On Wings of Thunder (The Legend of Hooper's Dragons Book 3)

by GARY DARBY

  He reaches over and gives me a gentle pat on my leg. “Apology accepted, and actually, I understood your feelings perfectly at the moment. You care deeply for Cara and your emotions were like an erupting volcano with the thought that she might die.”

  With a little shrug, he admits, “And you weren’t entirely wrong in what you said. Not everything is, or can be learned from a book. We learn a great deal just from life’s experiences.”

  Giving me a nudge with his shoulder, he says, “Sometimes I forget that, and it’s good that I get reminded every once in awhile.”

  I have a hard time raising my eyes to look at him as I’m still embarrassed by my rudeness and outburst.

  “Thank you, Phigby,” I reply, “for both understanding and forgiving me, and especially for making sure that I didn’t make a second mistake and bring back the poison instead. That was sort of stupid on my part.”

  “You’re very welcome, Hooper,” he replies, “and no, it wasn’t stupid. You didn’t know and didn’t have any way to tell.”

  We stay silent for a long time before I whisper in a weak and forlorn voice, “I almost did something terrible tonight, Phigby, and I don’t mean what I said to you.”

  He doesn’t answer me, just sits there, stroking his beard, eyes straight ahead.

  I take a deep breath and in a rambling, almost incoherent speech tell him about my encounter with the ghouls. I take the emerald out and hold it in my hand, looking aghast at the gem.

  “If I hadn’t stopped,” I mumble, “I would have choked the life out of every one of them, just by squeezing the jewel and thinking about what I wanted to do.”

  I try to speak, but nothing comes out until I finally gasp, “Phigby, I wanted to crush them and, what’s worse, I—I think I would have enjoyed it.”

  Phigby gazes at his hands before he remarks, his voice flat. “You wanted to hurt them, to kill them, because of what they did to Cara.”

  Nodding, I reply, “I’ve been angry before, but not like tonight. It was as if I had lost all reason, all—sanity. That volcano you spoke of, that was me, exploding in rage and anger and it took everything I had to control myself.”

  Sucking in a shuddering breath, I say, “If it hadn’t been for—”

  Stopping myself, I let out a long breath and murmur, “I almost slaughtered those things out of sheer bloodthirstiness.”

  Phigby sighs and turns his gaze to the pond’s dark waters. “To kill in defense of one’s own life, or to protect the lives of one’s family, or that of your village, or of a friend, yes, there is reason, some—sanity to that.”

  He shakes his head and kneads his forehead with the tips of his fingers. “But just to kill for killing's sake, that is beyond insanity. It’s the lowest form of evil that I can think of,” he proclaims, “that and slavery in whatever form it takes.”

  I can hear, feel the disgust in his voice. “Even if they were just carrion ghouls?” I ask.

  He turns and asks in a pointed manner, “Carrion ghouls today—and what tomorrow, Hooper?”

  His words are like a hammer. Indeed, what tomorrow? Just what am I capable of? I shudder at the thought that I might not only be capable of more, but that I might do even worse.

  Holding the jewel up again, I stare into its dark-green depths. “Is it the gem, Phigby? Did it make me do that?”

  He gazes downward and plucks at the grass stems at his side. “Do you remember the day that Scamper found a bush full of fermented sugar pears?”

  “Oh yes,” I grunt. “The little tub of lard staggered around as if his legs wouldn’t carry him, eyes glazed over, and he was sick for three days.”

  “Yes,” Phigby replies, with a little smile. “I just happened to be in Draconstead that day, and you brought him to me, asking if there was anything I could do. Do you remember what I said?”

  I nod in answer. “You said that Scamper would just have to bear the consequences of his overindulgence, of his own actions, but he’d recover."

  “Yes,” Phigby replies and then goes on to say, “ripe sugar pears are sweet, delectable, and very filling. Just a few nibbles of one are enough to satisfy most of us, but not Scamper. He had to eat practically a whole bush’s worth of the tiny pears and fermented ones at that.

  “Just as Scamper chose to eat a full course of that rotten fruit, Hooper, and it sickened him, you decided to partake of a wrong course too. Only you’re not physically ill but sick at heart.

