A phone rang in the front cab.
She was standing in her kitchen, calming Christina, trying to make sense of this beautiful young woman repeating how she deserved to be punished, that she had been bad.
“Christina, listen to me. You tried to get free, honey. That’s why you left him. You should never have gone back. Come home now, darling. Right now, just come home.”
She unzipped the bag its full length, rolled her daughter to her side, so gentle.
There was blood in her urine. I’ve printed a copy of the report.
She inspected Christina’s back. There, at the kidneys. Another bruise the size of a fist. A big, fat fist.
“I could have made him disappear, darling,” she whispered in her daughter’s ear, her hair brushing her face, already beginning to feel artificial, like the tails on her My Little Ponies.
He wore a flannel shirt and jeans the night Christina brought him to Park Side on Second. She had met them straight from work, her calves screaming from a day’s worth of four-inch heels, her hose slicing into her abdomen. Still, this was someone her daughter loved. So she had visited the ladies’ room, took the shine off her forehead and nose, refreshed her gloss, brushed her teeth from her lunch of sesame sticks.
And he couldn’t bother to tuck in his shirt?
When she first spotted them at the bar, she was struck by how he stuck out among this after-hours crowd of bankers, lawyers, advertising executives. His head glowed pink beneath the pendant lamps, his thick body wedged between hands holding martini glasses and tumblers as it stretched over the bar, the cash in his paw waving in front of the bartender’s nose.
Christina stood beside him, a head above the sea of gelled and angled hair. The nubby cream Chanel suit she had found in a vintage shop made her look like a newswoman, or like the public relations specialist that she was.
She closed her eyes and prayed silently. “Let him realize he’s way in over his head.”
When she opened them, Christina was waving frantically over the sea of gray and blue suits, tugging at the frayed sleeve beside her.
He was as unfinished a person as she had ever met, a sketch of a face that needed more detail, a lift to the chin, a narrowing of the nose. His smile too eager, his handshake too long, the grip too tight.
Christina had mentioned he did some time for threatening an ex, “but that was all behind him now, Mummy. I’ve helped him understand what it’s like to truly be loved.”
Yet Christina’s eyes were telling a different story at Happy Hour that day — darting from new husband to Mummy, his paw clutching her wrist, the silent plea ambiguous.
Did she want me to love him too, or was she looking for a way out?
She knew what they must be thinking. That she had lost her mind.
Of course that’s what it looks like, but here’s what they don’t understand: this is what she can do. It is natural to cradle your child, let her feel the comfort of shared flesh and bone, the rhythm of shared breath. Christina was still with her, she felt it. And she wasn’t going to let go until she knew, without question, that what she was cradling was simply a vessel.
Christina, her beautiful ballerina, was preparing for her last dance. She was merely assisting, a familiar role.
“Oh, Jesus,” one of them said.
And then a softer, gentler voice.
“It’s become quite cold outside, dear, and she’s wearing no clothes.”
Lab Coat Woman climbed in beside her. She didn’t ask her to let go of Christina, to zip the bag shut. Instead, she whispered, “They just picked him up.”
She smoothed Christina’s hair from her forehead, that lock so rebellious, spilling over her right eye, refusing to be tamed.
“What are we going to do about this, Mummy?” Christina, nearly as tall as she and only nine, stood in defiance at Miss Anastasia’s snub. Her hands balled into fists on her slim hips, that unruly lock of hair slipping over her eye. “Surely, something can be done.”
She kissed Christina’s cheek with a tenderness one reserves for the very old, for the brittle. The wheels were in motion, she could assure her.
“Curtain call, darling. You’re on.”
Ann Elia Stewart earned a fellowship in literary fiction from the PA Council on the Arts, as well as enjoyed an extensive career in all facets of writing, including journalism, advertising copywriting, and creative nonfiction. Her work has been published by several on-line literary magazines as well as print magazines. Stewart facilitates a popular creative writing workshop for the Fredricksen Library in Camp Hill, PA and teaches creative writing at the Capital Area School for the Arts in Harrisburg, PA. Her debut novel, Twice a Child, will be published by Sunbury Press in 2012. She lives in New Cumberland, PA, with husband Daniel, three beloved cats, Tac, Luigi and Benny, and is the proud mom of Anthony, a special makeup effects artist residing in Los Angeles.
