Cissy turned back to Augie. Honor was already on her knees beside him. He made soft little gasping sounds that the lizzie hadn’t heard before. The two females quickly examined him. The great claw had cut right through his coat, and the clothing beneath, and there was a long red scratch, but it hadn’t broken the skin. Feeling his extremities and finding no obvious broken bones, Honor carefully rolled the boy over. Opening his eyes, he looked up through his tears, then jumped up so quickly that he hit his head on Cissy’s snout. Ignoring this new bump on his head, he jumped into the reptilian’s arms and pressed his face into her scaly chest.
* * * * *
13 Months Earlier
Wissinger knocked on the heavy oak door. The cold ocean air whipped around his legs. He stood in front of a traditional northern home, with a narrow front and high sloping roof. He knocked again, barely finishing when the door was opened to reveal a lovely young girl. She wore a traditional Nacht-der-Blumen-Fest dress, light and dark green, trimmed with large yellow flowers. A pigtail pointed out on either side of her head, one tipped with a light green ribbon, the other with a yellow one.
“Oh, welcome,” she said. “Come in, come in. It’s cold out there and you look frozen through.”
“Thank you,” said Wissinger. “It’s not really so cold.”
“It’s miserable, and you have no greatcoat,” said the girl. “Come in by the fire and I’ll get you a cup of warm buttergrog.”
“Thank you so much.”
The girl led him from the entryway into a warm wood-paneled main room. Two pairs of shoes, carefully polished, were set in front of a roaring fireplace, ready to be filled with candies for Nacht-der-Blumen-Fest. Careful not to disturb them, the writer stood as close as possible to the heat and let it sink into his flesh.
“Mister?” She was beside him, pressing a large mug into his hands.
“Schroeder,” said Wissinger, taking the mug. “Kurt Schroeder.”
He pressed the hot vessel to his lips and breathed in the smell of cinnamon, cloves, apples, and rum infusing the steam. When he sipped it, he found that it tasted as good as it smelled.
“Are you here to see my father?” she asked him.
“If you father is Herr Fuhrmann, then yes, it is he that I am looking for.”
“Yes, that is my father. What is it you want with him?”
“I was informed that he may have work,” said Wissinger, finally feeling warm inside and out.
“I cannot say if Father will hire you—only that he employs men from time to time as loaders. May I get you some more buttergrog? My name is Inga, by the way.”
The girl, Inga, filled his mug again. Wissinger looked around the room. Several preserved animal heads looked down at him from one wall. The other was filled shelves, almost overflowing with books. In fact, he hadn’t seen so many books since he left the university.
“Are you a reader, Herr Schroeder?” asked Inga, noticing his gaze.
“I used to be.”
“I love books. I read all the time. And I don’t just read the easy books either. I read the great works of the fatherland, and Brechalon and Mirsanna too. I just finished Shia Toler’s The Sun Drop Fruit, now I’m reading Privilege and Sacrifice.”
“Be careful my dear,” said Wissinger. “If people hear you’re reading Garstone, they might take you for a communist.”
The girls eyes went very wide.
“Don’t worry about me though,” he quickly added. “I would never discourage a young person from reading anything.”
“These books all belonged to my mother,” Inga continued. “They say she killed herself, but I don’t believe it. Could a person do that, Mr. Schroeder? Could a person do that to herself?”
“Um, when do you expect your father home?” asked Wissinger.
“Oh, he won’t be home till suppertime,” said the girl. “You must stay until then. I’ll let your read some of my books.”
“Um, I don’t know if that would be proper…I mean for me to stay… aren’t you at school?”
“It’s Nacht-der-Blumen-Fest. I have to stay home all by myself and all my schoolmates live far away. The other children from around here have been taken away.”
“Taken… oh. Um, and how old are you, dear?”
“I’ll be sixteen soon. Why don’t you just sit here by the fire and read some of my books, Herr Schroeder,” said Inga. “I shall get started on our daily bread. Can you believe it is spring? It’s so cold.”
