Dragondrums

by Anne McCaffrey

  The western arm of the cove had been swept into a long rocky hook and Piemur climbed and scrambled to the furthest point. Casting his hook and line into the foaming waves that lapped the base of the rock, he sat down to wait.

  It was a long time before he had any luck in landing a fish, though he had pulls on several occasions that lost him his bait. When he finally hauled in a medium-sized yellowtail he had every right to be jubilant and think longingly of roast fish. But as he rose from his cramped position and turned, he realized he’d been very stupid. His rock was now isolated from the cove’s arm by active surf. With a shock, he realized his second mistake: he had buried the egg in sands that would shortly be underwater. His yellowtail was considerably mangled by the time he had paddled, jumped and splashed ashore. His immersion in salt water had disclosed another shortsightedness on his part: his face, particularly his nose and the tips of his ears, had been badly sunburned, as well as the parts of his body showing through rents in his tunic.

  He rescued his egg first, burying it in the shell with the hottest sands he could scoop about it. Then he hurried on to the next cove and a spot well above an obvious high-tide mark.

  It took him time, too, to find rocks that would spark and light his fire of dried grasses and twigs. Eventually, he got enough of a blaze and he stretched the gutted yellowtail over the fire to broil, barely able to contain his impatient hunger until the meat darkened. Never had fish tasted so sweet and delectable! He could have eaten ten or twelve the same size and not had too much. He gazed longingly out at the sea, and to his disgust saw fish leaping out of the waters as if to tantalize him. Then he remembered that Menolly had said the best times to fish were sunrise and sunset or after a hard rain. No wonder he’d had such a wait, fishing at midday.

  His face and hands burned now from too much sun, So he hiked deep into the woods that lined the beach, looking for fresh water, for ripe fruit, and seeing in the luxurious undergrowth, familiar, but oddly outsized, leaves of tuber plants. Experimentally he yanked on a handful of stems and up came a huge tuber root, which he dropped when he saw the small gray grubs that swarmed over it. But they disappeared quickly back into the rich foam, leaving clean the enormous white tuber. Suspiciously Piemur picked it up and examined it from all sides. It looked all right, even if it was much bigger than any tuber he’d ever seen. He was certainly hungry enough to eat all of it.

  Taking it back to his dying fire, he fed the flame to a good height, washed the tuber in some of his precious fresh water, and sliced it thinly. He toasted the first slice on the end of his knife and broke off a tiny piece for judicious casting. Maybe it was his hunger, but he decided he’d never tasted such a delicious tuber, crisp on the outside and just soft enough on the inside. He made quick work of cooking the remaining slices and felt immeasurably better.

  Retracing his steps, he found tubers in quantity, but took only what he could carry.

  When the tide had begun to recede from his boulder that evening, he splashed out to it again and was rewarded with several yellowtails of respectable size. He broiled two for his dinner, toasted another huge tuber and then undug his egg, arranging it in its carrying shell with plenty of warm sand.

  He walked that night again until both moons had set. When he found a place to sleep on dried tree fronds, he arranged himself so that the rising sun would shine in his face and wake him. That way, he would be up in time to catch fish.

  He followed this routine for two more days and nights until the last night he realized that for some time he had seen no fire lizards nor dragons, nor any other living creature, except windborne wild wherries soaring high above the ground. He told himself that the next day, as soon as he found fresh water and a good cove with a wide sandy beach well above high-water markings with convenient fishing points, he would settle. The egg was perceptibly hardening and surely must be close to hatching time.

  That evening he began to wonder why he had continued moving away from hold and Weyr. Of course it was kind of fun, discovering each new cove and the vast stretches of sandy beach and rocky strand. To be accountable to no one except himself was also a new experience. Now that he had enough to eat and some variety of food he was enjoying his adventure very much indeed. Why he’d wager anything that he’d set foot on places no other person had ever trod. It was exhilarating to be first at something, instead of following others and doing just what every other apprentice had done before him Turn after Turn after Turn.