Dragon Riders
By
D.A. Morrow
“I don’t care what you’ve heard, boys, there ain’t no glory in riding dragons… none. Just nasty, dangerous work.” The old man shakes his head slightly, scratching the long scar disfiguring the side of his face. “And never forget these brutes will try to kill you as easy as those who fly against ‘em.”
Tarik’s voice is harsh, almost bitter, and he scowls at the children in his charge. Flickering torch light dances shadows across their faces. Not one is even sixteen, but these days, he trains what he is sent. This damn, bloody war has been going for seven years now, and the good riders—hell, even the halfway decent ones—are dead. They’ve been sending him little more than babies this last year. All for the King’s glory.
“Nasty work… especially if you get cold easy. Saw a man lose both feet to the cold after a long fight. He torched three grays and two big blues, if you can believe it, but never flew again.” His gaze burns into the small group around him. Only one, Teg, even comes up to his shoulder. Disgusting what he does for his King. But he is—has always been—a soldier, a rider for the glory of his Lord. And riders follow orders, no matter how wrong or stupid. “So keep your leathers in good repair. And keep the blankets tight.”
They are standing near the broad, battered door of the keep, chill drafts seeping in and around joints and charred gaps. Last week’s raid had been terrible; blood still stains the floor and walls, the stink of fire lingers in the air. They barely managed to fight off the d’Hal riders, and three good men died getting the door shut in time.
“Now, stay near me, and don’t go near the damn beasts ‘til I tell you.” He turns, banging the ancient door with his staff. The old magic works once again, and the gate slowly, grudgingly groans open.
The group walks through the shadowed entrance and onto the flattened crest of a small hill, overlooking the valley beyond. The dragon’s paddock is empty, and the children cluster tight behind the old man. Icy wind gusts down from the heights, bending ever so slightly what remains of the grass. All about, jagged mountains rise steeply, their wooded sides giving way to rocky summits. Everyone agrees it is the most beautiful of the King’s remaining dragon keeps, but now, all eyes drift upward.
Five boys, three girls, and an old one-legged man leaning on a staff. The best the kingdom has left. Tarik knows maybe a dozen other paddocks survived the last raids, a score at most, each with its own small flight of riders. The kingdom has what, fifty, a hundred riders left? Against how many for the d’Hal? Twice that, ten times?
Tarik shakes his head again. Isn’t his concern, not now. The King’s man said to get these damn children ready to fly, so that’s what he will do. He’ll make sure they don’t die before they can be useful to their King and his cause. Our Blessed King...
Behind them, the door to the Rider’s Keep grinds to a close, the sound echoing in the hills. All are in their flying leathers and heavy robes, and have been through their week of inside training. Learning to sit saddle on the roped barrels, to control the damned beasts in flight, to fly and not die. And
the history and lore, of course, stories of brilliant battles and the great victories of the ny’Vada.
Tarik told these last tales himself, shamed, knowing the last real victory had been years ago. Now, it is a fight just to stay alive, to find enough food to eat, and forage for the dragons. The surrounding mountains have become as much their enemy as the d’Hal, and less forgiving.
But the dragons. . .that is why they are here. Today is the first time the children would meet the dragons.
A dozen blues and grays circle for a landing, released from the pens above, called down by the bells and scent of new blood and meat, scant though it is. Broad wings outstretched, the great paddle of a tail twitching the wind, they are things of grace and beauty in the air. Young, too, like the children behind him, but at least these are broken. Taught to accept the saddle and yoke, and not kill the rider. But more? Tarik hasn’t had time. He never has enough time to do things right. The King was so eager to start his damnable war, so full of fancy words and promises. But time and loss, death and grief has robbed meaning from all his words.
