by GARY DARBY
Just then, Cara, hearing her father’s loud voice, joins us. Phigby glances up, sees her and brings out another cloth from his bag. “Help Hooper with the bleeding,” he commands.
“Boren,” he says, “if Hooper says the sprogs are safe, they’re safe. In the meantime, you can either help here or tend to your dragons, but either way, leave us alone while I take care of these wounds.”
For an instant, Boren’s face flashes anger before he steers Cara toward Alonya. “I’ll help Helmar,” he says gruffly to her, “you help here.” With that, he spins on his heels and strides past the boulders to find Helmar.
Cara shuffles around to the other side of Alonya’s enormous leg and pushes the cloth hard against the deep cuts and slashes below the giant’s knee.
As she does, I keep my eyes averted from hers, but I can’t help peeking at her every so often. When I do, I catch her gazing at me in a peculiar fashion. She has a pensive, questioning expression on her face, one that I’ve never seen before, at least not with me.
It’s as though she can see me, but she’s not sure if she really knows me. Who I am, or rather, what I am—now.
“Find any arrows worth saving?” I ask to break the silence.
“I collected the ones that didn’t shatter,” she answers softly. “Helmar and Amil are gathering Alonya’s.”
She presses harder on an oozing gash. “It almost takes the two of them to pull one of her shafts out of a carcass. I couldn’t do it by myself.”
In a few moments, Phigby moves to Alonya’s leg to wipe away the dirt and grime and spreads a liberal amount of the white cream over her broken and punctured skin.
Where the paste touches the blood oozing from her wounds, it forms a thick coating and looks almost like the thick, sticky grease that you make from pig’s fat. With practiced strokes, Phigby wraps several layers of cloth around her leg as a tight bandage and then ties the ends off.
“You need to stay off your feet for a while,” he instructs, “to give the Aloeseun balm a chance to close those holes. If not, you’ll start bleeding heavily again, and I might not be able to stop it.”
Sliding through the slits in the rocks, Master Boren, Helmar, and Amil stride up. Helmar and Amil lay a half dozen of Alonya’s arrows by her bow. Helmar’s and Cara’s quivers hold slightly more than that.
“It’s the best we could do,” Helmar explains. “Most of ours snapped in two. We pulled what we could of Alonya’s from the Vargs’ carcasses, but a good many of those shafts split their head as well.”
“Then we will make do with what we have,” Phigby answers.
“Alonya,” Master Boren questions, “can we assume that we won’t be troubled by any more Vargs tonight?”
He gestures toward the gloomy forest. “Or are there more packs like those who attacked us roaming this forest?”
Alonya gives Boren a curt shake of her head. “If any of that band survived their moonlit sky ride, I doubt they’ll make their way back here anytime soon.”
Her face takes on a troubled air. “As far as more packs, there were more wolves in that bunch tonight than I have ever seen before and I have traveled the length of the Denalians.”
She shakes her head as if she is mystified by the number of Vargs that had gathered together to attack us. “Where they all came from and how they banded together is beyond me. It’s as if something pulled them all to this one place, so no, I don’t expect that we’ll be bothered by any more Vargs tonight.”
She peers upward at the rock facing. “This is as good a place as any to make camp for the remainder of the night. Nevertheless, we need to stay alert. It’s not just Vargs who prowl these woods; there are other night feeders just as dangerous.”
“But no fire,” Phigby hastily directs. “We have to assume that those were Wilder wings that we heard, and flames can be seen from many leagues away.”
“Agreed,” Master Boren rejoins.
Phigby stands and beckons to Amil. “You’re next.”
While he seats Amil and begins tending to his wounds, I glance over at the golden who gives me a knowing nod. The sprogs. We need to fetch them from their hiding place.
Stepping away from the group, I try to make a discreet exit and hobble through the boulders to the tree line where the golden joins me. I haven’t taken more than a few steps when a beautiful, familiar voice sounds behind me.
