Dragon's Eye

by Christopher Stasheff

  In the days that follow, Charles' spirits brighten under my care and attention. He is excited about leaving the ship and traveling by land from Bahia Blanca to Buenos Aires. He is reluctant to leave me behind, but I assure him that I will be fine.

  When he finally meets up with the Beagle again, he seems more energetic. He has collected hoards of specimens, some to dissect, some to stuff, and others merely to observe. He seems his old self again—enthusiastic, inquisitive, determined, even expedient. He has returned with a gift for me, a bright, jade-crimson-turquoise-colored blanket, woven by a half-naked woman of some South American Indian tribe. It's big enough to fit around me like a shawl. Much to my surprise, I adore it.

  I notice he has returned with something else as well. His skin is covered with red bumps, some of them swollen, some of them scabbed, and he cannot stop himself from scratching. "We were attacked by large, black bugs as we crossed the Pampas."

  "What kind of bugs?"

  "Benchuca, I believe."

  "What can we do for the itch?" I ask.

  "Nothing. Nothing can be done. The bumps will disappear soon. You can stop mothering me now." And then he smiles and winks.

  "Welcome back," I say.

  So the days turn into weeks, months, and so on and so forth . . . the Falkland Islands, the Strait of Magellan, Chile, Peru, and the Galapagos Archipelago fall behind us. Once in a while, late at night, Charles will sneak me on deck where I will watch the waves roll beneath the ship, look up at the bright moon and the vast canvas of stars, and feel the salty spray of the sea upon my face.

  Charles' gloominess returns only when he finds it necessary, ever so often, to inform me that he has still found no clues to my origins. On such occasions he hangs his head low and speaks into his chin and cannot look me in the eye.

  This infuriates me. Why can he not let go of this childhood obsession with the origin of my species? But I keep my anger to myself. Charles needs my support. He has dealt with more defeatism and opposition in a quarter-century of his life than I've seen in eight or nine centuries of mine.

  I am a dragon, I remind myself, and Charles is only a man.

  When we set sail for Van Diemen's Land, Australia, the crew begins to talk about something more than food and ale, more even than naked women, and I don't like what I'm hearing. Apparently the aborigines there were run off by the white settlers only a few months ago, and since that time raids and burnings and robberies and murders have become commonplace, the aborigines striking back with small ambushes whenever and wherever possible.

  When we drop anchor, I tell Charles, "I don't want you going ashore. The natives are restless."

  "Nonsense, Birdie. The town is secure and most of the natives have been deported to another island. We'll be docked for ten days and I'll need to make some excursions inland to examine the unique geological structures of the area."

  "You've got more than enough—"

  "Birdie, this expedition is nearly at its end and I've still found no clues to your origins! There are some highly fossiliferous strata in Van Diemen's Land, and I must take every opportunity to—"

  "My origins! My origins!" I feel the heat rise into my snout. I rear back on my haunches, and my nostrils begin to flare. "Why can't you just give it up?" I can't remember the last time I've been angry enough to smolder like this.

  Charles takes a step back. For the first time in all the years we have known each other, he is afraid of me. Why do I worry so about Charles? I am a dragon. What do I care for the ephemeral pursuits of Man? And yet I do care about Charles.

  The heat of the moment passes. I plop down on the floor, let my nostrils fizzle out, and pull my Indian blanket up around my neck and shoulders. "I'm sorry," I say.

  Charles exhales slowly, trying to pretend he was not frightened, though we both know he was. "It's been a long voyage for us all," he says. "I think everyone is tired, including you. Just remember to keep your voice down, We don't want FitzRoy catching on to us this late in the game."

  "FitzRoy couldn't catch a mountain if Mahomet dropped it on him."

  "Have you ever met Mahomet?" he asks.

  "Possibly," I answer.

  Charles climbs out of the aft hold, leaving me to stew for ten days.

  Only it's not ten days when the trouble begins. I hear the explosions of black-powder rifles. My ears perk up. Men are shouting. I smell smoke.

  "Charles?"

  I climb the steps of the aft hold. The hatch is padlocked shut. I feel the anger rise within me. My belly churns like a furnace and I feel my throat burn with red heat. It has been so long since I've erupted, it almost frightens me. My body trembles. My throat tastes like coal. My saliva drips like hot tar. I am appalled at the digestive system I must house in order to manage such an internal inferno.

  I rear back and belch, blowing a fire hole through the hatch.

  There is nothing left to do but burst onto the upper deck.

  It is a pitch-black night. The Beagle has been abandoned. All hands are on shore. It seems that the aborigines have attacked the town.

  Charles!

  I leap overboard, splash into the sea. The water drowns my fire, and I sink like a stone. I suddenly remember that I can't swim. But I know how to fly, so I start flapping my wings. Higher, higher, higher I rise—and finally I break the surface.

  Into the great mysterious night I fly! It has been so long. Centuries! Up over the Beagle, over the sea that ripples the gold-orange of the burning town below me, up over the town itself, I fly.

