Becoming the Dragon

by Alex Sapegin

  “So, you’ve rejected me? Is that right, whiskers?” The cat did not react at all to this last harangue. An hour later, the bushes on the edge of the clearing began to flutter and revealed new members of the feline family—a sleek momma and two kittens. Terrific…

  ***

  When they had surrounded the ledge according to all the rules of siege craft, the Cheshires went off to relax, romping around in the small brook that flowed along the edge of the clearing. They are hot, you see! But aren’t I hot, too? Soon my tongue will be like a dry sponge. The two kittens, which were no smaller than a large lynx, seemed to be chasing butterflies. But, from time to time, they glanced in the direction of the precipice to see if the prey had decided to come down yet.

  Andy climbed right up to the wall in an attempt to spare himself from the heat of the day in the skimpy shade of the rocky ledge. It didn’t help much. His stomach growled loudly enough to rival the kittens below. It periodically distracted them, causing them to look up curiously. First one, then the other, as if teasing him, would go over to the brook and loudly lap at the elixir of life. Andy could only swallow greedily and dream of a drop of rain. He didn’t notice when he started to doze under the hot sun.

  Someone tried to wake him, stubbornly tugging at his pant leg. At first shyly and carefully, then with all its strength. The r-r-r-rip of tearing fabric rang out. Andy pulled his leg back and opened his eyes. What is this?

  On the edge of the rock shelf, as big as medium-sized dogs, sat several little griffons. Did I sleep so long that scavengers appeared? The griffons couldn’t be anything else. Interesting creatures, Mother Nature had had some fun putting the head, neck, and wings of a vulture together with the body of an orange cat. There were a few other differences—the fingers of their paws were long and fit for grabbing onto thick branches and shredding the bodies of their victims or other carrion with their imposing claws. Another difference was in the way the tail was built. It started out just like a regular cat’s tail, but about 5-7 centimeters from the base, it turned into a wide fan of long feathers. After all, they couldn’t use their paws to stabilize and steer their flights.

  Andy didn’t have the strength to marvel at this new wonder of nature. Thinking for a moment, he grabbed the nearest stone and flung it at the beasts. He missed, but the rock flying by made them open their tail fans and shove off to the nearest tree. What’s going on below? The Cheshires were darting around along the cliff wall, trying to find some point at which they could climb up to the ledge. The griffon’s presence seriously upset them, since they had invested so much time and energy into keeping watch. They opposed giving up their prey to this brazen feathered scum.

  “Mr-a-a-w!” the dad of the little family joyfully exclaimed when he saw Andy. He’s alive! Now he could calm down and continue his pleasant bath. The griffons in the tree cawed repulsively.

  Andy backed away from the edge of the rock shelf and occupied his familiar spot near the wall, leaning his upper back on the rough stone. He was between a rock and a hard place, literally. One more day of sitting under siege like this and the beasties from the tree would undoubtedly peck him to death; he simply wouldn’t have the strength to resist. He heard the sound of wings. A few more griffons straddled the upper branches of their sturdy roost. The new arrivals started cawing with the previous residents.

  The Cheshire on the ground growled threateningly and threw himself at the tree. The griffons looked at the enraged cat as if he were a halfwit and relocated to a slightly higher spot, emptying their bowels in the process. It didn’t land on the cat—he managed to dodge in time—but the tree now stunk like a public toilet. A scuffle broke out in the tops of the branches. The griffons who had migrated from the lower tier tried to take a VIP spot, but they were stopped by their counterparts who had occupied the roost first. The scuffle turned into a savage battle, feathers, and clumps of fur flying in all directions. The kittens below egged the fighting half-birds on with their mewing. The adult Cheshires didn’t even deign to glance at the ruckus. The battle ended with the expulsion of five of the fighters. The dozen that remained settled on the branches and took to pruning their feathers and licking their wounds. A silence fell over the clearing.

  Andy closed his eyes. What will become of me now? Where will I go if I survive the siege? How can I live if it turns out there are no people in this world? Too many “ifs.”

