Dragons!

by Various

  That night we feasted on eel and fish roasted upon flat rocks about a large fire. Others were prepared for drying to be carried with us for future meals. Finally, fed and watered and rested, I began to feel human again as we slowly climbed the foothills, following the course of the water upstream. Then there was a road and villages again, nestled in the mountain valley. The people in this land had not suffered drought at all. The crop here was good, though it could not begin to make up for the devastation upon the plains, and the people were willing to barter for Yuen Pao's skills. There were many dialects here, and they seemed to vary from valley to valley. Travelers were few, especially in the higher villages and, after an initial period of suspicion, for which my own appearance was no great help, the stories of our journey and the news of the lowlands were as much in demand as spells or medications.

  It would have been nice to linger in a village here or there. Our strength returned to us slowly, and we tired sooner than we would have liked; the increasing altitude was no doubt a factor, but Yuen Pao would not permit delays. Inquiring after particular roads and passes he plotted our course, explaining that it would still require many days to cross the mountains and be safely on the southern slopes before the monsoon stopped all travel, and we had not much time now.

  Lan Lung once again took to riding upon my shoulder or occasionally on top of my head. As we reached the highest passes, however, he once again took to my pocket or to nestling beneath my shirt. It was cold here, but Hsu Yuen Pao, in his infinite wisdom, proclaimed that was not the reason. We were too close to heaven here. The clouds were thickening on the southern horizon, and puffy white ships sailed close over our heads. The messengers of the Lung

  Wang would be watching. During the last days of our crossing Lan Lung rarely betrayed his presence even to me. Only when he rode in my pocket was I truly aware of him.

  Then we were climbing down. Though we were still high on the slopes, I was jubilant. It was almost like coming home.

  Yuen Pao was known in many of the villages we passed, a fact I had come to realize was not particularly unusual. But one pleasant, near autumn afternoon as we passed a mile or so from the outer wall of a large town Yuen Pao stopped short in the road, nearly causing me to run him over. in my pocket, Lan Lung squirmed unhappily for a moment. Then we abruptly changed course, away from the wail and the town. He would not tell me why. At dusk, when we stopped to lay our fire, he told me a story from his seemingly inexhaustible fund.

  There was once a Taoist monk (I wondered who) traveling through the mountain passes where he came upon six men bearing baskets or oranges northward, bound for a high official in the emperor's court. The baskets were very heavy and in return for the protection of their company the monk agree to help bear the loads.

  He took a basket and carried it for an hour, then another till all the loads had been shared and the monk took his leave.

  Some time later, at a lavish feast in honor of the emperor, the court official presented the fat oranges; a rare and expensive delicacy from the south. But when the emperor lifted one it seemed oddly light, and when the skin was broken . . . it was empty. Another was opened and another, but they were all the same.

  The bearers were sent for and charged upon pain of death to explain the mystery; whereupon they told the tale of the Taoist monk and exclaimed that he had surely tricked 'them by magic. Since the peasants were too stupid to have conceived of such a skillful theft, the emperor was inclined to believe them. But rather than gaining favor, as the official had hoped, he found himself rewarded with a reduced

  income and the government of a poor province in the south, far from the court and power.

  Yuen Pao claimed to have been told the story by one of the bearers only a year or two before he found me, implying that all travelers in this land were suspect and monks most especially. Sometimes I wondered exactly how gullible he thought I was.

  It was not yet mid-morning of the next day when they caught up with us, even though we had been prudent enough to stay off the road. There were eight armed men on horseback. Any argument would have been utter stupidity and, though we proceeded at a fast forced march, it was dusk before we reached the great gate of the town wall. Our belongings were confiscated and we spent the night in a hovel on the edge of town. By the smell and the consistency of the floor, I judge it was a structure frequently used to house swine, which was a clear statement of what the magistrate thought of us.

  Lan Lung, who had been in my pocket that morning, was gone. He had vanished, as was his habit when strangers were about. But this time, Yuen Pao said, he would not return. Lung has no love for men and their communities. When I naively suggested he might join us again on the road, Yuen Pao did not reply.

