The man's brows beetled, barely visible through the eye slits. Clearly, he had never considered the details of such a thing before. "You'd defile her, of course."
The dragon snorted a smoky, derisive laugh. "Imagine that." Through the mental bond, the dragon watched the man struggle and fail to do so.
Instead, he changed the reason. "To eat her."
"Bleah." The dragon crunched his face at the thought of devouring humans. "If I've eaten her, then you're too late, aren't you?"
Frustration raised new anger in the man. "Fine! No woman, then. Good needs little reason to slay what's evil."
The dragon's head drifted through the opening, sunlight gleaming from clean, yellow scales. He fixed one sorrowful, scarlet eye on the man, cocking his head for a better look. "What makes you so damned good?"
The man raised his sword and lunged for the eye.
The dragon jerked back. The blade skimmed his cheek, scraping a line of scales and skin. A drop of blood fell to the ground as the dragon retreated back into his lair with a startled cry. "Ow!" Instantly, he struck back, foot shooting from the cave with a suddenness intended to startle. The man blocked the claws with his shield, but one slipped beneath his defense. The dragon stabbed the toenail through a breach in the warrior's armor, poking without raking. He zipped his foot back into the cave. "There. I do as you do. See, we're both good." He drifted back into the cave, annoyed by the man and tired of wasting his time on one so unworthy.
Shocked, the man said nothing.
Giant tears welled in the dragon's eyes, splashing to the stone despite attempts to control them. He felt foolish. Twenty years had passed since he had last seen his human friend, twenty years that had passed like twenty thousand. He dared to hope he had discovered another who might share the world that friendship had made glorious: colorful with flowers and rainbows, misty from ever-present rain, the sky a blue-gray playground of clouds through which they flashed, flew, capered, and exchanged thunderous war cries. Yet, he had discovered nothing but a resentful, ugly man who bore no relationship to the child with whom he had played. His back seemed empty where the boy's warm body used to fit, every breeze a cold reminder of his absence. The dragon slumped to the cave floor, all will to play or fight disappearing. If the man chose to kill him for his own invented reasons, perhaps death would prove less painful than a tiresome, lonely eternity.
Lost in his own sorrow, the dragon did not notice the change that gradually washed over the man outside until he recognized deep-seated memories painfully dragged from the man's distant past. Hostility faded, replaced by cautious excitement.
The dragon froze in place, knowing joy and sadness at once. He leapt up and whirled suddenly, tail slapping against stone, then roared a greeting that sent every stone in the world to shaking. "Josi?"
"Ohr," the man whispered, the sound audible in the intense silence that followed the dragon's call. "That can't be you." His defenses slipped only slightly, just enough to barely reveal the familiar child trapped beneath the weight of responsibilities, warped and changed by circumstance.
Ohr poked his head through the opening again, this time cautious.
The man hurled his sword to the ground, and his helmet followed swiftly. The face was unfamiliar, broader and coarser than Ohr remembered. The eyes did seem the same, but only in color and depth. He did not recognize their harshness. The unruly mop of black hair had been clipped short, as his imagination. "It can't be. How can it be?" Realization crowded in, an understanding that he had conjured more than just an ancient picture into which he could force any personality or intention he wished. This was not just an empty mental image to fill and distort on a whim. This was Ohr.
The dragon surrendered to some bitterness of his own. "How could you leave me? I thought we were friends."
"Friends," the man repeated distantly. "Friends, yes." The repetition seemed to jar him from his thoughtful silence. "They call me Joshua, now. Josi was a childhood nickname."
"I am called nothing," Ohr returned. "A lonely dragon needs no name when there is no one to speak it."
The man hung his head, truly remorseful if only momentarily. Rationalization quickly welled up to block the guilt. "I'm sorry, Ohr. I loved you, you know."
"Loved?" The dragon fished for more.
He did not get it. "Loved." Joshua met one huge, red eye with his own. "I will not lie to you. I have not thought of you for longer than a decade. I don't know if I still love you."
