by Andre Norton
Then Daniel turned to face the Great King.
“Oh, King, live forever”—he gave the ceremonious salute. “Is it not as I have promised? With the aid of the Lord God Jehovah, this evil monster, which was servant to the priests of darkness, is dead. Yet I did not draw steel against it, only fed it its natural food.”
And the Great King reached forth his scepter of state so that Daniel could set his fingertips to it. There was a sigh throughout the company, and men suddenly found their voices, speaking one to the other in awe and wonder of what they had seen. But the priests gathered together in a tight knot about the throne of their chief, and their faces were flushed with anger.
Sherkarer flattened himself against the wall, trying to hide behind the courtiers. He had done this thing for Daniel, and now—what reason was there for the other to remember a Nubian captive? Let him be left to the priests and they would undoubtedly wreak upon him their hatred for this stranger who had so demeaned their god.
A hand fell upon his shoulder, and he swung about, ready to fight, if without any chance, against the man who held him so. But the low voice in his ear he had heard before, out of the drain.
“Throw this about you, walk beside me, but hurry not.” The other had one of the richly fringed shawls which the nobles used as cloaks, and he pulled it quickly about Sherkarer.
Thus, as one of the Great King’s household the Nubian left that well-guarded courtyard, the temple itself. And he followed in the train of courtiers back across the river to the western side, where stood the newly built palace, to be lost in the maze of servant quarters there.
It was a day and a night before Daniel came to him. But in his hand was a hard-baked clay tablet he gave to the Nubian.
“Take care—this bears the Great King’s seal print. Now, at the wharf is the ship of the merchant Balzar. Also there is this—” And he took from the folds of his sash a small bag. “This holds pieces of trade silver, enough, I hope, to get you home.”
Sherkarer weighed the bag in one hand, the King’s passport in the other, his keys to freedom. He asked a last question. “How was it that you knew the lau would eat what you offered it?”
“Did I not say I was bearing witness to the power of the Lord God Jehovah? It was by His will the beast ate.”
The Nubian tucked the bag of silver into the front of the plain short robe his guide had supplied.
“Your God is a mighty one, but he has also done another thing. He brought me to be your servant when I had no wish to be so. In that much will I also bear witness to His might. I wish you well, Daniel, but I am glad that I shall do it distantly. You and your God together are such as might bring down a kingdom if it be your will.”
“Not my will, but His” Daniel corrected him. “And perhaps that shall also happen.”
And later, in Meroë of the south, Sherkarer heard the tale of how Babylon the mighty had been taken, wall and tower, palace and temple, by the Persians, and he wondered whether Daniel and his God had had a hand in that.
4
Pendragon
Ras was not looking at the sirrush-lau writhing at the poolside. He saw instead the flat picture of a queer creature as it might have been drawn by men who had heard the monster described but had not seen it in all its horrible might. His hand lay so that the fingers touched the edge of the puzzle, but he saw no blue tattoo marks forming a bracelet about his wrist. Drawing a deep breath, he pushed back from the table.
Had it all been a dream? But it was far too real. Why, he had been hungry, and tired, and frightened—he could remember every detail of the adventure as if it were all true. He was Sherkarer of Meroë, not George Brown of Sedgwick Manor!
What if he had not listened to Daniel or helped in the plan to defeat the priests of Marduk-Bel? What if the sirrush-lau had died naturally and they had blamed him for it? Ras shivered. He knew he had chosen rightly, for him, and for Daniel, too. He remembered that Daniel was in the Bible, but he did not remember the dragon story.
Ras looked for the last time at the blue dragon fitted firmly together. He did not in the least want to finish the rest of the puzzle. Somehow he could not bring himself to even touch it now.
Time! He had forgotten all about time! The clothes at the laundromat—Mom waiting for them! How long had he been here? In his dream it had been days—days! Only it could not really have been that long—
Frightened now, he ran back through the dusty rooms, the old floorboards creaking under him as he went. He pushed out of the window, letting it bang down behind him, and ran down the rutted, leaf-filled drive. Ras reached the laundromat puffing and went straight to the right machine.
