If A Dragon Cries (The Legend of Hooper's Dragons Book 1)

by GARY DARBY

  I bend down until my nose is almost against the ground. A soft hiss escapes my lips, and I stare wide-eyed.

  Dragon bane!

  The black petals edged in a crimson tint are unmistakable. Dragon bane is rare but lethal even to a full-grown dragon. If a dragon eats even one leaf, the flower’s fatal poison kills the beast quickly, and as far as I know, there is no antidote.

  Because of that, some call it, the Dragon’s Curse.

  I’m stunned at my find. Helmar and Panjeh, the Meadow Master, are so careful in searching out the lethal blossom that I know of only one dragon who’s died from eating the bloom in the last several seasons.

  I reach out with one hand, my fingers curling around the stem. A dark thought creeps into my head. All I would have to do is to hide the petals among the sugar grass and let the dragons in the barn eat. Eight heartless, evil creatures not only gone from my life but from the world.

  My fingers tighten on the thin stem for an instant more before I stop and think. Just how long would I live after the dragons died? Master Boren, Malo, Helmar and everyone else would know in an instant who was responsible. What would they do? Give me to the drogs?

  No.

  The king’s justice, death by the executioner’s blade?

  Perhaps.

  More likely, since my crime was against their beloved dragons, they would find a wild green and feed me to its hungry mouth.

  Is the death of that many dragons worth my life? Maybe —

  I hesitate, but then pull the flower from the ground and shove it into my hip pocket.

  With my basket full, I start to walk back to the barn when I stop in my tracks and stare at the sky. For the last month, every evening, I’ve watched the four moons grow closer and closer into forming a straight line up into the heavens. Now, they’re rising over the horizon, just above Draconstead, and they’re perfectly aligned, each behind the other.

  The largest moon Osa, the First Moon, is leading the three smaller orbs, Eskar, Nadia, and Vay. Osa always rises first, always makes a grand appearance. Tonight, Osa, Eskar, and Nadia are bright, almost silvery white while Vay, the Dark Moon, seems even darker though its shadowy outline is plain to see.

  Together, they resemble a giant mace, with Osa as the head, and the three smaller spheres forming the handle.

  I can’t help but stare at the incredible sight. Suddenly, a cold gust of wind lifts my tunic. I shiver just a bit from the icy feel. I hear a rustling in the forest behind me and think that the breeze is stirring up the leaves.

  The sound comes again, and I realize that the breeze has died down; there is no wind.

  I turn at a crackling noise. It’s as though someone is dragging his feet through dry foliage, crunching the tiny twigs and old leaf droppings from the past fall underfoot.

  There’s nothing there, just sharp shadows cast by the moonlight. I stand and stare for several heartbeats before I start to walk on.

  The crackling sound comes again. I spin around. For an instant, I see what seems to be a shadow that glides among the trees before it’s gone. I blink several times and rub my eyes to make sure I’m not seeing things.

  I glance around one last time before I start to back away, only to stop as the swishing sound, louder this time, comes from behind. I whirl around and suck in my breath.

  A shadow emerges from the darkness, blacker than any night, darker than all the forest shadows combined. It floats just above the ground, creeping closer and closer. As it moves towards me, the tree limbs bend and creak to give it passage through the forest as if they feared the thing’s touch.

  Its outline flows and ebbs like a tattered black robe that’s been shredded by dragon claws, fluttering as if from a stiff breeze — only there is no wind. The specter has no face, no eyes, but I feel that the thing is staring straight at me, and I can’t help the shudders that shake my body.

  The woodlands have grown still and silent. No bird calls, no small animals rustle in the underbrush. All afraid, it would seem, to make their presence known to the shadowy apparition.

  My heart thumps in my chest. My eyes widen, and my mouth sags so deeply that I feel my face stretching all out of shape. I’ve never seen such a phantom before and for the moment, I’m transfixed in place, unable to move. I know I should run, but I can’t. It’s as if the thing is holding me in place by its sheer presence.

