by GARY DARBY
I’m taken aback by her words and slow to respond. “Are you saying I’m not? But I saw the old — I mean, I saw Pengillstorr act as if he were searching for something when he came up the paddock trail. And then, he even knocked Sorg off me, just to give me the jewel. Doesn’t that sound like the crystal was meant for me?”
She begins to plod on, not answering, but then says, “A dragon jewel carries the life-force of the dragon it came from, and it will only work for the one who is destined to wield its powers and who is actually ready to use its powers.”
Her steps slow. “Is that truly you, Hooper?”
Her answer angers me. “If it wasn’t meant for me, then why do I have it? Answer me that.”
“Have you considered,” she quietly says, “that what Pengillstorr actually sought, he could not find in time, and was forced to give his jewel to someone else, before he was slain? Perhaps to someone who would hold it for safekeeping until the crystal found its true keeper?”
As if she could read my mind she growls, “Do you actually think that Pengillstorr would bestow his precious jewel on someone who was only interested in acquiring such things as lands, a castle, servants, and meadows filled with herds of dragons?”
She stops and swings her muzzle up so that she can eye me. “And do you think that a protector of the Drach Menschen would give his jewel to someone who would use it to have power over others? To enslave them so that they would obey your every command, your every whim, no matter what that may be?”
The tone in her voice makes me think she’s the one who’s bitten into a peeled lemon covered in salt. I screw my mouth to one side as I think to myself that she got it all right except that she left out one important detail. The one thing that I will never have now.
Cara.
After thinking about it, I defiantly snap, “So? It’s a gem from a king, isn’t that what kings do? Use their power to make others do things for them and gain more power?”
“Most, yes,” she acknowledges sadly. “And that’s what you’d like to do, too?”
For a moment, I let my silence be my answer. Then I murmur, “I don’t see anything wrong with wanting to be a king. Especially when you’ve been little more than a slave for most of your life. Is it so wrong to want that, especially since it was . . . ” I stop and don’t say what I was thinking, especially since it was dragons who shattered your life in the first place?
“I see,” she answers as if she knows my thoughts exactly. “And since you believe it was dragons who harmed you, then this gift of a dragon gem must be our way of making up for the dreadful wrong.”
“That’s the way I see it,” I mumble.
“And you think that I can show you how to unleash its magic. Help you become this mighty Drach Mensch King.”
I don’t answer because it’s obvious that she knows that’s what I want.
Have you ever heard a dragon sigh? It’s long and melancholy. When I was very little, I once asked a foolish question in front of Master Boren. His sigh was exactly the same. Then he went on to explain patiently how misguided and wayward my thinking was, and he did so in a way that even as a small child I could understand.
That’s exactly how the golden sounded as if she were the master and I the child.
“Hooper, just to hold a dragon gem, even as its caretaker, is a great honor. It means that Pengillstorr entrusted to you a gift that is as precious as life itself. It is true that dragon gems channel power, but it cannot go against the purpose for which the jewel was given. In simple terms, Pengillstorr’s jewel will not make you a king. It will not bring you lands or castles, or any of the trappings of Drachen royalty.”
“Then what is it good for?” I ask harshly.
“Just that, Hooper. Since it is Pengillstorr’s jewel, it must be used for good, because it came from a dragon who was both courageous and good.”
“For good,” I spit in contempt. I can feel my anger, my disappointment building. Then I have a thought.
“All right, you said it’s to be used for good. Let’s assume that I’m meant to be the gem’s guardian, able to wield its power. If so, then I want to use it for the most good that I can think of. Tell me how I can use it to bring Cara back to life again.”
Her head droops as if she is full of sorrow. “Hooper, neither can I show you how to do such a thing nor can even Pengillstoor’s tear jewel accomplish that.”
My anger boils over. I slide off her neck and fall to the ground. I stumble around to face her, my hand tearing at the inside of my tunic to get at the jewel. I rip it out and push it into her face. “Then what is it good for!” I shout.
