I laughed. “Or is there nothing going on at all? I mean, you’re not even a century old yet. There are humans that live that long. I think. And they’re certainly not intelligent.” I sighed. “Maybe you’re so young you can’t even really comprehend your own self. You don’t know if you’re hungry, or thirsty, or sleepy, or hurt. You’re just unhappy, so you cry. That’s all there is to it.”
As if on cue, she started crying again. I got up and walked around with her, which seemed to help.
“Here am I, one who has ascended beyond the realm of the clouds, to touch the Boundless and hear the music of the stars. And what defeats me? An unhappy child.”
Wait.
The music of the stars?
“Do you want to hear a song?”
Instantly she quieted, her bright eyes wide and looking right at me.
“I guess you do.”
And so I sang.
At first it was wordless. But at some point, I’m not even sure when, words came. I sang about a little baby named Belinda, and her mother and father who loved her. I sang about brothers and sisters, sleeping cozy and warm all together. I sang about the safety and strength of the mountain all around us.
And then I sang about the humans. I don’t know why. It was stupid. They were pests. I probably still had some stuck to the bottom of my feet. But holding this little one, this youngling, I couldn’t help but think about other tiny creatures, whose lives were measured by the spastic flickering of day and night instead of the graceful, steady cycles of sunspots.
I sang about a baby human, and the mother who held her and rocked her in their own little home of stone. I sang about the baby being tucked in with all the other children, resting warm and safe and quiet.
For whatever reason, it did the trick. She stopped fussing, closed her eyes, and slept. She never stirred, even when I put her down in the lava tube with her siblings and one of them rolled right on top of her. Thank goodness for small miracles.
I made my way back to bed. It felt indescribably wonderful to be off my feet and lying down. There was a pleasant clinking as the piles of precious stones and metals shifted to accommodate me. Sam stirred.
“How’d it go?”
“They’re down, all of them. Hopefully that’s the last disturbance.”
He grunted. “Well, whether they sleep a long time or not, I’ve got next.”
“All yours.”
He leaned over and kissed me.
“Is there something for them to eat?”
“Yes.” I yawned. “Near a whole herd of deer.”
“Good. Anything else I should know about?”
“No, nothing.” I turned over, wrapping my wings around myself. “Oh, except for . . . Have you seen the human colonies out there?”
“Humans? Looked like elves to me.”
“Whichever.”
“Already on my list. I’ll get rid of them first thing.”
“Actually, I was thinking that maybe we could leave them there. Just for a while.”
“You want me to—?” He cut himself off and blew out a long breath. Then he shrugged. “Whatever you say, dear. Sweet dreams.”
“Sweet dreams.”
He, of course, was snoring almost instantly. It really was unfair. Especially since I was wide awake, despite the peace and quiet that reigned in our chambers once more.
For some reason, my mind kept going back to our pest infestation. What would it really be like to live a life so brief? To feel yourself dying from the very moment you were born? Even if they were intelligent, how could they possibly care about each other, about their young, the way we did? Such a creature simply didn’t have the time to invest in the raising of a child, especially given how fragile they all were.
Yet I couldn’t help but think of that human mother from my song, rocking her own little babe to sleep. The image haunted me, no matter how I told myself that this was only a lullaby made up on the spot to calm a restless child.
Now it was my turn to be restless, my poor, exhausted mind seizing upon disturbing impossibilities. I rolled over and thought about waking Sam for a moment, but then told myself not to be silly.
“Settle down. Go to sleep.”
I closed my eyes and listened to Sam’s slow and steady breathing. After an increasingly fuzzy eternity, I at last felt myself drifting off. As sweet slumber came to claim me, two last thoughts crept in to trouble my dreams.
If humans really could sing songs to their young, what would they sound like? And if they could tell tales, what would they say—about us?
Rain Like Diamonds
Wendy Nikel
The queen hoarded the barrels of seed, keeping them locked within her coffers among the diamonds and gold and strings of perfect pearls, remnants of the former days of prosperity and excess. The seeds would receive neither sun nor water nor nutrients from the soil until unlocked by the shining key strung around her neck. Day after day, she sat upon her throne, and the villagers lined up before her, pleading. It was only her loyal guards, with their sharp swords glimmering, who kept the villagers from severing her neck to get at that key.
“Have mercy!” They cried as though their tears might change her mind.
“Our children need nourishment!” They shouted as if she, too, hadn’t been watching her own son grow thin and wan and dull.
“Just one barrel! One barrel will keep us alive for a few days longer!”
She held her chin high, her eyes downcast and sorrowful. “I cannot.”
Though it broke her heart, she spoke the truth. It was true, the meager meal would sustain them for a day or two. But that would be one less barrel to plant when the famine ended, when those that remained stood a chance.
Nothing had grown for many seasons, till all the people’s cupboards, barns, storehouses, and cellars were empty. All that remained within them were empty jars, dust-lined shelves, and—if one breathed in deeply—the haunting memory of the scent of food.
Yet even if the queen had thrown the seeds to those standing beneath her balcony, had given the seeds to the kingdom’s best farmers, it was futile. Nothing would grow, and their hunger would not be satiated. Nothing would grow until the dragon-scorched earth was healed.
