The Dragon's Back Trilogy

by Robert Dennis Wilson

  “This is great!” he commented. “Is this group organized enough to have a name or are they more of a hidden army, secretly weakening those who follow the Gryphon from within?”

  “Yes on all accounts!” returned the blackrobe captain, beaming at his student. “They work subversively and covertly when they must and openly within the bounds of any existing system when they can. This organization is known by its initials, ‘C. A. V. E. S’ (or ‘Caves’). The letters stand for ‘Creating Alternative Values to Emancipate Society’. But listen and be quiet, the meeting is being called to order.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Much of what transpired over the next several hours escaped Kaleb’s comprehension for he had no frame of reference with which to compare the words, concepts, and plans that were proposed. He picked up easily on surface plans, but those which were convoluted and devious in their deeply hidden subterfuge left him wondering at their eventual purpose and distant outcome. How could infiltrating someone into one job way over here affect how someone else would change his attitude about his different job way over there? These made little sense to the young dragonman, but other things were clear and easy for him to appreciate.

  He gathered snippets of the speeches and discussions he understood on a kind of mental scroll that he hoped to reread later.

  “Those Swimmers go against the Stream!" said one of the delegates on a panel of speakers, a man so stooped with age that both he and his body shook when he tried to raise both himself and his voice at the same time. "We must use any and all means available to stop them. They have the power (though they don’t know it) of closing down the River’s flow. We must make them appear bigoted, intolerant, foolish, restrictive, and those who would steal from the people the Benefits of the River.”

  "I agree!" commented another, who, though a much younger man, wore the three gold bands of a master on the long blue-gray robes of an apothecary-alchemist, “and our schools must continue to teach that the River is our source and life. We came forth from the River. The River is our provider and our pleasure. The River is our beginning and our end. Without the River...”

  “Sir, may I bring up a point of order here?” asked a woman with a teacher’s stripes.

  “The chair recognizes the teacher from Sinsinatti School for Girls.”

  “My question is this, we have been instructed to build our schoolhouses on the banks of the River, yet the River constantly changes its course. Because of this we must constantly tear down and rebuild, moving to follow its flow. Isn’t this a waste of resources and efforts that could be better spent elsewhere?”

  “Madam teacher, your question is a reasonable one, but it shows that you lack insight into the bigger picture we are presenting. The Dragon himself is in control of his River. He moves it to concentrate its flow in new areas, to avoid areas where the flow has grown sluggish, or where the Swimmers are opposing it. The constant changes keep them off guard and allow our Master’s purposes to advance. Besides, if there were no changes, teaching would become very boring. Part of the challenge for you is being able to discern the correct path of the River. Teachers are, after all, the pathfinders of our society. You help determine the rules that will govern the next generation. Keeping the students in an off-balanced state makes it easier for them (with your guidance) to oppose and then overcome the stagnant rigor mortise of their parents’ outdated belief system.”

  “I see,” said the teacher with excited comprehension ringing in her words, “if we can prove to our students that everything in the world around them is constantly in a state of flux, if we can convince them that this is the natural state of all things…" she made a dramatic pause and silently nodded her head in affirmation before continuing in a rush with words shouted for all to hear, "then we can help each of our students rule out the use of any absolute standard to judge that world!”

  After a round of cheers and applause, the man behind the rostrum announced, “We now will have the report from the Chairman of the Department of Standards.”

  Kaleb tried to get a clear look at the man who rose to give this report, but though he had an unobstructed view of the speaker’s position, he simply could not force his eyes to focus on the man. Maybe he’s wearing one of those camo-skins I’ve heard about, thought the young man. He recalled how man-sized lizards were raised on one of the islands of the Bay so that their color-changing skins could be harvested for cloaks of concealment. Kaleb also had to strain to hear the man talk, for he never raised his voice above a loud whisper.

