Dragon of Ash & Stars: The Autobiography of a Night Dragon

by H. Leighton Dickson

  Dragon of Ash & Stars

  By

  H. Leighton Dickson

  Copyright © 2016 H. Leighton Dickson

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1530934591

  ISBN 13: 978-1530934591

  To Jeannie, Donna,

  and the Rest of the Laughing Foxes

  Cute, sexy and slightly scary.

  Like dragons…

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A writer is an island; cold, inhospitable, alone.

  A writing group is an archipelago; rich, diverse, alive.

  Many thanks to the Laughing Fox Writers, CSS Writers, Northwestern Ontario Writers Workshop

  and

  The Ontario Arts Council.

  Because of you, I am diverse and alive.

  Still waiting on rich…

  "It is said that a Dragon breathes Fire. That is a Myth.

  A Dragon IS Fire and his Whole Life is the Story of his Burning –

  Page by Blistering Page."

  Chapter 1

  THE AERIE

  I don’t remember much of my time in the shell, but what I do remember is good.

  Warm, quiet, calm. The music of my heart, the rhythm of hot blood, the simmering acid in my belly. I believe I dreamed, but of what, I cannot say, for there was nothing in the shell to dream about. But dragons are a fantastical clan. Our minds have no equal; our imaginations no limit.

  I also remember the first time my eyes saw light. For the longest time, my world had been filled with my curled self – legs, wings, belly and tail – black as what I would later call a starry night. Beyond me however, I would sometimes see a film that was rippled and grey. This, I later learned was the shell. At some point, it became too small, or I became too big but the shell was warm and quiet and calm so I stayed. One day, there was a shimmer of motion beyond the film and for some reason, I felt an urge to discover. I had never had an urge before. It was to be the first of many. I pressed the shimmer with the pick of my beak and the world peeled apart into startling brightness. I fell onto a warm rock, dwarfed by a massive trilling darkness that I later called my mother.

  There were three others I remember on the day of my hatching – sisters all and green. My mother was there, nudging their flailing shapes, snapping up the shells and the ooze that came with them. They tumbled and chirped over each other and I recall thinking they were pathetic and small. I had no silverstone. I knew nothing of self. I was also small, but I’m certain not nearly so pathetic.

  The Anquar Cliffs served as nest and aerie, high above the Flashing Water. There were many cliffs and therefore, many nests for many dragons. I remember watching a golden drakina and her brood of seven eggs on a ledge below our own. While they hatched, I do remember another urge - that of eating them in the shell but I refrained. My mother would have disapproved. Her bites were painful enough if I merely nipped a sister in jest. Still, the sight of the eggs hatching filled me with curiosity and revulsion, although it was years before I realized that I had looked the same way at the time.

  Seven eggs is a lot for a dragon and that day, as the golden mother cooed and nudged the many cracking shells, I watched one hatchling flail out of the sticks and onto the stone. It moved awkwardly, for at birth our wings are wet and sticky and very, very soft, and it tipped and tumbled toward the edge of the cliff. I watched as it teetered on the brink, letting out a pathetic cry before the mother rose from the nest, eggs and hatchlings falling from her like scales. A flock of sea snakes swept in, however – their grey leathery bodies twisting beneath their tiny wings and one of them snatched the hatchling from the cliff. The drakina swung her great head and roared, liquid flame spraying from her mouth and turning many of the snakes to char. It was the first time I ever saw dragonfire and immediately, the aerie erupted in chaos as dragons and snakes shrieked at each other. The first snake carried the chick higher and higher until another plummeted downward, catching the hatchling in its talons and together, snakes and baby tumbled through the air in a bloody dance. Finally, they released the hatchling and it dropped soundlessly into the water below the cliffs.

  I stayed much closer to my mother after that.

