by James Maxey
“Isn’t this precisely what you’ve done?” Bitterwood looked over his shoulder, even though he knew the voice that asked this was his own, and existed only in his mind. “You’ve put down your bow and taken up a plow,” the voice continued. “How is this not surrender?”
“It’s different now,” said Bitterwood, aloud. “The children must be fed.”
“Give them to others,” said the silent voice. “You owe them nothing.”
“I owe the dragons even less!” Bitterwood said, on the verge of shouting. “Why should the damned lizards be my responsibility alone? Why must I sacrifice body and soul while my fellow men do next to nothing? Am I to surrender everything, my home and my happiness?”
“Hatred is your home and happiness,” said the ghost within him.
Bitterwood clenched his jaw, aware of the madness of arguing with himself, especially out loud. But the ghost was wrong. His hatred wasn’t his happiness. Hearing Zeeky talk to the cows as she milked them each morning, that was happiness. Seeing Jeremiah smile as he pulled up a fish trap to discover a fat catfish. That made him content. Watching his crops grow, seeing tomatoes fat and red on the vine, the rows of corn growing taller than himself, these things gave him peace and comfort and hope.
“The truth is in your dreams,” his ghost whispered.
Bitterwood could not argue with this. In his dreams, he often saw wounded dragons crawling through mud, whimpering for mercy, their bodies riddled with arrows. There was blood in these dreams, the smell of bile and excrement, and cries of terror. To any other man, his dreams were nightmares. But from such dreams, Bitterwood would wake up laughing.
A WEEK PASSED and the missing chickens were mostly forgotten. The hole in the canoe had been patched and he’d returned it to the widow so he wouldn’t have to feel responsible for it any more. The happiness he’d contemplated on his ride back from Dragon Forge seemed real to him again. Perhaps bringing life out of his little patch of land with his adopted children was all he needed in this world. Yet, every time he found himself on the verge of joy, he thought of how, long ago, he’d felt this joy before, with his wife Recanna, and their children, and the peach orchards surrounding their village, and how the dragons had taken away all he had loved. Could he endure such pain again?
It was almost with a sense of relief, then, that he greeted the three horsemen who came riding down the dirt path to his farm one afternoon. They wore green cloaks and glinting steel badges, and had shotguns cradled in their arms as they rode. These were some of Burke’s rangers, responsible for enforcing—what had been his phrasing?—the defensible perimeter. In exchange for their protection, all the farmers were supposed to feed the rangers and provide shelter as needed plus pay a small fee each month. All this was on top of a tax levied each market day. Bitterwood knew that men couldn’t fight on empty bellies, and understood Burke’s men must be paid. Still, one reason the humans had finally rebelled against their dragon overlords was that the dragon armies had always viewed men’s property as their own. The thought that Burke had the same view toward the products of his labor was distasteful.
Zeeky came up from the barn as the rangers approached, the dogs barking and dancing around her. Jeremiah watched from the door of the cabin as the men drew nearer, halting their horses before Bitterwood.
“You must be Bant,” the lead horseman said without dismounting. He was a young man, with a thin but wiry build, his face and fists sporting numerous scars. “I’m Priter. This here’s Bo and that’s Wessing,” he said, nodding to his two companions. They also had scarred faces showing they were no strangers to violence, though Wessing looked older than Bitterwood and had a drooped, weary appearance that gave the impression he was more eager for a nap than a fight.
“Burke sent you round to guard my farm,” said Bitterwood.
“Said dragons stole some of your chickens,” said Priter. “You’re not the only farm they’ve hit of late. Guess they must be running low on food over in Multon.”
“Or maybe you rangers aren’t very good at your job,” said Bitterwood.
“Bo, show him the sack,” said Priter.
Bo was the biggest of the three rangers, with an unkempt beard, and his eyes hidden beneath the brim of a large leather hat. He loosened a sack that hung from his saddle and emptied the contents. The severed head of a sky dragon rolled in the dust at Bitterwood’s feet, its pale blue scales glinting in the sun.