  In the end, even I was acute enough to realize what a man seeking status would consider proper satisfaction for the affronted dignity of his emperor, though I still did not believe the business about the oranges. The fact that I had had nothing to do with anything was unimportant. By now the magistrate had heard all he required from the nearby villages. In his mind I would be an integral part of Hsu Yuen Pao and the Taoist magic.

  There was no sleep that night. This time it was I who stood in the dark watching the lightning far to the south as the monsoons gathered at the coast, wondering about omens and dragons.

  At dawn we were ushered out and made to stand waiting like penned sheep in the town square throughout the dismal

  gray morning and on into afternoon. Awaiting Pei Tae Kwan's pleasure. Waiting to die at his leisure.

  It was unclear to everyone, including myself, whether a ghost could be killed, though I had a pretty good notion by now. But as there was no answer, Pei Tae Kwan had willingly accepted for himself the honor of discovering the facts.

  The executioner arrived well before noon and stood like a statue among his swords. A dozen guards, stoic and heavily armed, encircled us. Beyond them, curious villagers and bold little boys eyed us carefully, pointing and talking loudly. Old women peered between the shoulders of the guards and railed at us. Yuen Pao was unmoved by the abuse. I simply did not understand the dialect.

  From time to time he would send a child or old woman scurrying away with an upraised hand and a few words. It seemed to occur to none of them that if his magic were really so potent we would not have remained the captives we were.

  The murky overcast had grown dense and slate gray by early afternoon. The air was a sullen broth of humidity, and water droplets occasionally fell out of suspension creating a fine mist. Though they threatened heavily, hanging low and pregnant overhead, the clouds did not open and drown us.

  Pei Tae Kwan showed his face at last about midafternoon, making his way slowly down the street from the ornate monumental gate. The men in the drum towers signaled his approach, and a wave of silence fell upon the villagers as he passed. He took his time quite deliberately, and I had to admit it was finally beginning to get on my nerves.

  Entering the armed circle he walked around slowly, looking us over with obvious contempt. When he spoke the tone of his voice was unmistakable; insulting, berating, humiliating. Two servants who had followed him into the guarded circle now began rummaging through our belongings which had been dumped on the ground several feet away. They smashed our rice bowls under foot and broke our chopsticks, throwing the pieces in our faces. They opened Yuen Pao' s boxes and containers at the magistrate's

  command, spilling the dust to show his contempt for us. We could not buy him. We had hardly expected to.

  The boys opened the black lacquered container and spilled out the shards of variegated bone we had collected at the Dragon Gate. They broke the lid from the carved box of red cinnabar and emptied the pale yellow dust of ground dragon bones into the dirt, shouting and picking out small round rubies (petrified dragon blood, Hsu Yuen Pao had called them).

  Alarmed, the magistrate left us and took the gems from the boys, sending them out among the villagers. He laughed at Yuen Pao, placing the stones in a pocket
of his gown, and called out mockingly as he kicked our belongings about. He spied the black scabbard and drew out the shining purple whisker which quivered in his hand like a stiff whip. There was silence for a moment, then more loud chatter. He bellowed, holding the prize aloft for all to see and looked at Hsu Yuen Pao, his eyes alight with greedy triumph. He brandished it like a sword and advanced upon us, kicking my pack out of his way. I saw it moved aside by his foot with an odd jerk which seemed more like a lurch to my eye, and it suddenly began to writhe and swell on the ground.

  At the collective cry from the crowd Pei Tae Kwan turned and, seeing the churning form within the cloth, beat at it with the dragon whisker, then backed away and fled beyond the line of his guards as the bag swelled again.

  Weapons drawn, the soldiers formed rank around the magistrate and one man sprang forward, striking a blow to the bag with his sword. There was a muffled sound like the distant toll of a bell and the pack split to shreds as Lung burst forth, growing to immense size in an instant. His serpentine body writhed, his tail lashing about, massive cowlike head high, four clawed forepaws slashing air. He was an explosion of silver and blue in the darkness of afternoon, fifty feet long. His voice was the booming of a gong. In the damp air his breath shone bright. Dragon fire played over his body. Beneath his chin was the great blue pearl of the sea, and upon his left shoulder was a long, ragged wound of red.

