Dragonsong (dragon riders of pern)

by Anne McCaffrey

  While Elgion did not actually expect the Sea Holder to institute an intensive search for a lost girl, he was surprised at the decision. Mavi, even, accepted it, almost as if she were glad of an excuse, as if the girl were an embarrassment. The shipmaster was obviously pleased by his Sea Holder’s impartiality. Only Alemi betrayed resentment. The Harper motioned to the young man to hang back as the others filed out.

  “I’ve some time. Where would you suggest I look?”

  Hope flashed in Alemi’s eyes, then as suddenly wariness clouded them. “I’d say it’s better if Menolly remains where she is…”

  “Dead or hurt?”

  “Aye.” Alemi sighed deeply. “And I wish her luck and long life.”

  “Then you think she’s alive and chooses to be without Hold?”

  Alemi regarded the Harper quietly. “I think she’s alive and better off wherever she is than she would be in Half-Circle.” Then the young Sea Man strode after the others, leaving the Harper with some interesting reflections.

  He was not unhappy at Half-Circle Hold. But the Masterharper had been correct in thinking that Elgion would have to make quite a few adjustments to life in this Sea Hold. It would be a challenge, Robinton had told Elgion, to try to broaden the narrow outlook and straitened thinking of the isolated group. At the moment Elgion wondered if the Masterharper had not vastly overrated his abilities when he was unable to get the Sea Holder, or his family, to even try to rescue a blood relation.

  Then, shifting through the tones of voices, rather than the words spoken, Elgion came to realize that this Menolly posed some sort of problem to her Hold beyond the crippled hand. For the life of him, Elgion couldn’t remember seeing the girl, though he thought he could recognize every member of the Hold. He’d spent considerable time now with every family unit, with the children in the Little Hall, with the active fishermen, with the honorably retired old people.

  He tried to recall when he’d seen a girl with an injured hand and had only the fleetingest recollection of a tall, gawky figure hurrying out of the Hall one evening when he’d been playing. He hadn’t seen the girl’s face, but he’d recall her slumping figure if he saw it again.

  It was regrettable that Half-Circle Hold was so isolated that there was no way to send a drum-message. He could signal the next dragonrider he saw, as an alternative, and get word to Benden Weyr. The sweep riders could keep their eyes open for the girl, and alert any Holds beyond the marshes and down the coast. How she could have gotten that far with Thread falling, Elgion didn’t know, but he’d feel better taking some measures to find her.

  He had also made no headway in discovering the identity of the song-maker. And Masterharper had charged him to have that lad in the Harpercrafthall for training as soon as possible. Gifted songmakers were a rare commodity. Something to be sought and cherished.

  By this time Elgion understood why the old Harper had been so cautious about identifying the lad. Yanus thought only of the sea, of fishing, of how to use every man, woman and child of his Sea Hold to the Hold’s best advantage. He had them all well-trained. Yanus would certainly have looked askance at any able-bodied lad who spent too much time tuning. There was, in fact, no one to help Elgion with the evening task of entertainment. One likely lad had a fair sense of rhythm, and Elgion had already started him on the drum, but the majority of his students were thick-fingered. Oh, they knew their Teachings, spot-on, but they were passive musically. No wonder Petiron had been so effusive about the one really talented child among so many deadheads. Too bad the old man had died before he received Robinton’s message. That way the boy would have known that he was more than acceptable as a candidate to the Harpercrafthall.

  Elgion watched the fishing fleet out of the harbor and then rounded up several lads, got meatrolls from an auntie in the Hold kitchen, and set off on, ostensibly, a food gathering mission.

  As Harper he was acquainted with them; but mindful that he was the Harper, the boys regarded him with respect and kept him at a distance. The moment he told them that they should keep their eyes open for Menolly, for her belt knife, if they knew it, or belt buckle, the distance widened inexplicably. They all seemed to know, though Elgion doubted that the adults had told them, that Menolly had been missing from the Hold for some days. They all seemed equally reluctant to look for her, or to suggest to him possible areas in which to search. It was as if, Elgion told himself with frustrated anger, they were afraid the Harper would find her. So he tried to regain their confidence by telling them that Yanus had suggested that everyone who went outside the Hold should keep their eyes open for the lost girl.

