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

by GARY DARBY

  Besides, we need to keep moving, away from Draconstead and the Wilders. I’d like to think that we’re making our way toward the falls, but I’m totally lost and have no idea where we are or where the golden is headed. Surprisingly, for all her girth, the golden moves quietly through the forest and seems to blend into the shadows.

  After a bit, my bad leg is so sore and stiff that I can barely lift it over the occasional log we come across. The fact is, I’ve put my legs through a lot tonight, and it’s obvious that they’re just not used to all the walking, running, climbing, crouching, stooping, and yes, hiding that I’ve had to do.

  If we are indeed heading toward the brook, at the pace I’m moving, it could be several sunrises before we finally arrive.

  After struggling over several slanted and broken tree trunks, I have no choice but to sit and rest my leg. The golden notices I’ve stopped and comes to a halt too but remains standing on all fours. Her head swivels as if she’s searching the forest, but for what I don’t know. For some reason to have her so close is actually comforting.

  I wipe away the sweat that beads my forehead with the back of my hand. The wetness is both from exertion and from the agonizing pain in my leg. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep going tonight before I absolutely have to stop and wait until morning.

  My head droops and I realize just how tired I am. This night seems like it has gone on forever, yet I know from the moon’s being almost straight overhead that it’s not even half over. The golden swings her head down and stares at me before she lowers her body and thrusts one of her front legs out in a bent position. My eyes widen and my jaw drops.

  I’m stunned that she would know that particular position since no Dragon Trainer has ever taught her riding or skying commands. So, how does she know to offer her leg to a rider? It’s a puzzle for which I have no answer, and I can’t help but stare in amazement.

  When she was born, Lord Lorell decreed that the golden would never know rivets for reins or saddle. She would have wing chains, of course, but that would be all. He also commanded that no one would ever ride her, either on the ground or in the air.

  But there is no doubt in my mind of what she is doing. She’s offering me the chance to ride her, her legs to become mine. I hesitate and think, what if Master Boren finds out, or worse, Lord Lorell? What if . . .

  I stop second-guessing myself and think, who’s going to tell m’lord Lorell? Me? Certainly, not. Then I laugh at a thought. Would Golden Wind tell? And just how would she do that? By pantomime? After all, dragons can’t talk.

  My laugh turns to a grimace as another sharp pain stabs my leg. My leg always hurts, but it’s been a long while since it throbbed this bad. I wonder if this is what it would feel like if a drog lance had pierced my skin. The burning shoots up my leg until it’s like someone is drawing a knife through my flesh. I bend over from the agony, and I can’t help the small moan that passes my lips.

  The pain wipes away any hesitation on my part. “All right,” I say to the golden, “you win. I accept your offer. If the sprogs can ride, so can I.”

  As with Wind Song, my climb to the natural saddle just behind the golden’s skull plate is clumsy and slow. I finally settle myself in her neck notch. “Sorry for the delay. This is all new to me.”

  At a sudden thought, I say, “And I guess for you, too.”

  I make sure that my longbow, arrows, and knife are all secure. I shake my head to myself and draw in a deep breath. I’m not only riding a dragon; I’m riding a Golden Dragon. “Very, very new,” I murmur to myself.

  The sprogs are asleep and don’t even stir from my awkward movements to seat myself. Without any prodding from me, the golden begins a steady gait through the forest. After a bit, I have to admit that the golden seems to know where she’s going, as she’s staying on a relatively straight line. Maybe she’s thirsty, and her need to drink is leading us to the stream.

  While I wouldn’t mind a long drink from a cool, clear brook, that’s not what’s first on my mind. Now that I have time to think instead of having to concentrate on just moving, I realize that even if we do reach the falls, I’m being naïve and foolish in thinking that Cara and Helmar will be there.

  I feel the bile rising in my gullet and a stabbing pain in my stomach. What was I thinking? Cara won’t be waiting for us at the falls. There’s no way she was able to escape from the Wilders with their dozens of dragons.