“Better watch it, son.” Mr. Reese was standing there. “Your wash was done about ten minutes ago. Other people waiting to use these, you ought to stay right here.”
“Sorry,” Ras said breathlessly. He jerked out his basket, unloaded the clothes to take them to the dryers at the other end, trying to keep his mind on what he was doing.
Mr. Reese followed along behind. “No running off this time, boy. You keep your eyes on this and empty it as soon as it’s done, mind. Too many people waiting on Saturdays to tie up machines needlessly.”
“Yes, sir,” Ras mumbled as he pushed the damp wash in as fast as he could, then hunted for the change to feed into the dryer. The laundromat was crowded, not only with ladies but with men and boys, too.
Ras caught sight of a familiar face, Sig Dortmund. Sig was leaning against the wall and he had a book in his hand, not a paperback or a comic but a real book. It was from the library, Ras thought, for it had a protective plastic jacket on. And as Sig turned a little to let by a lady with two big bags of wash, Ras saw that jacket more clearly. There was a picture of a man with long yellow hair over his shoulders in braids. He had a big hammer raised high in one hand, and in the other was a sword laid out on a narrow rest, as if he were ready to pound it with the hammer.
Sig was so intent upon his book that he did not look up as Ras edged closer.
Story of Sigurd—Ras read the title.
Though he had not spoken the words aloud, Sig suddenly looked up as if he had heard. He looked at Ras and flushed.
“Hi.” His voice sounded as if he were not sure he ought to talk to Ras. Then he added in a rush of words, “I went back, to let you out. I didn’t want you to have to stay down there. Only, you were gone.”
Ras nodded. “I know, I saw you go. . . . Listen.” He moved closer so that he could ask his questions without anyone overhearing him. “You put together the silver dragon, didn’t you? Well, when you did—did anything queer happen then?”
For a moment he thought that Sig was not going to answer. The other boy looked away, at the dryer as if he must check it, then at the book he held. Ras, uneasy, was ready to move off again, when Sig spoke. “Yeah. Something happened.”
“You—you went to Babylon—and Daniel was there?” Ras asked.
Sig stared at him in open surprise. “Babylon? Daniel? You’re crazy, man. I went with Sigurd, to help kill Fafnir—for the treasure. Sigurd killed him. But then he wouldn’t take the treasure, he said it made a man go bad. It did Mimir, and he was Sigurd’s friend before. So that must have been true.”
Now it was Ras’s turn to be bewildered. “Sigurd,” he repeated. “But—that’s the book you’re reading.”
“I didn’t even know there was a book about it—until I saw this when we had library period yesterday. But it’s wrong in some parts: Sig Clawhand isn’t in the story at all. And he was part of it. I know because I was him—I was!” He looked at Ras as if challenging him to deny that.
“And you put the silver dragon together,” Ras said slowly. “So you had one story. I put the blue one together, and I had another story—they were not the same at all.”
“The blue one!” Sig no longer held the book open with his finger between the pages to keep his place. He gave all his attention to Ras. “You did the blue one—and then you had an adventure. Where?” His de
mand was sharp and eager.
Ras hesitated. The adventure was so real, so much a part of his memory, that he almost did not want to share it. But there was the mystery of what had happened to both of them. Perhaps if they compared stories they could discover what was in the puzzle which made them see and feel—If Sig had seen and felt as he, Ras, had done.
“I was in a war—in Africa, I think.” He made it as simple as possible. “And there was this big thing out of the swamps. My people called it ‘lau,’ but the priests of Babylon called it ‘sirrush.’ A merchant took it and me to Babylon. And there the temple priests made me help take care of it.” Swiftly he outlined his adventure.
