Dragonsong (dragon riders of pern)

by Anne McCaffrey

  “I’m Manora,” the woman said as she returned with a bowl of steaming stew and a mug. “You realize that you’re at Benden Weyr? Good. You may stay here, you know, as long as you wish.”

  “I can?” A relief as intense as the pain in her feet flooded Menolly.

  “Yes, you can,” and the firmness of that reply made that right inalienable.

  “Menolly is my name…” She hesitated because Manora was nodding. “How did you know?”

  Manora motioned for her to continue eating. “I’ve seen you at Half-Circle, you know, and the Harper asked the wingleader to keep search for you…after you disappeared. We won’t discuss that now, Menolly, but I do assure you that you can stay at Benden.”

  “Please don’t tell them…”

  “As you wish. Finish your stew and take all the drink. You must sleep to heal.”

  She left as noiselessly as she’d come, but Menolly was reassured. Manora was headwoman at Benden Weyr, and what she said was so.

  The stew was delicious, thick with meat chunks and satisfying with herb flavors. She’d almost finished it when she heard a faint rustle and Beauty returned, piteously broadcasting hunger. With a sigh, Menolly pushed the bowl under the little queen’s nose. Beauty licked it dry, then hummed softly and rubbed her face against Menolly’s cheek.

  “Where are the others?”Menolly asked, worriedly.

  The little queen gave another hum and began to curl herself up in a ball by Menolly’s shoulder. She wouldn’t have been so relaxed if the others were in trouble, Menolly thought, as she sipped the fellis juice.

  “Beauty,” Menolly whispered, nudging the queen, “if anyone comes, you go. You mustn’t be seen here. Do you understand?”

  The queen rustled her wings irritably.

  “Beauty, you mustn’t be seen.” Menolly spoke as sternly as she could, and the queen opened one eye, which whirled slowly. “Oh dear, won’t you understand?” The queen gave a soft reassuring croon and then closed both lids.

  The fellis juice was already melting Menolly’s limbs into weightlessness. The dreadful throb of her feet eased. As her eyes relentlessly closed, Menolly had one last thought: how had Beauty known where she was?

  When Menolly woke, it was to hear faint sounds of children laughing, an infectious laughter that made her grin and wonder what caused such happiness. Beauty was gone but the space where she’d lain by Menolly’s head was warm to the touch. The curtain across the cubicle parted and a figure was silhouetted against the light beyond.

  “What’s the matter with you all of a sudden, Reppa?” the girl said softly to someone Menolly couldn’t see. “Oh, all right. I’m well rid of you for now.” She turned and saw Menolly looking at her. “How do you feel today?” As she adjusted the glow for full light, Menolly saw a girl about her own age, dark hair tied primly back from a face that was sad, tired and oddly mature. Then she smiled, and the impression of maturity dissolved. “Did you really run across Nerat?”

  “I really didn’t, although my feet feel as if they had!”

  “Imagine it! And you holdbred and out during a Fall!” There was a grudging respect in her voice.

  “I was running for shelter,” Menolly felt obliged to say.

  “Speaking of running, Manora couldn’t come to see you herself right now so you’re in my charge. She’s told me exactly what to do,” and the girl grimaced with such feeling that Menolly had a swift vision of Manora delivering her precise and careful instructions, “and I’ve had a lot of experience…” An expression of pain and anxiety crossed her face.

  “Are you Manora’s fosterling?” asked Menolly politely.

  The expression deepened for a moment, and then the girl erased all expression from her face, drawing her shoulders up with pride. “No, I’m Brekke’s. My name is Mirrim. I used to be in the Southern Weyr.”

  She made the statement as if that should make all plain to Menolly. “You mean, in the Southern Continent?”

  “Yes,” and Mirrim sounded irritated.

  “I didn’t know anyone lived there.” The words were no sooner out of her mouth than Menolly remembered some snippet of information overheard in conversations between Petiron and her father.

  “Where have you been all your life?” demanded Mirrim, exasperated.

  “In Half-Circle Sea Hold,” Menolly replied meekly because she didn’t wish to offend the girl.

  Mirrim stared at her.

