She lay down, lowering herself cautiously among a bed of ferns, her back against the side of the throat, the same position – she remembered – in which she had fallen asleep that first night inside the dragon so many years before. She started to slip, to dwindle inside herself, but was alerted by a whispery rustling that grew louder and louder, and a moment later swarms of insects began to pour from the dragon’s throat, passing overhead with a whirring rush and in such density that they cut off most of the light issuing from the mouth. Far above, like the shadows of spiders, apes were swinging on the vines that depended from the roof of the mouth, heading for the outer world, and Catherine could hear smaller animals scuttling through the brush. The sight of these flights made her feel accomplished, secure in what she had done, and she settled back, resting her head against Griaule’s flesh, as peaceful as she could ever recall, almost eager to be done with life, with drugs and solitude and violence. She had a moment’s worry about the Feelys, wondering where they were; but then she realized that they would probably do no differently than had their remote ancestor, that they would hide in the thickets until all was calm.
She let her eyes close. The pain of the wound had diminished to a distant throb that scarcely troubled her, and the throbbing made a rhythm that seemed to be bearing her up. Somebody was talking to her, saying her name, and she resisted the urge to open her eyes, not wanting to be called back. She must be hearing things, she thought. But the voice persisted, and at last she did open her eyes. She gave a weak laugh on seeing Amos Mauldry kneeling before her, wavering and vague as a ghost, and realized that she was seeing things, too.
‘Catherine,’ he said. ‘Can you hear me?’
‘No,’ she said, and laughed again, a laugh that sent her into a bout of gasping; she felt her weakness in a new and poignant way, and it frightened her.
‘Catherine?’
She blinked, trying to make him disappear; but he appeared to solidify as if she were becoming more part of his world than that of life. ‘What is it, Mauldry?’ she said, and coughed. ‘Have you come to guide me to heaven . . . is that it?’
His lips moved, and she had the idea that he was trying to reassure her of something; but she couldn’t hear his words, no matter how hard she strained her ears. He was beginning to fade, becoming opaque, proving himself to be no more than a phantom; yet as she blacked out, experiencing a final moment of panic, Catherine could have sworn that she felt him take her hand.
She awoke in a golden glow that dimmed and brightened, and found herself staring into a face; after a moment, a long moment, because the face was much different than she had imagined it during these past few years, she recognized that it was hers. She lay still, trying to accommodate to this state of affairs, wondering why she wasn’t dead, puzzling over the face and uncertain why she wasn’t afraid; she felt strong and alert and at peace. She sat up and discovered that she was naked, that she was sitting in a small chamber lit by veins of golden blood branching across the ceiling, its walls obscured by vines with glossy dark green leaves. The body – her body – was lying on its back, and one side of the shirt it wore was soaked with blood. Folded beside the body was a fresh shirt, trousers, and resting atop these was a pair of sandals.
She checked her side – there was no sign of a wound. Her emotions were a mix of relief and self-loathing. She understood that somehow she had been conveyed to this cavity, to the ghostvine, and her essences had been transferred to a likeness, and yet she had trouble accepting the fact, because she felt no different than she had before . . . except for the feelings of peace and strength, and the fact that she had no craving for the drug. She tried to deny what had happened, to deny that she was now a thing, the bizarre contrivance of a plant, and it seemed that her thoughts, familiar in their ordinary process, were proofs that she must be wrong in her assumption. However, the body was an even more powerful evidence to the contrary. She would have liked to take refuge in panic, but her overall feeling of well-being prevented this. She began to grow cold, her skin pebbling, and reluctantly she dressed in the clothing folded beside the body. Something hard in the breast pocket of the shirt. She opened the pocket, took out a small leather sack; she loosed the tie of the sack and from it poured a fortune of cut gems into her hand: diamonds, emeralds, and sunstones. She put the sack back into the pocket, not knowing what to make of the stones, and sat looking at the body. It was much changed from its youth, leaner, less voluptuous, and in the repose of death, the face had lost its gloss and perfection, and was merely the face of an attractive woman . . . a disheartened woman. She thought she should feel something, that she should be oppressed by the sight, but she had no reaction to it; it might have been a skin she had shed, something of no more consequence than that.
