The Birthday Dragon

by Lee Abrey

  “Take one from me,” said Fenric, “I’m O positive.” A few other men said they were too. I floated over to Azrael.

  “Is he going to live?” I said. Cree spread his hands.

  That’s up to him. As it is up to you.

  Azrael and I were wheeled into separate rooms. I floated down and watched as they pieced my arm back together, suturing me in layers. The doctor who went to the library came back. I floated after him as he caught them up with what they needed to know.

  “No specific antibiotic,” the doctor said, “broad-spectrum recommended. Dragon wounds often get infected,” he said, “think of a cat. Teeth and claws like razors, tend to cut clean, makes it easier to piece people back together.”

  “Aye,” said a surgeon, apron bloody, bioplas gloves likewise smeared, “the reconstruction is easier than I expected. Let’s be careful, this is the next king of Sendren.”

  “Who’s the other one?” said someone.

  “His friend,” said the surgeon. I laughed and turned a somersault in the air.

  “His friend,” I said. “There’s an epitaph, Cree.”

  Could be worse, he said, looking amused, at least you made a friend.

  “One.” I shook my head. “And let’s face it, he has a crush on me. That’s not healthy. Other people have many more friends than I do.”

  Most people have acquaintances, Cree said, gesturing, people they aren’t honest with. They’re lucky if they have one good friend.

  “Fenric might be my friend too,” I said, “and I get on with some others. Not sure if they’re friends or not.” How did a person tell?

  “Seven hundred years since a man’s been attacked by a dragon,” said another surgeon, “and it has to happen while I’m on holidays.”

  “Stop your whinging, Brian,” said another, “the king will pay us, I’m sure. Which reminds me, seeing it’s the future king I’m assuming we’re still trying to save the hand?” I floated around listening, and noticed that on top of a cupboard near me was a sign. I read it aloud.

  “If you can read this, do tell the doctor, thanks.” I frowned. “What does that mean?”

  They’re trying to prove life as something extant from the body, said Cree. People often claim they were floating out of their bodies, but so far nobody’s read his sign. It proves there’s a soul, or something. A consciousness that exists independently-

  “It’s fine,” I said, interrupting before he went on too long, “I get it. So, am I dead yet?” He laughed. I drifted through the wall to check on myself.

  No. Look, you’re breathing. Your colour is starting to come back, they’ve stopped the bleeding, and you have plenty of blood going into you. I did look better. Lots of drugs too. Poppy juice, I can feel it.

  “You can feel things I feel?”

  Aye, lad, amazing, isn’t it?

  “I’ve gone mad” I said, and sighed. “Am I dangerous? Do I need to go to an asylum?”

  Mad? Who’s mad? You’re no madder than I am.

  “You’re a ghost. Or something. Or I’m mad.”

  Having watched yourself being sewn back together, he said in a calm tone, will probably help you work with the way you’re going to be disabled.

  “Disabled?” So sure I’d die, living crippled hadn’t occurred to me.

  Dragon claws bite deep. I looked down. How deep? I remembered the doctors saying Kristen had touched bone in places. I had a moment of clarity.

  It’s just the drugs, said Cree, as if he were making a joke. The moment disappeared. Then it came back. I was vain. I didn’t want to live, all scarred up and twisted.

  “I’m pathetic,” I said. Nevertheless I couldn’t find it in myself to want to live crippled. Scars I could try to cover, but misshapen limbs? Would I be able to ride? This was why I didn’t want to join the army, the risk of being maimed! Another point for my list.

  “Like freaking razors alright,” said a surgeon, looking at the damage Kristen had done to my hip. I felt a bit dizzy and moved back through the wall to where I could see Azrael.

  “Oh,” I said, with one hand over my mouth in shock, “his wrist!” I shook my head. His left wrist was the one she bit, and there was another wound, a slashing one like the one on my forearm, only on the underneath of his upper right arm, where he had shielded his face. There was a single clawed line along his cheek. To the bone, I could see that much. A surgeon was fixing it together with tiny, delicate, twinned stitches, a suture needle held in forceps, knotting off each stitch. I was reminded suddenly of a fine seamstress, the same deftness and intense concentration. I looked into Azrael’s dark blue eyes. He was awake.

