Dragon's Blood

by Jane Yolen

  Jakkin was up in an instant, ready to follow the snatchling and rescue it, when he realized that it was paddling down the ribbon of water as easily as if it were a fish. He sat down again and watched it. Obviously it had tried this maneuver before. There was nothing casual or tentative in its swimming. When the dragon came to the stream's end, it climbed up through the kkhan reeds and trotted back to Jakkin's side, where it shook itself thoroughly, wetting Jakkin in the process.

  "Thou didst that on purpose!" shouted Jakkin, cuffing the little dragon lightly, a love tap. The dragon, in the same spirit, tapped Jakkin back with its still-soft claws. It followed this attack by leaping onto Jakkin's chest. Jakkin tumbled back, and they rolled over and over, and down into the stream.

  Jakkin paddled after the dragonling with more splashing and less grace. When they climbed out through the reeds, Jakkin took off his shirt and shorts and spread them out to dry on the sand.

  "Listen," he said, "if thou art going to be such a rowdy, thou must eat to gather strength." He walked over to the weed and wort patch with the dragon at his heels. Carefully choosing a fully leafed-out stalk, he plucked three leaves. They were warm to the touch.

  Back at the spring, he squeezed a leaf between his fingers. Only a little juice ran out of the veins. The dragon snuggled in his lap. Jakkin tickled it under the chin. The dragon opened its mouth and Jakkin drizzled what juice he could into its mouth and on its nose.

  At first the hatchling looked surprised. Then it sent a long, red-ribbed tongue out to explore its muzzle for whatever juice remained.

  Jakkin crushed the second leaf, puncturing the vein at several places with his fingernail. This time he was able to extract more juice from the plant.

  The snatchling slurped it eagerly, licking Jakkin's fingers for whatever was left.

  The third round of juice seemed to satisfy the dragon's hunger completely, and it fell asleep as soon as it had finished giving Jakkin's red-stained fingers a perfunctory lick.

  Jakkin sat for almost an hour with the little dragon on his legs, stroking its head and working carefully at a tear in the eggskin over its left ear. He crooned old songs and hummed new melodies he made up himself. He murmured names to it. But when Akka and Akkhan sat high in the sky, making double shadows in the sand, Jakkin lifted the little dragon in his arms and carried it back into the hut. He covered it again with his old shirt.

  "Sleep well, thou mighty snatchling," he whispered to it. "For I shall come to thee in the morning. And bring a bowl and a bone knife to make thee a proper meal. I promise."

  The dragon answered him only with slight, hissing snores.

  Jakkin put on his clothes, now dried in the heat, and left the oasis, brooming away his trail. A slight wind, rising in the east, finished the job for him. He was back in the bondhouse and asleep long before the rest had returned from the town.

  12

  BOWL AND BONE knife. Those were Jakkin's very first thoughts when the morning sun streamed across his face. He was lying half in and half out of his bunk, well awake before the bell. Bowl and bone knife. How would he ever find them? What excuse would he use to get them?

  In the end, he simply got dressed early and found his way into the kitchen before the other bonders had risen. Kkarina was stirring the takk in a gigantic pot, tasting it every three or four stirs.

  "Good morning," Jakkin said brightly.

  She turned and looked at him, raising her eyebrows but keeping her mouth on the spoon. Kkarina would never hurry her tasting. At last she finished and put the spoon back in to stir some more. "Another few minutes," she said, meaning the takk.

  Jakkin nodded.

  "Get a bowl and have a taste," she said, pointing at a small room off the kitchen.

  Jakkin walked where directed and found a room of shelves with all the bowls and spoons and cutlery he could want. He slipped a bone-handled knife inside his shirt, then took a bowl and spoon and went out. It had been easy.

  "Come here," Kkarina said. "You need some meat on you."

  She jabbed at him with the spoon. He jumped back, and the knife inside his shirt slapped his ribs. He had a sudden fear that it would fall out. Hugging the bowl against his shirt, imprisoning the knife between it and his ribs, he went over to Kkarina.

  "Drakk killer," she said affectionately, and smiled. "Hero." She touched his bag, making it jangle.

  Jakkin smiled back. He knew it was a false smile and hated himself for it.

