Children of the Plains

by Paul B. Thompson

  Annom stumbled away in the direction his brothers had fled.

  “You’re a great deal of trouble, Amero,” Duranix said, planting his hands on his hips. “Why did you leave the cave?”

  “I had no food,” he replied warily, “and I didn’t know what you planned to do to me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I found bones in the cave.” Amero took a deep breath. “Some of them were human.”

  “Oh.” Duranix picked up Annom’s spear and examined the workmanship. “I did eat that man.”

  Amero’s heart skipped a beat. “He was the father of those four hunters. His name was Genta.”

  “Really? Strange. Even meals have names to you humans.”

  Trembling, Amero flung a hand out at Duranix. “Are you... are you a dragon?”

  “So you learned a new word! And what is a dragon?”

  “Some kind of monster that eats people!” Amero folded his hands into his armpits, hunching his body as though in pain. “Is that what you have planned for me?”

  Duranix pressed his hand to his chest. “I give you my word, Amero, I will not eat you,” he vowed solemnly. After a second’s hesitation, he added, “At least, not without considerable provocation.” He laughed, but Amero found no humor in his words.

  Serious once more, Duranix said, “Let me tell you a story, a story about a monster and a human hunter.

  “I was born far to the east on another mountain, but I’ve lived in this mountain range for over three hundred years, as you count them. For a long time I dwelled peacefully in this valley, sleeping in the open, confident no beast would dare disturb me. One day last fall – a magnificent day, too, the morning after the first frost – I woke to find a flint spear in my throat. It was a small wound, but no one had ever hurt me before – no one but another dragon, that is. Surprised, I lashed out and caught the one who was daring and stupid enough to attack me while I slumbered. It was this fur-wearing human. He was big for his race, with copper-colored hair and a beard to match. I was about to bite his head off when I was seized with curiosity. Why had he attacked me? I’d done nothing to him. I held him in one foreclaw and squeezed until he stopped struggling and cursing at me.

  “‘What do you think you’re up to, little one?’ I asked.

  “‘Ridding the valley of a monster,’ he replied boldly.

  “‘Monster? Me?’ I’d never been addressed as such. I asked him what made me a monster. His answer was badly phrased, but in essence he claimed I was an unnatural creature, who did not belong in the world of men and beasts.

  “‘Men are beasts,’ I pointed out, with inescapable logic. ‘You think because you walk upright and make tools of stone you’re better than other animals?’

  “‘Men were created by the Great Spirits to be like them and represent them in this world,’ he avowed stubbornly. Monsters, he told me, were an affront to the Great Spirits’ purpose.

  “I earnestly wanted to know more about this belief of his, because if it were widespread, then my peaceful life would soon be over. Packs of smelly, hairy men would be hunting me and my kind wherever we chose to dwell. As I bore no particular ill-will toward humans, I wanted to understand the irrational hatred he seemed to have for me.”

  “Did he explain?” the boy asked, caught up in the tale.

  Duranix jabbed the spear into the stony ground, burying half the length of the shaft. “No, he did not,” he said peevishly. “He went back to cursing me. I kept him captive for some days while I enlarged the natural cave behind the waterfall as a safe haven for myself. After it was ready I brought him there and released him from his bonds. The first night, he tried to assault me with a stone. I broke his skull.” Duranix sighed. “I didn’t really mean to. Humans are so frail.”

  “And then you – ate him?”

  He shrugged. “Later, yes. I was hungry, and it seemed a shame to waste him. If it’s any consolation to you, he didn’t taste very good. Humans are too stringy. Elk are much to be preferred.”

  Soli was well up in the star-flecked sky. Its clean, cold light made the sand and gravel look like snow.

  “What did you do to the hunters?” Amero asked after a moment of silence. “Why did they run away?”

  “I can exhale a gas that engenders extreme trepidation in those who inhale it.” Amero regarded him blankly. Duranix added, “My breath causes fear.”

  The boy nodded slowly. He looked away, staring silently at the landscape and pondering what he’d heard. Duranix remained quiet as well.

