The Legend of Hooper's Dragons Box Set

by GARY DARBY

  30

  The next day as night begins to fall and the light failing, the oak trees thin and we break through a last line of trees to find ourselves staring at a bleak landscape of marsh and bogs, dotted with a few trees and dense, sharp-pointed bushes.

  We push ahead through the thick scrub in the last light and find ourselves having to follow a tiny trace that winds among the bogs. Amil brings us to a halt and we dismount to gather together to study the unwelcoming scene of shadowy overhanging trees and murky, stale water.

  “It’s becoming too dark to follow the trail,” Amil states. “With the ground becoming so soft and spongy, I’m afraid that if we lose the path, we could find ourselves and the dragons in quicksand.”

  He motions ahead at the darkening marshland. “This is the swamp’s beginning.”

  Jutting his square chin at the flat, watery bog, he growls, “Tomorrow, if our unluck holds, we’ll cast our eyes on Ukur’s Gate.”

  “Unluck?” Helmar snorts. “You mean luck, don’t you?”

  “Nay,” Amil grunts. “I do not consider it luck or lucky to be here and so close to that tormented place nor do I intend for us pass through and enter what lies beyond in that foul swamp in the night. We’ll wait for sunrise here and then make our way to the gate.”

  Phigby nods in agreement. “Of a surety, we can use the rest and the light from dragon glow in this place of darkness, but let’s keep it small, shall we? If any follow, we don’t want to make it any easier for them to find us.”

  At that, he bends over to peer intently at the muck that passes for soil. “What is it, Phigby?” I ask.

  He pushes his toe into the short, muddy grass before he gestures. “Very unusual,” he murmurs.

  “What’s unusual?”

  “The ground,” he answers, “there are patterns in the soil, little furrows that run in lines as if someone dragged their sword through the mud and grass.”

  I glance around, unsure of what he’s seeing. “I don’t see anything other than places where the ground’s split the grass and the mud oozed up.”

  He scratches at his head for a moment before he nods slowly as if agreeing. “Perhaps that’s all it is. Well, everyone, let’s find the driest spot we can and settle in for the night.”

  In the end, no one piece of somewhat dry ground is wide enough for all of us and we have to split up. I settle the golden on the largest spit of land that I can find and with Cara’s help, unload the sprogs.

  Once they’re down, I turn to Scamper and jab a finger at him, my voice stern. “No exploring, not in this place.”

  Aarrrhh, he replies in a mournful tone.

  “I mean it,” I respond. “You and the sprogs stay where we can see you.”

  Urrrrr, he growls before he trundles off with the sprogs in tow to the bog’s edge to lap at the green, slime-covered water.

  Cara chuckles as she watches Scamper lead his little caravan of sprogs away. “It’s amazing how those sprogs follow him around, like a mother duck with her ducklings.”

  “And a good thing, too,” I reply, “or they would constantly be underfoot and we’d be chasing them everywhere.”

  Like beads on a necklace, we’re forced to spread the dragons out along the narrow trace, but before the rest of us bed down, we gather in the center, next to Wind Song, to share Dazzle’s light.

  “Phigby,” Cara asks while gazing out at the darkness, “why does the swamp have so many different names?

  “I’ve heard,” she goes on, “the Wailing Swamp, or the Swamp of Lost Souls, and the Marsh of Lost and Tormented Souls among others. Why the different titles? And why do we have to enter the swamp exactly at this Ukur’s Gate?”

  Phigby has somehow managed to find a small log to sit on and rocks a little in his sitting position as he pushes his ever present bag to one side. “The story is old,” he begins, “very, very old.

  “Ukur was a favorite of the gods. Sometimes known as Ukur the Valiant or Ukur the Loyal; he was a brave, fearless warrior who was fiercely dedicated to the gods. However, he fell afoul of Celestial Law. He fell in love with Perseon, the daughter of Dagur, god of the daytime, and Esotere, the goddess of spring.

  “For a time, the two young people would meet secretly and Perseon returned Ukur’s love, but unfortunately, there came a time when the gods discovered their romance. The god’s decreed that Ukur was the guiltier of the two and while such a crime would typically lead to death, because of his great loyalty and devotion to the gods, they agreed not to take Ukur’s life.