  "Want to tell me the story of the hunt?"

  Jakkin began the story as Kkarina filled his bowl. But when he got to the part where the mother drakk had been killed, he quickly glossed over the stabbing, not really wanting to tell Kkarina that all he had done was dip his knife into the dead drakk. But he did not want to lie to her, either. That other knife, the one under his shirt, seemed to burn a brand across his front.

  "I didn't do that much," he ended lamely, remembering with shame the wet coveralls that he had stuffed into the laundry. The more he remembered, the less he wanted to remember. Some hero.

  "You must have done something to have filled your bag, to have been given an extra Bond-Off."

  Jakkin looked down at the full bowl. The takk was hot enough to send up bubbles that burst into a deep pink froth. He shrugged.

  "Go on and eat. I'll pack you a lunch. Most men, after their first roundup, want to get as far away from work as possible. Must be something, that hunt." She turned her back on him and went to the cold lockers, coming back with a basket of paper-wrapped food packages. "Here. Go. This won't be the only one of these I'll be fixing today."

  Jakkin took the bowl in one hand, the basket in the other, and went out into the common room. He drank the takk as quickly as he could, letting the hot, thick liquid sear a trail down his throat. Then, rinsing out the bowl and spoon, he thrust them into the basket, covering them with one of the food bundles. If anyone asked, he would say ... He could not think of what he would say.

  The alarm bell rang loudly and Jakkin jumped. He could hear the sounds of bonders waking on both sides of the house.

  Hoisting the basket onto his back and adjusting the leather straps to fit his shoulders, he pushed open the heavy door and went out into the daylight.

  As he left, Kkarina's voice echoed again in his thoughts: "Most men, after their first roundup..." Most men. Was the passage from boy to man really that easy? And was it always built upon lies?

  Then, pushing the thought away, he bent his head and trudged off down the road as if he were going into town.

  ***

  THE DRAGON MUST have sensed his coming, for it was out of the shelter and waiting for him. It had only shreds of eggskin still clinging to its body, a strange patchwork of dull brown and yellow. Jakkin had a moment of disappointment. Dull brown. He had thought it was going to be a red. Browns were usually solid fighters, aggressive but without much imagination. Reds, on the other hand ... He beat down the thought. Perhaps, it might still change color. Hadn't he heard that "color fast does not last," meaning a dragon's true color often did not show early? He could still hope.

  He shifted his pack on his back and the coins in his bag clinked together.

  At the sound, the dragon lifted its oversized wings. They still had a crumpled appearance and the effort of moving them seemed to tire the little lizard. It settled down again on its stomach and waited, head on front claws, for Jakkin to come nearer.

  Jakkin smiled at the dragon and thought at it, The morning becomes thee, my wonder worm.

  The dragon's muted rainbow signature ran through Jakkin's head once more, as clear and identifying as if it were a mark on paper.

  Jakkin knelt for a moment by the dragon's side and scratched it behind the ears and then down its long neck. The hatchling raised its back up, arching under his hand.

  "Not yet, thou beauty," he said. He stood and walked into the shelter, where he shrugged out of the basket, unpacking the bowl and bone-handled knife. "First we must feed thee. Come on." •

 
The dragon followed confidently at his heels as he walked to the weed and wort patch. In the direct sun, the leaves were all open, as if turning every vein to catch the light. At the head of the patch, the dragon halted, digging its claws into the sand. It stood still, watching the movement of the wind through the stalks.

  Jakkin was about to enter the patch but stopped himself. This was the time, he thought suddenly, for the dragon's first lesson. He turned and faced it and held his hands toward it, palms up. "Good stand" he said, and then thought at it as well, STAND still, thou mighty fighter, STAND. He repeated the hand signals again and the spoken words, all the while thinking the sentence.

  The dragon cocked its head to one side as if considering, but remained in the clawed-in stance.

  Jakkin watched it carefully. After a minute, he could see it tiring, one leg beginning to waver. Good STAND, he thought at it one more time and went over and hugged it to him, rubbing it under the chin. "Thou mighty young snatchling. Thou great worm."

  The dragon's tongue wrapped around his little finger and licked.