  Most days were sunny and hot, the skies blue, the waters bluer and I yearned to fly like the others but my wings were not strong enough. They were an unusual hue, like a smoky night, where you can see stars through the clouds, and I quickly learned that, after sunset, I was almost invisible to the others because of my colouring. There were no other dragons of my shade in the aerie, for most dragons are the colour of the elements – gray, gold, blue and green or a blending of these so that we reflect our surroundings and hide from our prey. I’m not certain, then, how I came to be. My mother was a rock grey with a blue sheen in the sunlight and the drake that held court over our particular cliff was a green, so I suspected early on that I was not his. It didn’t matter. Dragons are not given to sentimentality or idle dreams of fidelity. Dragons are interested in food, water, nests and mating with other dragons.

  Oh yes, and gold, but that’s another story.

  The waters around the aerie were full of fish, and while I know the stick people like to tell stories about how dragons eat their herds and raid their villages, for the most part, that is simply untrue. We eat fish and sea snakes, feathernewts and sometimes shaghorns if they are foolish enough to come close. I do prefer a good fat feathernewt, but that could be simply because of an early diet consisting mostly of fish. While nutritious, fish has a certain oily aftertaste that sits in the belly for hours. My mother was a good fisher and each morning, she would return to the nest and open her mouth and we would scramble in to eat. As the only male, I was the strongest and arguably the most hungry, so I would always be first to gorge on predigested silverfins and bloodbass. My sisters would get whatever was left and after several weeks, I became aware of the fact that I had one less sister than I’d had before.

  I told myself it was the sea snakes and thought no more of it.

  So for many weeks it was all about the nest and about our mother. Feeding, sleeping, stretching, fighting over fully-formed bits that she brought home in her teeth. Some days she would bring home shards of crystalized arcstone, which I eagerly gobbled up before my sisters could, loving then hating the burn it caused in my belly. On the days that it rained, she would shield us under the cover of her wings. On the days of scorching sun, she would shade us in the same way. She regularly cleaned both us and the nest, and I realized dragon chicks were messy creatures with no regard for themselves or their territory. Still, it was a good life and I was as happy as a young drake could be.

  In the mornings, I would wave my wings in the wind and wait for them to grow as strong as the drakes wheeling through the sky overhead. They preened, those drakes, although there is little thought given to beauty in the dragon world. Pride and strength, speed and skill: those were the marks of a fine dragon. For a drake, hunting ability came a close second after the number of drakinas bred and secured in your own aerie. I’m not even certain the number of hatchlings mattered to a drake. Their mock-battles killed many chicks and maimed even more as they crashed from cliff to cliff. Their tails swept eggs and hatchlings alike into the sea during their raucous sparring.

  In the nights, I would push my head out from under my mother and gaze at the twin moons and the stars above me. I didn’t know then that they had names, I didn’t know then that they had patterns and that you could fashion entire universes out of the glittering, twinkling lights that lit up the night sky. The night was the same as I, the same colour, the same sparkling dance. Like clouds and ash
at dusk. I felt an aching affinity for the night. Even from such an early age I wanted to be a part of it.

  The night sky was my father, I told myself. The night and the stars and the double moons that winked like eyes in their cycles – waxing and waning, winking and sleeping and wide. The eyes of my father, the star dragon Draco Stellorum, saw all and approved.

  As I mentioned, the imagination of dragons has no limit. We are creatures of dreams and fire.

  My mother was a large drakina and as such, had secured a nest at the top of the highest of Anquar’s Cliffs. Most of the drakes stayed out of her way, knowing she could just as likely render them neuter as kill them, and that, for a drake, would be worse than death. Our drake frequently landed near the nest to preen, cleaning his moss-green scales with the tiniest of teeth, combing the seagrass from his spines with the talons on his back legs and showing off his broad wings in the late summer sun. My sisters watched, entranced. Me – I hated him with every night-black scale on my body and vowed to one day be a better, stronger, more-skilled drake than he.

  One evening, the large brown on the outermost cliff began to bellow, a cry that was quickly taken up by the others. The drakinas returned to their nests, settling down atop their fledglings with unceremonial roughness. My mother was fishing and while we waited for her return, my sisters tucked themselves deep into the sticks. I, however, did not, and scrambled instead to the highest ledge to see what could possibly have alerted the entire aerie, more than sea snakes and blue-footed goswyrms. I watched how the drakes postured, watched where they were looking when suddenly, an arrow of dragons crossed the inlet that led past the Cliffs.