She had no idea where to go, but realizing that she couldn’t stay there forever, she stood and with a last glance at the body, she made her way down the narrow channel leading away from the cavity. When she emerged into the passage, she hesitated, unsure of which direction to choose, unsure, too, of which direction was open to her. At length, deciding not to tempt Griaule’s judgment, she headed back toward the colony, thinking that she would take part in helping them rebuild; but before she had gone ten feet she heard Mauldry’s voice calling her name.
He was standing by the entrance to the cavity, dressed as he had been that first night – in a satin frock coat, carrying his gold-knobbed cane – and as she approached him, a smile broke across his wrinkled face, and he nodded as if in approval of her resurrection. ‘Surprised to see me?’ he asked.
‘I . . . I don’t know,’ she said, a little afraid of him. ‘Was that you . . . in the mouth?’
He favored her with a polite bow. ‘None other. After things settled down, I had some of the Feelys bear you to the cavity. Or rather I was the one who effected Griaule’s will in the matter. Did you look in the pocket of your shirt?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you found the gems. Good, good.’
She was at a loss for words at first. ‘I thought I saw you once before,’ she said finally. ‘A few years back.’
‘I’m sure you did. After my rebirth,’ – he gestured toward the cavity – ‘I was no longer of any use to you. You were forging your own path and my presence would have hampered your process. So I hid among the Feelys, waiting for the time when you would need me.’ He squinted at her. ‘You look troubled.’
‘I don’t understand any of this,’ she said. ‘How can I feel like my old self, when I’m obviously so different?’
‘Are you?’ he asked. ‘Isn’t sameness or difference mostly a matter of feeling?’ He took her arm, steered her along the passage away from the colony. ‘You’ll adjust to it, Catherine. I have, and I had the same reaction as you when I first awoke.’ He spread his arms, inviting her to examine him. ‘Do I look different to you? Aren’t I the same old fool as ever?’
‘So it seems,’ she said drily. She walked a few paces in silence, then something occurred to her. ‘The Feelys . . . do they . . .’
‘Rebirth is only for the chosen, the select. The Feelys receive another sort of reward, one not given me to understand.’
‘You call this a reward? To be subject to more of Griaule’s whims? And what’s next for me? Am I to discover when his bowels are due to move?’
He stopped walking, frowning at her.
‘Next? Why, whatever pleases you, Catherine. I’ve been assuming that you’d want to leave, but you’re free to do as you wish. Those gems I gave you will buy you any kind of life you desire.’
‘I can leave?’
‘Most assuredly. You’ve accomplished your purpose here, and you’re your own agent now. Do you want to leave?’
Catherine looked at him, unable to speak, and nodded.
‘Well, then.’ He took her arm again. ‘Let’s be off.’
As they walked down to the chamber behind the throat and then into the throat itself, Catherine felt as one is supposed to feel at the moment of death, a
ll the memories of her life within the dragon passing before her eyes with their attendant emotions – her flight, her labors and studies, John, the long hours spent beside the heart – and she thought that this was most appropriate, because she was not re-entering life but rather passing through into a kind of afterlife, a place beyond death that would be as unfamiliar and new a place as Griaule himself had once seemed. And she was astounded to realize that she was frightened of these new possibilities, that the thing she had wanted for so long could pose a menace and that it was the dragon who now offered the prospect of security. On several occasions she considered turning back, but each time she did, she rebuked herself for her timidity and continued on. However, on reaching the mouth and wending her way through the thickets, her fear grew more pronounced. The sunlight, that same light that not so many months before had been alluring, now hurt her eyes and made her want to draw back into the dim golden murk of Griaule’s blood; and as they neared the lip, as she stepped into the shadow of a fang, she began to tremble with cold and stopped, hugging herself to keep warm.
Mauldry took up a position facing her, jogged her arm. ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘You seem frightened.’