  So rapidly did Lung grown to his full, terrible size, that the soldier who had struck the blow was crushed beneath the scaled belly without even the time to scream. Then Lung leapt, much as I had seen him do that first day in the bamboo grove, but now his body blotted out the sky. When he landed among the terrified screams of the people, men died beneath his huge feet and thrashing tail. The living fled in panic—villagers, soldiers and dignitaries—but the magistrate Pei Tae Kwan, the dragon whisker still clutched in his hand, lay beneath the right fore foot of the great saurian, a foot-long claw imbedded in his chest.

  The gong of his voice beat again, and Lung moved around the tree dragging the body of Pei a step or two before it dropped from his claw. I watched, numb but fascinated, only slowly becoming aware of a persistent tugging at my arm. When I looked at Yuen Pao I was surprised to see the fear so plainly on his face, but I recognized it to be the fear of a prudent man. As the thunder began to rumble above and a hot wind came at our backs, I looked once more at Lan Lung, my little pet, and realized the magnitude of my folly. This was no pet; had never been one. I perhaps, had been his. This was Tsao Lung, a great scaled dragon, Lord of Rain, Ruler of Rivers, Commander of the Floods. The monsoons at our backs were under his control as were the clouds above our heads. He was deaf to the voice of man and paid no heed to the puniness of his life. Had I expected obedience from this creature? Affection? At that moment I would count myself lucky if he did not even notice me.

  The town wall preventing retreat, the dragon between us and the street, Yuen Pao and I moved slowly about the tree, keeping it between us and the dragon as we maneuvered toward the door of the nearest house.

  Lightning startled me, and the dragon turned, watching us. His breath was a bright haze about his head, and he favored his left leg. Out beyond the tree the house seemed very far away. Behind the great reptilian body we could see a knot of people, the boldest of the curious, peering from the shelter of the memorial gate. The lightning and thunder came again and Lung turned end to end, facing in our

  direction now. Body arched, head waving high, his voice boomed once more. Yuen Pao tensed beside me as my own muscles set for a bolt to the door, but there was no time to run. The dragon sprang in the air, his arc long and flat, looming even larger as he hurtled toward us.

  My muscles jerked in an attempt to run, but I fell instead as the dragon dropped to ground barely ten feet from me, twisting his head and body away to confront what I suddenly saw falling from the sky to land farther up the street. Another dragon, this one gold and orange. He was five-clawed, and the pearl beneath his chin was the color of honey.

  Sheltered behind the wall-like back of Lan Lung we scrambled for the house, but as we moved, he moved, leaping away up the street. A moment later there was an ear-ringing crash of lightning, shattering the tree across the square, barely a yard from the tip of his tail.

  I thought of Yuen Pao's story. Lan Lung, the lazy dragon. For desertion of his post and duty, Lung Wang would send messengers to seek him and, when found, would destroy him with lightning bolts.

  The two dragons confronted each other, rearing on their hind legs, their breath at last turning to fire as the rain came. Their voices beat upon the ear, and when they leapt to each other the ground shook beneath their bodies. They changed size rapidly and often, looking for advantage. Scales as big as a man's hand littered the street like fallen leaves as the dragons, red-clawed, red-fanged, rolled about in each other's embrace. Lightning struck twice more, gouging the road and shattering the wall. The rain poured down in dark sheets till all that could be seen was the fiery glow of their bodies and breath. They could no longer be told apart.

  Then, as Yuen Pao and I sheltered in the doorway of the house, the quaking earth stilled, the brightness diminished, and there came a great quiet beneath the beating of the rain.

  Slowly, as the torrent thinned, a mountainous form could be seen lying in the street, motionless, fireless, and beyond it, burning faintly, another dragon stood, its head waving slowly in the air, upturned to the clouds.

  I wiped rain from my eyes, straining for a glimpse of color through the sheets of gray. I could not help but care.