  Five very large dragons – male and female both – flying like an arrow, led by a great silver drake. It was the first time I’d ever seen a Dragon Flight. It was the first time I’d ever seen a stick.

  When I say ‘stick’, I mean the stick people, the only creatures that could catch and tame and ride a dragon. I narrowed my eyes and stretched out my neck, rising up on my hind legs so I could see. At first, I thought they were spines growing out of the shoulders of the dragons but as they passed, I thought they did look rather more like sticks, with their lean torsos and knobby limbs and funny flat faces. Unlike dragons who are strong as stone and fluid as the sea. We are all the elements combined.

  It was then that my mother returned, catching my head in her mighty jaws and dropping me into the nest on top of my sisters. She settled over us and tucked low, as if willing herself to become part of the stony cliff and thus hide us from the Flight.

  I marvelled at the thought of sticks riding dragons, however, and turned it over and over in my mind for many days after.

  Because of this, I wanted to fly. You weren’t a dragon unless you flew. There were lizards and dillies and monitors all over the cliffs but none of them flew. I suppose the sea snakes, wyrms, feathernewts and overmolls could claim dragon-like status but dragons would vehemently disagree. There are many, many creatures that fly on the earth. None but dragons are dragons. Only dragons breathe flame. Fire is what sets us apart from the others. Dreams and imagination and fire.

  But back to my story.

  One morning, eight weeks after my hatching, I was fanning my wings on the aerie cliff and a great gust of wind caught them, lifting me off the stone and several wingspans over to the nest. My heart thudded in my chest then at the exhilaration. I lumbered over to the edge once more (and I say lumbered, for dragons are most ungainly creatures on land, with our strong back legs and our forelegs knuckled, clawed and winged), spread wide my wings and let the wind take me once again through the air back to the nest. My sisters squawked at me, as mother was out fishing and they assumed her authority as all young drakinas-in-training do. I ignored them, as all young drakes-in-training do. I let the wind carry me over and over across the top of the cliff. It stirred something deep inside of me, so when the next gust of wind came, I unfurled my black wings and sprang into the sky.

  And I flew.

  I flew up and up and up, over the nest and over the aerie so that the green drake noticed me and launched into the air. But I was fast and young and strong and I soared above him, so proud of myself and my male wings, until the wind died. Those wings, once strong enough to handle the skies, became fledging wings once more and I plummeted like a baby into the nest of the gold drakina and her brood. Only now, the drakina was fishing with my mother and there were six fledglings almost as large as I. They hissed and snapped until I scrambled out of the nest and onto the stone.

  I looked up to see the sea snakes coming.

  An entire flock of them, twisting and writhing on their tiny wings and I felt an unfamiliar fire in my heart. I summoned it, calling it from deep within. I choked and gagged and finally coughed up a shard of arcstone. I had never blown fire in all of my short life, would likely never do so as a sea snake descended, talons reaching for my black beaked head. I closed my eyes and willed – arcstone and acid, brought them both forth at the same time and felt the heat congeal in the back of my throat. It felt like my head would split open with the pain so I spat now, forcing it forward with all my fledgling strength (which is to say, not much) and felt the roof of my mouth and the slick of my tongue scorch with the heat.

  The sea snake shrieked and wheeled away as another dropped from the sky towards me. I did the same, summoning the acid and the stone and spitting them both at the awkward creature, this time lighting the tip of his tail on fire. He flapped up and up until the flock surrounded him and they all went down in a writhing mass of grey scales and tiny wings.

  My breath was hot and my chest filled with smoke. I shook my head, retching until the last of the taste was gone and licking my teeth to clear it of ash. Behind me, the nest of six fledglings watched with fascination, their glassy eyes shimmering with wonder and delight. I had done it, I thought to myself. Not only had I been the first fledging in the aerie to fly, but I was the first to call the fire. I was a drake now, not a chick and I shook my head once again, awaiting the day I had a mane of spines to prove it.