‘I am,’ she said; she glanced up at him. ‘Maybe . . .’
‘Don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘You’ll be fine once you’re away from here. And,’ – he cocked his eye toward the declining sun – ‘you should be pushing along. You don’t want to be hanging about the mouth when it’s dark. I doubt anything would harm you, but since you’re no longer part of Griaule’s plan . . . well, better safe than sorry.’ He gave her a push. ‘Get along with you, now.’
‘You’re not coming with me?’
‘Me?’ Mauldry chuckled. ‘What would I do out there? I’m an old man, set in my ways. No, I’m far better off staying with the Feelys. I’ve become half a Feely myself after all these years. But you’re young, you’ve got a whole world of life ahead of you.’ He nudged her forward. ‘Do what I say, girl. There’s no use in your hanging about any longer.’
She went a couple of steps toward the lip, paused, feeling sentimental about leaving the old man; though they had never been close, he had been like a father to her . . . and thinking this, remembering her real father, whom she had scarcely thought of these last years, with whom she’d had the same lack of closeness, that made her aware of all the things she had to look forward to, all the lost things she might now regain. She moved into the thickets with a firmer step, and behind her, old Mauldry called to her for a last time.
‘That’s my girl!’ he sang out. ‘You just keep going, and you’ll start to feel at rights soon enough! There’s nothing to be afraid of . . . nothing you can avoid, in any case! Goodbye, goodbye!’
She glanced back, waved, saw him shaking his cane in a gesture of farewell, and laughed at his eccentric appearance: a funny little man in satin rags hopping up and down in that great shadow between the fangs. Out from beneath that shadow herself, the rich light warmed her, seeming to penetrate and dissolve all the coldness that had been lodged in her bones and thoughts.
‘Goodbye!’ cried Mauldry. ‘Goodbye! Don’t be sad! You’re not leaving anything important behind, and you’re taking the best parts with you. Just walk fast and think about what you’re going to tell everyone. They’ll be amazed by all you’ve done! Flabbergasted! Tell them about Griaule! Tell them what he’s like, tell them all you’ve seen and all you’ve learned. Tell them what a grand adventure you’ve had!’
Eight
Returning to Hangtown was in some ways a more unsettling experience than had been Catherine’s flight into the dragon. She had expected the place to have changed, and while there had been minor changes, she had assumed that it would be as different from its old self as was she. But standing at the edge of the village, looking out at the gray weathered shacks ringing the fouled shallows of the lake, thin smokes issuing from tin chimneys, the cliff of the fronto-parietal plate casting its gloomy shadow, the chokecherry thickets, the hawthorns, the dark brown dirt of the streets, three elderly men sitting on cane chairs in front of one of the shacks, smoking their pipes and staring back at her with unabashed curiosity . . . superficially it was no different than it had been ten years before, and this seemed to imply that her years of imprisonment, her death and rebirth had been of small importance. She did not demand that they be important to anyone else, yet it galled her that the world had passed through those years of ordeal without significant scars, and it also imbued her with the irrational fear that if she were to enter the village, she might suffer some magical slippage back through time and re-inhabit her old life. At last, with a hesitant step, she walked over to the men and wished them a good morning.
‘Mornin’,’ said a paunchy fellow with a mottled bald scalp and a fringe of gray beard, whom she recognized as Tim Weedlon. ‘What can I do for you, ma’am? Got some nice bits of scale inside.’
‘That place over there,’ – she pointed to an abandoned shack down the street, its roof holed and missing the door – ‘where can I find the owner?’
The other man, Mardo Koren, thin as a mantis, his face seamed and blotched, said, ‘Can’t nobody say for sure. Ol’ Riall died . . . must be goin’ on nine, ten years back.’
‘He’s dead?’ She felt weak inside, dazed.
‘Yep,’ said Tim Weedlon, studying her face, his brow furrowed, his expression bewildered. ‘His daughter run away, killed a village man name of Willen and vanished into nowhere . . . or so ever’body figured. Then when Willen’s brothers turned up missin’, people thought ol’ Riall musta done ’em. He didn’t deny it. Acted like he didn’t care whether he lived or died.’