  “In fact, because of all his heroic deeds on their behalf, they not only spared him, but they gave Perseon the chance to be with Ukur for the rest of their lives. Only, she would have to become mortal and live out her days on Erdron.”

  “That seems unfair,” Cara blurts out. “Why didn’t the gods just make Ukur immortal?”

  Phigby tugs at his beard while pursing his lips. “Whoever said the gods were fair, my dear? I suppose it was their way of punishing Perseon for falling in love with a mere mortal.”

  Cara’s face clouds up. “I still think it was unfair. If I were a god, I would have made Ukur immortal, perhaps just a minor god, but still a god so that he and Perseon could be together forever.”

  “An excellent sentiment, indeed,” Phigby acknowledges, “but in the meantime, do you want to hear the story or do you wish to debate the merits of the gods’ handling of the situation? As I said, whoever heard of the gods necessarily being fair?”

  “No,” Cara sniffs. “By all means, go on.”

  “Poor Perseon,” Phigby continues, “she loved Ukur, but the thought of living out her days as a mere mortal was too much for her, too much of a sacrifice, so she turned her back on Ukur.”

  “So much for love conquers all,” Amil grumbles.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” Phigby answers. “Naturally, Perseon’s decision devastated poor Ukur. Next to serving the gods, he had poured all of his heart, his energy, his life into loving Perseon, and now she had turned her back on him.

  “Distraught beyond reason, he began wandering the land, wailing, crying out in his woe and misery. He would shout up into the sky time and time again; ‘Perseon, my one true love, why have you forsaken me?

  “’Were not our hearts as one? When our hands, our lips touched, did you not feel my burning passion for you? Were not my love, my heart, my very soul enough for you? Why, my love, why?’”

  Phigby strokes his beard, staring at Dazzle’s glow. “Well, this went on for years. Ukur wandering the land, crying out in his misery until there came a point where the gods had heard enough of his loud and constant lamenting. They were going to put a stop to his endless caterwauling by killing him.

  “However, just before they were going to snuff out his life, Perseon had a small change of heart and went before the Pantheon to plead for Ukur.”

  “A small change of heart?” Cara questions.

  “Yes,” Phigby replies, “a small change of heart. You see, Perseon wasn’t willing to give up her immortality. However, she felt some pangs of guilt for Ukur’s condition and beseeched the gods to spare poor Ukur.

  “The gods agreed to a compromise. They would build an enormous swamp, enclose it with a cloud so thick that no sound could escape and there Ukur was to spend the remainder of his days. He could cry to the heavens day and night for all the gods cared, only they would never hear even a whisper of his voice.

  “Then it occurred to the gods that the swamp could serve other purposes, such as a place where they could send those who displeased them, whether it be one of us, or a forest beast, or fish, or fowl of the air. So, they built a gate and named it Ukur’s Gate—the only place where those exiled can enter the swamp.

  “Over time, however, the swamp became more than just Ukur’s eternal prison. It also became a place where rulers would cast their enemies or criminals, whether they were guilty or innocent of any crime.”

  “A place of tormented souls,” Cara stares.

  “I
ndeed,” Phigby replies.

  “So,” I ask, “does that mean that once you enter the swamp the only way out is back through Ukur’s Gate?”

  Phigby shakes his head and sighs. “If only it were so simple, Hooper. No, I’m afraid that the gate serves only as the entrance, it does not offer passage out of the swamp. To escape the marsh, one must find Perseon’s Way.”

  “Perseon’s Way?” Helmar asks. “What is that?”

  “After the gods placed Ukur in the swamp,” Phigby explains, “Perseon’s heart grew heavier and heavier. Call it guilt or remorse, nevertheless, she went back to the Pantheon and pleaded with them to provide a way to leave the swamp.

  “Her thought was that maybe someday, Ukur would overcome his grief. If he did, it would be unfair for him to have to live out his life in such a miserable and wretched place.

  “The gods agreed and they allowed Perseon to build another gate, one that leads from the swamp into our world of sunshine, fresh air, and green grass.”

  “Ah,” Cara replies in understanding, “Perseon’s Way out of the swamp.”