  The spirit moves toward me. It raises what I think is an arm and hand with wispy black tendrils for fingers. It stretches out its dark hand, and I feel as though icy skeleton fingers are slithering around my neck as if to squeeze the life out of me.

  I try to yell, but the words choke in my throat, and all that comes out is a gurgling sound. I try to run, but my feet are seemingly rooted in the ground.

  The shadow comes closer. I can hear what sounds like a thick robe swishing the dried and loose leaves as it floats above the ground. It seems as though both time and my heart stop. I’m completely frozen in place, unable to flee, to escape this black wraith.

  The apparition raises its head, and I see a pale, haunting face that’s distorted and misshapen in the robe’s hood. A shadowy, sinister lady whose eyes flash like lightning, full of menace and malice. Her hair writhes and flows around her face as if she wears a nest of venomous asps. Her mouth is set in grim resolve as she advances.

  This night demon is death, and it’s coming for — me.

  The shadow slowly floats forward until she’s but an arm’s length away, her wispy, clawed fingers outstretched, ready to pierce my body as an eagle’s talons impale a hapless rabbit. I know that if she touches me, I die.

  I'm not sure if it’s the terror that binds me or some spell that this enchantress has cast that’s holding me in place, but try as I may, I can’t move.

  Then, a soft, warm, green-hued light breaks the surrounding darkness. It reaches out in long gentle swathes that flow around and over me as if to hold me upright and strengthen me against my nemesis. The light seems to break the trance, and I manage to turn my head.

  My eyes grow even wider. Walking toward me is a glowing, brilliant emerald dragon. It comes to stand behind me and opens its wings wide while its light fills the meadow and embraces me like a mother wraps her arms around her newborn baby.

  The sound of a snarl of pure rage causes me to turn back to the dark lady. Her face is a mixture of astonishment and swelling wrath. She thrusts her claw-like fingers toward me, straining to curl her hands around my neck. Her mouth is open wide as if she is screaming, not in pain, but in rage and fury.

  Only, there’s no sound, no cry to break the stillness. It’s as if the shroud of light emanating from the dragon is blocking her evil intent, and she can’t break through the aura that surrounds the emerald dragon and me.

  For an instant, the evil lady’s darkness and the dragon’s light battle and I’m caught in the middle, having no part in the fight, other than that of an unwilling and terrified spectator.

  Then, the wraith draws back. She scowls at me in sheer hatred, gathers her darkness around her, and disappears.

  For a moment more, the soft light surrounds me, but then the aura and the dragon slowly fade away, and they too withdraw into the night.

  When the last ray of emerald-hued light fades, it’s as if the radiance has been holding me up and I fall to one side. I don’t know how long I lie on the ground when I feel a rough, gnarled hand on my shoulder, shaking me.

  “Hooper,” a voice calls from far away. Then there’s a sharp, “Hooper!”

  My eyes pop open, and I’m staring into a wizened, bearded face. “Hooper,” the man behind the beard grumps, “this isn’t the best place to be sleeping, you know.”

  “Uh,” I answer and let out a moan. “I wasn’t sleeping Master Phigby, I — ”

  I jerk myself to a sitting position and frantically whirl around in all directions. Both the evil lady and the green dragon are gone. Phigby leans a little closer, both eyes squinting and his lips pursed together in open questioning. “Hoop
er, are you all right? Why are you out here practically in the middle of the night sleeping in the meadow grass?”

  I shake my head. “I wasn’t sleeping! She tried to kill me.”

  “Kill you?” Phigby grunts. “Who tried to kill you?”

  “A witch,” I sputter, “or a wraith.”

  I stop and point toward the nearby trees. In a rush of words, I say, “She came from the forest like some dark shadow, wearing this wavy black robe, though I couldn’t actually make out her face, she was trying to wrap her claws around my neck, and — ”

  “Slow down, Hooper,” Phigby interrupts, “before you swallow your tongue.”

  He pulls at his bushy beard as he peers at me. “I think you fell asleep. You’ve been dreaming, Hooper.”

  He reaches into his always present haversack that’s covered with glowing stars and half-crescent moons and sparkling comets, and pulls out a water flask and a tiny, yellow bottle. He tips the bottle so that exactly three drops go into the flask. “Here, drink this, it’ll clear your mind.”