  Cara died tonight, along with Scamper, Master Phigby, and most likely Helmar. They’re all dead.

  I can see Cara’s face, every curve, every dimple. For just a little while, she was in my life. But now, I won’t ever see her radiant face, her beaming smile, the delightful way she crinkled her nose, the gleam in her eye when she became so excited over Master Phigby’s new book.

  Never to hear her melodious laugh again.

  In one brief, wonderful moment, she made me forget the harshness of my world just by being close. Just with a smile — the touch of her hand.

  No more Scamper, no more laughing at his peculiar little antics, no more having the furry warmth of his body close when it’s cold, or feeling the way his little paws tickled me when he searched my pockets for food. No more knowing that there’s someone in the world who accepts me just the way I am.

  I put my head down. I haven’t cried in a long time, but I admit I’m having a hard time holding back the tears. It doesn’t matter that I’ve found the golden — how could I have forgotten Cara, Scamper, and Master Phigby? Yes, and Helmar, too.

  I stare straight ahead. My sorrow isn’t done, there’s still plenty left in me, but there will come a better time and place to let my grief wash completely over mind and body. Cara wanted me to get the golden away from the Wilders, I have to do that first, and then I’ll let the anguish pour through my body, let the tears flood my eyes.

  I study the darkness around me, only broken by the shadowy, dark forms of tree and brush. Then it hits me in a sudden realization. I don’t have to go to the falls now, there’s no real reason to make for the river anymore. I could go somewhere else.

  But where?

  I’ve never been outside of Draconstead except to Draconton. Though I’ve studied some of the maps in Master Phigby’s bookstore, I still wouldn’t have the faintest idea of where to go or how to get there.

  Unlike Phigby, who seems to be familiar with the whole world, Draconstead and Draconton are all I know. I finally decide that if the golden is indeed headed toward the falls, it’s as good a place as any for now. At least, for the moment, I have a place to go, and that gives me purpose in what I’m doing if nothing else.

  The dragon’s walk produces a soothing sway that eases the pain in my leg. At her pace, it shouldn’t take long to find the creek and then make our way to the falls. I wonder how many people have ever ridden a golden dragon? History doesn’t say. Who knows? I might be the first and only Drach to have ever ridden on a one-and-only dragon.

  I glance down, and my eyes catch a dull glint in the pale moonlight. It’s the golden’s wing chains. They’re still on, constricting her wings into tight bundles at her side. I’m not sure why, but the sight of her chains causes me to ponder for a long time before I come to a decision. If the House of Lorell can’t have the golden, then I’m going to do something that will fulfill Cara’s last wish and ensure that the Wilders will not have her either.

  I squirm around until I’m holding onto her by one horn and dangling over the side in an awkward fashion. I hope that she understands my message and stops. She does, and I drop to the ground, emitting another small moan from landing on my hurt leg.

  “Hold on,” I say to her. “I’m going to do something that I really, really shouldn’t, but just in case the Wilders or drogs show up, you should at least have the chance to escape.”

  I don’t mention that if the Wilders or drogs show up, I probably won’t have an opportunity to escape.

  I’m not sure if she’ll understand my command or not, but I’ve got to try. “Golde
n Wind,” I speak firmly, “down.” To my surprise, she slowly lowers herself until she’s lying on her belly. I work on the chain’s link latch on one side until I’m able to slide the chain through the rivets and then completely off.

  Her left wing spreads out slowly, and I trundle over to the other restraints. Moments later, the second chain falls to the ground, and the golden fully spreads both wings. She beats them up and down, and I can feel the rush of wind lifting my hair and cooling my face.

  For a few heartbeats, I think that she might sky away, leaving me stranded on the forest floor. I wouldn’t blame her if she did. Instead, after a few more beats of her leathery, batlike wings, she tucks them against her body. She swings her muzzle close so that we’re practically nose to nose.

  “Thank you, Hooper, that feels so much better.”

  I don’t blink. I don’t breathe. I don’t move. I just stand there and gawk.

  A dragon just spoke to me, and I understood every word.