In the beginning, Tarik was one of the King’s best riders. Almost a hundred kills in the sky. He and his beautiful Bela fought from the marshes of kal’Met to the high crags of tar’Shal, until Bela was torched and he… the thoughts are too bitter to dwell on. Still, after losing his leg, he’d become the best instructor in the King’s service—
A keening cry comes from above, drawing his attention back to his duty, and to the children. In front of them, landing hard, limbs splaying wide, the dragon’s beauty vanishes. Tucking in their long forearms, the monsters struggle upright, deep grunts and high pitched squeals filling the paddock. Ugly, ungainly creatures on the ground, wing-fingers twisting at odd angles along their sides. They move in awkward hops to a ragged line at the near-empty blood troughs, glittering eyes betraying more hunger than interest as they inspect this new lot of riders.
Tarik moves to the head of the line, returning the creatures’ gazes. Surveying the lot with a critical eye, he fears this batch is going to be even more challenging than the last.
“Dragons,” he shakes his head again, talking back over his shoulder, “are the most stupid creatures the Gods ever created. I grew up on a farm, and used to think cows were bad… but they’re damn geniuses compared to your average dragon.”
The largest of the blues is pushing forward, away from the group, its horned head lowering, a growl coming from somewhere deep in its chest. Tarik looks at it carefully for a long moment, judging if it is the lead bull. Hard to tell, any more. Size isn’t always the sign, not in the young ones. Nor is attitude—they are all vicious. During the long years of the war, the dragons have been getting younger and younger, just like their riders. And harder to train, to discipline.
The soon-to-be-riders follow a little way behind, then stop, clustering against the wind. Confidence and brave comments flowed when they were in the Keep, their pride in having been chosen as riders buoying their fear. But now, face to face with these monsters, they fall silent, and look more than a little afraid.
Each of the beasts has been fitted with a practice saddle, set low on the neck, just before the wings. High cantle and brace, the buckles lay open, ready. The lines of the yoke run through the cantle, allowing the rider to control the dragon’s flight without exposing hands to the freezing winds. Seat and stirrups fit with heavy blankets, and back braces cut down to a child’s size.
Tarik notices open sores along more than one wing, and shakes his head again. Whatever salves they have are for the fighting dragons. The few that remain.
A small gray on the far right lifts its tail, a low, wet, burbling noise leaking out, and everyone steps back a pace. A breeze carries the stinging odor toward the small group, and the old man makes a show of sniffing.
“And the smell! Gods! Like riding a flying fart.”
They are out only a few moments when it happens.
The big blue is the lead bull after all, and as stupid as Tarik fears. Hungrier, too, for the blood troughs now hold little more than memories. Enough to ward off starvation, maybe, but just. It’s swinging its head up and down the line, looking for… what? Another’s share, perhaps? They are severely punished when they fight with their brethren, but that seldom stops them anymore.
The biggest boy, Teg, is showing off, moving away from the group, looking for an especially big and fearsome beast to call his own. True, it will only be a trainer, but even that is a source of pride for the new riders. Or at least for the boys… the girls are fine with the smaller beasts, and they fight as well as any. Better, many times. This war has taught Tarik much, though he doubts he will live long enough to make use of this new knowledge.
He turns his attention from the blue, inspecting the others, selecting which of his riders will get the better mounts, focusing on who showed promise in the saddle, fearing for those who will be lucky not to fall to their death the first time up.
Two dragons at the end of the line start scrapping, the bigger trying to force the smaller out of line. Tarik snaps to the trouble and starts to move, intent on interrupting before it gets out of hand. It will be very bad if they didn’t get more supplies soon.
He is near the big gray when a deep-throated cough freezes his blood. What hair remains on his neck rises, and he spins, glancing back up the line, fearing he is already too late. He feels as much as sees the blue rear back, and without thinking, casts his staff at the beast. Luck or old skill brings it to the side of the blue’s head, and the creature shakes itself slightly before striking.