  He heard the sound of flapping wings again. An impatient griffon had landed on the rock shelf, reassured by Andy’s stillness. A sharp wave of the hand and a heavy stone with a hearty smack cleared the careless creature off. Its offended caw was interrupted by its death yell from under the paw of one of the kittens. The rest of the griffons squawked indignantly, but no one else dared make an attempt at the prize.

  ***

  Nothing at all happened the rest of the day. The approach of evening sent the griffons off for the night; the Cheshires lay down under the shelf and quietly purred to one another. Andy stared silently at the rising of the blue planet and prayed that God might send him relief from his suffering…and at least a glass of water. His tongue swelled up in his mouth, his lips cracked, the walls of his stomach seemed to chew on one another. The Cheshires were just fine; they had scarfed up the griffon; the momma had gone into the woods and brought out a rabbit, also devoured with pleasure. Andy wouldn’t have turned down some roast rabbit legs, all the more so because, by the looks of it, the local rodents weighed about 45 pounds. Dang, he wondered, what do these cats need me for if the woods are full of games? The cats didn’t hurry to answer his question.

  He dreamed of Germans. Deutsche Zoldaten in field-gray uniforms. It was a phantasmagoria of historical images from films about World War II. The Nazis set up a field kitchen under the ledge to make buckwheat porridge with stewed meat. The fat cook whistled a happy tune and banged a rhythm on the boiler lid with a ladle. Two platoons of soldiers joined hands and led circle dances around the kitchen, clinking mugs of beer and blowing the white foam caps. Each new round began with the distribution of sausages and pouring the white foamy beverage into outstretched glasses. One sergeant built a whole orchestra of crickets and, picking up a long stick, was conducting before the black musicians. Mugs and sausages in the soldiers’ hands were replaced with wooden spoons, and the soldiers, removing their helmets, lined up in front of the kitchen. The happy cook in a greasy apron and crumpled cap dished out to each one a kindly ladle of the nourishing porridge.

  The Zoldaten waved to Andy invitingly, yelled “Kom! Kom!” and extended a helmet full of porridge to him. The cook smiled a wide, fatherly grin from ear to ear. In the next second, the cook’s eyes turned yellow, and a Cheshire cat was looking at him, dressed in the German field uniform. “Kom!” the cat said sweetly and threw the de-plumed griffon into the pot. The soldiers built a fire and stretched out their chilly palms to him…

  Andy awoke curled up; it was below freezing. A chilly wind chased dark clouds around the sky, and the freezing weather made his jaws chatter. How lucky are those sitting in front of a campfire now, the one that’s happily illuminating the slope of the bald hill? Andy stopped shaking; for a moment, he felt a sensation of warmth. Fire! If there was a fire, that meant there were people! He almost danced for joy. On the wave of positivity, the Cheshires seemed like such a small detail, merely a pesky obstacle. Andy lay on his stomach and glanced under the ledge; all four fascists were still there. They just needed helmets on their heads to complete the picture.

  “Meow,” the dad meowed in a questioning tone.

  “I’m freaking out,” Andy answered and spat at the dad. The wind carried it away, which was a shame because the spit was so full of poison that the Cheshire would have died instantly—even though it wasn’t meant to be. “Die, slime bags!”

  “Mr-r-r.”

  “Yes, you!”

  The Cheshire didn’t seem to take offense at the comment, but its face showed that someone would answer in full the next day for the nighttime awakening.


  A strong gust of wind rustled the crowns of the trees; lightning flashed in the sky. The first fat drops fell to the ground. The downpour went on for an hour, and Andy quenched his thirst. God granted me water. Now I ought to find a way to save it.

  But he was frozen to the bone and couldn’t wait for the sun to rise.

  ***

  The first rays of sunlight hadn’t yet touched the rocky shelf when the flapping of wings rang out, and the first griffon landed on the roost tree. A half an hour later, the whole top was littered with the cawing crowd—at least forty of them. The griffons, by all signs, were discussing the prospect of sharing lunch with the Cheshires. There were two possibilities: either “lunch” would die and pass entirely into the hands of the half-feathered vultures, or they would have to settle for the leftovers from the lords’ table, which would be a completely undesirable turn of events for them. Andy pictured a third possibility involving two protruding middle fingers and some choice words to boot.