  “We are happy to report that the level of the River has continued to rise so that every day it covers a little more of the Heartland. We, of course, know how to measure this welcome change accurately, but the common man and even most Swimmers do not, and it happens so slowly they are not even aware of it! If they did, they would oppose it. This is all according to plan. As the River rises, markers, that have been placed by the River Watchers to indicate the strength of the Dragon’s brew, gradually lose their accuracy. Since the Watchers keep no absolute standard, that which was once tolerated as weak is unknowingly allowed to become stronger and stronger. The Watchers occasionally re-test the prevailing waters within a set of boundaries to determine what should be the norm for that level. Any new markers that are set are placed according to that ever-changing standard. In this way, even the smallest child is now learning to tolerate “weak water” that in reality would have been considered “poison” and addictive only a few years ago.”

  The more Kaleb heard, the more he grew impressed with the C. A. V. E. S. organization. They seemed to have their fingers on everything, to know all there was to know and to be responsible directly or indirectly for causing every major event that occurred.

  “Excellent report! Now let us hear from the Department of Human Relations.”

  “We too, like my learned colleague, the Chairman of the Department of Standards, are concerned about tolerance,” intoned the gray-haired woman who rose to speak. Her contralto voice flowed as smooth as oil and as sweet as honey, drawing Kaleb to her words like a cave-fly to wet moss. “We have been successfully promoting what we call the ‘Worldly Correct Movement’ or ‘W. C. Movement’ for short. Our work may one day soon render the work of the River Watchers all together obsolete. Those individuals, governments, or institutions who promote standards, limits, or boundaries on what a man can or cannot do are restricting his freedom. Through long and patient effort we have expanded mankind’s awareness to the point that ‘freedom to chose’ has now become the supreme right by which he judges all other rights and privileges.

  “In some more progressive locations, especially in our modern cities and university towns, the change has already taken place. And it is spreading. Soon it will no longer be seen as wrong to do any 'offensive' action: it will only be wrong if someone attempts to restrict or judge that action, to label it as offensive. In the new society we are building, we will only allow intolerance if it is focused on the intolerant! In this way, every man, woman, and child must spend much of their effort guarding their thoughts, words, and actions to make them appear inoffensive to any individual no matter how abhorrent that individual’s belief or standard. The end result of our W. C. Movement will be a society that is so tolerant that it won’t be able to tolerate rules: River markers will sink unneeded and unheeded beneath the rising flood!”

  Kaleb grew flushed with excitement as he felt swept away by the woman’s passion for her cause and her fiery words tugged like a chain on his heart. He would have liked to have heard more of her report and those of others, but at that moment a young messenger approached Raven and whispered something in his ear.

  As the boy quickly left the balcony, the giant rose to follow, silently indicating with his hand that Kaleb should come as well.

  Once they regained the eloquent hallway, Raven said only, “My Lady has called me. We must return at once,” and then remained silent for the entire (much slower) decent to the cavern floor.

  When the wicker ba
sket rested once more securely on the sandy soil of Subverzia, Raven, Captain of the dragonmen, turned to Kaleb. The young dragonman drew back from the giant as he saw the terrible burning anger in those midnight-black eyes.

  “We have news and it’s not good,” said Raven in a voice that struggled for control. “It has been confirmed that your brother is now a Swimmer!”

  THE SINGING

  OF THE SON

  O Gryphon from beyond the clouds and sea,

  Your name be praised and raised by me.

  Your rule be followed in this land;

  Your wishes be our sole command.

  An empty ‘skin we raise to You,

  Please, fill it with the morning’s dew:

  And keep the River’s bitter flow,

  From touching us or those we know.

  As with clean water, You make us pure,

  We will gather thorns no more.

  For all the clouds, and all the land,

  And all the sea are in Your hand:

  We give them back to You again,

  In the Name of Gryphon’s Son, Amen. 4

  SEEDS

  Their ritual goodnights had been recited into the deepening twilight. The glow of their supper fire had dwindled down to the dying efforts of a few faint-hearted brands, widely separated within their atoll of stones. Overhead the black fabric of the heavens became a highway traveled by the now-familiar messengers of the night: no longer abstract points of fire randomly strewn across the dark abyss, Nathan had taught him to recognize the patterns that they wove and stories that they told.