  “Exactly,” Phigby replies. “So, there is but one way to enter the swamp and but one way to quit the quagmire. Moreover, once inside, there are no directions to Perseon’s Way.

  “The legend says that only those who are innocent, or more pertinently, those with changed or repentant hearts can find the exit, and leave the swamp.”

  Phigby holds his hands out. “And so now you know the legend of Ukur’s Gate and what lies beyond.”

  “Lovely,” Amil grumbles, “just lovely.”

  “Ukur,” Cara asks, “was he ever able to leave the swamp?”

  Phigby nods and runs his fingers through this bushy beard. “As the story goes, he eventually did, which gives rise to the thought that there is always hope, that you can change your heart or circumstances for the better, no matter how dire your situation.”

  “But wait,” Alonya protests, “you said that the cloud surrounding the swamp was made so thick that no sound could come out, yet Amil says he heard wails and such when he grew close.”

  “Aye, that’s right,” Amil affirms, “I did.”

  Phigby shrugs. “Easily explained. Once Ukur left the swamp the gods didn’t care if other noises escaped, they just didn’t want to hear Ukur. The normal laments and wails of Erdron they hear everyday—”

  “And usually ignore,” Amil grouses.

  “Yes, well,” Phigby bleakly smiles, “after Ukur returned to the world and stopped his constant beseeching the swamp lost its ability to muffle all sounds from the outside.”

  No one speaks for several moments until Helmar rises, snatches up his bow and states, “I’ll take the first watch.”

  “I’ll take the second,” Cara replies.

  “I’ll greet the dawn,” Amil grunts, “I won’t be able to sleep anyway, knowing what we’re up against tomorrow.”

  With that, I make my way back to settle against Golden Wind. She already has her eyes closed in sleep. Scamper brings his troop of sprogs close and they cuddle next to me.

  As the sprites huddle in a small circle on one side, I smile to myself. It would seem I’m surrounded by dragons, and what’s more, I don’t mind it one bit. It doesn’t take long before my little troop of dragons are asleep.

  I eye them with envy as I wish I could fall into slumber as easily. My thoughts keep swirling around the notion of what might lie past Ukur’s Gate and why we’ve been led here.

  Will tomorrow bring answers to why we’re here or will we once again face some dire threat and be in a fight for our lives?

  As the evening cools, like steam rising from a pot that’s just beginning to boil, wisps of fog begin to swirl off the surrounding bogs’ smooth water. A soft breeze roils the fog and sweeps it across our small spot of dry ground and my snoring dragon herd. I wrinkle my nose at a musky, foul odor that accompanies the vapors. I cover my nose with my tunic so as to not breathe in the noxious smell.

  Between the dragons snoring and the fumes, I can’t sleep, so I get up and wander a few paces away where I sit and stare at the darkness. Finally, my eyes grow heavy and I drop off into a fitful sleep.

  I’m dreaming that I’m trying to wake up from sleep, but I can’t. The more I try, the harder it becomes. My arms and legs feel as if powerful arms are holding me down, the more I struggle, the tighter the grip becomes.

  From somewhere nearby comes a muffled, Help!

  It’s Cara.

  That jolts me awake.

  I’m alone, floating on a tiny island on the water’s surface and in the middle of a thick cloud of fog. Golden Wind, Scamper, the rest of the dragons are nowhere in sight.

  Springing to my feet, I find myself tipping back and forth, trying to keep my balance as my abrupt movement causes my floating grass island to rock back and forth, almost dumping me into the water.

  I stumble around, trying to keep my balance and not fall off while yelling, “Cara!”

  “Hooper? Help!”

  Whirling to the side that I think her voice is coming from, I yell out, “Cara!”

  “Hooper, over here! Hurry!”

  I can hear her—I just can’t see her.

  I peer down into the dark, roiled water. How deep is it? Dare I take a chance and swim in the scummy stuff?

  “Golden Wind!” I cry out. I call again. No answer.

  “Where’s a golden dragon when you need one,” I growl to myself.

  “Cara, I can’t see you. Yell again!”

  In answer, comes, “Hooper, help me, I’m caught and sinking!”