  He fished in the morning, catching a packtail and being mindful of Menolly’s experience with the tough, oily flesh as he gutted it. He smeared oil on face and body to ease the rough skin the sun had burned, reasoning that if Menolly had used fish oil for her fire lizards’ flaking hides, it would do for his as well.

  Retrieving and inspecting his precious egg, he was now certain it must be close to hatching, the shell was so rock hard. He packed it in the fruit shell with warm sand and proceeded westward, striking off through the shadier forest for a while.

  At midmorning he stumbled out of the shade onto a wide expanse of gleaming white sand that forced him to squint against its glare. Shading his eyes, he saw a lagoon, partially sealed off from the sea by a jagged barrier of massive rocks, which must once have been the original coastline. Carefully climbing along that rocky arm, he could see all kinds of fish and crawlers in the clear water, rapped there after the higher tides had retreated. Just what he needed, his own private fishing pond. He retraced his steps and continued along the beach. Parallel to the point where the lagoon broke into the sea, he discovered a small stream emerging from the jungle, feeding into the lagoon. He followed if far enough up its course to clean water untainted by the sea.

  He was jubilant and amazed that anywhere in this world of sun, sea and sand could exist that was exactly right to suit his requirements. And it was all his! Here he could stay until his egg hatched. And he’d better make the right preparations for that event now. It wouldn’t do to miss Impressing simply because he had no food for the hatchling.

  He had seen neither fire lizards nor dragons in the sky or the past two days, so afterward be thought that might be why he had given no thought to Thread. In hindsight he realized that he had known perfectly well that Thread fell on the southern half of Pern just as it did in the North. His preoccupation with the fire lizard egg and his efforts to supply himself with food had simply divorced him from the concerns and memories of life in craft and hall.

  He was fishing that dawn, lying prone on the grass pad he had made to protect his bare chest from the harsh rock surfaces when he experienced a sudden sense of alarm so intense that he glanced over his right shoulder and saw in horror the gray rain hissing into the sea not a dragon’s length beyond.

  He remembered later that he glanced for the reassuring sight of flaming dragons just before he realized that he was completely unprotected from Thread whether dragons were in the sky or not. That same instinct sent him plunging into the lagoon. Then he was in the midst of violent activity as half the fish in the ocean seemed to crowd against him, eager to consume the Thread that was diving to feed them. Piemur propelled himself up out of the water, flailing his arms to keep water about his body in the notion that water might protect him from Thread, and he gulped air into his lungs.

  His shoulders were stung while he fell back under the water. He pushed himself down, down again. But before long, he had to repeat the cycle of emerging, gulping air into his laboring lungs, then retreating to a depth that was free of viable Thread. He’d done this six or seven time before he realized that he couldn’t sustain such activity for the length of Threadfall. He was dizzy with lack of oxygen, pinpointed by Threadscore that burned and stung in the salty water. Menolly had at least had a cave in which to shelter and. . . .

  If he could find it, if it were sufficiently above the surface of the lagoon at this time of the tide, there was an overhanging rock. . . . He desperately tried to place it location on the lagoon arm the next time he surfaced, but he could barel
y see with eyes red and stinging. He was never sure in the mist of panic and anoxia how he found that meager shelter. But he did. He scraped his cheek right hand and shoulder in the process, but when the redness cleared from his eyes, his nose and mouth were above water and his head and shoulders protected by a narrow roof of rock. Literally, just beyond the tip of his nose, Thread sheeted into the water. He felt fish bump and dive against him, sometimes sharply nibbling at his legs or arms until he flailed the attacked limb and the fish darted after their customary food.

  Part of his mind knew when the menace of Thread had passed, but he remained where he was until the cloud of falling Thread moved beyond the horizon and the sun once more shone in unoccluded splendor on a peaceful scene. The terrified core of his soul, however, was slower to acknowledge that danger was over, and he remained in the shelter of the ledge until the tide had receded, leaving him stranded like a white fish on his portion of the reef.

