping himself collapsing over the body. Shakily, he clambered to his feet, using the dragon’s wing to steady himself. Fren-Eirol looked down at the young man. A little colour had returned to his face.

  “It is not done,” Weasel warned. “The poison of the Onga is strong and has run deep. I have but slowed it. I have forgotten much, not that it was the best of my talents anyway.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Taken,” Weasel said. “He needs a dragon healer, the Draig Bach-Iachawr. We must hope there are some of their kind at the Neuath.” Fren-Eirol span around and took down their camp with a swing of her wings. She gathered it all in her bag and dragged it up to the trees with their other belongings and tied it there. Then she pulled out the silk ties they had used in their dive from the cliffs and returned to the beach.

  “We travel light and you tie him on tight.” She stared at Weasel. “Tight, you hear?” He nodded, realising what she was giving up to have Johnson tied to her back. “We leave everything and go now and we will get there in one flight. How high can I go?”

  Weasel looked carefully at the unconscious form.

  “You know I can travel higher than others,” he said, cautiously. “In his state? I don’t know. It might help to take him up there where it is so cold. We will try and I will keep him unconscious.” He dragged Farthing up and over the dragon’s back and then tied him tightly with the cloths. He sat behind him, putting his hand on the young man’s neck to check his temperature. “His fever is a little less, but it will get worse again.”

  The dragon leapt high into the air and headed for the darkening skies. As she spiralled and spiralled, willing her already tired wings to take her as high as the magician and the unconscious young man could stand, she heard a long, forlorn cry, and out from the west flew the great scimrafugol. Had they heard? Did they know what had happened? She could not know the thoughts of these enigmatic birds, but she needed their guidance now more than ever. She raised her head and in the language of the dragons shouted, “Gydaynis.” Taken Isle. And the birds led her straight up into the skies.