White Wind Rising

by Dan Davis

  It was a black hole up there. Blacker than the darkest night and deeper than the deepest well. He reached up to grasp the stones inside but his hands came back covered in thick, sticky black soot.

  There was nothing to hold. No stones jutting out, no cracks big enough to jam his fingers into, no ledges. Nothing other than sticky black tar.

  How was he going to get up there?

  He needed a rope.

  The string on his bow, if he unwound it, was only four feet long and that would not get him very high.

  Backing out of the fireplace, he looked about the kitchen for something that he could use. The herbs and garlics and vegetables hanging from the rafters were all strung together with string. Perhaps he could take all of that string and twist it together to make a rope but he did not expect that it would be strong enough or long enough for his needs.

  Archer’s eyes fell upon the well. There was a long, sturdy rope attached to the bucket.

  He slapped himself on the forehead. He untied it and went back to the fireplace and stood once more in the ashes.

  The rope was thin but seemed strong. He checked every bit of the rope for damage but it was hardly frayed.

  He looked up, took the end of the rope in hand and threw the other end up as hard and as high as he possibly could.

  It went up.

  And then the rope came slithering back down with a thump, throwing up a cloud of ashes all over his boots and legs.

  It was never going to attach itself to the wall up there all by itself. Perhaps if he tied the rope around a stick and threw it up, it would wedge itself into a crack or between the walls of the chimney?

  Then he remembered his arrows.

  He tied the rope to the front part of an arrow just behind the arrowhead. Then stood directly inside the fireplace and drew his bow back fully, aiming straight up, up into that deepest black hole.

  He loosed the arrow and it shot straight and true. It disappeared instantly, the rope snaking up after it and Archer danced back out of the way.

  After a moment he heard the arrow twang up the chimney and the rope stopped going up, instead hanging there in the middle of the chimney.

  Archer could not believe it.

  He had done it. With his very first shot.

  Grinning, Archer slung the bow on his back, grabbed the rest of his arrows in his quiver and pulled gently on the rope. It seemed stuck fast.

  He pulled harder, leaning his weight into it and still the rope did not come down. Giving it a final a tug to make absolutely sure it was secure, he began to climb, arm over arm.

  It was tough work, climbing into the blackness.

  It smelled. It was hot and smoky.

  He could see absolutely nothing. Unless total and complete blackness counts as something.

  His arms began to ache. Wrapping his ankles round the rope, he gripped firmly and pushed up, over and over.

  He knew that no matter how much his muscles ached, if he was to escape from the Alchemist’s Tower, then he had to keep going.

  The cold anger there in his heart gave him strength enough to carry on.

  Breathing heavily he climbed on into the filthy blackness.

  He felt the wall in front of him scrape against his knees. The chimney must be sloping inwards towards him. It was a relief as that meant he could push himself up against the wall with his feet, taking more of the weight off his aching arms.

  Without expecting to, he reached the end of the rope. There was the arrow and the strong knot.

  He pulled himself up a little further and bumped his head, hard.

  The arrow had stuck deep into a crack between two planks of wood, and he pushed against it with his shoulder but it did not move. He bashed at the wood with one hand while clinging on with the other.

  He could not shift any of the planks, not even a little bit.

  Panic rose up inside of him.

  His arms shook and his grip started to fail. His leg slipped and scraped against the stone, and he spun and bashed into the wall making him cry out.

  If he did not find a way through right now, if he could not prise up one of these planks and get into the room above then he would have to climb back down the rope.

  Or else he would fall. And if he fell then he would certainly break his legs and perhaps do worse.

  Then his escape would truly be over.

  Perhaps forever.

  He searched inside for the anger that would give him strength but there was only the rising panic.

  Footsteps above him, a scraping and then the rope jerked upwards. There was a great creaking. Light, the hum of orange light coming from a gap opened above him as the planks rolled up.

  There was someone there.

  A strong arm reached down, grabbed him by the shoulder and heaved Archer up through the hole and he landed with a thump on the other side.

  Archer peered around blinking and saw that he had been pulled through a trap door into a cold, empty fireplace. The light was from a burning torch right by his face. It took a moment to adjust to the light and make out the person who had pulled him through with such a powerful pull.