The clattering of dishes and the faint smells of food kept Wissinger apprised of Inga’s activities, while he poured over her library. He picked up the collected works of Leda Stolz. Communism wasn’t the only subversive literature here. He hadn’t seen a volume of Stolz in years. She had fallen out of favor not because of her politics, but because of her homosexuality. He sat down and opened the book up to The Importance of Pleasing the Misses. Soon he was completely engrossed, laughing aloud despite himself. Inga appeared near him and opened the fireplace grate to toss in two more logs.
“That’s one of my favorites too,” she said. “I don’t think I understood all of it though.”
“I dare say.” Wissinger nodded.
“Maybe I can show you my real treasures…”
She was interrupted when the door opened and an enormous man entered. He was at least six foot four and was heavily muscled. A great red beard all but covered his face. He peeled off a fur greatcoat and hung it on a peg beside the door and then stomped into the main room.
“Father,” said Inga. “This is Herr Schroeder. He is looking for work.”
Wissinger held out his hand and the large man shook it.
“Not a laborer by trade?”
“Um, no,” said Wissinger. “But I’m willing to work hard.”
“Hard times,” said Fuhrmann. “It’s hard to find workers. All the able hands are in the army or… other places.”
“Yes.”
“I’m taking two wagons into Butzbach tomorrow. You drive one of them. If you do well you have a job.”
“Excellent,” said Wissinger.
“Do you have a place to stay?”
“Um, no.”
“There’s a room above the stable. You can stay there. I’ll show it to you after we eat.”
Fuhrmann led him into a tiny dining area that seemed even smaller with them crowded into it. Three chairs surrounded a small but heavy oak table. Wissinger was directed to the seat opposite the master of the house, and Inga sat between them. She had filled the table with several kinds of sausages, thick slices of Mirsannan and local cheeses, loaves of hearty dark bread, slices of pickled and fresh cucumbers, and piles of freshly baked gingerbread. To Wissinger, who hadn’t had a full meal in two days, it was a feast almost beyond imagining.
“Herr Schroeder,” said Inga, her eyes twinkling in the candlelight. “Would you say grace, please?”
“Of course.” He folded his hands in front of him. “Oh gracious Lord, please bless this warm and welcoming home, bless its inhabitants with health and prosperity, and accept our thanks for this bounty. Keep us all safe this night… um, humbly we say this… in the name of our beloved and beautiful savior Kafira Kristos.” He mimicked his host, forming the sign of the cross above his chest.
“Please forgive my hypocrisy, Lord,” he spoke heavenward in his mind. “Whatever your affiliation with Kafira though, if any, the thanks and request of blessings was most sincere.”
The food was delicious, and Wissinger had to stop himself several times from moaning in sheer delight of the textures and flavors. He complimented the cook again and again. Inga smiled, and ate tiny bird bites. She asked question after question, mostly about literature. Wissinger answered some of them, but feigned ignorance for others. Fuhrmann spoke little, but his hands moved like machines to see that his mouth was never idle for long.
When they finished, the host and his daughter led him out to the stables. The huge building, home to a dozen stout Freedonian horses, dwarfed the house, ho
me to two human beings. Up a narrow staircase near the stable entrance was a small room. It was furnished with a lantern and a bed and nothing else, but the writer was thankful for it. Fuhrmann found several blankets and a pillow in a chest at the foot of the stairs.
“We breakfast at first light. Then take care of the barn. After that, we will hitch up the teams and set off for Butzbach.” Then with a nod, he left the Wissinger. His daughter followed him from the loft, but returned a minute later.
“I know who you are, Herr Schroeder,” she said.
“You do?”
“Yes. You are a book lover. You are not like those narren who burn them in piles.”
“Shh,” he said. “You mustn’t say such things.”
“But they are true.”