  "Now for some food," Jakkin said. He walked back into the patch, careful not to touch the red stalks, which were still hotter than was comfortable; nor to brush against the seed pods, which until they were covered with a gray film could give a bad burn. He plucked a handful of leaves and went back to the shelter, where he got out the bowl and knife.

  Sitting down, feet in the stream, Jakkin cut the leaves, piercing the veins with the knife. Then he crushed the leaves with the bone handle. Before long, he had a half a bowl of juice.

  "Here, eat this," he called to the snatchling, who was pouncing on shadows thrown by the kkhan reeds at the end of the pool.

  The dragon looked over at his voice, but did not move.

  "Come," said Jakkin, again, holding the bowl down so the dragon could see it.

  The snatchling put its head to one side and lashed its ridged tail.

  Jakkin thought at the dragon, Come, thou hungry worm. Come. The dragon trotted over to him.

  "So, thou needest an official invitation," said Jakkin, laughing as the dragon settled on its haunches and opened its mouth. He spooned the juice onto its tongue, missing whenever the dragon moved its head. Soon the two of them were covered with the dark maroon juice.

  "Aw, fewmets," Jakkin said when the bowl was finished. "Look at this mess." Quickly he stripped off his clothes and washed the shirt and pants in the warm stream. His bag, too, was spattered with spots as dark as blood. He tried to rinse it as best he could, bending over the stream. As he was bent over, unbalanced, he felt a sharp nudge from behind, strong enough to thrust him forward. He tumbled head first into the water, went under, and came up spluttering to find the dragon in a hindfoot rise, its wings braced on the ground behind. It raked at the air with its soft claws. Jakkin could feel a rainbow laugh forming in his mind.

  His moment of anger dissolved. The dragonling was so comical and fierce at once, he started to laugh instead. Then he realized what it was doing, and thought at it, Steady. Steady. Then, when he saw the dragon begin to falter, he cried out, "Good. Now."

  The dragon lifted its overlarge wings and leaped into the river, landing next to him with a tremendous splash.

  Jakkin laughed and splashed back.

  At last they climbed out of the river together and flopped onto the sand. The sun on his back and shoulders and legs felt good. Jakkin lay on his stomach and thought about the dragon and about the possible fights ahead. "It will not be easy, little one," he said. "There is much I do not know. I was too young to learn much from my father. I am not old enough yet to be apprenticed to a trainer. And watching badly trained dragons in the pits only teaches bad habits—I heard Master Sarkkhan say that once. He was talking to Likkarn, but I overheard him. Master Sarkkhan said there were only two ways to learn about dragons—from a good trainer or from a good dragon. Likkarn is a good trainer, even if he is an awful weeder. But he hates me, I know. He would never take me on, even though he knows I am the best of the bonders with dragons. Maybe I should try to smile and be nice to him, like Errikkin. Only, that's Errikkin's way, not mine. Or I could run away from dragons entirely, like Slakk. Only, how can I? Dragons are my life. If Likkarn will not teach me, I will fill my bag myself."

  Jakkin sat up and stared at the hatchling. "If I cannot learn from a good trainer, then I will learn it all from thee, who comes from a line of fighters, great fighters, from Heart O'Mine out of Heart Safe by Blood Type. Blood Brother was thy father and he was my special charge. And what I learn from thee, I will teach thee back. Together, heart of my heart, blood of my blood, we will be unbeatable. In time. In time." He lay back down and crooned the last words over and over and soon put the both of them to sleep.

  ***

  JAKKIN WOKE WHEN the sun was high overhead. The dragon was standing guard beside him. He plucked some more leaves from the stalk and crushed out the juices, and only then took out his own lunch. It consisted of great hunks of brown bread spread liberally with the jellied protein that Kkarina made and a bottle of cold juice. There was cake for dessert.

  Jakkin lay on his side eating and watched as the dragon ripped off the last shreds of its eggskin with its claws.

  The claws were not as soft as they had been the day before, but were halfway between brittle and hard, and a strange yellow. They looked like the jingle shells found in Sukker's Marsh.

  Jakkin loosened one particularly difficult piece of skin up behind the snatchling's hackle, and the dragon rewarded him by licking his hand with its tongue.