  I had been his refuge till the end, even after I believed he had left me, and, in spite of all I had just seen, if he had

  scampered, mouse-sized, toward the door where I hid, I would have sheltered him again, foolish as it doubtless would have been. But in the thinning rain I could identify neither the dead dragon nor the live one.

  Then the final bolt of lightning struck.

  Hours later, when the rain stopped, there was not so much as a splintered bone in the muddy, cratered sheet. But

  beneath the blasted tree Yuen Pao found one large round

  scale of silver scalloped in blue. I wear it on a braided cord about my neck like an amulet. It marks me, though that is

  hardly necessary these days. Word of mouth travels swiftly

  in this land. The villagers saw from whence the dragon came. They knew whose pack it was. It was never estab-

  lished whether or not a ghost could die a second death (and

  I am still not sure about the oranges) but no one questioned the power of ghostly magic. It has been mainly to my

  advantage, I suppose; only occasionally have I resented it. I wear the reputation as I wear my "amulet" and the name the people gave me.

  I am called Lung Gwai.

  The Dragon Ghost.

  Climacteric

  by

  Avram Davidson

  One of the most eloquent and individual voices in modern SF and fantasy, Avram Davidson is also one of the finest short story writers of our times. He won the Hugo Award for his famous story "Or All the Seas with Oysters," and his short work has been assembled in landmark collections such as Strange Seas and Shores, The Best of Avram Davidson, Or All the Seas with Oysters, The Redward Edward Papers, and Collected Fantasies. His novels include The Phoenix and the Mirror, Masters of the Maze, Rork!, Rogue Dragon, and Vergil in Averno. He has also won the Edgar and the World Fantasy Award. His most recent book is one of the best collections of the decade, the marvelous The Adventures of Doctor Eszterhazy.

  Here he gives us a typically wry and biting new take on a very old story. . . .

  * * *

  They had driven up, just the two of them, to a place in the mountains he had spoken of—store, garage, hotel, all in one—it was a rare day, a vintage day, with no one to bother them while they ate lunch and shared a bottle of wine. She spoke most; the things she said were silly, really, but she was young and she was lovely and this lent a sh
immer of beauty to her words.

  His eyes fed upon her—the golden corona of her hair, the green topazes of her eyes, exquisitely fresh skin, creamy column of neck, her bosom (O twin orbs of sweet delight!)—

  "But never mind that," she said, ceasing what she had been saying. "I want to forget all that. You: What were you like as a boy? What did you dream of?"

  He smiled. "Of a million beautiful girls—all like you," he added, as she made a pretty pout with her red little

  mouth—"and how I would rescue them from a hideous dragon, piercing through its ugly scales with my lance," he said, "while its filthy claws scrabbled on the rocks in a death agony . . . And the girl and I lived happily ever after, amid chaste kisses, nothing more."

  She smiled, touched him. "Lovely," she said. "But—chaste kisses? Now, I used to dream—but never mind. It's funny how our dreams change, and yet, not so much, isn't it?" They looked swiftly about, saw nothing but a distant bird, speck-small in the sky; then they kissed.

  Very soon afterward, they drove up a side road to the end, then climbed a path. "You're quite sure no one can see us here?" she asked.

  "Quite sure," he said. He stepped back. There was a noise of great rushing, then a short scream, then—other noises. After a while he drew nearer and ran his hands lovingly over the sparkling and iridescent scales. The beautiful creature hissed appreciatively, and continued to clean its gorgeous and glittering claws with its shining black bifurcated tongue.

  The Man Who Painted

  the Dragon Griaule

  by

  Lucius Shepard

  The brilliant story that follows was one of the most popular and most-talked-about pieces of short fiction of the '80s. It takes place in a land dominated by the immobile but still-living body of an immense, mountain-huge dragon, enchanted into stillness in some sorcerous battle in the unimaginably distant past, so long ago that forests and villages have sprung up along the dragon's mountainous flanks. But, as we shall see, even into the lifetime of such a creature, change must come—sometimes even change of the most elemental and revolutionary sort. . . .