  As he lay on his back gazing up into the wonders of the universe, Jason found his rhythm in the soft, steady breathing of his mentor’s sleep and quietly began the slow recitation of “The Song in the Night.” Mentally he marked each grouping of visible stars as he spoke its name and pictured the invisible patterns that they wove across the tapestry of the sky:

  There stands the GRYPHON,

  By whom we were made;

  Next is the BALANCE

  In which we are weighed.

  That scale is found wanting,

  So for mercy man pleads;

  A PENITENT man

  Who is bowed to his knees.

  The answer is given:

  A CIRCLE OF THORNS,

  Red Star on its tip

  For the One who was torn,

  The GRYPHON’S CUB, bound

  But not in despair.

  It was not the CHAINS,

  But love held him there

  Where a RIVER of venom

  Flows burning and deep

  From the mouth of the DRAGON,

  Who is not asleep.

  Strong HUNTER stands forth

  To crush with his heel:

  TWIN COLUMNS are shaken

  And destinies sealed.

  Great EAGLES spread wings

  As they watch for the day

  When the SWIMMER returns

  To take us away.

  Jason smiled into the starry darkness, pleased with his ability to recall the simple rhyme and then remembering his teacher’s uncharacteristic words of praise earlier that day, “Your mind is sharp and quick, and your voice, though still immature shows great promise. With the Gryphon’s help and your persistence, you have the potential to someday become a great bard.”

  I will be a great bard, Nathan said so! he thought with swelling pride, his memory conveniently bypassing the conditions of that greatness and the hard work it would entail. Someday I will be famous and people will come from all around to hear me sing! His happy thoughts wandered back to the song about wildflowers and lovers that the bard had sung that evening. Remembering, his imagination added another detail to the painting it was crafting in his mind, and then I will have a beautiful wife at my side!

  Perhaps, and an image of long black hair and loving eyes filled his mind, perhaps even the daughter of that guard from Scalina! Shoshanna sure seemed interested enough in me! And I bet she can cook like her Mom!

  At that moment a persistent dull pain finally won recognition for its stubborn tenacity. “What is that hard lump under my blanket?” Jason wondered out loud, rolling over to dig beneath the soft cloth into the mound of coree leaves that formed his mattress.

  Beneath him, hidden in the living earth, dark shadows coalesced in their icy coldness. Words, unheard by the mortals scant handbreadths above, vibrated through dense scaline and an argument ensued.

  “Strike them now while they are sleeping! End their threat before it begins!”

  “Fool! You are too late to accomplish that! Consider yourself lucky that you missed its beginning: several of our own were not so fortunate. Already we are no match for these two!”

  “Then let us gather our army and together we can crush them!”

  “Has your ancient brain been filled with human sewage? Our power has never been in strength but always in weakness. We build where he isn’t watching then camouflage our progress so the foolish enemy doesn’t even know we are there! How much better to plant seeds when the enemy is not looking (seeds that grow into strong, crop-choking weeds!) and then watch as he slowly starves to death and can’t figure out why! Instead, you would risk open confrontation from indefensible positions!”

  “It’s just that we’ve been waiting so long. I want to see some action!”

  “Silence, fool! Or I will waken the cursed bard and feed you to him! Then you’ll have more action than you ever dreamed of. What? You cringe from a conflict now when it’s offered? Be still, worm, and see our Master’s plan in action. The time is at hand: I have already planted a seed. Now I have only to reach forth my hand to bring it to life!”

  Jason rolled back over on his back cradling the now extracted fist-sized “lump” in his night-darkened hand. Absently he turned it over in his unseen fingers while his eyes again sought patterns in the stars. He focused absently on the Twin Columns grouping, which Nathan had told him is also known as “the Lovers” and his mind etched the picture of two bodies entwined on the blackened slate of the night. Yes, he thought, one day I’ll have a beautiful woman to call my own!