  I went back to look at myself. I was unconscious but my colour looked fine. A little pale, but compared with before, not bad.

  One of the amazing qualities of the Dragon tribe, said Cree, is their ability to heal, which edges into the ability to regenerate. You both have this in the latent form, as a possibility. Through meditation, you can find the way to heal yourselves. It is up to you to make it apparent. Polo? I turned to look at him. Time you went back, he said, in a kind tone.

  Something was pushing me, back down to earth.

  ****

  With a lurching sensation, I fell back inside myself, my stomach flipped and I opened my eyes.

  “I saw the note,” I said aloud.

  “Oh,” said a voice, “he’s awake. Good lad, you take it easy there. We’re cobbling you back together. You’ll not tangle with a dragon again in a hurry, eh?” The voice came from the man working on my arm. I was in no pain but was flying, high as a kite. I could feel the needle enter the skin, push out, and then the thread pull through. I tried to breathe normally.

  “We’ve got bioplas stitches,” the surgeon said. “Means they dissolve, you don’t need them taken out. Latest thing.”

  “Aye,” said someone from near my hip, “thanks to the conference we’ve plenty, the salespeople donated their samples.”

  “Oh,” I said. “That’s good.” There was something. “Wait, before I forget, I saw the note, on top of the cupboard. It said to tell the doctor.” I felt my eyes closing again.

  “You owe me a gold crown,” said a voice, “I freaking knew out-of-body experiences weren’t all bullshit.”

  “You’ve just proved life after death,” said another voice, sounding bad-tempered, “and you’re talking about coin?”

  “A gold crown, old man!” My eyes opened again and I laughed, but carefully. Someone was stitching my hip back together, saying I was bloody lucky she missed anything major. I was still drugged enough that although I could feel it, it didn’t hurt. Well it did, but the pain was somewhere below me, and I was floating happily.

  “He’s a local,” said the other voice, “and tall. He might have got in here and seen it. Or heard you put it there. And don’t call me old!”

  “Hmmph,” said the one who’d claimed his gold crown, “does middle-aged weasel who doesn’t pay his bets sound better?”

  “Ignore the children,” the man at my hip said, “usually you can’t get bioplas thread because it all goes to the army hospitals.”

  “I’m grateful for the special consideration.” I smiled. “Gods, the Queen of Joban turned into a freaking dragon.”

  “This one needs more drugs,” said a voice, “he’s talking too much.”

  ****

  Once stitched and stabilised, we were wheeled into a recovery room and I saw Azrael. I was in and out of consciousness but remembered Uncle Theo, Saraia, Nanny Black, my mother, and Aunt Rose allowed in briefly, checking we were alive, which they seemed to be very pleased about. Most of them were hitting the brandy hard because of the shock, so had to be shooed out.

  We patients sighed with relief and the nurse brought some beef and vegetable broth. With his left arm in a sling, and the right upper arm stitched then strapped into stiff bracing, Azrael couldn’t feed himself, so the nurse sat there and fed him. I felt lucky to be able to use a spoon, even if left-handed.

  A
nother nurse arrived, gave me some mindweed tincture, added more poppy juice and antibiotics to my drip, and I drifted off.

  ****

  I was walking with Azrael in a high meadow. It was warm, the sun felt good on my skin and there was a light breeze blowing. I sighed happily.

  “This is beautiful,” I said. There were mountains around us, higher than Sendren, seeming to hang in the clear air, and strange outcrops of glittering rock across the meadow. The outcrops began to move. Dragons, everywhere. I was delighted, looking around as we walked. Their big heads swung to watch our progress. The grass was soft under my bare feet, and the breeze kept tickling my skin. I looked down.

  It was one of those dreams. I was naked. So was Azrael. At least I wasn’t alone. We were walking along an avenue between the dragons. At the end of the avenue was a large red dragon. I guessed about thirty feet long, with wings maybe triple that. It reared up on its hinds, spread those immense wings, and the sun was obscured for a moment, then the dragon closed them with a snap and the big head swung in our direction. We were naked at some kind of Dragon Court. Was it a dream?