  "Thy tongue is getting rougher each day," Jakkin commented. "Soon I will not find thy thanks such a pleasure." He remembered, suddenly, how Blood Brother had tried to groom him in the baths, lifting off skin with his rough tongue. And he remembered what had happened to Blood Brother after. He shuddered.

  "No one shall do such a thing to thee, little wormling," Jakkin promised. "I will not allow it. Not ever."

  The dragon turned its black eyes toward him and Jakkin felt as if he could see strange constellations being born in the endless night of its eyes. "Be thou ever my friend," he whispered.

  The dragon answered him with a weak trickle of smoke through its nose slits. It was no more than a patch of light fog that for a moment obscured the dragon's mouth, then was gone. But that it was smoke, the first conjurings of the fire of a fighting dragon, Jakkin was sure.

  He laughed, a loud eruption that startled the snatchling into backing up.

  "No, no, thou fire breather, do it once again," said Jakkin, his voice alive with laughter. "A great pit dragon must breathe fire and smoke. I will give thee more juice to stoke thy furnace, for blisterweed and burnwort are the fuel for thy flames." He stood up and started for the weed patch, chattering at the dragon as he went. He continued his monologue down one row, looking for the healthiest, most mature plants, and up the next until he found the plant he wanted at the row's end.

  He stopped abruptly. In the sand by the stalk, almost hidden by a leaf, was a single shoeprint. For a moment, Jakkin was ready to dismiss it. He himself had walked around the weed and wort patch in sandals. But the fact that there was only the tip of the print showing, as if the rest had been broomed away, puzzled him. He turned and ran back to the shelter and picked up his own sandals. Then, reluctantly, he walked back to the patch.

  Kneeling down, he matched up the toe of his sandal with the print. The print was slightly smaller than his own.

  Jakkin sat down in the sand to consider. Bigfoot was a name that the boys had often called him, for he had had enormous feet since he was very young. His mother, he remembered, used to say that someday he would grow into his feet, and he was growing still. But if his own sandal had not made that print, then someone else's had.

  He tried to think who it might be. Had any of the boys said anything to make him think they knew of the oasis and the snatchling? He recalled them teasing him about Akki. Had Slakk been a little less sarcastic than usual? Or Errikkin a little more
willing to please? Or any of the younger boys too familiar? Perhaps ... yet he couldn't imagine them spying on him. He thought about the men, listing them in his mind. Balakk and his two were busy in the fields today. And Jo-Janekk was inventorying the store—or so he said. Frankkalin had been given the day as Bond-Off. Perhaps it had been Frankkalin. Or old Likkarn. What had he said before their march back? He had turned to Jakkin and spit out: "You'll have tomorrow as Bond-Off. I'm sure you'll need it, boy." At the time, Jakkin had thought old Likk-and-Spittle had meant he would need the time to recover from the bloody roundup. "But perhaps," Jakkin said aloud, "perhaps what Likkarn meant was that I would need the time for my dragon."

  And Likkarn was a small man, small and wiry. He would have a smallish foot. Jakkin thought about it, and the more he thought, the more it all fit. Likkarn must have followed him out and watched as he and the dragon slept. It all fit except for one piece. Why, if Likkarn knew about the dragon, had he not reported it? What subtle motives did the old man have in keeping such a thing secret?

  Jakkin got back on his knees and held his sandal over the print again. There was no mistake. His sandal was bigger, though not by much. Likkarn must have been there at some point, all right, watching. Watching and waiting. Jakkin looked around the oasis. It was no longer as bright, as clean, as beautiful. Likkarn's presence there cast a long shadow.

  Reluctantly, Jakkin stood up and went to the shelter. He dressed slowly, trying to think out his next steps. He would have to return to the nursery and see if he could find out what Likkarn was up to. He was not afraid for himself. After all, what could Likkarn do to him? He was already a bond boy. Though his bag might be emptied, he could not be broken further. But Jakkin worried what the old weeder might do to the hatchling. If he could kill a great stud like Brother, how easy it would be for him to slaughter the defenseless dragonling. Kill it—or have it killed in the stews.