Teg isn’t stupid, and moves back when he sees the head lift, but he is too late. Gaping jaws flash down, double rows of teeth sinking into leather leggings. The boy shouts, as much in fear as pain, and the dragon rears back, shaking its muzzle roughly, like a dog with a rat. Teg flails with puny fists, doing less than no harm. The ugly maw wipes back and forth, the boy now screaming in terror.
Then, like a shot from a bow, the boy slips free from his leathers, sailing, twisting through the air, naked from the waist down, crashing hard on the sparse grass. He bounces once… twice, sliding to stillness. Frantically, Tarik hobbles to the boy’s side, falling near the body, covering it as best he can with his own.
“The horns!” he screams toward the keep, “blow the damn horns!”
The blue rears again, shaking the empty leathers from its mouth, staring down at Tarik with hunger and hatred. One of the girls runs forward, hurling a stone. Another rushs headlong toward the beast, waving a cloak. For a long, agonizing moment, the big blue keeps his head high, ready to strike, selecting a morsel nearer his reach.
Then the horns sound. Great, deep, echoing blasts from the nearby walls, signaling the beasts to take to the air. The first and deepest thing taught the dragon cubs. Land when you hear the bells, flee when the horns sound. They are still young and stupid and hungry, but at least this lesson has been well taught, and most back away from the children and troughs, to the aerie’s edge.
The big blue shudders, making a half-hearted lunge at one of the girls, then lifts its head and roars. Finally, it too breaks, dropping to the ground and slowly, grudgingly backing away. The horns sound again, and, turning its back, the beast flings itself from the ledge.
Gasping for air, trembling almost uncontrollably, Tarik scans the boy beneath him. Long, angry cuts run down one leg, bleeding freely, but shallow. The other lays twisted at a bad angle, obviously broken. But the boy is breathing, and his eyes flicker open. He starts to cry.
Everyone’s leathers are too big, cut down from riders of old, fitted as best they can. And that looseness has saved his life. Maybe… At least it saved him from being eaten.
Tarik wants to scream at the boy, to beat him, to hold him until the pain goes away. He doesn’t know what he wants. An awful, icy trembling wouldn’t stop, shaking him deep, and the cold wind cuts through him in a way it hasn’t before.
It had been too close, and it was his fault. He knows better
than turn his back on these damn brutes. He should have kept the children with him. He knew the blue was trouble, too, but he didn’t…
Behind him, bells started ringing. And the horns. Cries and shouts and voices growing louder as the gates slowly swing open. A crowd gushes outward, swarming the flat space around him and the children, ignoring them all.
“The boy,” he calls to those nearest him, “help the boy.” He struggles to sit as best he can, ice-cold tremors still racking his gut and legs. But they ignore him, dancing instead, voices rising louder than they have in years.
He grabs the man nearest him, Ralf the saddle maker, pulling him down. “Damn it!” he wants to hammer the man’s gapped-tooth grin, “Get help for the boy!”
But Ralf pulls away, laughing. “It doesn’t matter, you old bastard. It’s over! The war is over!”
Tarik doesn’t understand, can’t make sense of it. The war can’t be over. It will never be over. He had fought and trained and…
“Who won?” he calls to the crowd, almost desperate, trying to make his voice heard. “Who won, damn it?”
But nobody knows, no one seems to care. They only know it is over.
Moments later, two women come to his side, lifting, half carrying the boy off, shushing his tears as best they can. Overhead, dragons wheel across the sky, beautiful, graceful, confused and bewildered by the noise and activity below. They will be dangerous soon, but for now, for this briefest moment, the people near the paddock are safe.
Tarik half lays in the grass, his trembling slowly subsiding. After a time, he too starts to cry. For Teg, for his own stupidity, for his lost wife and sons, for dead friends, for his darling Bela, and soon he doesn’t know why he is crying.
The tears turn to sobs, and he can’t stop.
A Community of Writers Page 11