  The aborigines are withdrawing. They've killed. They've taken prisoners. The townsfolk fire their balls aimlessly into the dark. But I am a dragon and my eyes can see everything. I can see the dancing spears of the natives, their hurried retreat, their wounded victims and struggling prisoners . . . and Charles! Charles has been taken at spear point, his hands bound behind him, driven like an animal by a dozen aborigines into the black forest. If they reach the thick of the woodlands, I'll never find him, I'll never see him again.

  The fire screams within me!

  I dive!

  "Chaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarles—!"

  My fire rakes through the aborigines, setting the field of their retreat aflame. They scream. Charles screams. I make my pass and my wings caress the air and I circle back, a trail of fiery phlegm cutting through the black night, and I dive again. One native, two natives catch fire and roll in the grass. The others run for their lives. Charles has fallen. Smoke billows. I circle and dive and circle, giving the natives a damn good look at me. I shall live in their nightmares for the next ten generations! But I must save Charles before the fire or the smoke take him. So I dive once more, and like a hawk snaring its prey I pluck Charles out of the grass with my talons and take to the air again

  He looks up at me with stark terror in his eyes, and his lips form the question: Birdie?

  I glide low to the ground, as silent as the wind. I drop Charles in a safe field near town, and head back to the ship, without so much as a word to the poor boy. There is nothing to say. Charles has finally seen me for what I truly am, a dragon. It will take him time to adjust.

  When I land on deck, I scorch a few more areas of the bulwarks to mask my escape and make it look like the aborigines tried but failed to burn the vessel, and then I climb down through the ruined hatch, back into the aft hold, and curl up on the floor with my blanket.

  In the morning, after order has been restored, rumors pass among the crew of a flying creature all ablaze, a beast the size of a country cottage, storming through the nighttime sky and wreaking havoc among the aborigines. But it was dark, and there was so much confusion and so many fires that most of the seamen do not believe the tales, or if they do, they aren't willing to admit the truth.

  Charles is uninjured, but it is three days before he comes to the aft hold to tell me so.

  "I never should have gone ashore, Birdie."

  "Wisdom is hard learned," I tell him.

  But at least Charles has come to me.
I believe this is a gesture of acceptance. Man, I have come to learn, is a creature of metaphor.

  The two-year expedition runs five years in all.

  When we return, I retire to the Darwin dungeon. It is my home, after all. I curl up with my Indian blanket and sleep.

  Charles visits me often in that first year, and together we compile his Journal of Research Into the Geology and Natural History of the Various Countries Visited by H.M.S. Beagle under the Command of Captain FitzRoy, R.N. It's Charles' bright idea to include FitzRoy's name in the title, a point on which he refuses to compromise in spite of my objections. Otherwise, I edit the manuscript for him, suggesting some stylistic enhancements, all of which he agrees to, including striking all references to his faithful Birdie, a point on which I refuse to compromise because I insist upon protecting his scientific integrity.

  After the publication of the Journal, he is lionized by London's intellectual society, his career as a scientist catapults, and I know I'll never have to worry about Charles settling in as a country clergyman in some obscure backwoods parish.

  Still he visits me often, to tell me of an exciting speaking engagement, or of a treasured new colleague, or of an admiring letter from some American naturalist, and one day when he comes, he tells me of his cousin, Emma Wedgwood, to whom he has proposed marriage.

  Even after he is married and moves to Upper Gower Street in London, he thinks to visit me occasionally. He comes to tell me about his children, and how he will be among the first generation of Darwins not to punish his cubs by banishing them to the dungeon on Mount Darwin.

  One day when he comes, he is so ill he can barely lift the wine cellar doors and make his way down the steps. He is weak and nauseous and suffering from heart palpitations. He does not stay long.

  It is many months before I see him again, and when I finally do, he tells me his symptoms have worsened, and I can see he has lost weight and appears deathly pale.

  "I am not likely to improve, Birdie. I am suffering from the attack of the Benchuca, the great black bug of South America. Do you remember the day I returned to the ship riddled with bites, after my hike through the Pampas?"

  I remember, but I say nothing.

  "The disease carried by the Benchuca is fatal," he says. "It can also be long and painful I had hoped that after having gone so long with no symptoms, I might not have been infected, but it was not to be."

  Charles carries with him a stack of notebooks and papers he can barely hold in his arms. He spreads them out on the floor and stares at me. "I have been working on a theory," he says. "Will you help me?"

  Among the volcanic outcrops known as the Galapagos Islands, off the coast of South America, each island claims its own distinct population of birds and animals. Although there were obviously common ancestors, the fauna of each island developed separately, despite only a modest oceanic separation.

  When Charles traveled across the islands, he noticed that the finches have become so distinct from one island to the next that they can no longer interbreed.

  Charles has read Lamarck's hypothesis, dating back to the eighteenth century, that all living matter has an inherent drive toward increased complexity. This intrigues him, as does Buffon's theory, which suggests that environmental conditions as well as the struggle for survival might lead to the extinction of some species, and the succession of others.

  "We also must consider Lyell's belief in uniform geological change," says Charles. "As geological alterations occur, this must bring about changes in the natural habitat of all living things."