  And so I rose onto my hind legs and trumpeted the dragon song – a rich, mournful, triumphant cry of victory that, when I look at it in hindsight was likely a pathetic warble, when suddenly, a great shadow fell across the ledge. My mother, large and earth-grey, settled onto the stone before me, her breath reeking of fish. I lifted my face to hers, trumpeted again in defiance. I was a drake. I had flown and produced fire. I needed no mother to protect me and I would take my place in the aerie with all the other males.

  She snapped her jaws down on my head and lifted from the ledge, carrying me like a dead thing to our own nest and my sisters. She dropped me unceremoniously onto the sticks and settled down on top all of us like a massive grey stone. We got no food that night. I suppose I should have felt bad for my sisters but I did no such thing. In fact, I felt very content with myself and as I closed my eyes in sleep, I vowed to my father, Draco Stellorum, that tomorrow I would give in to my newest urge.

  I would set my wings to the sea and fly.

  Chapter 2

  THE STORM FALL

  My mother left the aerie before dawn. It was easy to tell because of the gust of cold that rolled down in her wake and I was waiting for it. I stayed in place for a long time, partly to make sure she was well and truly gone, but also partly because I was afraid. My wings were strong and my fire was sure; it was my heart that was unsteady and beating so fast. But soon, I lifted my head to study the rooks in the first light of morning and I thought I had never seen such a glorious thing.

  The sun splitting the night from the day, the sky from the waters with astounding colours. Reds and oranges, yellows and purples. High above me, the stars. My stars, my father, and I felt a yearning for him like I had never known before. I could see shapes and patterns in him now, envisioned in the height and breadth of my imagination. There was the Dying Wyrm – a hook of stars that looked like the death throes of a sea snake. Then there was the Fat Fish, which looked exactly like
its namesake – large and round with stars that gleamed like shimmering scales. And of course, there was the magnificent Draco Stellorum – an exultant dragon with wings that spanned the entire night sky. That was my father – Draco Stellorum, Dragon of the Night Skies. His Eyes were the twin moons; tonight one wide, one winking. He was smiling at me, calling me, encouraging me to defy my mother and fly.

  As I have said, the imagination of dragons has no equal.

  I looked back at my sisters, curled up on each other like twins. I felt pity for them then, although why I did has confounded me to this day. Perhaps I felt superior, young drake that I was. Perhaps I equated them with the mundane life of female dragons, although I was clearly not thinking of my mother if that were the case. Regardless, it was with something akin to fond sadness, so maybe my earlier pronouncement on sentimentality was somewhat wrong.

  I kept low and deliberately quiet as I slipped from the nest, made certain not to drag either tail or wings on the stone until I reached the cliff’s edge. I gripped it with my wing claws and peered over the side, down at the golden drakina and her chicks far below me. She was stirring and I knew she’d be up in a matter of moments. I would need to be very quiet to avoid her, as well as the flocks of sea snakes that hunted these parts. With a deep breath, I fell forward and stretched out my wings and prayed that yesterday’s success had not been premature. Falling into another dragon’s nest is never an excellent thing.

  I winged down the cliffside, steering away from the nest but plummeting toward the rocky water. With my heart in my throat, I lifted my head and my wings unfurled, catching the wind just before I hit the waves. It was the most exhilarating feeling and I know my words can never do it justice. The lurch of the belly and the release of thought as you become one with the air and the sky and the clouds. The fierce cold of the wind across your eyes, and the glaze of the second eyelid protecting them from burn. I laughed at the sensations - the soaring and the dipping, the whirling and the wheeling. My tail was a rudder, guiding my direction and it followed my thoughts perfectly as I wove in and out of the Anquar Cliffs. It took no time at all to learn when to flap and when to sail, when to tuck and when to reach, the canvas of my wings thin but strong enough to carry my weight. Soon, I passed the Fang of Wyvern, a rocky pinnacle sticking out of the water like a tooth. No dragon nested on the Fang. I don’t know why but I knew that if I ever had drakinas, they would nest here simply because no one else had.