Zeeky gasped, placing her hands over her mouth. The dogs rushed forward to sniff the bloodied head, which smelled ripe in the heat of the day.
“We caught him in the woods near the widow’s place,” said Priter.
“Was he stealing chickens?” asked Zeeky.
“It’s not like we caught him with a chicken in his mouth, but he was a tatterwing. He couldn’t have been up to any good.”
Bitterwood nodded. “That’s one down. Just uncounted thousands to go.”
Priter chuckled. “Well, I can’t be responsible for those uncounted thousands. But, I can guard your farm, assuming you’re finally ready to pay up.”
“Burke said you’d watch the place for free.”
“Sure,” said Priter. “But we have a lot of farms on our patrol. It’s customary for those who want us to spend a little extra time on their land to chip in a little more. It doesn’t have to be gold. Dobbs down the road pays with a jug of blackberry wine once a week. The Darnagins give us chickens.”
“The whole point in wanting you around is not to lose any more chickens,” said Bitterwood.
“The dragons know they’ve stolen from you once and gotten away,” said Priter. “What if next time they take more than chickens? I’ve seen you ride into town on a fine-looking horse. Earth-dragons love horsemeat a lot more than chickens.”
“They like hogs even more,” said Bo, eying Poocher’s enormous form in the pen beside the barn. “Lord Almighty, that’s a big ‘un.”
“Earth-dragons ain’t bothered us,” said Zeeky. “Just some mangy old tatterwings, and they’re too pathetic to go after something as big as a horse or a pig.”
“Then you’re lucky,” said Priter. “From what we’ve heard, further up the Forge Road the earth-dragons are eating up pretty much anything in sight. They mostly stay clear of this side of the river because they’ve seen what these can do.” He patted the gun barrel. “But food’s starting to get scarce over there, since no humans are left on that side of the river to grow crops. That’s why the tatterwings are taking chances. Only a matter of time before the earth-dragons follow. Be a shame to lose a horse because you’re too cheap to guarantee yourself a little extra attention.”
Bitterwood said, “And once everyone starts paying, you’re back to the same place you started. Too few people watching too many farms. So you jack up the price. I’m not an idiot, boy.”
“Then you’re smart enough to see why you need us,” said Priter.
“I’m smart enough to see you’re taking a job that needs to be done and using it to line your pockets. Does Burke know about your extortion?”
“We’re not extorting you,” said Priter. “Just the opposite. We’re offering protection.”
“From the dragons? Or from you?” said Zeeky, giving the men a sour look.
Bitterwood, despite his hostility to the men, had until this moment still considered letting them patrol his land. But, he trusted Zeeky’s instincts, and if the girl didn’t like these men, that was a good enough reason for him to send them away.
He knelt and picked up the sky-dragon’s head. He tossed it back to Bo, who caught it awkwardly. The dogs raced around his horse, barking, and the horse pranced around skittishly.
“I think we’ll be okay without you,” said Bitterwood. “Be on your way.”
“Don’t come crying to us when the dragons hit you again,” said Priter, scowling.
The men turned their horses back to the dirt path and galloped off, the dogs barking after them.
“Nut!” yelled Zeeky. “Catfish!
Behave!”
At her words, the two dogs broke off from their chase, loping back with looks on their faces that resembled grins.
Jeremiah walked over and rested his arms on the fence. “Maybe we should have paid ‘em.”
“What could those fools do?” Zeeky said, scornfully. “No dragons can sneak onto the farm without me or the dogs catching on. And even if a whole army of dragons came across the river, I’d just have to let Skitter out of the barn to send ‘em flyin’.”
Bitterwood noted that, in Zeeky’s plan, he played no role at all in defending the farm. To her, his former life as a killer was just that, a former life, and he need not kill in her name. He felt something stir in him, pride perhaps, or simple hope, that he might yet be good enough to be a father for these orphaned children.
“You will never be happy.” said the familiar voice that haunted him, so loud he half expected the children to hear it. “The dragons are still out there. And I’m still in here.”