  At last, the dragon said, “I want you to stay, Amero, but I won’t compel you. You can walk away now if you wish, and I won’t stop you.”

  “If I stay, what will happen?” Amero asked warily.

  “How should I know? Am I one of your Great Spirits? The future is a day no one has seen yet.” Duranix scratched the ground with his foot. “As I said, I think we can learn from each other. More humans arrive on the plains and in the mountains every season. If I’m to live among them, I think we’d better understand each other, don’t you?”

  After only a moment’s reflection, Amero nodded. “I will stay,” he said simply.

  He started walking down the draw toward the lake. Duranix called for him to wait.

  “One more thing. I’ve used this human form to avoid frightening you. I modeled it after the man I caught – you said his name was Genta? I want you to see how I really look, Amero. Let that be the first step on our path together.” Duranix walked a ways up the ravine and stopped. He spread his arms wide and threw his head back. In the blink of an eye he swelled several times in size and lost his human coloring. Dropping down on all fours, his arms became thick, muscular forelegs with three massive claws and a single rear toe. His torso spread until it was wider than any man’s. He had huge, powerful rear legs, bent in a graceful curve like the haunches of a panther. A tail, a good five paces long and ending with a barbed tip, curled up behind his back and scraped the valley walls.

  Amero felt a sensation almost like heat. Unmasked, Duranix shed a sort of radiance the boy could feel. It was like the sun on a cold day – a warmth that felt both good and strong. Or was it a cool breeze on a hot day – except the breeze left no sensation of movement? For a moment, Amero was dazed, dazzled. He stepped forward, hand outstretched, numbed by the dragon’s presence.

  The most arresting feature of Duranix the dragon was his head. More angular than a snake’s, the reptilian skull was huge and wide. Barbels hung down from its chin, and yellow membranes flickered sideways back and forth across eyes whose pupils were vertical slits.

  Breath from the dragon’s nostrils – each as wide as a stout tree trunk – raised swirls of dust at Amero’s feet. Across his brow were two upswept horns, matched by a larger set curving back from the broad crown of his head. From nose to tail Duranix was at least fifteen paces long, and he was covered in oval, overlapping, shiny red-gold scales.

  When the transformation was complete, Amero staggered, as though released from a powerful hold. He pulled his makeshift tool from his waist and stared at it. His tool, and the strange things in the cave he’d called leaves, were actually the dragon’s scales. Duranix must shed a few every day, the way a man left hairs where he lay.

  “You’re the stormbird!” he exclaimed in awe. “I saw you flying through the clouds the night before you saved me from the yevi!”

  Duranix cocked his huge head. “Stormbird, eh?” he said. “I like that. Much more elegant than ‘dragon.’”

  Duranix’s chest heaved. He thrust his serpentine neck forward until his massive head was less than an arm’s length from Amero’s wide eyes. The effect was so terrifying Amero’s knees failed and he sat down hard.

  The dragon opened his mouth, revealing wickedly curved fangs. It took Amero a heart-pounding moment to realize that Duranix was actually grinning at him.

  “What do you think of me now?” the creature asked. The voice was still recognizably his, but the sheer power of it, even at a whisper
, rattled Amero’s teeth.

  The boy opened his mouth but no sound came out, so he swallowed and began again. “I hope we shall always be friends.”

  Duranix snorted. Dirt and pebbles flew. He hoisted his head high and said, “Come! I want hear how you escaped from the cave on your own. You have much ingenuity for a human!”

  “Could I eat first?” Amero asked faintly.

  “Of course! I spotted a herd of mountain goats in the third valley on my way here. Do you like goat?” Amero nodded. He was hungry enough at this moment to eat dragon.

  Duranix seized him in his left foreclaw. The grip was irresistible, yet surprisingly gentle. Long narrow wings unfolded from his back. They stretched upward, and without waiting for further comment, Duranix launched into the air with a single massive leap. Amero nearly fainted from the shock of his powerful ascent. The ground dropped away with a rush.