  First the golden aura and now this. It’s too much for me. My knees buckle, and I slowly sink to the ground. “You . . . you . . . talk,” I sputter.

  “Yes,” she responds. “I do.”

  It takes me a moment, but I finally gurgle, “But — But you’re a — ”

  “Dragon and dragons aren’t supposed to talk, is that right?”

  I nod several times, unable to speak. It’s a good thing the wind isn’t blowing, or my mouth, which must be as wide as the dragon doors back at the birthing barn would catch every blowing leaf in the forest, and I’d strangle on the leaves.

  She lowers her head a little more. I never noticed before just how big her golden eyes were. Up close like this, each one must be as big as my head. Maybe bigger. “Well, I do, and for now, only you can understand me.”

  I swallow and manage to gurgle, “Just me? Why — ”

  “Because,” she answers, with what seems to be a smile. “You’ve got something hidden in your tunic, don’t you?”

  My hand goes to the hard lump next to my chest. I start to answer “no” but I can see in her eyes that she knows that I have a dragon tear jewel. “How — ” I stammer, “did you know about the — ”

  “Dragon gem?” she replies. She seems to have a way of knowing what I’m about to say even before I can finish my sentence. “Let’s just say that dragon tear jewels are unique and very special, Hooper. They carry the life-essence and the power of the one who gave it to you.”

  Her eyes become sad, mournful. “It is good that you carry it so close to your heart, for it was indeed a sacrifice of the heart from an honored one. And one whose life-force I knew well.”

  I blink several times, still not quite believing I’m having a conversation with a dragon. “You mean the old green dragon?”

  She pulls her head back as if she’d just whiffed rotten, soured cabbages. “Old green dragon,” she replies somberly. “You say that as if you’ve just bitten into a peeled lemon that’s been sprinkled with salt.”

  I don’t know how to answer her. She gazes at me for a moment before saying in a subdued tone, “Pengillstorr Noraven was an extraordinary dragon, a noble king of the greenery.” She lowers her head until she is again less than a hand’s width from my face. “And for all of his long life, a protector of the Drach Menschen.”

  “Protector?” I choke out. “You’re not serious.”

  “I am most serious,” she answers. She swivels her head around and surveys the dark forest. “We should go,” she states. She rises and thrusts out her leg. “We’ve tarried too long, and we’re still too close to those who would do evil to both of us.”

  She glances skyward before saying, “We’ll have to stay on the ground. It would not be wise to take to the sky. I can hear other dragons in the far distance.”

  “Wilders?”

  “That is my thought for they do not sound like the wings of those I knew at our home. And if so, then it would be wise for us to quickly continue our journey and not chance a meeting.”

  Mentioning the Wilders is like a slap in the face, it focuses my attention on what we’re trying to do and for the moment, I put aside all my doubts and questions about a talking dragon. “I can say for a certainty let’s not chance it,” I respond. “I’ve had all the Wilders for one night, no, make that for one lifetime that I ever want to have.”

  I put a hand on her leg, but a sudden thought stops me, and I walk around to face her. “Uh, one thing. If you need to sky away to save yourself, then that’s all right with me. Cara would want you safe and not a Wilder captive.

  “So, if you need to leave me — ” I take a sharp breath and let it out. “Then do it. She would understand. After all, that’s what she . . . ” I can’t finish the sentence. I can’t say, “died for.” It’s too painful, too hurtful to acknowledge that Cara’s life is over.

  And I can’t let my anger and hatred of all dragons overcome Cara’s last wish. Cara died saving this dragon, and I will do my best to honor her unselfish act.

  Golden Wind swings her head down close, eyes me for a moment and then says, “That’s very gallant of you, Hooper. But I don’t think that I shall need to sky, as you call it, anytime soon.”

  “Well, I just wanted you to know, just in case.”

  “Thank you. Now, let us go, we need to get even deeper into the forest.”

  I do a better job of getting aboard this time and settle myself on her neck. She waits and then asks, “Ready?”