She gazes at me, her eyes and expression patient and understanding at my outburst. “Hooper, sometimes the good in a thing is not immediately evident. You must wait for the good to show itself.” Her eyes are gentle on me. “As it is with some people.”
She hesitates a moment before saying, “But there is one other thing that you must know about the gemstone. As the caretaker, you may not be able to wield its powers, but that does not mean that its influence will not be felt, even now.
“Power always has two faces, Hooper, one for those who turn to the good and righteous, the other for those who would debase themselves in evil and wickedness. The gem will call to both; one to strengthen and reassure, the other to repel and disgust.”
She pauses as if to go on but then simply says, “I have said enough for now.”
I hold the jewel up. In the gloom, its clear radiance softly glows. Once I thought the gem was beautiful, now it’s ugly and useless. I thrust the gemstone at her. “Here, you take it. If it’s not mine and I can’t use it to do any of those things, then it’s not of any worth to me.”
She brings her muzzle close and peers deep into the gem’s depths. The jewel’s soft luminance seems to fill her eyes as if she would drink in the radiance until it filled her completely. Then she lifts her head and meets my angry eyes. “No Hooper, Pengillstorr gave it to you, not to me. For now, you must carry it. It is your burden, not mine.”
I hold the teardrop-shaped gem in my hand and stare hard at its smoothness. “All right, if you won’t take it, then I’ll sell it. Surely, someone will pay a bag of royal ducats for a genuine dragon jewel. Enough to get me far away from Draconstead and — ”
“Dragons?” she asks.
“Yes,” I reply bluntly. “And dragons.”
“Then I am truly sorry, Hooper, for if that is your wish, then the jewel will not be of any help to you.”
“It will if I sell it,” I retort.
“No,” she answers frankly. “If you were to sell the gem, or if someone were to steal it, they would quickly find that they possess nothing more than a shiny bauble of no value.”
I grip the jewel harder, so hard that I want to crush it in my hand. For just a moment in time, I had a dream. A dream where I escaped from my wretched life; a dream where Hooper the Dung Master became Hooper, the Master of — of — what?
My head slumps as I realize that without Cara it really doesn’t matter what I become master and lord over.
None of it really matters anymore.
I turn and trudge away, with the golden following slowly behind. In my anger, I decide to throw the jewel as far as I can reach. For a moment, I hold it as if I would toss it deep into the dim shadows. I stand there for the longest time, but I find I can’t throw it, can’t be rid of the useless thing.
Why? I don’t know. Maybe I’m hoping that the golden is lying and that someday I will be able to sell it, to the highest bidder with bags and bags of ducats.
Silly dreams, of course, but that’s all I have left, stupid dreams and shattered hopes, courtesy once again of a dragon.
Chapter 11
We trudge along, neither speaking. Me, in a swirl of gloomy thoughts, the dragon — well, I have no idea what dragons think about nor do I care. Besides, in my foul mood, the only words I would utter would be insulting or hurtful and for some reason, I keep them to myself.
>
It’s not long before I’m again in severe pain from the walking. I’m not even sure why I keep going, there’s no longer any purpose. I spot a fallen tree alongside the trail and pull my weary body over to sit with my back against the rough bark.
The golden settles down on all fours. “Is your leg hurting again, Hooper?” Her voice has a gentle ring, but I don’t care. I don’t want anything from this dragon, or any dragon, especially not sympathy.
“No,” I snap, “I just like to sit in wet grass and leaves with my back rubbing up against sharp bark and think about how wonderful life is.” I stop, my eyes fill with tears, and I mumble, “And how tonight I’ve lost my best friend and . . . ”
I wave my hand at her. “Oh, never mind, you wouldn’t understand anyway.”