At another time and place, I would love to hear her melodious tones, and even more to take the time to converse with Cara, but not now.
“Hooper, where are you taking the golden?”
Actually, the golden is taking me, but that’s not how I answer. Instead, I mutter, “Uh, I’ll be right back. I just have to take care of something.”
She glances around before she turns to face me. “You’re leaving camp, you’re unarmed, and you’re going into the dark to ‘take care of something?’”
She comes close and scrutinizes my face. “Hooper, just what are you hiding?”
“Cara,” I answer, “I’m not hiding anything. I’m going after the sprogs. I only stayed long enough to make sure that everyone was all right and you need to go back to camp.”
Actually, I am hiding something. I need to speak with the golden, but, of course, that’s not anything I can share with Cara.
“No,” she states. “I’m going with you.”
“No, you’re not. You heard Alonya, it’s not safe out here. There’s no need for you to put yourself in any more danger.”
Her eyes get that fiery look that I’m becoming oh so familiar with. “Says the one who has no bow, no sword.”
She plucks at my tunic belt. “You don’t even have a knife, and you’re the one worrying about me being in danger?”
I admit, it is so tempting to say, “Sure, hop aboard,” and take another dragon ride with her. Of course, we’d have to sit close together. Very close together.
But not now.
Not with her father ready to throw me to the wolves—live ones if he can find any and I really, really need to have a conversation with the golden—alone.
I’ve noticed something very troubling about Pengillstorr’s jewel, and I need to question her about it before I use the gemstone again.
Cara has her arms crossed and is standing firm and unmoving. Words alone are not going to move this girl, I think. But thinking about the emerald gives me an idea. I draw the gem out of my pocket and thrust the jewel with its lime-colored glow toward Cara.
“If you don’t go back to the safety of the camp, I’ll use this to turn you into a Stinkbean Bush.”
Cara takes a step back, her mouth open. “You wouldn’t dare!”
“Umm,” I say, sizing her up and down. “Maybe half Stinkbean Bush and the other half a Pimpleberry Shrub.”
Her eyes go wide, and I glare as I move toward her, waving the jewel menacingly in front of her face. She’s not entirely sure that I won’t use the gem on her, so she gives a little ground, glowers while saying, “Hmmph!” and whirls away.
I scramble onto the golden’s neck before Cara realizes that even if I could, I would never, ever do that to her.
As Golden Wind lumbers off, I don’t look back. Instead, I lean over and whisper, “Is she following?”
The golden twitches her ears backward, listens, and then says, “No, Hooper, she’s going back to camp.”
She chuckles. “Stinkbean Bush and a Pimpleberry Shrub. That was very imaginative, Hooper.”
“Thanks,” I murmur. “But if she was mad at me before, she’ll be out for blood, now.”
I change the subject as I bring out the gemstone. What I see is extremely worrying to me. “Golden Wind,” I say, “I think the jewel is dying.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The leaf inside. When I first saw it, it looked fresh, alive. Now, it’s a bit smaller, and the tips appear to be darkening, not green and glowing like before.
“You know, like how the birchen leaves change from green to other colors in the fall just
before they die when it gets too cold. Have I done something wrong with the jewel?”
She plods a bit further before answering. “Hooper, just as our mortal lives are not eternal, the power within the jewel does not go on forever. As the guardian, you must be careful of when and how you use it. Otherwise, it will become spent and its power gone.”
“Is there some way to get more power?”
“Unfortunately, no. So choose wisely, but do not be afraid to use it if you must. After all, what good is a gift if it is not used? Especially one that comes from a sacrifice of the heart.”
I gaze at the jewel as I idly reach down to stroke a curled-up, sleeping Scamper and think about the golden’s answer. In all my life, as far back as I can recall, this is truly the first gift I’ve ever received.
The first spring after I arrived at Draconton as a small child, all the townsfolk and dragon workers gathered in the town square to celebrate Winter’s Eve—the end of winter’s cold and the coming of warm spring and summer days. As part of the festivities, all the children would receive a present.