"Oh." The dragon hung his head, vision lost to a blur of moisture. A lump filled his throat, sending steam out his nostrils, and he found himself unable to say more. His creator, his god, and his friend had forgotten him.
Joshua took over where the dragon failed. "I'm not sure I can explain it in a way you can understand." Nevertheless, he tried. "Mortals die, so we change in short spans of time. I just grew up."
Ohr shook his head, trying to read the thoughts as well as the words; in the days when they had wound through the stormy skies together, they had had little use for spoken communication. Now, the bond between them, mentally and emotionally, had weakened, perhaps beyond repair. "You got bigger. So you abandoned me. And Eshem."
Joshua heaved a sigh, obviously frustrated by a point that seemed so obvious to a human yet nearly inexplicable to Ohr. "It has nothing to do with size or appearance. It's here." He tapped his temple with a finger. "And there." He made a broad gesture apparently meant to encompass the world. His world, not Eshem. "We begin innocent and ignorant. Time and life bring us experiences, and commitments we can't escape. I was a child when I romped with you. I became a man, and the obligations that age brings left me no room for an imagined playmate."
Ohr scratched at his scales with a hind leg, and his claws clicked against them. "Imagined?"
Joshua shrugged.
"And you like this adult life better than what we had?" Ohr tried to anticipate.
"No," Joshua admitted. "Most any man would rather spend his years frolicking in endless childhood. Your world allows that but mine doesn't. Day to day, lives hinge on my decisions. Men die by my hand and my decree, and I often can do nothing but hope more enemies die than friends. I look to God for guidance, and he gives it. But, at times, I wonder if he is any more real than you, if the lands he sends me to conquer, at the price of myriad strangers lives, is really ours to take. Am I Josi, or am I one of the enemies you and I defeated together? Are you the evil dragon who burns innocents and captures maidens, are you the lightning and thunder that frightened me as a child, or are you the beloved companion I created to allay that fear?"
"That last is easy," the dragon replied, still sorting the complexities of Joshua's explanation and hurting from timeworn need. One thing seemed strong and certain: his old friend was suffering. The pain was tangible, the twists of his logic less simple to follow. "I am Ohr."
"Yes," Joshua said, and the load seemed to lighten slightly. "You are Ohr."
"Stay here with me." The edges of the horizon had reddened, the first color the dragon had seen since Josi's disappearance years ago. Rain pattered to the stones, its sound lost for so long that its return seemed loud as an avalanche. His great heart ached for the past, and the only one who could bring joy and succor stood before him dismissing the bond they had once shared so completely. "There are no troubles here but those we create and defeat together."
Rain dragged strands of hair along Joshua's forehead and rattled against his armor. He studied his old friend, thoughts delving into distant memory and fantasy at once. Ohr knew he gave the invitation long and appropriate consideration, and the dragon followed his line of thought through decades of knowledge and battle. At last, the man found an answer, one filled with pain and hope. "Someday, old friend. When the autumn of my life turns to winter and my people no longer need me. If the Lord allows it, I will return to the one true love I ever had. We will dance again through the turbulent night sky, and my memories of life will seem as faded as our time together has now become."
Joshua smiled, and the first genuine ray of trust flickered through his darker thoughts. "I will." He hefted sword and helmet, heading back the way he had come.
Occasional rays of sunlight slithered through a dark layer of clouds, and the desert smelled of damp, A dreariness settled over the city of Jericho and its wall, so massive many of the shops and dwellings perched atop it, fused to its mighty construction. Joshua sat, cross-legged, amidst his army and silently marveled at the structure.
They would breach it; he did not doubt God's decree for a moment. The lands of the Children of Israel would expand to the banks of the sea. Yet, one question burdened him until its weight seemed like more than any packhorse, let alone human, could bear: How many will die as the price for this land?