  The Cheshires below became flustered and began sniffing the air excitedly. With a husky meow, the female herded her kittens and tore off out of the field, glancing up with a sorry look. The head of the family also ran off with his offspring and better half. Just as the tip of his tail disappeared into the bushes, a whole herd of large animals entered the clearing, cutting through the thick underbrush with their chests. The griffons left their roosts with a repulsive squawking, screeching and the loud flap of wings. Andy stared wide-eyed at this new marvel of nature.

  The animals looked like the result of some mad scientists’ experiment in crossing an elephant with a giraffe. They had large bodies like elephants, long necks, and elephant-like heads, only of smaller proportions. That was where the similarities ended, and the differences began. They had no tusks, but the males’ heads were crowned with sharp, 3-foot-long horns. Their long trunks were covered in sheets on the outer side that resembled the scales of an armadillo. The scales covered the entire length of the trunk with overlapping edges. Especially tough, thick scales covered the lower fourth.

  Interesting. Why? Perhaps nature will reveal the secret to me sometime. The new animals’ feet were more like those of a camel, but a lot thicker. Their thick, short fur with tiger stripes let them blend in excellently behind the hazelnut trees.

  “I hereby dub thee ‘Eleraffs!’” Andy said triumphantly, and as quickly and quietly as a fly, got down from the ledge. He hadn’t the slightest difficulty getting down. Shouldn’t have worried. He had to hurry; the Cheshires could come back at any moment. The farther away he got, the better. A big, wrinkled Eleraff looked his way, carefully inspected him with its little eyes, and whistled softly, after which it turned toward the nearest tree and began munching on the highest leaves. The ritual of his being accepted into the herd had taken place…Well, maybe not so much a ritual and not exactly accepted, but permission from the monarch to follow them had been granted. He was no danger to them, and so be it!

  The herd turned in the direction of the bald hill. Andy trudged along behind them, following their tracks, not getting too close and not too far behind. His path led to the place of the nighttime bonfire…

  ***

  “What hard luck! Oooo…” Andy moaned, and darted into the bushes, breaking off a big burdock leaf along the road….

  Following the Eleraffs turned out to be convenient and relatively safe. In about three hours, the mass of forest was left behind, and the animals stopped in a wide meadow to the right of the bald hill. The giants didn’t trouble over which trail to choose; they just paved a path where they pleased. Predators preferred to get out of their way sooner rather than later. Andy wasn’t the only “barnacle”. Behind the herd of Eleraffs, small herds of goats and antelopes followed, small wild pigs grunted off to the sides, and colorful birds that resembled terrestrial blue-tits swarmed on huge piles of manure.

  But one thing kept him from letting his guard down completely. Along the way, the herd stopped at a meadow circled with trees full of ripe fruit. Andy picked the spiky, fuzzy fruit, which resembled a southern peach. He had observed the Eleraffs and other herbivores stuffing their faces with the forest delicacy and decided to have lunch. He lacked the strength to resist his empty stomach, which emitted a gigantic portion of gastric juice at the sight of food. He savored the juicy flesh, gnawing on it once he had ripped off the rind. The “peach” tasted something like a cantaloupe and was just as sweet. In the center, it held a bilobular pit that resembled a cute little butt.

  As he finished his fifth one, frightened bleating broke out on the edge of the meadow and, breaking through the thin undergrowth, a curly-horned antelope from the same cohort of “hangers-on” to which Andy belonged leaped into the clearing. With a snarl, a dark brown Cheshire shot through in pursuit.

  The sharp-toothed cat did not have time to do anything else. At the sound of its snarl, one of the horned male Eleraffs turned around with shocking speed for such a heavy body. The folded trunk whistled like a whip and hit the cat’s back with the outer, armored side. The Cheshire was thrown back 20 feet, right at the feet of a female Eleraff with a cub. In the blink of an eye, the cat was trampled into a bedside rug.

  From that moment on, Andy never left the Eleraffs’ side. The incident with the antelope and the cat showed very colorfully that hungry predators were carefully observing the “hangers-on,” and although they were not visible, that did not mean they weren’t there behind the thick underbrush. After so much grief to avoid ending up in some stomachs, he had no desire to turn up in others.