  He came back with his charges to the Hold, with sacksful of berries, greens and some spiderclaws. The only information the boys had volunteered about Menolly during the entire morning was that she could catch more spiderclaws than anyone.

  As it turned out, Elgion didn’t have to signal for a dragonrider. The next day a bronze wingleader came circling down to the beach at Half-Circle, greeting Yanus affably and asking if he might have a few words with the Harper.

  “You’ll be Elgion,” said the young man, raising his hand in greeting. “I’m N’ton, rider of Lioth. I heard you were settling in.”

  “What can I do for you, N’ton?” and Elgion tactfully walked the bronze rider out of Yanus’s earshot.

  “You’ve heard of fire lizards?”

  Elgion stared at N’ton in surprise for a moment before he laughed. “That old myth!”

  “Not really a myth, friend,” said N’ton. Despite the laughing mischief in his eyes, he was speaking in earnest.

  “Not a myth?”

  “Not at all. Would you know if the lads here have spotted any along the coast? They tend to leave their clutches in beach sands. It’s the eggs we want.”

  “Really? Actually it isn’t the lads who’ve seen them, but the Sea Holder’s son, not the fanciful sort, although I didn’t really credit…he saw some around some rock crags known as the Dragon Stones. Down the coast some ways.” Elgion pointed the direction.

  “I’ll go have a look myself. But this is what has happened. F’nor, brown Canth’s rider, has been injured.” N’ton paused. “He’s been convalescing at Southern Hold. He found, and Impressed,” and again N’ton paused significantly to emphasize his last word, “a fire lizard queen…”

  “Impressed? I thought only dragons…”

  “Fire lizards are much like dragons, only smaller.”

  “But this would mean…” And Elgion was lost in the wonder of that meaning.

  “Yes, precisely, Harper,” said N’ton with a wide grin. “And now everyone wants a fire lizard. I can’t imagine Yanus Sea Holder wasting the time and energy of his men looking for fire lizard clutches. But if fire lizards have been seen, any cove with warm sand might just hide a clutch.”

  “The high tides this spring have been flooding most of the coves.”

  “Too bad. See if you can’t organize the Hold youngsters to search. I don’t think you’d have much resistance…”

  “None at all.” And Elgion realized that N’ton, dragonrider though he now was, must have been susceptible to the same boyhood designs on fire lizards that Elgion had once planned. “When we find a clutch, what do we do?”

  “If you find one,” N’ton said, “fly the signal banner and the sweep rider will report. If the tide is threatening, put the clutch in either warm sand or warmed hides.”

  “If they should hatch, you did mention they can be Impressed…”

  “I hope you’re that lucky, Harper. Feed the fledglings. Stuff their faces with as much as they can eat, talking all the time. That’s how you Impress. But then, you’ve been to a Hatching, haven’t you? So, you know how to go about it. Same principle involved.”

  “Fire lizards.” Elgion was enchanted with the prospect.

  “Don’t Impress them all, Harper. I’d like one of the little beasties myself.”

  “Greedy?”

  “No, they’re engaging little pets. Nothing as
intelligent as my Lioth there,” and N’ton grinned indulgently at his bronze who was scrubbing one cheek in the sand. As he turned back to Elgion, N’ton noticed the line of awed children, lining the seawall, all eyes on Lioth’s action. “You’ll have no lack of help, I suspect.”

  “Speaking of help, Wingleader, a young girl of the Sea Hold is missing. She went out the morning of the last Fall and hasn’t been seen since.”

  N’ton whistled softly and nodded sympathetically. “I’ll tell the sweep riders. She probably took shelter, if she’d any sense. Those palisades are riddled with caves. How far have you searched?”

  “That’s it. No one has bothered to.”

  N’ton scowled and glanced towards the Sea Holder. “How old a girl?”

  “Come to think of it, I don’t know. His youngest daughter, I believe.”