  I spin around. Cara’s voice came from behind me and closer this time. Without hesitating, I flop into the water and like a dog, paddle toward where I heard Cara.

  I’m not a strong swimmer and my sword is weighing me down. Nevertheless, I furiously kick and paddle while spitting out muddy water that tastes like I’ve bitten into a rotten hard-boiled egg.

  “Hooper, hurry!”

  I whip my head to one side. Cara’s voice seemed to come from right beside me. I paddle in that direction, until, in the gloom, I make out another tiny floating island.

  My eyes widen at what I see. Cara’s head, shoulders, and arms are sticking up through the floating plants, but the rest of her has disappeared.

  I swim with everything I have toward her, grab at the tangled vegetation and manage to hoist myself onto the little island.

  On all fours, I scramble across the slick, muddy matted plants and throw myself at Cara. I wrap my arms around her and she clings to me, our bodies pressed together, cheek to cheek.

  “I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” I keep repeating. She holds on that much tighter and a little sob escapes her throat.

  Catching my breath, I rasp out, “Are you all right?”

  Her head is buried in my shoulder, but I hear a muffled, “I can’t get out, it keeps sucking me down.”

  Spreading my legs and digging my feet into the matted plants, I say, “Hold tight, I’m going to try and pull you out.”

  Tightening my grasp on her, I tug with all my might. Cara is squirming, wiggling, trying to free herself, but the more we struggle, the more she slips down.

  “Stop!” She cries. “I’m sinking further.”

  I stop yanking, but don’t let go of her. Instead, I scrunch even closer, trying to pull her tighter to me. We’re cheek to cheek, her mouth against my ear, my mouth against her cheek. “Listen, hold onto me tight, I’m going to try and reach the emerald.”

  She tightens her grasp on me. I loosen my grip and start to reach for the emerald gemstone.

  As if in answer, the island begins to pull her under. She squeaks, “I’m slipping!”

  I stop and whip my arm around her, preventing her from sliding farther. We stay that way, catching our breath. “Well, so much for that idea,” I breathe.

  Thinking for a moment, I say, “Yell out again, maybe someone will hear you.”

  She gives a little nod and shouts, “Helmar! Helma
r! Help!”

  Of course, she yelled for Helmar, who else? Not only that, my ear is ringing from her shouting. A small price to pay, if we get rescued.

  We wait, listening, but there’s no answering call. I move my head a little to the side, away from her mouth. “Again.”

  She takes a deep breath and shouts as loud as she can for Helmar. We wait, listening, but no one calls back.

  “No one’s coming, Hooper,” Cara moans in a small voice, “what are we going to do?”

  I tighten my hold on her. “Someone will find us,” I reply, in what I hope is a confident voice. “They’re out looking for us right now. I’m sure of it.”

  “But what if they’re like me?” she groans. “Stuck? Or worse?”

  I don’t have an answer and though I don’t admit it to Cara, that same thought has already crossed my mind.

  We bob on the water, neither speaking for a time, just holding onto to each other. At another time and place, to be this close to Cara, her soft cheek against mine, her warm breath against my face would be more than heavenly.

  But right now, I’ve got to find a way to save her, to keep her from being pulled under and drowned in the plant island’s entangling roots.

  The trouble is—I don’t know how.

  After a bit, Cara whispers, “Hooper?”

  “Yes, Cara?”

  “You won’t leave me, will you, no matter what?”

  If it’s possible, I bring her even closer to me. “I will never leave you, Cara.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “Dragon scale promise?”

  Dragon scales—hard, firm, everlasting it seems. A dragon scale promise is meant to be forever, too.

  “Dragon scale promise,” I answer.

  “Thank you, Hooper, I feel better now.”

  Before I can answer, our little island starts to shift and swirl. “What—” I begin, when Cara screams, “Hooper! It’s pulling me under!”

  I don’t know what’s happening, all I know is that no matter how tight I hold onto Cara, she’s slipping farther down.

  Pulling as hard as I can, I fight back, but it’s no use, I’m not strong enough. The water’s past her shoulders, and then up to her neck. I’m struggling with all my might as is Cara, but it’s not working, her chin is into the roots.