  The only thing was, he shouldn’t have picked those “peaches.” The seed in the middle that looked like a butt turned out to be a real pain in the butt. In an hour, Andy’s stomach churned mightily, and on wobbly legs, he took to occupying the bushes. He had had three such “outings” in the last couple of hours. He had not yet sat down when a humongous something entered the clearing. Miraculously cured, Andy flew up the nearest tree like a bullet; he couldn’t remember when he had managed to pull up his pants and button his fly.

  The small herbivores dashed out of the clearing from all sides, bleating, and squeaking. In some places, the bleating turned into death rattles as they met skulking predators in the bush. The Eleraffs formed a circle with the females and young in the center. The males stuck out their horned heads and swung their trunks threateningly. Finally, the “something” stepped into the open field from behind the crowns of the trees, and Andy got a look at it.

  A saber-toothed tiger! But what a tiger! Terrestrial relatives of the saber-toothed beauty could only run away from this fellow, curling their tails behind them in fear. More than anything, the tiger reminded him of the Smilodon, now extinct on Earth. It had a reddish-brown coat, a short tail, and powerful paws. At the shoulder, it was no less than six-and-a-half feet high and about a dozen to fifteen feet in length. The predator’s mouth was crowned with fangs a foot-and-a-half long. How much does it weigh? Andy wondered, examining the predator from 50 feet up the tree.

  With a guttural growl, the tiger began to circle the bunch of Eleraffs; the youngsters and females whistled and trumpeted in alarm. The males whipped their trunks. They swayed their heads from side to side and threateningly lowered their horns to the ground. All of a sudden, the tiger leaped forward and immediately back again. A young Eleraff took a step forward and tried to provoke the beast with its horn. The tiger dodged with its whole body, crept forward and delivered a blow with its fangs into the base of the Eleraff’s neck. After that, it jumped back to the edge of the clearing and lay down under a tree. Its hunting was done; it had only to wait for the victim to bleed to death. Bright crimson blood splashed jerkily from two deep wounds on the victim’s neck. In a few minutes, the wounded male’s legs gave way, and it fell to the grass that was already soaked with its blood.

  The herd, trumpeting and whistling fiercely, slowly quit the meadow. The tiger remained calmly where it lay; the rest of the herd didn’t interest it…for now. The sound of flapping wings came
from above; a griffon landed on the branch next to Andy; several more circled in the sky. The scavengers have come; they’re everywhere! Next to the griffon, a regular vulture saddled the roost, a cousin of the terrestrial scavenger. Staying in the tree any longer became dangerous, and Andy, getting down, followed the herd of herbivores out of the meadow. The tiger cast him an indifferent glance. Why would it want the tough-trimmings-two-legs when there was a mountain of fresh meat available?

  Following the retreating grass-eating giants up the hill, Andy stepped on a round flat boulder. Something clicked loudly under the stone, a bright flash blinded him and, in the next instant, he collapsed into the hole that opened up underfoot…

  Part 2: Black Dragon

  The northwestern border of the Kingdom of Rimm, the Wildlands.

  “Chutka, eet, what was that?” the man, shaking like a leaf in the wind, asked his heavy-set young counterpart. The carnivore’s guttural roar continued to echo through the woods.

  Chutka ran his palm over his bushy beard and cast a scornful glance at the young man. He was tall and thin like a beanpole. Gichok looked nervously from side to side. The end of the broadsword he held firmly in his right hand shook like a rabbit’s tail. Meat! Spineless meat! Chutka thought. What in the name of the goddesses brought you to the hunters? Seeking wealth and women?

  “Sul is hunting,” Chutka answered, loading the bundle of ropes onto his back. He headed for the camp.

  “S-sul?” Gichok went pale. “Don’t they live on the steppes? Which is far away?”

  “May-a far, may-a not. Look alive and chop; he won’t eat you!”

  “Why not?”

  “He stinks from meat that’s soiled itself!” Chutka laughed aloud and gave the cowardly Gichok a firm pat on the back. “He’s like a high-born, ‘Let’s have only fresh, clean meat; you’ll just do for feeding the yella flies’. You’re yella yourself, inside and out!”