A messenger burst into the throne room. His gait, once like a thoroughbred’s, was now the spindly stumble of one whose legs were too thin, whose ankles too prone to turn.
“My queen! The sorceress has spoken!”
The queen rose from her throne, for this news was long-awaited. Since first the crops refused to grow, the sorceress had been locked in her tower, spending countless hours staring into her scrying pools and crystal balls, searching for an answer.
“Well? What is it?” the queen demanded.
“You must see her, in her tower.”
The queen climbed the spiraling stairs to the castle’s dreary north tower. Though winded, she pressed on, for the task of climbing a staircase was so small compared with what her people had already suffered.
“Sorceress!” she called as she entered the chamber. “Sorceress! What am I to do?”
The sorceress’s voice echoed through the chamber, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. “One shall weep at the foot of the tree, and the rain shall fall like diamonds on the earth.“
Throughout the kingdom, the queen sent the order, and on the following morning, every man, woman, and child arrived at the palace gates. The captain of the guard barked out directions, and the queen led the procession. The feeble and sick were carried or slung into carts. Their loved ones pulled them along, for throughout the entire kingdom not a single horse or donkey remained that hadn’t been made into soup. The queen led the mourners from tree to tree, pausing at each one to tearfully recall those who had succumbed to the famine, until they’d traversed the entire kingdom and their eyes were as dried-out as the parched earth. Yet still, the rain refused to fall. Defeated, the queen turned away and locked herself up in the palace.
That night, the men, re
stless with no fields to tend, gathered at the tavern, though they’d long ago brewed the last of the hops. They muttered and grumbled against the weather, the fields, and even the queen herself.
“The dragon,” Thummander said, raking his hand through his beard. “The dragon was the beginning of this trouble; nothing has grown since it scorched our fields.”
“Let’s do away with it,” Leverett said. He slammed his fist on the table. Their voices, hoarse with thirst, rose in agreement and they conspired together all night. The dragon, they agreed. There was nothing else for them to do, nothing else they could do, except to kill the dragon.
Though the hour was late, the men requested an audience with the queen. They told her of their plan, and she reluctantly consented.
“It will do no good,” she warned, but allowed them to proceed through the once-lush forest that now stood like an oversized bramble-bush, full of thorns and prickers. At least, she considered, this quest would make them feel useful.
In the inky blackness of night, with their torches burning brightly, they crept to the dragon’s lair. The beast exhaled smoke with each sleeping breath, and if the villagers could only overlook its enormous size, they might have seen how the creature was really quite peaceful, like the cats that had once dozed at their hearths, before the rats had all been killed and the cats became more valuable for their meat than for their ability to hunt.
The men had disguised their scent by carrying pine branches, native to the hill near the dragon’s cave. Carefully, they dropped the branches and the strongest of the men clamped an iron band snugly around the dragon’s snout. The dragon woke with a start, its pupils like coals in its fiery eyes, but the men held tight to the chains and together dragged the creature down to the castle.
The villagers’ triumphant cries rose with the morning sun, and golden light trickled through the brittle branches of the rosewood. The queen looked out from the balcony at the crowd below her.
“We’ve captured the dragon!”
“Come, watch it die!”
The queen felt the heat of their anger and shivered at the coldness in their voices. The enormous eye of the ensnared dragon stared at her, knowing. Yet what was she to do? She raised her scepter to give the command, but at the last moment, a small boy rushed forward and fell upon the beast. The queen gasped. It was the prince.
“Please, mother,” he begged. “Please, don’t kill it. Will there ever be a more wonderful creature? Please, spare its life. Send it away from this place, if you must, but don’t kill it. I beg you! Please, show it mercy.”
Glistening tears crept down his face and landed at the base of the tree. They darkened the soil as the roots soaked them in. The crowd stared as green life burst forth from the tree. First, tiny specks of color, then long, lush leaves spread across the tree’s outstretched branches. They were so startled by the transformation that they loosened their grasp on the dragon.
Seeing its only opportunity, the beast lunged forward, flapped its wings, and launched itself skyward with the prince still clinging to its back.
“My son!” the queen called, but the dragon rose into a dark, heavy cloud. Just as they disappeared, the sky burst open and rain poured down. The crowd cheered and danced about, splashing in the puddles and laughing, seeing only the rain. They rushed to the castle and broke into the queen’s coffers, but she made no move to stop them, for she saw only the final glimpse of her son, her son who had saved the kingdom. The son she’d never see again.
And her tears fell like diamonds on the earth.
Here by Choice
Gerri Leen
Tien Shen watched as Kuan Yin lounged by the waterfall, trailing her hand back and forth through the water as she stared up at the clouds overhead. A subtle odor of lotus surrounded her, reaching him where he sat. She gleamed like an emperor’s pearl, if a distressed one. She cocked her head, listening for some sound and frowning deeply.
“What do you hear?” he asked. He heard nothing, not even with his dragon-keen ears.