  I take a little sip and sputter and spit. “Why can’t you ever make a concoction that doesn’t taste so terrible? You’d think you were trying to poison me.”

  “If I were attempting to poison you,” he curtly answers, “then it would taste so sweet and delectable that you’d drink the whole flask, and I’d be done with you.”

  He tilts the container back and makes me drink the contents to the last drop. Surprisingly, my head does seem to clear and after a moment, I get to my feet. “Now,” Phigby says, “let’s try this again. Just what are you doing out here so late at night?”

  I rapidly recount my search for sugar grass and then in slower words, describe my encounter with the foul apparition. As I finish, I draw in a deep breath and say hesitantly, “Maybe I did fall asleep. It must have been a dream, isn’t that right?”

  He doesn’t answer, just strokes his long, gray beard as if he’s deep in thought and doesn’t hear me.

  “I was looking at the moons and then . . . ” my voice trails off before I whisper, “it was just a dream, wasn’t it?”

  “Eh?” Phigby replies. He pats me on the shoulder and mumbles, “Of course it was a dream, Hooper, nothing more than a bad dream.”

  His eyes are drawn to the moons, and he begins to speak, almost in a chant,

  “Seven have come, seven are done,

  Four did sleep, and now three will weep,

  For now comes the eighth and open swings the gate,

  On high the four shall align, a portent, an omen, a blazing sign,

  That chains have burst, and the evil that thirsts,

  Will walk once more, on hill, dale, and rolling moor,

  As a seed, it will grow, up high and down low,

  Rage and ruin, merciless death, pain will come with every breath,

  All to slave, all to obey, all to serve the Domain of Vay.”

  His words cause me to shudder as if another sharp gust of cold wind had cut across my body. “Master Phigby,” I say, “that sounded awful, what did it mean?”

  “What?” he mumbles as if I’ve just disturbed him from being in deep thought.

  “I said, what did that mean?”

  “It means,” he begins, then stops and gives me a scowl. “It means, young rascal of a Hooper, that I can’t stay out here all night talking to you. I’ve got to go find a certain book that I haven’t seen in many, many seasons.”

  He leans close and brusquely says, “It also means for you to stay inside at night and quit venturing out after dark if you know what’s good for you.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” I answer in as reasonable a voice as I can, “you don’t have to answer to Malo.”

  He stares at me and then mutters, “No, I guess I don’t. Still, it’s not wise to be out at night, especially alone.” He pauses and murmurs, “And especially not now.”

  I can see that I won’t be able to convince him that I have no choice in the matter. Master Phigby doesn’t understand that if Malo says “grasshopper” I ask him, “Do you want me to jump using just my legs or use both legs and hands?”

  Instead, I say, “You didn’t answer my question. Did I dream the whole thing? There really wasn’t a dark lady and a glowing dragon.”

  He studies my face for several moments before he lays a hand on my shoulder. “Of course not, Hooper, it was all your imagination as if in a dream.”

  “Good,” I say firmly. “The last thing I need is to be dreaming about dragons, especially a green glowing dragon.”

  Phigby studies my face briefly before asking in a knowing air, “You still don’t believe dragons are special, do you?”

  “No dragon is special,” I state.

  “Not even our golden dragon?”

  “Especially our golden dragon,” I snap. “She’s no different than any other four-horn.”

  “Oh? Is that so?”

  “Yes, that’s so,” I retort.

  “I would be careful who you say that around, Hooper,” Phigby cautions. “Especially Master Boren. I’ve heard him say many times that the golden is the royalty of dragons, an enchanting creature, and all dragons are of legend and lore.”

  “I know,” I reply in a sigh. He’s right, I do have to be very careful with what I say. But Phigby’s known about my feelings for a long time, and he’s never let on that I’m different from all the other Drachs.

  I feel the dragon gem’s hardness in my pocket and think that his finding me was actually a bit lucky on my part. “Uh, speaking of legend and lore, what can you tell me about dragon gems?”