  “Let me deal with this,” said Azrael, “it’s my dream.” I stopped walking.

  “How can it be your dream?” I said, gesturing at the scene. “I’m dreaming it.”

  “Who is dreaming it?” said the big red dragon, sounding female, her voice sibilant on the S-sounds and rolling on the R’s. “I do believe,” she added, “you’ll find I’m dreaming you.” I laughed. “What’s so funny?” she said.

  “That it’s not his dream either,” I said, and grinned. She made a snorting noise. We walked right up and she swung her head down to mine, fixing me with a look from one giant eye, a vivid dark green with an orbital ring of blue opal. Like an iridescent sky fallen into a lake, and I tried not to stare. She curled her lip. I was impressed. So many teeth. She idly scored the ground next to her with a fore-claw. I wasn’t game to say another word. I had seen and felt what a small dragon could do. I wasn’t going to antagonise a large one.

  “You’re the Dragon queen,” said Azrael, “aren’t you?” He paused. Bowed. “Your Majesty.” I bowed too, to be polite. Looking at the size of her, I wanted to be polite. Her head was still next to me. The big green eye blinked. I blinked too. I suspected this was how a mouse felt when confronted by a snake. Despite our politeness she sounded bad-tempered.

  “Children of men,” she said, and now I was sure she was looking down her nose at us. “Nothing changes. You still always want to know everything now. So desperate to win your little wars.”

  “I want the dragon kingdoms to live again,” said Azrael, “I’ve figured out what you’re trying to hide.”

  I looked at him while she laughed, and the rest of the dragons in earshot tittered or said, “Young people today!” or, “Well, I never, isn’t he sure of himself!” The ones not quite in earshot said, “What? What did they say?” and started moving closer. The queen swung her head down to Azrael. I was quite happy at that, her focusing on him. I was wondering if, once in dragon form, dragons ate people. As snacks, not just biting them in battle. The Dragon queen glanced back at me. After my experience with Cree reading my mind, I tried not to think.

  “What are we hiding, prince of men?” said the queen. I blinked. Then I nearly collapsed on the grass with relief. I wasn’t a prince, she wasn’t talking to me.

  “We’re all Dragon,” said Azrael, sure she was talking to him, “all us bright-eyed ones. We can all transform.”

  I was thinking he was going to offend her, and that she could bite me in half. Then I remembered this was a dream, possibly not mine and definitely imaginary in some way, as I was walking, something I couldn’t currently do in real life. It stood to reason that we couldn’t be hurt here.

  Somehow I wasn’t reassured. She looked as if she could hurt me a great deal. Without stretching she could flick me with a foot and send me over that cliff a hundred yards away. The queen sniffed at Azrael. Standing next to him, I could feel her warm breath on my bare skin.

  “I’m right,” said Azrael, sounding defiant. “I know I am.” I edged a step away, in case she decided to swipe at him.

  “And whose child are you?” she said to Azrael.

  “My father was Peregrine Westwych, the late Crown Prince of Sendren. My mother is Saraia Casterton, Princess Royal of Sendren, and Princess of Cragleas. I am Azrael Theodore Westwych, Crown Prince of Sendren and Lord of Beechwood.”

  “Close,” she said, and the red-scaled lips pulled back from her teeth a little. I wondered if she was going to ask me who I was, because I was dying to say I was Polo Shawcross, professional nobody, but she didn’t. “So, Azrael,” said the Dragon queen, “how will you unify the kingdoms? This land hasn’t been unified since the Great Silence began. Long before Dragon came.”

  “We must unify,” Azrael said, “to beat Sriama once and for all. We must reintegrate with Dragon, with who we are. Time to stop pretending that we’re human. We’re not.” I’d heard this lecture before so looked around. “If the north falls,” Azrael was saying, “then the centre will too, including Sendren. We will all fall, until Sriama overruns us, and knowing the Kavar, they’ll be trying to take as much territory in the west as they can manage.” Near me, a white dragon dotted with black speckles sneezed.

  “Murray!” said a pretty silver-coloured dragon, sounding appalled. “Cover your mouth!” She scrunched her golden eyes in disgust.