When he had finished Sig looked thoughtful. “Daniel’s in the Bible, so he was real, once. But I don’t remember hearing that dragon story before. Listen, on Monday, why don’t you go to the library as I did, see if you can find a book about it? I know about Egypt; heck, we studied all about that—pyramids, mummies—last year. But I never heard of this Meroë place, or Nap—Napata”—he stumbled over the strange name. “But if you could find it written down, it might prove it was all true. There’s a part in this book, at the front”—Sig turned the pages hurriedly—“where it says that maybe there was a real Sigurd. Only, after he was dead people added a lot of extra things to the story, because he was a hero they liked to talk about. So now he’s more like a made-up person. Only, he wasn’t! I know!” Sig’s chin was up. He looked at Ras as if he dared him to question that.
“Daniel was real and so was Sherkarer. Even if I can’t find him in any book,” Ras said. “But I’m going to look—”
“This your wash, boy?” A lady with a scarf tied over bumps of curlers pushed up to Sig.
“Yes, ma’am.” Sig shoved his book under his belt and hurried to empty the dryer, while the lady gave impatient little snorts to urge him along. Ras went to check on his machine, not wanting Mr. Reese to speak to him again. As he left, Sig looked up.
“See you—”
“Sure,” Ras returned.
There were still ten minutes to go on the dryer. He saw Sig bag his wash and go out. But before he left he looked at Ras and gave a little salute with his hand. Ras stirred from one foot to another impatiently.
Sig had found a book written about his adventure. Was there one about Ras’s, too? When he got home he would write down all the names he could remember. And he would get the Bible and read the part about Daniel. Though he was sure that if there were a dragon he would remember from having heard it in Sunday school. Daniel in the lions’ den, that was a story he had heard several times when he was a little kid. And Sherkarer had heard the slaves talk about it in Babylon.
And if Napata and Meroë weren’t in the Bible, then maybe he could find them in a history book. He had never tried looking up things, except what he had to do for school. But this was different, more exciting, because he had been a part of it. Shaka was always talking about Africa and how people said black men didn’t have any real history, but they had. Did one of those leaflets and books Shaka was always getting have something about Meroë and the black Pharaohs like Piankhay and—Ras was impatient to get home and look at his brother’s library. Suddenly it was taking forever to get the drying done.
Another thought crossed Ras’s mind. Sig had put together the silver dragon, and he had done the blue one. But there were two more, the red and the gold ones. What adventures could they have with them?
When Ras returned home Mom was not in the kitchen doing the usual Saturday morning baking (Mom liked to make her own cakes—from scratch, she said—not use mixes except when she was in a big hurry). Instead she sat in the living room and she was crying. Dad stood at the window, his back to the room, his hands in his pockets. The very set of his shoulders said he was good and mad.
“He’s of age,” Dad was saying as Ras came in. “And he’s so set in this madness that you can’t argue with him! But I won’t have that kind of lawless talk in this house—understand, Louise?”
Mom did not answer, she just went on crying. And Ras felt sick to his stomach, as he always did when Mom got so upset. Neither one of them looked at him when he came in with the clean laundry, and he was more uneasy than ever. It was as if they had forgotten all about him. Finally he had to say something.
“Got the clothes back, Mom.”
But it was Dad who turned to look at him. “George!” His voice showed that he was really upset, and it looked as though it was Ras who had upset him this time. The boy tried to think of what he had done. The old house—the puzzle—that must be it! And he had no excuse, either. He felt sicker than ever.
“I understand you have been refusing to answer to your proper name at school.” Dad crossed the room to stand over him.
Ras was so surprised at the accusation, which was so far from what he expected, that he had no quick answer.
“Your brother is both foolish and stubborn,” Dad continued. “I am not going to have you copy him, understand! Your name is George Brown and nothing else—no African mumbo-jumbo! And he is Lloyd Brown. If I catch you repeating any of his dangerous and stupid remarks, I’ll see that you don’t do it again. Your brother has just about broken your mother’s heart. You look at her—look at her good, boy! Do you want her to cry like that over you? Do you?” Dad’s voice was close to a roar.
“No—no, sir,” Ras found an answer. What had Shaka—Lloyd—done?