  We assemble the evidence, piece by piece, until it all finally makes sense.

  Global changes. Genetic mutations. The struggle of all species for survival. Natural selection.

  Evolution.

  It is not my origin that Charles has discovered during the voyage of the Beagle, it is his own.

  And yet just when the theory of Man's evolution becomes so absurdly obvious that neither of us can ignore it, ignore it is exactly what we do. We push aside our papers and relax to the smell of wine and cedar and moist earth, and spend most of our time together talking about death.

  "I am looking forward to my death, Birdie," Charles says. "Death is the last great challenge of Man."

  "You have always been too curious for your own good," I tell him.

  Charles slides a Chilean cigar out of his pocket. I flare my nostril for him. He sticks the cigar in my snout and puffs hard on the butt, then succumbs to a coughing fit.

  "Charles, I want you to know that I am very sorry."

  "Sorry about what?"

  "In many ways I am responsible for your malady. If not for me, you never would have gone on the expedition, and you never would have been attacked by the Benchuca."

  "No, no, don't you see, Birdie? You have given me my life, not my death. If I had not met you, I never would have been driven to explore, I never would have lived through such exciting adventures. Death is merely a consequence. That is the way of Man, Birdie. We pay for our lives with our deaths."

  I nod, but I do not understand. How can I?

  "Because of you," I say, "I was able to share in that adventure." I am surprised to discover that this matters to me.

  "You know, I could have died at the hands of those aborigines. I have never properly thanked you for saving my life, Birdie."

  "Think nothing of it."

  "I'm sure it is a point of less concern to someone who has lived centuries, probably eons." Charles coughs. He does not possess the lung strength to keep the cigar lit, so he stubs it out in the dirt. "Man needs to believe in his life after death. Man must have his gods."

  Ah, yes. Charles is afraid of the changes his insights might bring about among his species. He is afraid of how his race might suffer without the comfort of the Book of Genesis. He does not see what I see. He does not have the perspective of centuries.

  "Charles," I say. "What does your theory tell you about Man?"

  He looks at me blankly.

  "Adaptation, Charles," I explain gently. "If Man needs new gods and new beliefs, I promise you that he will devise them. It is not only the body that evolves, but also the spirit."

  "But does Man want new gods?" he asks dubiously.

  "I cannot say," I answer. "If he does not, rest assured that he will create new reasons to believe in the old ones."

  "I am very tired, Birdie," he says. And this is the last thing he will ever say to me.

  Charles is supposed to visit me today, but when or if he arrives, I will not be here. I have decided that I cannot watch him die.

  So I am alone in the wine cellar when I scribble Charles Darwin's name across the cover page, and affix a tide to our manuscript: Upon the Origin of Species By Means of Natural Selection, or Preservation of Favoured Races and the Struggle for Life.

  I don my Indian blanket and tuck the manuscript under my wing and climb the stairs of the wine cellar. I push open the doors and step out into the bright morning sun.

  I think I shall take the train to London—or perhaps I shall fly—to Albemarle Street, and in my human guise, much as I hate corsets and bustles, I will personally deliver the manuscript to the publishing company of John Murray. I was impressed by the job they did with the 1845 edition of the Journal, quite a money-maker from what I understand, and I am certain they will be eager to print Darwin's newest work. In any event, I must do what Charles cannot. I must offer Man the truth. It is essential, I think, for the continued development of his species.

  Then I shall find another place on the Earth to live. Mount Darwin will never be the same without Charles. The future Darwins, like those before him, seem a dull lot. I am a dragon: I can fly, I can set a field aflame with my breath, I can see things clearly in a way that men, even so gifted a man as Charles, cannot, and I have needs of my own.

  The boy has overcome his initial surprise at seeing me, and now sits down on the floor, cross-legged, a few feet away.

  "Why have your parents locked you down her
e?" I ask.

  He stares at me uncomprehendingly, and I switch to German.

  "No one locked me here," he answered. "I often come here to think."

  "And what do you think about?" I ask.

  He shrugs. "It is difficult to express," he says. "They are very big thoughts," he adds seriously.

  A warm glow suffuses me. "Sometimes I think very big thoughts myself." I pause. "I think we are going to become friends."

  "I would like that."

  "What is your name, boy?" I ask.

  "Albert," he says.

  "Albert," I repeat. "That is a very nice name. And I am Birdie."

  I wrap my Indian blanket around me. I am content.

  FOG OF WAR

  by William R. Forstchen

  November 22, 1805

  On the distant horizon he could see the campfires of the Russian pickets, their glow reflecting off the low hanging clouds. He pulled the collar of his great coat in tight around his throat to ward off the evening chill.

  Damnable country, he thought. In Corsica it'd still be warm this time of year.

  "My Emperor, it is not safe here, we're beyond our own lines."

  He looked back at the circle of staff officers following him, not sure who had spoken, interrupting his thoughts. He stared at them coldly, ready to snap out an angry reply. In the gathering shadows he could see their faces, young, so damn young most of them. My children, fearing for their Emperor. No, he couldn't get angry, not with them.

  "Go back to the camp, leave me alone for awhile."