  As the dragon flapped his wings to gain altitude, Amero took in deep breaths to calm his pounding heart. The dizziness faded. The stars wheeled overhead and wind whipped at his long hair. Amero knew a sudden urge to shout with joy. He wanted to savor every moment of his first conscious flight.

  It was a memory he would long cherish.

  Chapter 5

  Days passed, then weeks.

  With some idea of finding her mother’s people, Nianki put the morning sun on her left, the setting sun on her right, and followed ancient trails across plain and woodland. She was going where she had never been, which Oto had taught her was never wise, and she was alone. Walking by night under a vault of stars, she felt at times like the last woman alive. She passed dark campsites under the white moon’s gleam, finding nothing in them but broken weapons and scraps of clothing stained with blood. Hidden eyes seemed to follow her progress, but no one attacked her. Pakito’s short spear saw to that.

  Twenty times she saw Soli rise and set, and on the twenty-first morning she came to a wide river she couldn’t easily ford. It flowed west to east, unlike the rivers in her home range. More proof the world was upside down! Nianki tracked along the river bank a full day without finding a place to cross, then gave up and swam to the other side.

  The river turned south, so Nianki followed it until she came to the sea. She’d heard about the sea from Kinar, who’d seen it often as a child. Kinar described it as an endless lake, stretching from horizon to horizon, so vast one could not see the opposite shore. She also shared the stories of her coastal ancestors, stories of fearsome monsters that dwelled in the depths, and of massive, deadly tempests lasting for days, scourging the sea and land.

  One hot day in late summer, Nianki arrived at a high headland and beheld the sea. Though it was fully as big as she’d been told, she saw no sign on its calm green-blue waters of sea monsters or storms.

  There were, however, many people. She began to encounter increasing numbers of strangers – almost thirty by the time she reached the sea. This was more human company than Nianki had ever seen at one time in her life. The climate was mild, and the local folk seemed placid and accepting. Small hands of centaurs moved among them without rancor, a state of affairs new to Nianki. On the high savanna, plainsfolk and centaurs were competitors, and both were wary of strangers. Unnerved by the crowds, Nianki kept to herself, making contact only when she needed to barter for food.

  The coast was rich in forage and game, even with the large number of people about. Much of the provender was strange to her. Fish she knew, but some of the other things the locals ate – like shellfish, crabs, and seaweed – disgusted her. For some days she subsisted on rabbit and wild strawberries, supplemented by fish she obtained in return for mending a local man’s nets.

  Gradually her wounds healed, her body grew strong, and she was able to hunt. As the seaside sun baked her skin even darker, the scars stood out as bold streaks and splotches. Nianki wore her marks with pride. She’d won them by surviving, surpassing even her father’s toughness.

  Her harsh appearance proved to be an asset in dealing with others. People saw the scars on her face, neck, and arm and knew they were in the presence of a hunter and fighter, not merely some man’s abandoned mate. For herself, the scars also served as tangible memorials of her lost family. Each healed bite, each ragged tear, kept the memory of her father, mother, and brothers alive.

  Despite the easy climate and plentiful food here on the coastal plain, every day Nianki saw families large and small leaving, trudging north. At first she gave it no thought, but when she realized they moved even during the punishing heat of midday when sensible folk took their ease, she began to wonder at the reason.

  She was sleeping one night within sight of the beach when the sound of footfalls woke her. Snatching up her spear, Nianki rose swiftly to one knee, ready to strike. Instead of marauding four-footed beasts, she found herself faced by a family of four – an old, white-bearded man, a stocky woman of some thirty seasons, and two children – a boy and girl of six and eight. They carried food and water on a pair of willow-withe travois, the woman dragging one, the children the other.

  “Peace to you,” said the old man, holding up both hands to show they were empty. “We didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “Where are you going?” Nianki asked.

  “The mountains,” said the woman, eyeing the scarred girl warily. “As we must every summer.”

  Nianki lowered her spear. “Now? There are beasts abroad in the night.”