  “Haven’t you ever heard of it?” It was Menolly’s turn to be condescending. “We have the biggest dock cavern on Pern.” Mirrim caught her eye, and then both girls began to laugh, the moment in which their friendship began.

  “Look, let me help you to the necessary, you must be bursting…” and Mirrim briskly threw back the sleeping fur. “You just lean on me.”

  Menolly had to because her feet were incredibly sore, even with Mirrim supporting most of her weight. Fortunately the necessary was no more than a few steps beyond the sleeping cubicle. By the time Menolly crawled back into her bed, she was shaking all over.

  “Stay on your stomach, Menolly; it’ll be easier to change your bandages,” Mirrim said. “I haven’t had to do many feet, it’s true; but if you don’t have to see what’s going on, that makes it easier. Everyone at Southern said my hands are gentle, and I’ll drown your feet in numbweed. Or would you want some more fellis juice? Manora said you could.”

  Menolly shook her head.

  “Brekke…” and here Mirrim’s voice faltered briefly, “Brekke taught me how to change sticky bandages because I…Oh, dearie me, your feet look just like raw meat. Ooops, that’s not the right thing to say, but they do. They will be all right, Manora said,” and there was such confidence in that statement that Menolly pre ferred to believe it, too. “Now Threadscore…that’s nasty. You’ve just lost all the skin on your feet, that’s all, but I expect you feel that’s quite enough. Sorry. Caught you there. Anyway, you’ll not wen have scars once the new skin grows, and it’s really amazing how quickly skin does grow. Or so I’ve observed. Now Threadscore, that’s nasty for healing. Never quite fades. Lucky for you T’gran’s Branth spotted you running. Dragons are very longsighted, you know. There, now, this should help…”

  Menolly gasped involuntarily as Mirrim slathered cool numbweed on her right foot. She’d been biting her lips against the pain while Mirrim, with very gentle hands indeed, had removed the blood-caked bandages but the relief from pain was almost a shock. If she’d only lost the skin from her feet, why did they hurt so much more than her hand had?

  “Now, we’ve only the left foot to go. The numbweed does help, doesn’t it? Did you ever have to boil it?” Mirrim asked with a groan and, as usual, didn’t wait for an answer. “For three days I just grit my teeth and close my nose and firmly remind myself that it would be so much worse if we didn’t have numbweed. I suppose that’s the bad with the good Manora’s always saying we have to have. But you’ll be relieved to know that there’s no sign of infection…”

  “Infection?” Menolly jerked herself up on her elbows, craning her head about.

  “Will you keep still?” Mirrim glared so authoritatively that Menolly forced herself to relax. All she could see of her feet were salvesmeared heels. “And you’re very, very lucky there isn’t any infection. After all, you’d been running shoeless over sand, dirt and goodness knows what. It took us forever to wash the grit off.” Minim made a sympathetic sound. “Just as well we’d dosed you good.”

  “You’re sure there’s no infection this time?”

  “This time? You haven’t done this before, have you?” Mirrim’s voice was shocked.

  “No, not my feet. My hand,” and Menolly turned on her side, holding out her scarred hand. She was considerably gratified by the concerned pity in Mirrim’s face as she examined the wound.

  “However did you do that?”

  “I was gutting packtail, and the knife slipped.”

  “You were lucky to miss the tendons.”

  “Miss?”

>   “Well, you are using those fingers. A bit drawn that scar, though.” Mirrim clucked her tongue with professional dismay. “Don’t think much of your Hold’s nursing if that’s any sample.”

  “Packtail slime is difficult, as bad as Threadscore in its own way,” Menolly muttered, perversely defending her Hold.

  “Be that as it may,” and Mirrim gave the foot bandage a final twitch, “we’ll see you don’t have any such trouble with your feet. Now, I’ll bring you something to eat. You must be starved…”

  Now that the worst of the dressing was over and the numbweed had deadened the pain in her feet, Menolly was definitely aware of the emptiness in her stomach.

  “So I’ll be right back, Menolly, and if you need anything after that, just shout for Sanra. She’s below on the Floor, minding the little ones, and she knows she’s to listen for you.”