  It was a stocky, strong-looking boy of about Archer’s age. The boy had a friendly, round red face, thick black hair and a huge grin.

  His tunic was a dark red. The boy smelled sort of dry and metallic, like an iron poker when it is pulled from the fire.

  The most startling thing about him was that his eye colour was a very deep but vivid red. A red like the one you get when a fire has been burning for a long time and you rake over the coals and it glows with an intense and powerful deep russet.

  Archer had never seen anything like it before.

  ‘Hello,’ Archer said to the boy with the red eyes.

  ‘Hello to you, too,’ said the boy, smiling from ear to ear. ‘Who are you? What’s your name? What are you doing here? How long have you been here?’

  ‘I was just going to ask you the same questions,’ said Archer, catching his breath. ‘Name’s Archer. Thank you for pulling me up.’

  ‘What’s wrong with your eyes?’ the boy said to Archer, holding his torch close. ‘Are you blind?’

  Archer shook his head. People often asked him that.

  ‘No, they’re just white,’ Archer said. ‘Very light grey, actually with sort of purple bits in the bright sunlight. But no, I can see very well. Why are your eyes red?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said the boy. ‘They just are. Why are you dressed all in black? Are you in disguise?’

  Archer looked down at himself. His white tunic was now black from the soot in the chimney. His hands, too.

  ‘It’s just soot from the chimney,’ he said. He felt his head and he knew that his pale-blonde, almost-white hair would be streaked with black as well. ‘I need a wash,’ Archer said.

  ‘You certainly do,’ the boy said and laughed. ‘I cannot believe this is happening.’

  ‘Believe what is happening?’ asked Archer. ‘Me coming up the chimney?’

  ‘I never knew anyone else was here,’ the boy said, his red eyes glinting in the torchlight like sparks from a night fire. ‘All this time. All this time and I thought it was just me and Burp that were the only prisoners.’

  ‘Who’s Burp?’ asked Archer, looking round in the gloom and seeing no one else within the light from the torch. ‘And what’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘My name’s Keeper,’ said the boy, ‘and I look after the dragon.’

  The Dragon Keeper

  ‘Dragon? What dragon?’ Archer wondered if the boy had gone mad. Perhaps he had been alone too long in the dark.

  ‘That dragon,’ said the sturdy boy named Keeper. ‘Over there.’ Keeper pointed across the room.

  Into the darkness.

  Archer peered in the direction of the outstretched finger. On the one had he was terrified of seeing a dragon. On the other he wondered if he was being made mock of.

  Either way, he could see nothing, except for a dim orange glow.
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  ‘All I see is a dim orange glow,’ he said to Keeper.

  ‘That’s him,’ said Keeper. ‘That’s the fire that lives in his throat. It’s always burning, all the time and when it’s dark you can just about see it through his skin. It keeps us nice and warm, it does, all night long.’

  ‘You mean you live in here,’ asked Archer, ‘with a dragon?’

  Archer did not really believe that glow was a dragon no matter what Keeper claimed. It looked like the embers of a fire across the other side of the tower. ‘If there’s a dragon in here,’ he said, ‘how come he doesn’t eat you?’

  ‘Burp doesn’t want to eat me, he’s my friend,’ Keeper said, confused. ‘And anyway, dragons don’t eat people.’

  ‘They don’t?’ said Archer, who knew from every dragon story ever that in fact they did. ‘What do they eat then?’

  ‘Well,’ Keeper said, smiling, ‘every day the Alchemist uses his magic to make a big pile of cabbages appear over there and I have to feed them all to Burp, all day long. Then I have to sweep out his droppings and pile them over there.’ Keeper pointed to an alcove next to the fire place big enough for a boy to stand up in. ‘Come and see.’

  Archer got up to follow Keeper and peered inside. Keeper held the torch inside the alcove so Archer could see in.

  ‘See?’ he said, pointing at the floor.

  The flickering red torchlight played over a pile of jagged black rocks.