  “We should have left days ago, but the boy was sick with a flux.” As she spoke, the woman kept sidling away. Nianki moved in front of her, blocking her path.

  “I’m a stranger to these parts,” said Nianki. “If there’s danger, I want to know.”

  The woman’s eyes darted back and forth. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “When I arrived, people were thick as tadpoles here. Now everyone’s leaving. What are you frightened of?”

  “The Good People,” chimed the girl child.

  “Shh!” hissed the old man. “Don’t speak their name!”

  “Who are ‘the good people’?” Nianki demanded.

  The woman tried to barge past. Nianki grabbed her arm. The old man moved to break Nianki’s hold, but he found her spear point pressed into his throat. The young boy dropped his side of the travois and started to cry.

  “Be still!” Nianki barked. Her fierce shout startled the boy enough that he subsided to a sniffle. The woman remained rooted where she stood, eyes downcast.

  “You,” Nianki said to the old man. “Talk.”

  His jaw worked. “Every summer, the Good People come here from the east. They are powerful in spirit, but difficult to deal with. Some use their wisdom to help and heal us. Others treat us like game and hunt us for sport, so every summer we leave the shore and travel to the mountains.”

  “What do they look like?”

  “They are comely people, graceful and lightly made, yet strong. Their color is not like ours – their skin is very fair, and their hair like a dandelion’s. They wear strange bright clothing and command beasts to do their bidding.”

  It sounded like a fable, but they were obviously terrified of something. Nianki moved her spear from the old man’s neck.

  “Be off,” she said.

  “You’d best leave, too,” the woman warned. “The Good People are not to be trusted. They could take your head for a trophy, as they did my poor mate’s three summers past.”

  “I’m fairly warned. Go.”

  The children picked up their poles and tugged the travois. Their mother bent her back and pushed on ahead, breaking the trail for them. The old man lingered.

  “Fifteen summers past I’d have fought you for this,” he said, fingering the mark on his throat Nianki’s spear made.

  “Fifteen summers past I fought only for my mother’s milk.”

  He scowled as he hurried after his family. The old man limped badly, hips rocking from side to side as he walked. He must have taken a bad fall once, and the bones had never set properly.

&n
bsp; Nianki moved her camp in case the old hunter decided to double back and visit her while she slept. She laid a circle of twigs on the ground around her, overlapping them. If anyone tried to creep up on her, she’d hear them when they trod on the brittle wood.

  The remainder of the night passed peacefully. Dawn broke hot and hazy, and Nianki was awakened by itching all over her body. From the welts on her ribs and legs, she knew she’d been found by a host of sand fleas.

  She searched wide and far for a stream to bathe in, but fresh water was sadly lacking in the pine barrens above the beach. Scratching furiously, she resolved to wash in the sea. She had never before dared immerse herself in the sea, but it was the only body of water around large enough to cover her, and she couldn’t bear the terrible burning itch – the fleas had even invaded her hair.

  Down to the beach she went, shedding her clothes. The cold surf felt wonderful on her tormented skin, and she plunged in head first.

  Surfacing, she spat water, surprised by the salty tang. The bites stung a bit, but the itching rapidly subsided. She held her head under for as long as she could stand to drown the miserable insects. When she popped up again, she heard voices coming from the beach.

  Far down the shore was a sizable party, twelve or thirteen people with animals. The beasts were easier to make out than the people – tall, four-legged creatures, built like elk but less bulky and without antlers. The animals were walking in the midst of the people, tame and docile.

  A screech overhead alerted her to the presence of a falcon. It circled the beach in advance of the party, its shrill cry audible above the churning waves. The bird of prey swooped down on the people and animals, coming to land – she was astonished to note – on the arm of one of the men.

  Nianki was eight paces from the beach, treading water. Swimming in the surf was tiring, and the cold water sapped the strength in her legs. Early twinges of cramp warned her to seek land. She swam slowly toward shore, keeping her head down and aiming for her pile of clothes. Her short spear was underneath them.