  He cocked his arm to sling away the palm-sized disturber of his comfort when something about it touched a memory. Too warm to be a rock, and too light to be part of a tree. Then the truth touched his heart like a long dark shadow that burst instantly to flame, It’s a piece of moss!

  Until that moment he had not realized how much he had missed the piece of moss that had been his constant adolescent companion and one of his only sources of comfort in the island prison of the Orphanage. For years a dark chasm of emptiness within him had been successfully stoppered like an old waterskin, camouflaged from view, by a tentative piece of River-washed moss. That dreammaker, however, had been consumed in the conflagration of the thorns from his emptied pack, yet, until that moment when he held its twin in his hand again, the youth had not even noted its passing.

  Thought-blinding, burning excitement spread like wildfire, out from his heart, through his veins, to pulse wildly through his whole body. I have a new piece of moss! the silent shouted words were a flaming brand, igniting the suddenly dry tinder of his mind.

  Without thinking, his hands found and uncorked his waterskin. For the briefest moment, he thought of the Gryphonskin, a gift of his GrandSire, wondering if he should be using its water, instead. “No! Of course not! Remember what that did to my first treasure!” The quick, forceful words, echoing in his mind, felt like his own, so he listened to them.

  The pounding of his pulse, as it throbbed in his temples, became the exotic driving rhythm of native southern drums, pounding, pounding the beat of the dance. River water and moss united, giving life to that which was dead. He stared upward as the night wind transformed the moonlit gently swaying coree branches into human forms, rocking overhead to the beating of the drums.

  “I deserve a wife, a beautiful wife!” said the words in his mind.

  “Yes, with long black hair and dark eyes that can swal
low up my soul!” he added.

  Yet, another word, whispered, indistinct, seemed to counter the beating of the drums: for a moment he heard it. But then it was gone. As though its very utterance had driven the drummers wild with anticipation, the pounding increased in intensity and speed, deafening his ears to all sound but theirs alone. That whispered word had been “forbidden!”

  His fingers, long trained in their craft, acted without prompting as they deftly transformed the now malleable dreammaker into the dark-haired image of his desire.

  Slowly, with trembling hands, he raised the image to his lips.

  ~ ~ ~

  Jason woke, prompted not by the pleasant warming rays of the bright morning sun early the next day; rather his wakeup call came from a painful burning sourness in his stomach that had him twisting and squirming his painful way out of the land of sleep to face a day less bright than the last.

  “I hear you groaning!” said the bard, always cheerful in the morning. “And I know how good a bedroll can feel the morning after a long walk in the mountains, yet you best get up. Today we start crossing the Great Valley at its widest point, heading for the heart of the Heartland. We’ll probably meet some good people today who’ll want to hear us sing. But I very much doubt that they’d think that a bedroll tunic is an acceptable and proper attire!”

  For some reason, Jason felt compelled to hide his sickness from his mentor, so the only verbal response he made sounded like, “Yeah, yeah. I hear ya’! I’m gettin’ up!” All the while he braced himself to rise in spite of his painful discomfort gnawing at his middle.

  Hunger was the last thing on his mind at the moment, so he declined the small loaf of sprouted-grain bread left for him by the eagles during the night, instead, he tucked it into his pack so the bard wouldn’t notice. Their morning ritual had become an unsupervised thing of habit, so he went about his routine mechanically in spite of his illness. According to custom, he quietly dressed and left the camp, wandering toward an open field they had seen the previous night. After searching he found several dewcatcher flowers (the ones with dark green spiral leaves above and a single pastel-colored, cup-shaped flower below, positioned to catch the run-off of the entire plant). As Nathan had taught him, he gently tilted the stem so the trapped dew would run into his unstoppered Gryphonskin.