  “I’m ready. I think.”

  She swivels her head around to gaze at me. “And Hooper, thank you for saving the babies, that’s what their mothers wanted, you know.”

  “They did?” I stammer. “I thought that the sprogs were just following me because that’s what they’ve been doing lately.”

  “No, the little ones’ mothers sensed an evilness in those who were in the barn. They did not want their babies to fall into their hands.”

  “Oh,” is all I can answer.

  “And one other thing, Hooper,” she murmurs. “For now, it is very important that you do not reveal that you and I can speak to each other. We both have been given a great gift, but it must remain hidden.”

  Her voice turns solemn. “Our lives depend on it. Can I trust you to keep this promise?”

  I raise my eyebrows at that “our lives depend on it” statement. She sounded ominous, but I quickly say, “Oh, yes. You can count on it. People think I’m odd enough as it is but if I start claiming that you and I can talk to each other . . . ”

  My laugh is sort of a cross between a chuckle and snort. “They’ll turn me out, and I wouldn’t even have a dragon barn to sleep in.”

  “In that case,” the golden answers, “we certainly don’t want our secret out, the barn was a very comfortable place to sleep.”

  “Uh, huh,” I respond. “Maybe for you.”

  She doesn’t reply. Instead, she lumbers off, skirting around the trees and rarely brushing up against one which is remarkable considering how close some are together. After a bit, I ask, “Uh, Golden Wind, about this speaking business. What if we’re around other people and you speak to me, will they hear and understand you?”

  She chuckles. “They’ll hear what you Drachs call dragon speak and not as we’re talking this moment.” She hesitates and then says, “At least, for now.”

  “Oh,” I reply. “Dragon speak” is the clucks, snorts, rumbling growls, and other odd sounds that dragons make to each other that some people claim is a language that dragons use to talk to each other. Always sounded just like clucks and snorts to me and nothing else.

  We go a little farther. “Uh, and skying?” I ask. “You can sky, can’t you? I mean, I’ve never seen — ”

  She again chuckles in reply. “Of course, I can. Just because I haven’t doesn’t mean I can’t.”

  I stay quiet for a while before asking, “The name that you gave the green dragon. What language is that?”

  “Pengillstorr Noraven? It’s Gaelian, the First Language of all dra
gons.”

  “Gaelian,” I mumble and frown. “It doesn’t sound like something I can wrap my tongue around very easy.”

  I can feel the smile in her voice. “Few of your people have ever learned to speak true Gaelian.”

  “Does his name mean anything? You said he was a special dragon.”

  We plod along a little farther before she says, “His full name is Pengillstorr Noraven Prottigr Vior, which in your tongue means Great King of the Mighty Forests. Or, by how you name us, he would be called the Wind King.”

  I raise my eyebrows at that. “King?”

  “Yes,” she answers and then in a small voice says, “and more.”

  I wonder what she means by “and more.” How much more can you be than a king?

  I touch my tunic where the gem sits in my pocket. So, a great dragon king gave me his tear jewel? I really don’t care why — what I care about is what I can do with it. Since the golden knows about the gemstone and where it came from, maybe she can tell me.

  “Golden Wind,” I begin, “if a dragon king gave me his tear-gem, then that must mean that he wanted me to use it as if I were a king. Right?”

  She lumbers along and doesn’t immediately answer. Then she slows and then stops altogether. She swings her head around so that she’s looking at me with one eye. Her words are slow, deliberate. “Are you sure the jewel was meant for you, Hooper?”

  “Huh?” I reply. “What does that mean? Of course, it was meant for me, why else would he give it to me?”

  She’s silent for a few moments before saying, “It may be that Pengillstorr couldn’t find the one he truly sought and was forced to give it to you before he died.”

  I’m at a loss for words. Is she saying that the jewel isn't mine — that it was actually meant for someone else?

  She lets out a long sigh. “Perhaps your calling may be that you’re only meant to carry the jewel, not to be its rightful guardian. After all, the one who carries the water bucket isn’t always intended to drink from it.”