“You had better remember that! Your brother has chosen his own way. He’s left this house and he is not coming back as long as he talks the kind of treasonable rubbish he spouted out this morning! I served my country”—Dad ran his hands over his face and then rubbed his forehead as if he had a bad ache behind it—“I did not want to go in the army, very few men do. But there was a war on and I believed in what we were fighting for. I’m not an African—I’m an American, and I’m proud of it—proud, do you understand! And I’m not going to have treason talked in this house! I only hope Lloyd will come to his senses in time. He has a good brain, why doesn’t he use it?”
Dad went back to the window. Mom wiped her eyes on a tissue from her apron pocket. “He’s a good boy underneath all that foolishness, Evan. He’ll come back, I know he will. I—well, it just surprised me so, his saying he was going to live with that awful Ali man. I guess I was shaken up. But I know it will all come out all right—Lloyd’s a good boy.”
Dad made some kind of a noise and Mom got up and went to stand beside him, her hand on his shoulder. Ras swallowed, picked up the laundry bag. So Shaka had left as he had threatened to do. Ras had seen Ali once—a thin man with a little pointed beard and a quick, angry way of talking. He was the one who had started Shaka reading all the African books.
Those books! Had Shaka taken them with him? Ras left the clothes in the hall and slipped upstairs. Shaka’s room was bare, except that his closet door was open and hanging inside was his good suit, the one he hardly ever wore any more. There was a drawer pulled crookedly out of the bureau, but it was empty. And there were light places on the wall where his posters had been. Yes, the bookshelf was bare.
Ras sat down on the edge of the bed. That sick feeling which had started at seeing Mom cry was worse. Shaka had gone. Dad said he was wrong, stupid. But when his brother had talked about what he believed, he could make you believe it, too. Or almost—because Dad’s arguments were just as strong. It was like Sherkarer’s belief in Apedemek and Daniel’s in the Lord God Jehovah.
But Ras knew one thing: Sherkarer had gained his freedom because he had trusted in a man of another religion and race. They had worked together to destroy the sirrush-lau; neither could have done it alone. Working together—Like Sig and he. Last time, in the old house, they had fought and Sig had locked him in the basement. But today they had had something in common.
Now he wanted to see Sig again—talk about those two other dragons. And it was easier to think about that than about Shaka and what was happening here at home.
Artie Jones kicked the football
so that it hit the curb and bounced back. He picked it up, saw its new brown side was already scuffed. He had done that himself, just fooling around with it. What was the use of having a football if you didn’t have any guys to play with? Nobody lived around here but that kook Kim Stevens, and Sig Dortmund, and that Ras guy. He did not want to get hooked up with them, not when there were smooth guys like Greg Ross and his gang around. He had hoped they would suggest kicking when he took his ball to school yesterday. But they had been so busy talking about how they were all going to the Senior High game this afternoon that they had not heard him say he had a new ball or even looked his way when he got it out of the locker to show them.
Greg’s dad was taking them in the station wagon, and they sure would have a groovy time. Artie had stood there, hoping, just a little, that Greg would turn around and ask him to go, too.
Nothing much to do around here—never was. He could go down to the movies. But he’d seen the picture they had this week. And the TV was at the repair shop. If he hung around home Mom would ask about doing homework. He sure was not going to spend Saturday doing that!
There was Sig heading to the corner in a hurry. If they played ball here, though, Sig would expect to hang around with him at school, too. Then Artie might never get a chance to be one of Greg’s gang. Only, it sure was lone-some. Halfheartedly Artie began to walk down the block after Sig.
Sig did not look in his direction at all. Was he going back to the old house? Suppose he was? It was a spooky place but exciting. Had Sig found something in that locked room? Artie had not asked him. Now he wondered. But Sig was waiting there at the corner. Not for Artie, he never turned around to see him. No, he was waving at someone on the other side of the street. Why, it was that dopey kid who wouldn’t tell his right name. What was Sig doing with him?