  Anxiety for his egg finally drove him from his sanctuary to check it in its beachy nest. The first scoop of sand he hahrew violently from him for it contained hundreds of the gray, squirming grubs. They reminded him so forcefully of Thread that he scrubbed his hands against his sides. Could Thread have penetrated the egg? He dug frantically until he reached it. He caressed the warm shell in relief. Surely it would hatch any time now!

  Abruptly he hoped it wouldn’t happen just now. He had no fish handy, and with their bellies full, he doubted if he’d catch any before sundown. If then. And how would he know precisely when the egg was going to hatch? Oragens always knew when a clutch was ready and warned their riders. Menolly said her fire lizards began to hum and their eyes whirled purple-red. He had no such recasters to aid him.

  Seized by a sense of urgency, he foraged in the jungle for vines to make another line and thorns from the fruit trees for hooks. But just to be safe, he gathered some fruit and some tough-shelled nuts. Hatchlings needed meat, he knew, but he supposed anything edible would be better than an empty hand.

  It was while he was fitting the thorn hook into the end of the vine that the impact of the day started to hit him. His fingers trembled so that he had to pause. He, Piemur of . . . well, he wasn’t a herdsman’s boy anymore, and he wasn’t a harper’s apprentice either . . . Piemur . . . Piemur of Pern. He, Piemur of Pern, he went on more confidently, had survived Threadfall holdless. He straightened his shoulders and smiled broadly as he glanced proudly across his lagoon. Piemur of Pern had survived Threadfall! He had overcome considerable obstacles to secure a queen fire lizard egg. It would hatch, and he would, at long last, have a fire lizard all his own. He glanced fondly at the mound in the sand that was his little queen.

  Was he certain, though, that it was a queen? Doubt assailed him briefly. If it wasn’t, it might be a bronze and that was every bit as good. But it had to be a queen egg. separated as it had been from the others warming by Lord Meron’s fire.

  Piemur chuckled at his own stupidity. He ought to have realized that Lord Meron would present the eggs as the climax to his feasting. Of course, the recipients would check, out of joy. Or maybe, out of distrust for Lord Meron’s generosity. He really ought to have gotten out of the Hold before the feast had ended. How, he couldn’t imagine, but he just might have done it if he’d tried. Certainly he wouldn’t now be isolated on the Southern Continent. He put a final twist in the vine to hold the thorn hook firmly.

  He gazed northward across the heat-hazy sea in the general direction of Fort Hold and the Harper Hall. He’d been gone eight days now. Had they tried to find him at Nabol Hold? He was a bit surprised that Sebell hadn’t sent Kimi or Menolly’s Rocky to look. But then, how was anyone to know where he was? North or south? And fire lizards had to have directions, just like dragons. Sebell might not have learned that Lord Meron was dealing with the Southerners, or that there had been a collection that night.

  A splash in the lagoon attracted his attention. The fish were back with the tide. He rose and made his way across the exposed rocks, affectionately patting the ledge that had sheltered him.

  It took him longer than usual to catch a fish that evening. And he only landed a small yellowtail, too small to satisfy his hunger, much less provide for a voracious hatchling. Soon the rising tide would isolate him on this section of the lagoon so if he didn’t hook shortly, he’d have to retreat to where the fishing was always poorer.

  Controlling his impatience as best he could, for Piemur was certain that the fish heard sound, else why were they avoiding his hook, he also held his breath as he jerked his line in an imitation of live bait. That’s when the curious noise came to his ears. He raised his head, looking about, crying to locate the source of that odd sound, so faintly heard above the lap of wave against rock. He scanned the sties, thinking there might be wild wherries or fire lizards above him. Or worse, dragonriders to whom he would be extremely visible, stretched along the reef rock.

  It was the movement on the beach that caught his eye, more than placing the sound there. Just then the line in his hand jerked. In a panic of comprehension, he nearly let go but a reflex prompted him to haul the line in rapidly, rising to his feet as he did so, his eyes on the beach.

  Something moved on the sand. Near his egg! A sand-snake? He picked up the first yellowtail, poked a finger in the gills of the hooked one, and made for the beach. Nothing was going to. . . .