  “I’m in animal form, Virginia,” said the white dragon, “I don’t have to ascribe to human mores.” The silver dragon snorted. I saw her eyes were flecked with bright colours on a bed of topaz, a tawny opal like my mother’s black opalescent, but without Mother’s emerald orbital ring. The effect was stunning and beautiful.

  “You’re not an animal, Murray,” she said, “didn’t you pay attention in school? Oh, I forgot, you only pay attention to your stomach.” I slid a step in their direction and listened as they squabbled. The affection between them made me smile. On the other side of me Azrael was fencing verbally with the queen. I had nothing to do except stand there, naked. Would I remember any of it, this pretty poppy-dream?

  The hides of the dragons sparkled in the sun. If I just had a towel to sit on, I’d drop to the green grass and fall asleep. I was starting to feel uncomfortably warm. My mouth was very dry. As I thought about it my knees gave way. I tried not to fall but still did. I lay there with my head on one arm. Scattered in the grass were tiny violet starflowers and I was breathing in the scents of a mountain meadow, grass, earth and somewhere off, the taste of snow, while wondering if I was still alive.

  The starflower’s tiny violet petals with the sunshine-yellow centre were so pretty. As it said in the Book of Thet, the goddess Galaia died but was brought back only to find her body had decayed. She wept, and the starflowers sprang up where her tears fell. They were the ones that gave her hope, bringing joy in the midst of sorrow, and why she decided to merge with the World.

  Were they a sign? Was I dying? Would I be reborn? I said the Prayer for the Dead. Only I said it as the dead.

  “May Haka treat me kindly and Galaia bring me back here when she can.”

  “Polo,” said Azrael, somewhere near me, “are you alright?” I tried to get up, but only succeeded in rolling over. I shut my eyes and saw the daylight, red through my eyelids. I couldn’t seem to speak.

  “They need to be healed,” said the queen, “see to it.”

  ****

  Chapter 22 - Back From Haka’s Kingdom

  I woke up in a room by myself, not alone. Murray and Virginia, much smaller than in the meadow but definitely in dragon form, were standing by my bed. It was dark and the hospital was quiet. I was burning up.

  “Polo,” said Virginia, leaning over me, “Polo?” My mouth was so dry I couldn’t speak but managed to mime drinking. They helped me sit up to sip some water. I was very weak. My body throbbed, especially where the dragon had scored me.

  “Virginia, and Murray,” I s
aid, hoarsely. “I dreamed you.”

  “There, petal,” she said, “easy does it. That’s right, we were in the dream. Now, if you remember that, hopefully this will be easier.” She scored her forearm with a claw and let blood well up. “I need you to taste this. Trust me, it will help you heal.” Murray made a noise of distaste.

  “You could have used a scalpel, Virginia,” he said, “we’re in a hospital, after all.” Virginia made an angry noise and offered me her scaled arm. I tentatively licked at it.

  “He’s nearly dead, Murray,” she said, “and burning a fever you could fry an egg on. A few more germs won’t hurt him. Besides, I washed when we arrived. Here, Polo, little more please.” She kept at me to have a little more. “It’s the way we work, petal, we Dragon, we can regenerate and we refuel from our brothers and sisters. You need this so you can start regenerating and fight the fever. You’re one of us, Polo, you can heal yourself. Be like us. With our help.”

  I think I drank a few tablespoons. Then Murray opened a vein for me, with a scalpel, and I drank from him too. They gave me more water. Virginia spoke about meditating on healing. Along with the drugs and surgery, the blood and meditation would help my body’s natural defences to do their best.

  My sleep was patchy. I could hear dragons shifting on the roof, their claws scratching the tiles. In reality, the roof was several stories above me, so even if the dragons had been up there, I couldn’t have heard them. However my imaginary roof-roosting dragons were a comfort. I woke to nurses, to doctors, to Fenric, to the king, then to an empty room.

  At night Virginia dropped in and talked me through more meditations. I didn’t speak and wasn’t completely conscious. I remembered the smell of rotting flesh, of bedpans and antiseptic washes. Being fed little mouthfuls, drifting off.

  The pain of more stitches as the surgeons worked on me again. I came to during that, surprising them. Hurriedly, they upped my drug intake, muttering about tolerances.