“Many true things should not be said,” he replied.
“Well I’m going to show you one of my treasures. Here.”
She held out a brown leather-bound book with gold edging on the pages. The writer opened it to the title page: The Setting Sun by Isaak Wissinger.
“It’s a grown-up book. Father wouldn’t allow it if he knew what was in it. Have you read it?”
“Yes,” said Wissinger, hoarsely. He flipped through the pages and looked at the inside covers, wondering where the book had come from. The only thing he found was a small notation in pencil on the back inside cover, showing the price: 65 groschen. “Yes, I’ve read it.”
“The author is a Zaeri, you know. The King says the Zaeri are evil, but how could an evil man write something so wonderful, so beautiful?”
“I don’t know. What does your father say?”
“He doesn’t say anything about it.”
“Put the book away,” Wissinger advised. “Don’t let anyone else see it. I don’t want you to get into trouble.”
“If you say so.” She skipped out of the small room. “Goodnight, Herr Schroeder.”
Wissinger peeled off his clothes and climbed beneath the blankets. He thought his full belly would send him off to sleep quickly, but it didn’t, and it wasn’t long before he felt tears wetting his cheeks. He didn’t know why, but he felt a sincere and complete loneliness the likes of which he hadn’t felt since before he left Kasselburg. Finally sleep came and awareness of his surroundings left him, but the loneliness stayed.
* * * * *
The Present
“I don’t like sitting here with them staring at me like that,” said Senta, as she brushed her hand through her hair, blond once again.
She was perched on a large rock twenty feet from Bessemer, who was stripping great pieces of flesh from the body of an adolescent paralititan. Fifty feet from them, two large tyrannosaurs watched, their ugly black heads bobbing up and down as they shifted from one foot to the other.
“Piss off, you!” Bessemer shouted at them. “This is my lunch!”
“I don’t think that’s going to do it,” said Senta.
The steel dragon turned toward the two monsters and roared, a massive gout of flame shooting more than half the distance toward them. The dinosaurs roared back, but then turned and stalked off across the great field toward the herd of triceratops in the distance.
“I guess you showed them,” said Senta.
“It’s not the size of the dragon in the fight. It’s the size of the fight in the dragon.”
The young sorceress thought that his philosophy must be correct, as either one of the black and red predators was easily twice as big as the dragon. Then again, maybe it was the fire.
“You’re not frightened of them?”
“I used to be. I suppose if one actually got a hold of me, I’d be in for it. That’s not going to happen though. And when I get a little bigger, there’ll be no creature on this entire continent for me to fear.”
“There’s always the other one—Hissussisthiss.”
“Yes, there’s always him,” said Bessemer. “I wonder about him sometimes. He must be lonely with no other dragons around.”
“Are you? Lonely, I mean, with no other dragons around?”
“I’ve got you, don’t I?” He took another big bite of dinosaur meat and chewed it. “Someday I think I’ll meet other dragons. There are bound to be some around somewhere. Humans can’t have wiped them all out.”
“What makes you think it was humans?”
“You know it was,” he said. “You lot are always wiping out other creatures. Look at the stories. Rendrik of the North, and those other barbarians—they were out slaying dragons all the time.”
“I suppose,” said the girl.
“Maybe they are all gone. Maybe humans did kill them all off. Maybe it is just me and that great green brute.”
Senta just shrugged. She didn’t have any answers for herself; certainly none for the dragon.
* * * * *
It had taken Baxter three days to reach the far side of the island. He had seen no animals other than birds during the trip and had of course seen no humans. The northern tip of the island jutted out in a high white hill and atop that was a broad green meadow. Wandering around this meadow in a herd or flock, were enormous birds. They stood nearly eight feet tall at the shoulder, with their long necks stretched out in front of them, and looked to weigh more than 500 lbs. Unlike the birds of Enclep, which not only served as mounts for humans, but also had large heads with great dangerous beaks that could snip off a man’s arm, these birds had small heads, not much bigger than a man’s fist, and small beaks with which they snipped at leaves and grasses. In a way, thought Baxter, these were nothing more than huge chickens, and he determined to kill and cook one.