  Surprise and consternation halted him for one panicfilled instant as he saw the cause of the motion; a tiny glistening golden creature flapping awkwardly across the sands, piteously screaming. Wild wherries materialized in the sky, drawn by some uncanny magnet to this birth moment.

  “All you have to do is feed a hatchling!” Menolly’s calm advice rang in his ears as he stumbled across the sand and nearly fell on the tiny queen. He fumbled at his belt for his knife to cut up the fish. “Use pieces about the size of your thumb or else the hatchlings will choke.”

  Even as he tried to cut through tough fish scale, the little fire lizard darted forward, screaming with hunger.

  “No. No. You’ll choke to death,” cried Piemur, pulling the fish tail from the fire lizard’s grasp and hacking chunks from the softer flesh along the spine.

  Shrieking with rage at being denied food, the little queen began to tear at the fish flesh. Her talons were too birth soft to perform their function, so Piemur had time to slice suitable portions for her. “I’m slicing as fast as I can.”

  A race ensued then, between the hunger of the little queen and Piemur’s knife. He managed to keep just a slice ahead of her voracity. When his knife opened the soften fish gut, she pounced, mumbling in her haste to consume it. Piemur wasn’t certain if fish entrails, full of Thread no doubt, were a suitable diet for a newly hatched fire lizard, but it gave him time to cut more flesh.

  He started on the second yellowtail, gutting it first to occupy her while he hacked rapidly at the flesh. He knew one was supposed to hold the fire lizard while one fed it, to form the Impression, but he didn’t see how he could contrive that until he had food enough to coax her into his hand.

  Finished with the offal, she turned back to him, her rainbow eyes glaring at him as they whirled redly with hunger. She gave a scream, opened her still wet wings and dove on the small mound of fish pieces. He caught her first, holding her body firmly just under the wings and then proceeded to feed her piece by piece until she stopped struggling in his grasp. The edge of her hunger assuaged, she paused long enough to chew, and her voice took on a new, softer note. He loosened his hold and began to stroke her, marveling at the wiry strength in the slender body, at the softness of her hide, at the liveness of her, his very own fire lizard.

  A shadow crossed them, and the queen raised her head and rasped out a warning.

  He looked up and saw that the wherries had boldly circled down and were just above him, talons poised to grab. He waved his knife, the blade sparkling and glinting in the sun, frightening the wherries into wider, higher circles.

  Wild wherries were dangerous, and
he and the hatchling were unprotected on the open beach. He gathered her carefully into the crook of his arm, grabbed the line from which the fishhead still depended and started to run toward the jungle.

  She shrieked in protest as he broke into a full run just as the wherry leader made its first pass. He sliced upward with his knife, but the wherry was clever and, adding its piercing scream to the fire lizard’s, veered away from him. Holding the struggling queen against his chest, Piemur hunched his shoulders and concentrated on reaching the forest as fast as he could. He’d always prided himself on his speed: right now that ability had to save two lives.

  He saw the shadow of another wherry dive at them and swerved to the left, grinning with satisfaction at its shrill call of anger when it was balked of its prey.

  The queen’s talons might not be dry but they scrabbled painfully against his bare chest as she struggled to grab the fishhead that dangled enticingly from the line in his hand. Piemur ducked right as he avoided a third wherry’s dive, and the queen missed her lunge for the fishhead.

  The fourth attack occurred so quickly that Piemur couldn’t duck in time and felt a sharp pain as the wherry’s talons scraped across his shoulders. Twisting upward, he slashed out with his knife, tripping as he did so and instinctively rolling to the right to protect his precious burden. He saw the wherries trying to veer fast enough to come at him on the ground, shrilling out that their prey had fallen and was at their mercy.

  The little queen was now aware of their peril and slipping from his grasp, jumped to his shoulder, spreading her wings and screaming defiance at the attackers. She was so valiant, the little darling, so small in comparison to the wherries that her courage gave Piemur the impetus he needed. He scrambled to his feet, felt her cling to his hair, her tail tightly wound about his neck, continuing her stream of defiant cries as if by her fury she could repel their attackers.