I was so excited at the thought of getting a gift of some sort and pushed myself to the front of the giggling, chattering throng of children. One by one, their names were called, and each given a brightly wrapped present.
I watched eagerly as each was handed out. I didn’t care if my package was big or small; it didn’t really matter—what mattered was that someone cared enough to give me my very own gift.
My name was never called.
I ended up standing there alone while the crowd drifted apart. Happy mothers, fathers, and children laughing in excitement at their gifts.
Later, I sat on the pub’s steps, picking at my charred skin to while away the time waiting for the Barn Master and watching some of the children play with their new toys.
Spring turned to summer, summer to fall and then came Harvest Celebration, a time to rejoice for bountiful crops. We dragon workers made the journey to Draconton to spend the winter in the lower meadows.
Once again I joined the excited, chattering children in the village square. This time, however, when their name was called, each received a scrumptious treat of some sort.
Strawberry cake with fresh strawberry topping, pumpkin pie slathered in buttercream frosting, or a deep-dish apple strudel covered in a sweet cream custard.
Some children couldn’t wait and as soon as they were handed their delicious gift, began eating it as fast as they could right on the spot, the strawberries or apples running down their cheeks and splattering on the ground.
Again, I walked away empty-handed.
By the next Winter’s Eve and Harvest Celebration, I had learned.
I stayed away, sitting by the Mill Pond, throwing pebbles in the water, my back to the laughter, waiting for the Barn Master to finish his pints at the pub so that I either returned to Draconstead and its barn if it was springtime or the lower meadow barn in late fall.
Year after year, it was the same.
Nothing ever came my way. As I got older, I came to accept the fact that none of those brightly wrapped packages, big or small, were ever going to be mine.
And a mouthwatering treat?
For me, that meant an occasional extra piece of bread, or maybe, I might find some wild raspberries on the outskirts of a meadow before the cooks harvested the berries for themselves.
To me, there was never anything special about receiving or giving gifts. How could there be?
But now, I have a most incredible gift. Compared to Pengillstorr’s gem, all those presents given out over the years on Feast Day and Harvest Celebration are trivial.
I have to wonder, all those years watching others with their gifts, were they preparation for this time, to make me more appreciative, more aware of the sacrifices that often accompany the giving?
In sharp realization, I suddenly understand what the golden meant when she said that the greatest of gifts come through a sacrifice of the heart.
I’ve actually received three wondrous gifts in my life because of what others have given up in my behalf.
Scamper’s mother died to save her pup and from it came a friendship that’s brightened my darkest days, lifted my spirits when I thought that my life had no meaning, and taught me to laugh again.
Pengillstorr died to give me the gift of his tear jewel which has saved not only my life but Cara’s and the others’ several times now. And if Phigby’s pronouncement is true that our journey has just begun, it may yet save our lives again.
And my courageous, amazing mother who gave up her life to save mine.
The golden is right, the greatest gifts do come with a sacrifice of the heart.
A soft voice comes to my mind; Now you are beginning to understand and to see your life in a different light. Each of us has gifts, we need only open our eyes and our hearts to see them.
I place the gemstone back inside my tunic. Its warmth seems to spread throughout my body as if, for the first time, I’m beginning to understand the enormity of this treasure and my own responsibility in carrying such a wondrous prize.
It’s not long before we come to a small, dark recess cut into the hillside. “They’re in there,” the golden states.
I clamber down, go over to the murky entrance, kneel, and whisper softly, “Glow, Strider, Sparkle, Regal, it’s all right, you can come out now.”
Four squealing baby dragons rush from the gloom and almost bowl me over. “Simmer down now,” I mutter, “you don’t have to make such a fuss.”
I climb back up on Golden Wind and one by one, she gently lifts each sprog to me, and I tuck all four next to Scamper.
We turn and head back to the encampment, and it’s not long before the baby dragons are snoring right along with Scamper. I don’t blame them; it’s been a long night. I could use some sleep myself, but I know that won’t happen for a while. I have questions to answer.