She didn’t answer him, so he tried to assess her mood. Her eyes glinted and for a moment, he thought he saw tears, but then she seemed to force a smile as she laid her head back onto the hard ground. But he could tell she was still listening, that not even the waterfall could drown out whatever it was that called to her.
“What is it you hear?” he asked again.
She finally looked over.
“Everyone.”
This was how she was. This was how she answered. As if she could not spare the breath she no longer needed. She had achieved enlightenment; Nirvana waited. Why was she wasting time lying by this river not answering him?
“You don’t have to stay, dragon.” She sounded as if she wished he’d go.
“It is my honor to guard those who will enter Nirvana.” Although in this case, it was rather a pain as well.
She lifted her head and gave him a look that could only be considered amused—at his expense. Then she lay back again and closed her eyes.
He made sure no one would threaten her before settling down some distance away, and she glanced at him, as if checking that he hadn’t gotten too close. He seemed to make her unhappy, had since he’d told her he was her guide to paradise’s door, but he didn’t know why that distressed her. So many were striving for Nirvana; she’d achieved it, but no joy lit her face.
Letting his head come to rest on the softer scales of his side, Tien Shen listened to the water. The roaring sound of the river crashing over the rocks lulled him into sleep.
He woke slowly, blinking to clear his eyes. Then he blinked again, not believing what he saw—or didn’t see: the woman he was supposed to protect was gone.
He closed his eyes, trying to find a trace of her with his inside-eyes. Nothing.
He listened, heard only the cry of the hawk, the grunt of the tiger, and the swish-snap of a squirrel in the underbrush.
He sniffed, breathing in the scent of evergreen; of hard, sandy soil; the blue smell of water; the hot, red odor of the pepper flowers he loved to eat. But no scent of pearls and lotus, no trace of the woman who had ridden the wheel of life until she’d earned paradise.
Taking to the air through force of will, he soared, annoyed by an eagle that flew near and peered at him, as if unsure how an un-winged thing like Tien Shen could live in its world. He roared at the bird, and the eagle flew away, but not without a defiant cry.
“Kuan Yin?” He formed the words slowly, sending them out into the world. They fell to the earth as rain, the drops merging to form the symbol for her name.
She didn’t appear. She didn’t call out. He still couldn’t smell her. And the earth didn’t give her up, didn’t whisper to him that she’d been there. So he flew on.
He called for her over and over. Frogs echoed her name, but they were just playing. A deer bolted from a thicket as Tien Shen’s calls grew more frantic.
One woman, ready for paradise, and he had lost her.
“Dragon,” he heard in his inside-ears, and then he saw her with his inside-eyes. She was with a group of women who were studying a writing of a kind he’d never seen before. Curious, he settled on the ground just beyond them.
One of the women let out a little squeak, but the rest went on writing, not even looking over. The first woman stared at him, as if she could not believe what she was seeing.
“Chao Ma, pay attention to the lesson,” Kuan Yin said softly, and the woman bowed and went back to creating the simple letters, so long and angular compared to traditional writing.
Tien Shen inched toward Kuan Yin, until he was right next to her, and she turned to look at him. He found he couldn’t meet her eyes. But what did he have to feel guilty for? He was only trying to do what he’d been told. To see her safely to her rightful reward.
“I worried you, dragon?” The lotus smell changed, grew spicy, and he imagined it was regret that caused it.
“You did.” He sighed and wished he could tell what she was thinking.
/> “I’m sorry. I don’t wish to cause pain, even to you.”
He accepted her apology—weak as it was—with a nod of his head. “It’s time to go, my lady.”
“Do you know why they’re here?” She glanced down at the feet of one woman. They were bound, and Tien Shen knew the woman would hobble a little as she walked.
“They’re bored?”
“Hardly.” Kuan Yin laughed, and her laughter was cold and hard and full of pain he didn’t expect. She glanced again at the feet of the woman. “I think it’s less cruel to simply cut them off.”
To his shock, he felt her hand on his back. “The language is called Nushu.” She rubbed his neck softly, her fingers hitting spots he hadn’t even realized were itching. “It’s a language only for women.”
He knew women were denied education. “You taught them this?”
“As I was taught.”
“Who first handed you the brush?”
“I don’t remember. So many lives. So many first lessons.”
But he suspected she remembered every one of those lessons. His look must have told her he didn’t believe her, because she laughed, and this time her laughter was like a brook as it bubbled over smooth stones or like the sound the sun made as the clouds tickled it.
The sounds of paradise—why was she waiting? She leaned against him, her fingers still working their magic on his scales.
“Why are we here?” he asked her.
“I’m here because I want to be. Why are you here, dragon?”
“To serve you.”
She looked displeased. “That’s the wrong answer.” And like that, she was gone.
He sighed, and Chao Ma left her writing and walked over to him. She reached out, then jerked her hand back.
“It’s all right.”
“You don’t bite?”
“Well, I won’t. This time.” He let out a little rumble of pleasure as she traced the pattern of his scales. Her touch moved him almost as much as Kuan Yin’s. He was used to spirit creatures, insubstantial and fey, with touches just as light, not this more substantial rubbing.
“Why do you study the language?” he asked her.
A Dragon and Her Girl Page 26