“IT’S MARKET DAY!” Zeeky said, throwing off her covers at the first cock crow.
Bitterwood rose stiffly as Jeremiah and the dogs continued to slumber.
“Wake up, sleepy heads!” she said, and the dogs lifted their heads, their eyes drooping and bleary. “You too!” she said, shaking Jeremiah. The boy grumbled incoherent syllables as he pulled his pillow over his head.
From beneath the pillow, his muffled voice whined, “I don’t see why I have to go.”
“We all have to go,” said Zeeky, lighting the fire in the woodstove.
Bitterwood pulled the pillow away from Jeremiah. “One day, you’ll own this farm. You need to learn how to haggle.”
“Why won’t I own this farm?” asked Zeeky.
“Well, hopefully, you’ll get married,” said Bitterwood.
Zeeky stuck her tongue out. “No way.” Zeeky was still young enough not to show any fascination with boys, though Bitterwood didn’t know how much longer that would last. Neither Jeremiah or Zeeky knew their exact ages. Calendars hadn’t been a thing in Big Lick, where time was measured mainly in seasons. Bitterwood guessed she was about ten, and Jeremiah maybe twelve. Both were thin as saplings with fine hair blonde as corn silk. Both had spent their early years in a remote mountain village where they seldom saw strangers. Their reactions to market day couldn’t be more different. Zeeky loved the crowds, the bustle and noise, and would talk effusively with anyone who so much as offered her a hello, and even strike up one sided conversations with the stray dogs and cats that infested the streets of the town. Jeremiah, on the other hand, seemed to pull even deeper inside himself among the crowds, with a shyness and fear of others that left Bitterwood aching. He’d thought himself the ultimate loner, living like a ghost for twenty years. He’d perfected the art of not being noticed, and never stayed in one place long enough for anyone to care who he might be. He knew loneliness in a way few other men ever could, and hated to see Jeremiah sealing himself off in his own solitude. Of course, the first time Jeremiah had been to Dragon Forge, he’d been bullied by older boys and one of the foundry men had even tried to kill him when they learned he carried the disease of yellow-mouth. Still, bad memories or no, Jeremiah would have to learn to fend for himself among his fellow men. He wouldn’t learn to deal with others by hiding all the time on the farm.
After breakfast, they hitched up the horse to the cart and walked beside it into town. The cart groaned beneath the weight of corn, cabbages, and cucumbers, tomatoes, sweet potatoes, and bushels of tart blackberries plucked from the vines along the river. Zeeky had to tell the dogs three times to stop following; a rare instance of them not obeying instantly, probably because Zeeky secretly wanted the dogs to come along. But the last thing Bitterwood needed was for his dogs to get into fights with the strays in town, or, worse, to wag their tails and find the company of another dog pleasant enough that Zeeky would insist that they not leave the dogs’ new friend behind.
The fort stank as badly as ever with the foundry belching smoke, but on market day the town took on a different atmosphere. Under the rows of pole barns that formed the market, his hunger was stirred by the scent of tomatoes fresh off the vine, corn still warm from the sun, and the sweet perfume of blackberries ripe to the threshold of fermentation. Grills were set up throughout the market where you could buy roasted corn slathered in fresh butter, griddled cakes sticky with berry syrup, and skewers of pork grilled before booths overflowing with smoked hams and sausages. Fortunately, Zeeky never insisted on bringing Poocher here. Not that Bitterwood worried that the pig might be disturbed by the sight of all his butchered brethren. He had already accepted that he’d never get to eat Poocher. Finding out exactly how much money the people at the market would offer for the pig was something he’d just as soon not know.