She doesn’t answer at first but then says, “Actually Hooper, I do understand your wounded heart for I too carry a similar hurt. I know how the pain seems to consume your whole being driving away all other thoughts and considerations. And if I could, I would lie beside you and let my own grief wash over mind and body.
“But neither you nor I can afford to wallow in our self-pity for we are still being hunted, and we can not allow ourselves to be caught up in the whirlwind of actions that have been started this night. Later perhaps there will be time to grieve, but not now.”
She shuffles forward until her muzzle is almost in my face. “I would consider it an honor if you would allow me to be your legs for the rest of the way, Hooper.”
I don’t respond, I just sit there with my head down, kneading my leg, trying to lessen at least the physical pain. After a while, I clear my throat. “Back in the barn, if you hadn’t grabbed that Wilder’s sword arm, he would have killed me. Why did you save me? It would have been better if you had just let me die.”
She had been surveying the murky woods, now she swivels her head around to peer at me. “Because you needed saving,” she answers as if that explained everything.
“Hooper,” she presses in an urgent tone, “we really need to keep moving.”
“Why?” I answer curtly. “There’s no reason to go on. It doesn’t really matter if we’re here or there.”
“No. It does matter, greatly and I seem to recall that you said it was Cara who wanted us to go to the falls.”
I jerk myself upright. “Don’t you talk about her!” I shout. “You don’t know anything about her. Nothing!”
My breathing is hard and my anger matches. The golden stares at me for several heartbeats. “But, Hooper, I do know Cara. She visited me frequently. She made sure that I always had enough to eat, that my water was always fresh and that my wing chains didn’t chafe or were too tight.”
She brings her mouth back in the semblance of a smile. “She would rub my belly and always speak in a soothing tone.”
She moves her head a little closer. “Didn’t you ever notice that my stall was always a little cleaner than the others? That you didn’t have to do quite as much work there?”
She pauses before saying, “Cara did that, for me. Maybe even for you.”
I don’t know how to answer. I finally stammer, “She did?”
The golden nods. “You never knew, did you?”
“No,” I murmur, “I guess I never noticed.”
The golden is silent for some time before saying, “It would seem, Hooper, that you haven’t seen many other things in your life, intentionally or not. Perhaps now is the time for you to start noticing.”
My laugh is bitter. “Like what, for instance?”
“Like why would Cara want you, and me, to go to Fairy Falls? She must have had a good reason, you know.”
I give her a little shrug. “Probably because it was deep in the forest and as good as place as any to get away and hide from the drogs and Wilders. At least that’s what Helmar said.”
“Perhaps,” the golden acknowledges, “or perhaps there was something more. Wouldn’t you like to at least find out? For Cara’s sake? Or Helmar’s?”
I draw in several deep breaths and face Golden Wind. “All right, for Cara’s sake if for no other reason.”
The golden thrusts out her leg and reluctantly, I climb up and settle myself into her neck saddle. We move off, and it’s not long before the golden’s swaying motion begins to rock me to sleep. I lean forward and find that by holding onto her horns, I can actually keep upright even if I’m dozing off.
I fall into a fitful sleep. Even in slumber, my mind feels as though my thoughts battle each other, from the joy of being in Cara’s presence to the agony of knowing that both she and Scamper are dead.
I don’t know how long I was asleep before I jerk upright. We’ve stopped moving. In my sleep-drugged state, I fumble with my bow thinking that something is wrong. I actually hit myself in the head several times with the bow’s wood before I finally tug the longbow off my back. My eyes are puffy, and I have to wipe at them with one hand before I’m fully awake.
I can hear water. Not the hard, rock-slapping torrent from a rushing, spitting stream, but the sweet softness of a gentle brook whose water caresses the smooth stones that layer its streambed. I lean forward to gaze at the broad stream that flows just ahead.
“Well,” I mutter, “it’s not the falls. But at least you got us to the river, now all we have to do is figure out if we go upstream or down.”
The golden turns slightly so that we’re facing upstream. I take one look and say, “Oh.”