  As Menolly worked her way through the generous meal Mirrim brought, she reflected on some harsh truths. Definitely Mavi had given her the distinct impression that she’d never be able to use her hand again. Yet Mavi was too skilled a healer not to have known that the knife had missed the finger tendons. She had deliberately let the hand heal with drawn flesh. It was painfully clear to Menolly that Mavi, as well as Yanus, had not wanted her to be able to play again.

  Grimly Menolly vowed that she’d never, never return to Half-Circle. Her reflections made her doubt Manora’s assurance that she could stay at Benden Weyr. No matter, she could run away again. Run she could, and live holdless. And that’s what she’d do. Why, she’d run across all Pern…And why not? Menolly became pleased with the notion. Indeed, there was nothing to stop her running right to the Masterharperhall in Fort Hold. Maybe Petiron had sent her songs to Masterharper Robinton. Maybe they were more than just twiddles. Maybe…but there was no maybe about returning to Half-Circle Hold! That she would not do.

  The issue did not arise over the next few days while her feet itched—Mirrim said that was a good sign of healing—and she found herself beginning to fret with impatience at her disability.

  She also worried about her fire lizards now she wasn’t able to forage for them. But the first evening when Beauty reappeared, her little eyes darting about the chamber to be sure Menolly was alone, there was nothing of hunger in her manner. She daintily accepted the morsels that Menolly had carefully saved from her supper. Rocky and Diver appeared just as she was drifting off to sleep. However, they promptly curled themselves up to sleep against the small of her back, which they wouldn’t have done if they’d been hungry.

  They were gone the next morning, but Beauty lingered, stroking her head against Menolly’s cheek until she heard footsteps in the corridor. Menolly shooed her away, telling her to stay with the others.

  “I know it’s boring to stay abed,” Mirrim agreed the third morning with a weary sigh that told Menolly Mirrim would gladly have swapped places, “but it’s kept you out of Lessa’s way. Since the…well,” and Mirrim censored what she’d been about to say. “With Ramoth broody over those eggs, we’re all treading hot sands until they Hatch, so it’s better you’re here.”

  “There must be something I can do, now that I’m better. I’m good with my hands…” and then Menolly, too, halted uncertainly.

  “You could help Sanra with the little ones if you would. Can you tell any stories?”

  “Yes, I…” and Menolly all but blurted out what she’d done at the Sea Hold, “…can at least keep them amused.”

  Weyrbred children were not like Hold children, Menolly discovered: they were more active physically, possessed of insatiable curiosity for every detail she cared to tell them about fishing and sailing. It was only when she taught them to fashion tiny boats of sticks and wide root leaves and sent them off to sail the skiffs in the Weyr lake that she had any rest the first morning.

  In the afternoon, she amused the younger ones by recounting how T’gran had rescued her. Thread was not as automatically horrifying to Weyr children as it would be to Holders, and they were far more interested in her running and rescue than in what she was running from. Unconsciously she fell into a rhyming pattern and caught herself up sharply just before she’d conceived a tune. The children didn’t seem to notice fortunately, and then it was time to peel tubers for the evening meal,

  It was difficult to subdue that little tune as she worked. Really it had exactly the cadence of her running stride…

  “Oh!”

  “Did you cut yourself?” asked Sanra from the other side of the table.

  “No,” replied Menolly, and she grinned with great good humor. She had just realized something very important. She wasn’t in the Sea Hold any longer. And no one here knew about her harpering. Likewise no one would know if it were her own songs she hummed when she felt like humming. So she began to hum her running song, and was doubly pleased with herself because the tune matched her paring strokes, too.

  “It’s a relief to hear someone happy,” remarked Sanra, smiling encouragingly at Menolly.

  Menolly realized then that she’d been vaguely aware all day of the fact that the atmosphere in the living cavern reminded her of those times when the fishing fleet was overdue in a storm and everyone was “waiting.” Mirrim was very worried about Brekke but she wouldn’t say why, and Menolly was reluctant to broach the girl’s sad reserve.

  “I’m happy because my feet are healing,” she told Sanra and then hurried on, “but I wish someone would tell me what’s wrong with Brekke, I know Minim’s worried sick about her…”

  Sanra stared at Menolly for a moment. “You mean, you haven’t heard about…” she lowered her voice and glanced about to make sure they weren’t overheard, “…about the queens?”