The problem turned out not to be the killing, but the catching. The birds were difficult to slip up on. The naval officer eventually resorted to sitting in a large bush and waiting for the birds to come to him, which they did. He remained motionless until he was surrounded by the creatures and then threw his spears, one after the other, at the same prey. The great bird ran for a hundred yards before toppling over onto its side and then kicking futilely at the air. It was still kicking when the man approached. Baxter placed his foot on the sinewy neck and used his hatchet to chop off the head.
After butchering a portion of the bird, starting a fire, and then placing the meat on a spit above the flames, Baxter made a simple shelter by piling loose grass and leaves over a stout nearby bush. He had built both the fire and shelter some distance from the remains of the carcass for fear of predators. No creatures appeared however, except for a pair of large vultures. The meat was soon cooked and it proved as delicious as any chicken that Baxter had ever tasted. He finished his meal as the sun was reaching the edge of the ocean, and then he crawled into his shelter beneath the bush and went to sleep.
The next morning, Baxter was up with the sun. Following the slope of the land away from the precipice, he made his way down toward the rocky coast and then followed it around along below the high white cliffs. Here, scattered along the beach, were the remains of a wrecked ship of the type common on Enclep. Here was ample lumber, if one had the means to carry it, and Baxter did retrieve as much as he could. As he rounded the largest portion of the wreck, he came upon the body of one of the sailors. He had not been dead long, his brown skin still intact and unblemished by rot or maggots. He was lying on his face, his feet floating in the surf.
Baxter didn’t waste too much time gathering rope, an ample amount he also found on the wreck. The wind was starting to pick up and the tide was coming in. Coiling what he had gathered around himself, he started off, only to be startled by a second body lying just beyond a large rock, this one a woman. She was just as brown and just as naked as the man, and she seemed just as dead—until she moved.
Rushing to her side, Baxter took her wrist. He felt a pulse, but she scarcely noticed him and didn’t open her eyes. She felt as cold as death, not surprising since she was lying exposed to the wind and ocean. Gathering her in his arms, Baxter went back the way he had come, climbing once again up to the meadow above the high white cliffs. He ha
dn’t planned on coming back this way, but it seemed the best thing to do. He placed the woman in his ad-hoc shelter and added several more armfuls of grasses and dried leaves. Then he started a fire in the same temporary fire pit he had used the night before. Piling on as much fuel as he could find, he built it into a roaring blaze.
Turning around, he saw the woman watching him.
“Hello,” he said.
“Sprechen sie Freudan?” he asked, when he received no response. Still nothing. “Parle vous Mirann?”
“Oui,” she said quietly.
“Great,” he said. “Um, est vous hurt… um, blessé?”
“Arroser, s'il vous plait?”
“Arroser?”
“Eau?”
“Oh? Eau. Oh! Water!”
He bent over her and pressed the mouth of his coconut canteen to her lips. She sipped a bit.
“Um, nom?” he asked her. She didn’t respond right away. “Quel est nom?”
“Odval.”
“Odval?”
“Oui, Odval. Quel est votre nom?”
“My name? Um, Kieran. Odval, Kieran.”
She smiled weakly, and then passed into unconsciousness.
* * * * *
“Well, my little Bikendi, let us see how you’ve done.
Senta picked up the little grey monstrosity by the head. Despite its hissing and clawing at her, she squeezed the quasit’s little head until its eyeballs popped out into her other palm, like two tiny black marbles. She tossed the squirming creature back into the large jar of urine-colored liquid, where it struggled for a moment, before curling up and becoming immobile. Then she popped the little black eyes into her mouth and chewed them. They were hard and rubbery, but eventually squished, filling her mouth with a foul jelly.
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