‘What happened?’
‘They had a trial, found Riall guilty.’ He leaned forward, squinting at her. ‘Catherine . . . is that you?’
She nodded, struggling for control. ‘What did they do with him?’
‘How can it be you?’ he said. ‘Where you been?’
‘What happened to my father?’
‘God, Catherine. You know what happens to them that’s found guilty of murder. If it’s any comfort, the truth come out finally.’
‘They took him in under the wing . . . they left him under the wing?’ Her fists clenched, nails pricking hard into her palm. ‘Is that what they did?’
He lowered his eyes, picked at a fray on his trouserleg.
Her eyes filled, and she turned away, facing the mossy overhang of the fronto-parietal plate. ‘You said the truth came out.’
‘That’s right. A girl confessed to having seen the whole thing. Said the Willens chased you into Griaule’s mouth. She woulda come forward sooner, but ol’ man Willen had her feared for her life. Said he’d kill her if she told. You probably remember her. Friend of yours, if I recall. Brianne.’
She whirled around, repeated the name with venom.
‘Wasn’t she your friend?’ Weedlon asked.
‘What happened to her?’
‘Why . . . nothing,’ said Weedlon. ‘She’s married, got hitched to Zev Mallison. Got herself a batch of children. I ’spect she’s home now if you wanna see her. You know the Mallison place, don’tcha?’
‘Yes.’
‘You want to know more about it, you oughta drop by there and talk to Brianne.’
‘I guess . . . I will, I’ll do that.’
‘Now tell us where you been, Catherine. Ten years! Musta been something important to keep you from home for so long.’
Coldness was spreading through her, turning her to ice. ‘I was thinking, Tim . . . I was thinking I might like to do some scaling while I’m here. Just for old time’s sake, you know.’ She could hear the shakiness in her voice and tried to smooth it out; she forced a smile. ‘I wonder if I could borrow some hooks.’
‘Hooks?’ He scratched his head, still regarding her with confusion. ‘Sure, I suppose you can. But aren’t you going to tell us where you’ve been? We thought you were dead.’
‘I will, I promise. Before I leave . . . I�
�ll come back and tell you all about it. All right?’
‘Well, all right.’ He heaved up from his chair. ‘But it’s a cruel thing you’re doing, Catherine.’
‘No crueler than what’s been done to me,’ she said distractedly. ‘Not half so cruel.’
‘Pardon,’ said Tim. ‘How’s that?’
‘What?’
He gave her a searching look and said, ‘I was telling you it was a cruel thing, keeping an old man in suspense about where you’ve been. Why you’re going to make the choicest bit of gossip we’ve had in years. And you came back with . . .’
‘Oh! I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I was thinking about something else.’
The Mallison place was among the larger shanties in Hangtown, half-a-dozen rooms, most of which had been added on over the years since Catherine had left; but its size was no evidence of wealth or status, only of a more expansive poverty. Next to the steps leading to a badly hung door was a litter of bones and mango skins and other garbage. Fruit flies hovered above a watermelon rind; a gray dog with its ribs showing slunk off around the corner, and there was a stink of fried onions and boiled greens. From inside came the squalling of a child. The shanty looked false to Catherine, an unassuming facade behind which lay a monstrous reality – the woman who had betrayed her, killed her father – and yet its drabness was sufficient to disarm her anger somewhat. But as she mounted the steps there was a thud as of something heavy falling, and a woman shouted. The voice was harsh, deeper than Catherine remembered, but she knew it must belong to Brianne, and that restored her vengeful mood. She knocked on the door with one of Tim Weedlon’s scaling hooks, and a second later it was flung open and she was confronted by an olive-skinned woman in torn gray skirts – almost the same color as the weathered boards, as if she were the quintessential product of the environment – and gray streaks in her dark brown hair. She looked Catherine up and down, her face hard with displeasure, and said, ‘What do you want?’
The Dragon Griaule Page 12