  “Tear jewels?” he grunts while giving me a quizzical stare. “Why would you want to know about dragon gems?”

  “Oh,” I say, “it’s just that Helmar and I were talking about them earlier. Kind of made me curious, you know, if they’re really magical.”

  “Hmmm,” he answers. He glances from side to side, finds what he’s looking for, and sits down on a tree stump. He fishes in his bag before hauling out a thin book that has a silver cover and sets it on his lap.

  He reaches into his bag again and pulls out a long, thin stick that has a small rounded end. While I’m staring at the rod trying to figure out how it fit inside his bag, Phigby stabs the stick into the ground so that it stands upright. He then touches the bulb, and it bursts into flame, lighting up a small circle with Phigby in the middle.

  “How,” I sputter, “did you do that?”

  “Do what?” he mumbles.

  “The fire,” I stammer. “How did you — ”

  “Simple alchemy,” he quickly replies with a dismissive wave of his hand. “A few pinches of this and that mixed into a ball and plastered on the end of a little rod. That’s all it is, Hooper.”

  He makes himself more comfortable on the stump. “Now, let’s see, what was it you wanted to know about, again?”

  “Uh, dragon gems,” I reply slowly, as I’m not sure I believe Master Phigby’s explanation about the fire. Sometimes, I think Phigby is more than he makes out to be. His full name is Professor Phineas Phigby, or the Book Master as some call him, or Master of Potions, or the Alchemist or — well, he has a lot of titles. But to everyone he meets, he’ll typically say, “Please, my friends and acquaintances just call me Phigby,” so we do, or Master Phigby on occasion.

  I think he’s a wizard of sorts, but I don’t say that out loud. After all, wizards are known to turn people into toads or lizards if you cross them.

  He owns a bookstore in Draconton, on one end of Merchant’s Square, just across from the tailor’s, the shoemaker’s, and the butcher’s shop. I never go into any of those places because I don’t have any money. Besides, if I tried to enter one of those stores, the owner would take one look at me and throw me out on my ear. However, there is one shopkeeper that does let me in — Master Phigby.

  Above his shop’s entrance hangs a faded wooden sign that spells out in large, dingy red letters: Professor Phineas Phigby — For Sale or Trade Books, Maps, and
Scrolls. Underneath is a set of smaller words: Potions, Tonics, and Medicines. Made by Appointment Only.

  His shop is always a bit dark and sometimes there’s a light hazy smoke cloud that smells a little of sulfur, bitter wood, and other nameless scents. I like it best when the aroma is of ginger and cinnamon, scents that he uses in his potions and medicines.

  He always wears a long, crinkled robe, but I can never quite describe the cloak’s color. Every time I see him, his cape seems to be a different shade. Tonight it seems to be a dark green under the moonlight though when I last saw him in town it had a bluish tint.

  At times, he can be utterly forgetful as if he’s lost in thought and doesn’t remember where he is or what he’s doing. At other times, he speaks as if he’s lecturing to a hall full of scholars. It’s like he’s been everywhere and seen everything there is to see in the world, though he claims that he’s never really traveled that much or that far in his life.

  He knows a lot about dragons, legends, and lore, potions, and ointments. And he makes grand fireworks for the children on Feast Day, even though he says he’s only a shopkeeper who sells books, maps and scrolls, and sometimes medicinal tonics.

  He’s one of the few people in Draconton who actually speaks to me in a somewhat civil tongue instead of yelling or cursing at me. When I’m in his shop, for some reason, he seems to take an interest in my lowly world, especially when it comes to me and the dragons. He’s always asking if I’ve learned anything new and exciting about the beasts.

  I always reply, no, unless you want to count how many extra things I’ve learned to hate about them.

  And every time I say that, Phigby frowns and gives me a little lecture about how I should pay attention to the dragons because there’s a lot to learn about them that might come in useful someday.

  During the long winter, when the dragons and the dragon workers stay in the lower meadows just outside of Draconton, as often as I can I sneak out late at night to visit his shop. He doesn’t mind and is always willing to let me in. Why? So that I can read his books.