  N’ton snorted. “There are other things in life than fish.”

  “So I used to believe.”

  “Don’t be so sour so young, Elgion. I’ll see you come to the next Hatching at Benden.

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “I suspect so.” With a farewell wave, N’ton strode back to his bronze dragon, leaving Elgion with an easier conscience and the prospect of some relief from the monotony of the Sea Hold.

  Chapter 7

  Who wills,

  Can.

  Who tries,

  Does.

  Who loves,

  Lives.

  It took Menolly four days to find the right sort of rocks to spark a fire. She’d had plenty of time before that to dry seaweeds and gather dead marshberry bushes for fuel, and to build a little hearth in the side of the big cavern where a natural chimney took the smoke up. She’d gathered a generous pile of sweet marsh grasses for bedding and picked out the seam of the carry-sack to make herself a rug. It wasn’t quite long enough unless she curled up under it, but the fire lizards insisted on sleeping about and around her and their bodies made up the lack. In fact, she was quite comfortable at night.

  With fire, she was very comfortable. She found a stand of young klahbark trees, and though the resultant brew was harsh, it woke her up very well. She went to the clay deposits that Half-Circle Hold used and got sufficient clay to make herself several cups, plates and rude containers for storage, which she hardened in the ashes of her fire. And she filled in the holes of a dish-like porous rock in which she could boil water. With all the fish she needed in the sea in front of her, she ate as well as, if not better than, she would have in the Hold. Although, she did miss bread.

  She even made herself a sort of path down the cliff face. She carved out footrests and staked in some handholds, to make both ascent and descent safer.

  And she had company. Nine fire lizards were constantly in attendance.

  The morning after her hectic adventure, Menolly had been absolutely stunned to wake with the unaccustomed weight of warm bodies about her. Scared, too, until the little creatures roused, with strong thoughts of renewed hunger and love and affection for her. Driven by their need, she had climbed down the treacherous rock face to the sea and gathered fingertails, trapped in the shallow tidal pools. She wasn’t quite able to dig rockrnites, but when she showed her charges where they could get them out with their long, agile tongues, the creatures found their instinct adequate for the job. Having fed her friends, Menolly was too tired to go in search of sparking rocks and had eaten a flat fish raw. Then she and the fire lizards had crept back into the cavern and slept again.

  As the days went by their appetite drove Menolly to lengths she wouldn’t have attempted for her own comfort. The result was that she was kept entirely too busy to feel either sorry for or apprehensive about herself. Her friends had to be fed, comforted and amused. She also had to supply her own needs—as far as she was able—and she was able to do a lot more than she’d suspected she could. In fact, she began to wonder about a lot of things the Hold took for granted.

  She had automatically assumed, as she supposed everyone did, that to be caught without shelter during Threadfall was tantamount to dying. No one had ever correlated the fact that the dragonriders cleared most of the Thread from the skies before it fell—that was the whole point of having dragons—with the idea that as a result there was very little Thread to fall on the unsheltered. Hold thinking had hardened into an inflexible rule—to have no shelter during Threadfall was to experience death.

  In spite of her increasing independence, however, had Menolly been alone, she might have regretted her foolishness and crept back to the Sea Hold. But the company and wonder of the fire lizards gave her all the diversion she needed. And they loved her music.

  It was no great trick at all to make one reed pipe, and a lot more fun to put five together so she could play a counter-tune. The fire lizards adored the sounds and would sit listening, their dainty heads rocking in time with the music she played. When she sang, they’d croon, at first off-key; but gradually, she thought, their “ear” improved, and she had a soft chorus. Menolly sang, in amused duty, all the Teaching Ballads, particularly the ones about dragons. The fire lizards might understand less than a child three Turns old, but they responded with small cries and flappings wings to any of the dragon songs, as if they appreciated the fact that she was singing about their kin.

  There was no doubt in Menolly’s mind that these lovely creatures were related to the huge dragons. How, she didn’t know and didn’t really care. But if you treated them the way weyrmen treated their dragons, the fire lizards responded. She, in turn, began to understand their moods and needs, and insofar as she was able, supplied them.