  ‘These are all just big lumps of iron,’ Archer said, picking one up and hefting it in his hand. He realised now that the poor boy truly had gone mad.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Burp poops them out a few times a day after he eats his cabbages and then I pile them up in here.’ Keeper said, smiling. ‘Burp just goes wherever he happens to be standing, he doesn’t care at all!’ Keeper laughed. ‘But that’s dragons for you.’

  ‘He poops out lumps of iron?’ Archer said, wondering how best to get out of this room and away from this boy.

  ‘Yes,’ Keeper said, smiling. ‘He can’t help it. He’s a dragon, that’s what dragons do. And then every few days the Alchemist vanishes all the poops away somewhere.’

  ‘I see,’ said Archer, examining his filthy hands and wondering how he could possibly clean himself off without any water. ‘And this dragon’s name is Burp, is it?’

  ‘I don’t know what his name is but I just call him Burp.’ Keeper said, grinning. ‘Always have.’

  Archer walked over to the fireplace again and looked up. He would have to hurry up and get on to the next floor before the Alchemist realised he had escaped from the kitchen. That could be any moment, so he had to hurry.

  ‘And why do you call him Burp?’ Archer asked. The only reason he was asking was to be polite.

  He knew he would have to pull his rope up from the chimney below and then try the same thing again. He would have to get the arrow out of the trapdoor without breaking it.

  ‘I call him Burp because that’s what he does after he eats,’ Keeper said, laughing. ‘I feed him a few cabbages at meal times and then he burps.’

  ‘Right,’ Archer said.

  Good thing there is no fire in this fireplace. I wonder why that is.

  ‘And when he burps fire shoots out of his mouth and it fills the room with fire. It is just for a moment. But sometimes I don’t pay attention properly. I don’t get away far enough or fast enough. And then it burns me a bit. Nothing bad, obviously! Poor Burp, he can’t help it. It’s just the hot air from his fire but it does singe my face and hair a bit. He did it earlier, just after his last lot of cabbages. Silly old Burp.’

  ‘Is that why your face is red and shiny?’ Archer said, forgetting that Keeper was mad and none of what he was saying was true.

  ‘Is it?’ said Keeper, putting a hand to his cheek. ‘Oh. Sorry.’

  ‘Getting burned by dragon fire must really hurt,’ Archer said. It more likely that Keeper’s face was red from holding a burning torch so close to it. Archer hoped the mad boy would not want to come with him when he escaped.

  ‘It hurts a bit, I suppose. But Burp really can’t help it, he’s a dragon, and when dragons burp, fire comes out. He doesn’t mean it. He’s as much a prisoner here as I am. Look, you can see that Burp’s wings are all tied up so he can’t fly away.’ Keeper said and then called across the room into the darkness. ‘Come here, Burp. Come and meet our new friend. Don’t be afraid, he won’t hurt you.’

  Archer watched the glowing orange light turn into a dark shape that shuffled closer into the torchlight.

  There was a scratch-scratching on the floor, getting closer and closer.

  Archer peered forward.

  ‘Surely there isn’t really —‘

  A dragon emerged out of the shadows.

  A long black snout, with inky black eyes and ridges of spikey scales. And hundreds of gleaming white teeth.

  ‘A dragon!’ Archer cried. He jumped back, holding up his bow in front of him. He glanced over his shoulder at the fireplace. He could jump down and slide down the rope to the kitchen.

  ‘Don’t be afraid,’ said Keeper. He shoved the torch into a holder on the fireplace and ran toward the creature. ‘He won’t hurt you.’

  Keeper threw his arm around the dragon’s neck.

  It was small. Smaller even than Archer, and Archer was quite small. The dragon was about as big as a sheepdog, only longer and thinner.

  Still, it was a real life dragon.

  ‘Come and say hello,’ Keeper said, grinning.

  The little dragon had black scales which is why he had hidden in the shadows so well.

  The scales on the underside of his neck were more of a grey and that was where the orange glow was showing through. There were stubby horns on his head. When he opened his mouth there were those gleaming white teeth. They were small teeth but they looked incredibly sharp. Enough to give you a nasty bite.

  He had two little spiky horns on the top of his snout and two little spikes on his chin.