They’d arrived early, before the city got too hot, and the energy in the market was lively, almost festive. Bitterwood asked fair prices for his goods and for the most part got them. He was happy that Jeremiah seemed to be paying attention to the niceties of the commerce, and the boy didn’t grumble too much when he had to help a buyer load bushels of corn onto his cart. Zeeky, on the other hand, paid no attention at all to the buying and selling of vegetables and instead took up a conversation with a woman two spaces down and kept the conversation going most of the morning. Bitterwood almost called her back, worried that she might be bothering the woman, but whenever he glanced their way the woman seemed to be enjoying the conversation as much as Zeeky. Besides, it was good for the girl to get her talking done here. Neither Bitterwood nor Jeremiah could hold up their end of a long conversation with her. Honestly, she probably got more words out of Poocher. The way that pig grunted and squealed in answer to her words was very much like a conversation, and he wouldn’t have been shocked if one day he’d gone into pen and found the pig capable of intelligible speech.
By noon, their produce had been turned into a heavy sack of coins, and a portion of these coins had been turned into cornmeal, flower, lard, salt, and a few pieces of hard candy for Zeeky and Jeremiah, plus a bucket of nails and a new saw. They left town just in time, Bitterwood felt, as some of the farmers took their coins to the rows of saloons tucked into the alleys and already several men staggered drunkenly through the streets.
Jeremiah studied the stumbling men. “Are they ill?” he asked, sounding worried. Having survived yellow-mouth, the boy flinched at any sign of disease in his fellow men.
“They’re only drunk,” said Bitterwood. “Let’s be on our way.”
For the journey home, they could ride. Jeremiah crawled into the back of the cart and instantly fell asleep. Bitterwood sat next to Zeeky, who told the horse to head home. The horse snorted and obeyed.
“Maybe I should be a teacher,” Zeeky announced.
“What put that idea into your head?”
“The woman I was talking to. Bethann. She can’t read.”
“Most people can’t.”
“But it’s so easy!” said Zeeky.
“Jeremiah doesn’t think so,” said Bitterwood. “I didn’t think so, either, when I first learned.”
“Who taught you?”
Bitterwood frowned. He hadn’t thought about Hezekiah, the false prophet, in a long time.
“A stranger,” said Bitterwood. “A stranger who came to my village.”
A stranger who had killed his brother, and uncle, and a dozen other men, all in the name of a God who existed only in a book. He’d never told Zeeky any of this. Never told her he once had his own daughters, never spoke about the wife he’d once loved. She had her own burdens. His past would forever haunt him, but he saw no need that she ever know this pains. Those days of grief were long ago, he told himself. He was a man of the earth now, a man who lived in the here and now, beneath the sun, rooted in soil, washed in rain, alive once more, no longer a prisoner of his memories, no longer a slave of the dead.
“But I’m not dead,” said the voice within him.
“I never said you were,” said Zeeky
, looking confused. “What an odd thing to say.”
The realization he’d said the words out loud made him clench his jaw tightly. It was only the heat of the day that had made his tongue speak without him willing it. The ghost of his old life had no real power over him, did it?
BITTERWOOD REALIZED the significance of the buzzards before Zeeky. She saw them, no doubt, since she saw everything, but she probably didn’t have his ability to map out on the land the spot above which the airborne beasts flew, a skill he’d perfected hunting sky-dragons. His blood grew cold. The buzzards circled above his house.
They rode on a little further. The house still couldn’t be seen beyond the trees and tall brush on each side of the road.
Bitterwood put his hand on Zeeky’s hand and said, “Stop the horse.”
She nodded, made a soft whinny noise, and the horse stopped.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Are the buzzards—?”
“Wait here,” he said. “Unhitch the horse and wake your brother. Be ready to ride back to town if I say so.”
“Do you think it’s dragons?” she said, looking uncertain as she said it.
Bitterwood understood her confusion. She’d heard the gossip at the market about other farms being raided by dragons, but, so far, the raids always came at night. Unfortunately, tatterwings weren’t stupid. If they knew about the market day, they also knew which farms would be mostly abandoned.
“It’s probably nothing,” said Jeremiah, sitting up, rubbing his eyes, glancing at the buzzards. “One of the dogs killed a rabbit, maybe.”
“Probably nothing,” said Bitterwood, nodding.
“It wouldn’t be nothing to the poor rabbit,” said Zeeky.