It was not a question God would answer. The Almighty explained his conquests and desires in terms of generations, rewarding or punishing his followers and enemies en masse. The details fell to those he chose as his leaders, men like Moses and, now, Joshua. God would ascertain victory or defeat, but the details and strategies fell to Joshua. He only hoped he could live up to the task: the Chosen Peoples' bronze weaponry and scarce protections against Hittite steel. He wished his followers had access to the seemingly limitless iron stores of the enemy and wondered if the world together would ever discover enough to create the solid core of armor he had worn in his fantasied attack against a dragon who had turned out to be a childhood friend.
Soldiers and rabbis shifted, preparing themselves for the nightly circumnavigation of Jericho's fortifications. This time, the ritual called for them to circle seven times where they had done so only once each day for the previous six. No man dared to break the silence that had endured since camping outside the walled city, and Joshua appreciated having no need to chat or speculate. Tonight, they would expect a miracle, granted to Joshua from God.
But the spark was not there. All contact seemed to have left Joshua, as if the One Deity, He who had guaranteed success, had left him. A quiet loneliness gripped Joshua in a hold that seemed suffocating. He felt incomplete, as if he had cast aside a part of him too primal and dear to ignore. It went deep, eternal, and seemed to have haunted him for decades instead of days. It was not the Lord whom he missed. His faith remained too strong to doubt that God would take care of his Chosen Ones when the need arose. Joshua missed Ohr.
Sandwiched by warriors, the rabbis headed for the city. Wind gusted, hammering sand against the ramparts and into the faces of the soldiers. Joshua rose, shielding his eyes with a hand, driven to pace, though he did not. To reveal his inner turmoil would only distress his soldiers needlessly. He would stand stalwart, keeping his discomfort and uncertainty internal as he always did. Though surrounded by followers who adored and trusted him like a father, he felt very much alone; the only one who truly understood him was a figment of his own imagination.
The rabbis and soldiers made their circuits as rain dribbled from the sky. A few silent, curious eyes occasionally peered at them from over Jericho's fortifications. As commanded by Joshua, the Chosen Ones kept their circle wide, beyond bow shot of the city, safe from all but those who might charge them from Jericho or spies hidden outside who escaped the searches of the Children of Israel. But no one challenged the somber ritual. As the rabbis completed the seventh cycle, their robes soaked and their eyes averted from the sand, they headed back toward camp. Joshua still felt no fresh bond with the Lord, received no command, and worried.
The contingent returned too soon for Joshua. The seven rabbis clutched their ram's horn shofars, awaiting their general's command. He gestured for them to blow as the guarding soldiers returned to their places among the army. They played as one, each tone different enough to distinguish from the others and made musical by the steady rhythm of the rain. Every note dawned crisp and clear, though the blend made a strange cacophony over the wind. And, when each had finished and the music faded into obscurity, Joshua commanded the Children of Israel to let out a mutual shout.
The Chosen Ones gathered breath and called out at once, the sound mellow and unfocused in the wake of the rabbis' chorus. All eyes locked on Jericho as the community battle cry built to a rumble and died, the silence deeper and more terrible for its breaking. Yet, the city had not changed.
Sudden horror gripped Joshua then, the same he always knew in the presence of God. The lonely hollow in his gut seemed to wrench and tear within him, and God spoke in a voice so thunderous he thought every soldier around him would hear: The power to defeat Jericho is not a miracle I will grant. It is already within you. Then, the presence disappeared, and Joshua's loneliness and uncertainty trebled. He knew what he needed to do. He needed to call upon that part of his mind that had been a gift from God, the childhood innocence that created an enduring and eternal friend.
"Ohr," Joshua whispered so softly even he could not hear the call. But another did. As it had throughout his boyhood, his mind touched the loving beast with whom he had played, the only one who cared for him unreservedly, the only one who never judged.