We lumber back to camp where six sets of eyes turn at our appearance. I lower myself to the ground, leaving the sprogs and Scamper to sleep. The golden makes her way over to the sapphires and settles down next to Wind Song.
I gesture toward Golden Wind and respectfully say to Master Boren, “The sprogs are asleep on her carapace. They’re all right.”
At that, Cara’s eyebrows furrow together, and she gives me a penetrating stare. I know exactly what she’s thinking. If I was only going to retrieve the sprogs, why didn’t I let her go?
She knows I’m keeping a secret to myself, and Cara hates having secrets kept from her, as Phigby well knows.
I avoid her stare and turn to Phigby, who, by the expression on his face, is quite impatient with me. He peers at me under lowered eyebrows. “Well, Hooper, what happened? One moment, you’re with us on the trail, and the next, you’re gone, and I don’t mean just now. I mean back there when we were running from the Vargs.”
At first, I don’t answer. What am I supposed to say, that I’m so clumsy that I fell off the golden and knocked myself silly? That’s what a Hooper would do, but I’m the Gem Guardian, I’m supposed to be, well, more than just a bungling Hooper.
I shrug and say, “I sorta got lost.”
Phigby peers at me, his eyes narrowing. I can tell he doesn’t quite buy my story as he says, “Hmmm, sorta got lost.”
“That’s right,” I state, not raising my eyes to meet his.
Alonya is quick to speak up. “I care not about his being lost, I would hear about what he did to those Vargs.”
I glance at the golden, and she gives me the barest of nods.
“Yes,” Phigby says slowly as he strokes his beard, still eyeing me suspiciously. “I suppose that would be more interesting than hearing about how he wandered lost in the woodlands but managed to evade the Vargs.”
I remain silent so Phigby orders, “Go ahead, Hooper, she is entitled to know. Tell your part from the beginning, and leave nothing out.”
I walk over to the giant maiden and sit while bringing out the gemstone and cupping it
with both hands. And while the moons slide toward their setting, I retell how I came to have the jewel, and how we used it to save ourselves from Vay.
I end by recounting how with the gem’s power I was able to animate the trees so that they would be the Vargs’ undoing.
Of course, once again, I leave out the part of how I and the golden can speak to each other. For some reason, it just doesn’t feel that the timing is right to reveal that particular secret.
When I finish, Alonya leans back against the rough stone and just stares, first at me and then at the gem. “I have heard of the dragon tear legend, of course,” she affirms, “but I discounted it as just Drach folklore and nothing more.”
She inhales deeply. “But now, to know that legend is actual fact . . .” her voice dies to a whisper as she gazes at the gemstone.
She then turns to Phigby. “And you say this book of yours directed you to the domain?”
In answer, Phigby reaches into his haversack and brings out the sealed manuscript. He holds it out for Alonya, who puts one of her fingers into a depression. “And this is where the jewel sits?”
“Yes,” I answer. “We’ve tried opening the book again using the gem, but it won’t open.”
She lets out a breath and murmurs, “I am but a simple warrior. Magic, and spells, and mystical jewels are beyond my knowledge except as childhood tales told around a trail campfire.”
She peers at Phigby darkly. “And you must think me a child not to have told me of this in your first accounting.”
“No, my lady Alonya,” Phigby answers. “Far from it. But please understand our predicament. We are wanderers without a home and with enemies seemingly on all sides. If you were us, would you not be careful with what you share with a just-met stranger?”
Alonya and Phigby stare at each other, neither blinking before Alonya gives a slow nod. “Yes,” she concedes, “I guess I would be as careful.”
Master Boren addresses Alonya. “My lady, does this change anything between us?”
Alonya doesn’t immediately answer, and her eyes flick between the dragon jewel, Phigby’s book, and Golden Wind. She finally stirs and takes in a deep breath as if she’s reached some inner decision.