  “No. No one tells girls anything in the Sea Hold.”

  Sanra looked surprised but accepted the explanation. “Well, Brekke used to be at Southern, you did know that? Good. And when F’lar banished all the rebellious Oldtimers to Southern, the Southerners had to go somewhere. Tbor became Weyrleader at Fort Hold, Kylara…” and Sanra’s usually gentle voice became hard, “Kylara was Weyrwoman for Prideth, with Brekke and Wirenth…” Sanra was having enough trouble telling the tale so Menolly was very glad she hadn’t asked Mirrim. Wirenth rose to mate, but Kylara…” and the name was spoken with intense hatred, “Kylara hadn’t taken Prideth far enough away. She was close to mating, too, and when Wirenth flew the bronzes, she rose, and…”

  There were tears in Sanra’s eyes, and she shook her head, unable to continue.

  “Both queens…died?”

  Sanra nodded.

  “Brekke’s alive, though…Isn’t she?”

  “Kylara lost her mind, and we’re desperately afraid that Brekke will lose hers…” Sanra mopped the tears from her face, sniffing back her sorrow.

  “Poor Mirrim. And she’s been so good to me!”

  Sanra sniffed again, this time from pique.

  “Mirrim likes to think she’s got the cares of the Weyr on her shoulders.”

  “Well, I’ve a lot more respect for her the way she keeps on going when she’s worried sick than if she crept off someplace and just felt sorry for herself.”

  Sanra stared at Menolly. “No need to bristle at me, girl, and if you keep on stabbing your knife that way, you will cut yourself.”

  “Will Brekke be all right?” asked Menolly after a few minutes’ strict attention to her peeling.

  “We hope so,” but Sanra didn’t sound confident. “No, we do. You see, Ramoth’s clutch is about to hatch, and Lessa is certain that Brekke could Impress the queen. You see, she can speak to any of the dragons, the way Lessa can, and Grall and Berd are always with her…Here comes Mirrim.”

  Menolly had to admit that Mirrim, who only numbered the same Turns as she did, did assume an officious manner. She could understand that an older woman like Sanra might not take kindly to it. Yet Menolly had no fault to find with Mirrim’s ministrations. And she let the girl bustle her off to her cubicle to change the bandages.

  “You�
�ve been on them all day, and I want to be sure no dirt’s in the scabs,” she said, briskly.

  Menolly obediently lay on her stomach in the bed and then tentatively suggested that perhaps tomorrow she could change her own bandages and save Mirrim some work.

  “Don’t be silly. Feet are very awkward, but you’re not. You should just hear C’tarel complain. He got Threadscored during the last Fall. You’d think he was the only one ever in the world scored. And besides, Manora sad I was to take care of you. You’re easy, you don’t moan, groan, complain, and swear like C’tarel. Now, these are healing nicely. In spite of the way it might feel to you. Manora says that feet hurt worse than any part of your body, but hands. That’s why it seems much worse to you, I expect.”

  Menolly had no argument and breathed a sigh of relief that the painful session was now over. “You taught the weyrlings how to make those little boats, didn’t you?” Menolly flipped over, startled, and wondering if she’d done wrong, but Mirrim was grinning.

  “You should have seen the dragons snorting them about the lake.” Mirrim giggled. “Having the grandest time. I haven’t laughed so much in weeks. There you are!” And Mirrim bustled away on some other errand.

  The following day Mirrim hovering beside her, Menolly walked slowly and not too painfully through the living cavern and into the main kitchen cavern for the first time.

  “Ramoth’s eggs are just about to Hatch,” Mirrim told her as she placed Menolly at one of the worktables along the back side of the huge cave. “There’s nothing wrong with your hands, and we’ll need all the help we can get for the feast…”

  “And maybe your Brekke will be better?”

  “Oh, she’s got to be, Menolly, she’s got to be.” Mirrim scrubbed her hands together anxiously. “If she isn’t, I don’t know what will become of her and F’nor. He cares so much. Manora’s as worried about him as she is about Brekke…”

  “It’ll all come right, Mirrim. I’m sure it will,” Menolly said, putting all the confidence she could muster into her voice.