  Burp’s eyes were black orbs, shiny and glowing from the light of the torch.

  Keeper rubbed the scales on the dragon’s head between the horns. ‘Go on, Burp, say hello to my new friend.’

  Burp shuffled forward another couple of awkward steps and that was when Archer noticed something awful.

  The little dragon’s two front legs were also his wings. The wings had sort-of claws that Burp was walking on. They were like bat-wings when bats were asleep and they folded their wings up.

  But each wing was chained up. There was a long chain wrapped round and round each wing. Binding them closed.

  The chains looked like they were cutting deep into his scales.

  At least Burp’s back legs were not chained. They were short, and sturdy and looked strong. The dragon seemed to be hobbling about well enough.

  ‘Hello Burp,’ Archer said. ‘I do not believe that I am meeting a dragon.’

  Burp shuffled right up to Archer, a soft hissing sound coming from his throat. He snuffled his head into Archer’s hand, just like a dog does. His scales were warm and rough and as tough as iron. They felt good. Like hot sand does.

  ‘He’s saying hello,’ said Keeper, beaming. ‘He’s very happy to see you.’

  ‘I’m very happy to see him, too,’ said Archer. ‘I never, ever thought I would meet a real dragon.’ Archer gently touched the chains round Burp’s wings. They looked very tight indeed. ‘Why are his wings chained up, Keeper?’

  Keeper’s smiled faded. ‘He always was chained up like that from the day I got stolen,’ he said. ‘The Alchemist must have done it to him before ever I got here. I never knew why. It’s not like he’d be able to fly out of here anyway.’

  Keeper spoke softly but Archer could tell that underneath Keeper was fuming. ‘It’s just so cruel. So incredibly cruel to do that to a creature, any creature. But especially a dragon.’

  ‘Can we unchain him?’ Archer said.

  ‘I have tried,’ said Keeper. ‘Tried and tried. Lots of times.
But I could never get them off.’ Keeper shrugged. ‘If I was home at the forge I would have a better chance but there are no tools here. Anyway, they’re probably magic, aren’t they. Stupid Alchemist.’

  ‘They’re so tightly bound. They are cutting into him under the scales.’ Archer said, gently touching them. ‘How could the Alchemist be so cruel?’

  Keeper sniffed and sat down. ‘I wish I could do more than clean the wounds out with sand every day.’ Keeper said.

  Burp settled down next to him and snuggled into the boy. The dragon wrapped his long neck around Keeper’s waist and laid his head on Keeper’s lap.

  ‘It must be so sore.’ Keeper patted Burp on his scaly head. ‘I begged the Alchemist to unchain Burp. So many times I begged him. But he never answers. He cares nothing for us. He’s a cruel, awful man and if I ever see him,’ Keeper smashed his fist powerfully into his palm, ‘I’d give him a piece of my mind, I can tell you. But Burp just has to live like this, chained all the time.’

  ‘Poor Burp, ‘said Archer, looking at the little friendly-looking creature. ‘He’s very small, isn’t he? He’s about as big as one our dogs on the farm, if the dogs were sort of stretched out long ways. I always thought dragons would be enormous great beasts.’

  ‘Burp’s only a baby dragon,’ said Keeper, smiling again.

  ‘How do you know he’s a baby?’ Archer asked.

  ‘Because he’s only little,’ Keeper said, laughing. ‘Obviously.’

  Archer supposed that made sense.

  ‘You seem to know a lot about dragons,’ Archer said. ‘Is that why you’re a prisoner?’

  ‘Well, no,’ said Keeper, shaking his head. ‘I live up near the head of the Vale with my grandma and grandpa at Cobnut Forge. They always said never to come near the Alchemist’s Tower. So I never did. But people was always talking about how he had great dragon chained up inside that breathed fire and everything.’ Keeper sighed. ‘I’ve been dreaming of dragons for as long as I could remember. I’d dream about flying around on one, flying over the land commanding the dragon to breath fire on things. Just silly dreams, my grandpa says. Little boy dreams don’t do no good, he says. Dreams don’t forge no ploughs, boy.’