Ohr! The dragon's head whipped up. Rain pounded the rock, drumming a symphony on the roof of his cave. Elation pierced him like a red-hot arrow. It was Josi, not Joshua who called, at least in spirit. The unshakeable faith and unconditional love of a child caressed Ohr in glorious waves that drove him nearly mad with pleasure. He flashed from his cave in an instant, cutting between worlds as he had not done since Josi's absence had plunged him into despair. His golden body lashed the night sky. "Josi!" he rumbled in reply, so loud his voice distorted the name. As lightning, he cleaved the clouds in a jagged trail. JOSI! Thunder blasted, a roar of fierce joy whose echoes, equally loud, refused to die.
The ground trembled beneath the sound, roiling and tumbling the Children of Israel like a child's reed fort in a gale. The river Jordan bucked into a tidal wave that blotted out the northern and eastern horizons. To the south, the sky went black, filled with the waters of the Dead Sea. The colossal wall of Jericho shuddered, as if it alone might thwart the dragon's might in defiance. Then, it seemed to hop from its foundation. Stone crashed and toppled. Buildings on the ramparts folded, and chips of granite, sand, and thatch filled the air.
Assailed by a wave of human terror and agony, Ohr hurled himself between the quaking rubble and the Children of Israel. Debris pounded him, and a flying stone snapped a horn at its base. Gritting his teeth against pain, he remained in place, shards stamping bruises the length of his body and delicate wings. Unconsciousness hovered, but still he remained in place, idly wondering what came after death for an immortal.
Then, suddenly, the barrage stopped and Joshua's soldiers no longer needed his shielding. Ohr took a dizzy step. Fire seemed to flow through his legs, yet he managed an awkward step. He flapped his bent and bleeding wings, surprised to find they could still support him. They ached with every beat; but he flew, gliding back toward his cave to wait in eager solitude until his childhood playmate became as permanent a fixture in the land of Eshem as the dragon who bore the name Light.
The slam of stone seemed soundless after the dragon roar that had deafened Joshua. Dust filled his eyes and choked him. He coughed, rolling on the ground in agony, blindly rubbing grit from his eyes.
It seemed like an eternity before voices replaced the ceaseless aftermath of ringing in Joshua'
s ears and tears washed the last of the stabbing fragments from his vision. Shakily, he rose. The Children of Israel sprawled, stood, or crouched at their camp, gazes universally locked on Jericho. Having ascertained their safety, Joshua turned his attention to the city as well. Shattered stone and wood littered the plain on which the mighty city had once stood in defiance. Glimmers of iron, bronze, and clay glittered amid the wreckage. The battle was over, even before it began and, apparently, the Chosen Ones had not taken a casualty.
Joshua gestured to the rabbis, and they led the Children of Israel in a fervent prayer during which his voice rose unhesitatingly above the others. Only after they had finished and he sent the soldiers to dispatch survivors and pick through the rubble did he tack on a single other phrase. Grinning like an infant, he whispered to the whistling wind. "I love you. I know now I always have."
A haggard jolt of lightning returned the sentiment.
BIRDIE
by Mike Resnick and Nicholas A. DiChario
I sleep.
Eventually the heavy oak doors of the wine cellar screech open, its iron hinges sprinkling detritus upon my earthen floor.
The slow creak-creak-creak of wary footsteps descend the rotted wooden staircase that has not borne the weight of man since—hmmm, let me think about this—Robert Darwin? God only knows how many years ago that was and BOOM! The wine cellar doors collapse again, leaving in their wake a young human boy, standing at the bottom of the cellar steps, trembling in the soft glow of a single flickering candle.
"Is there a dragon down here?" says the lad.
"Anything's possible," I answer.
The child gasps, and I see his white face turn a shade or two paler, and when he finally lets out his breath, out goes the candle. I seem to recall Robert, when he was a lad, making the same blunder—but when Robert blew out his candle he scrambled up the steps and pounded on the wine cellar doors, begging to be freed, screaming like a banshee that the dragon was about to devour him alive.
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