  They grew quickly, those first days. So quickly that she was hard pressed to keep their mouths full. Menolly didn’t see too much of the other hatchlings, the ones she hadn’t fed or had fed only casually. She saw them now and again, smaller creatures, as the entire weyr fed on the rockmites at low tide. The little queen and her bronze mate would often hover, watching Menolly and her small group. The queen sometimes scolded Menolly or perhaps berated the fire lizard Menolly was holding. Menolly wasn’t sure which. And occasionally the queen would even fly at one of the fledglings, beating it soundly with her wings. For what reason, Menolly could never figure out, but the little ones meekly submitted to her discipline.

  Occasionally Menolly offered food to one of the others, but they’d never take it if she remained near. Nor would any of the older fire lizards, including the queen. Menolly concluded that that was as well, otherwise she’d have to spend every single waking moment feeding lazy fire lizards. The nine she’d Impressed were quite enough to keep sated.

  When she saw the first skin lesion on the little queen, Menolly wondered where she would find oil. They’d all need it. Cracks in the skin would be deadly for the young fire lizards if they had to go between. And with natural enemies around, like wherries and eager boys from nearby Holds, between was a needed refuge.

  The closest source of oil swam in the sea. But she’d no boat to catch the deep-sea oily fishes, so she searched the coast for dead fish and found a packtail washed up during the night. She slit the carcass, carefully, always working the knife blade away from her, and squeezed the oil from the skin into a cup. Not the most pleasant of jobs; and by the time she’d finished, she had a bare cupful of unpleasantly fishy yellow oil. Yet it did work. The queen might not smell very pleasant, but the oil did coat the crack. For good measure, she smeared all her friends.

  The stench in the cavern that night was almost more than she could endure, and she fell asleep trying to think of alternatives. By morning the possibilities had narrowed down to one: sweetening the fish oil with certain marsh grasses. She couldn’t get the pure sweet oil they used in the Hold because that was traded from Nerat; it was pressed from the flesh of a hot climate fruit that grew abundantly in the rain forests there. The oily seed pod that grew from a sea bush would not be available until fall; and while she could get some oil from black marshberries, it would take immense quantities, which she’d prefer to eat.r />
  With her fire lizards as winged escort, she made her way south and inland, towards country little penetrated by the Sea Holders as being too far, these days, from shelter.

  Menolly set out as soon as the sun was up and varied her pace between a striding walk and an easy jog. She decided to go on as far as she could until the sun was mid-heaven; she couldn’t risk being too far from her cave when night fell.

  The fire lizards were excited, darting about until she scolded them for wasting their energy. They took enough feeding without all that flying and all they could count on in this flat marsh area were berries and a few early sour plums. They took turns clinging to her shoulders and hair then, until the little brown pulled at her once too often, and she shooed them all off.

  She was soon past any familiar terrain and began to proceed more slowly. It wouldn’t do to be bogged down. Midday found her deep in the marshes, gathering berries for herself, her friends and her basket. She’d managed to harvest some of the aromatic grasses she wanted, but not enough for her purpose. She had decided to sweep in a wide circle back towards her cliff cave when she heard distant cries.

  The little queen heard them, too, landing on Menolly’s shoulder and adding her agitated comments.

  Menolly told her to be quiet so she could hear, and to her surprise, the little queen instantly obeyed. The others subsided, and all seemed to wait expectantly. Without diversion Menolly recognized the distinctive and frantic noise of a distressed wherry.

  Following the sound, Menolly crossed the slight rise into the next bog valley and saw the creature, wings flapping, head jerking but its legs and body firmly captured by treacherous sinking sands.

  Oblivious to the excitement of the fire lizards who recognized the wherry as an enemy, Menolly ran forward, drawing her knife. The bird had been eating berries from the bushes edging the boggy sands and stupidly stepped into the mire. Menolly approached the sands cautiously, making certain that she was stepping on firm land. She got close enough—the frightened bird not even aware of her proximity—and plunged her knife into its back, at the base of the neck.