Farther up, the water flows over three broad steps, one after another. Each ledge is at least waist-high in height and half as wide as the birthing barn. The gurgling water has a luminosity, like Dragon Glow, but a soft white instead of pink.
Each ledge is cracked and uneven so that the water has to bend and curl as it passes over the rock shelving, which makes for dark, wavy swirls in its radiance. After the very last step, the water drops into a full, deep pool where it slows to a meander and then spills out into the wide streambed.
The golden draws closer to the falls, slows, and then turns to one side. My eyes widen and a “Wha . . . ” slips out of my mouth.
In the center of an almost perfectly oval glen, stand three dusky white spiral-like swirls that rise from the grass-covered ground to dragon height. The coiled earth is thick at the base, but slims and narrows as it rises until its point is as thin and sharp as any arrow point. I glance around, but the glade is empty except for the three towering pillars.
I’ve never seen anything like the columns, they seem unearthly, almost supernatural. I can’t help but gawk at the spires, it’s like I’m seeing an artist’s drawing from one of Phigby’s fantasy books. I slip down off the golden and take several steps toward the columns as if I’m drawn to them, my eyes riveted on their sweeping upward forms.
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” I say, “They’re — ”
“The three Gaelian Fae,” the golden murmurs reverently.
“Gaelian Fae?”
“Yes, three of the four Fairy Queens; Osa, Nadia, Eskar, and Vay — the creators and guardians of all dragons. But these only represent Osa, Nadia, and Eskar.”
I stare at the three monoliths. To me, they appear like cream-colored clay that someone has molded into shapes that resemble swirled butter when it thickens. “Uh,” I ask, “are you saying that those three dirt columns created you?”
The golden doesn’t immediately answer, but when she does, it’s in a soft, melodious singsong,
“Four there were, the Gaelian Fae
Osa, Nadia, Eskar, and Vay
Given a place below the gods,
Where neither Drach nor dragon trod
The gods created all creatures both great and small
Some to fly, some to walk, and some to slither or to crawl
On worlds far below to the heavens high above
Some in spite and some with love
But of the dragon, the Fae lay claim
Talon and tail, and fiery mane
Brought them forth as to reign
But Drach their equal was to be
On land, sky, and deep-blue sea
Gaelian Fae who set their scales
Green to tread through forest dales
Red to thunder in fiery fight
Orange and Yellow to shimmer in flight
Sapphire faster than even the wind
Violet to royalty its knee will bend
Blue to swim thru wondrous ocean
Each creation most carefully chosen
Seven of the bow that colors the rain
Over hill, forest, and starry train.”
I close my gaping mouth before muttering, “You and Phigby must have read the same book. You sound just like him.” I bite down on my lip, realizing that I’ve spoken of Phigby as if he’s still alive, which he isn’t.
I start to turn away from the columns, when, with a snort, the golden whips her head up and peers downstream. Her ears swivel as if she’s searching the star-studded sky and a low, deep rumble comes from her throat.
My breathing quickens. From the way she’s acting, whatever it is she’s sensing, it’s not good.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, my voice rising in alarm.
“Dragons,” she answers, “headed our way.”
“Wilders!” I hiss. “They’ll spot us!”
I frantically survey our immediate surroundings. Off to the left, a small hill rises with part of it carved out by stream floods of past seasons. There’s an overhang of sorts, but it’s too low for the golden to fit under. Just past is a thick grove of cone-shaped spruce, dark with shadows.
“There!” I cry. “Head for those trees, hide in there.”
The golden remains where she is, staring up at the sky. “Move!” I yell. I push at her big body to get her running toward the forest, but I might as well be trying to shove aside one of the Dragon Tooth mountains for all the good it does me.
I put my back against her scaly stomach and push, but that doesn’t budge her a gnat’s width. In desperation, I run to face her and yell, “The trees, you fat butterball of a dragon, get into the trees!”