  “No, you may hope that it was the jewel’s fault that caused you to act the way you did, but it wasn’t. Hard as this may be for you to accept, the truth is, it was you that wielded the gemstone and not the other way around.”

  Phigby pulls at his beard. “Many have aspired to real greatness, Hooper—sadly, though, few have been able to resist the intoxication of power over others in their pursuit of fame. Just like Scamper didn’t stop with just one or two nibbles but wanted it all, it is the same with us when it comes to power, especially unrighteous power. For some, just one or two bites will not do.”

  He holds a small grass stem up to his face and twirls it in his fingers as if studying the grass blade.

  Letting it drop, he mutters, “And when that happens, greatness is lost and is replaced by nothing more than petty tyranny from small minds with even smaller souls.”

  He turns to eye me. “Is that what you want? To become like one of those?”

  Pursing his lips, he gestures toward the emerald. “The gems can neither make you great nor small, Hooper. True, they possess enormous power, but ultimately what makes people great or small is how they handle their own personal power in the decisions they make over the course of their lifetime.”

  He leans close. “It is not just a matter of how you handle the gemstone’s power,” he whispers and places a hand over his heart, “but what you do with the power that lies here.

  “For it holds the greatest power of all, to chart one’s life, to stand against the wind’s fury, or the subtle call of temptation, it is all there for you to wield, or not, as you choose.”

  Never having had the opportunity to sit at my father’s feet and absorb his wisdom, I feel Phigby’s words wash over me, calming, soothing, yet penetrating, too.

  After a while, I tuck the gemstone back in my pocket and peer toward where Cara sleeps. Running a hand over my face, I ask, “Will she be cured, Phigby? Will the poison leave her body?”

  He strokes his beard gazing down at Cara before he gives me a sideways glance. “Her poison? Yes, I think so. Her antidote was merely a mixture of the right plants and herbs in the correct proportions.

  “The cure for your poison, however, will not be found in flowers and herbs, but rather in how well you can face yourself and your actions.”

  Huffing, he rises. “Well, I should be getting back to our Cara, though there is little that I or you can do other than patiently wait for the cure to work.”

  He trundles off, and I sit in the dark. The others have stretched out in needful sleep, but for me, there are only the stark, painful memories of vengeance and bloodlust that swirl in my head.

  All thoughts of Hooper the Great, Hooper the Wonderful, leave my mind as I realize how easily and how quickly I could lose my soul. And that I am but one tiny step away from turning into a Prince Aster—or something even worse.

  I gaze over at the golden, who seems deep in slumber. Once before I thought of leaving the company because I thought that without me, they would be in far less danger from Vay.

  Now I can’t help but wonder—with what I am able to do with the gems, just who are they more at risk from, Vay or me?

  Thoughts of Golden Wind

  The other man in Hooper reveals itself and it is as I long feared.

  He has met his darker self and now realizes the thin line that often exists between who we wish to be and what we may become if we are not careful and vigilant in protecting our souls, our very selves.

  His quest to save Cara was forthright, courageous, and admirable. For that, I
cannot fault him.

  His use of Pengillstorr’s life-gift was deplorable, despicable, and dishonored a noble soul who gave his all so that we do not become slaves of Vay.

  Of that, I only have utter disappointment and pain that shakes my soul and body.

  Pengillstorr was but the first of many who will make the ultimate sacrifice so that freedom of life, spirit, and mind will flourish across this world.

  How does Hooper not see their sacrifice, their gift, for what it is and honor them in all that he does, especially when he wields the gemstones?

  Righteous anger as opposed to unrighteous anger. Righteous hate as opposed to unrighteous hate. Will Hooper be able to recognize the difference?

  More importantly, will he able to act on the difference? Or will he remain the raging man-child that I saw in the ghoul’s den and forever lose himself in fury and wrath, like unto Vay?

  The power of the gemstones is formidable, more than Hooper realizes but he will never harness that force until he puts aside his unholy rage and fury.

  How close he came to losing himself tonight. A few more moments and the cutter’s son would have disappeared and been replaced by what?

  Another Prince Aster?

  Another Vay?

  Worse than either one?

  My heart grieves, my spirit’s flame burns low.

  Can I save Hooper at this point? Can Hooper be saved by anyone?

  Yes.

  By the only person among the company who can—himself.

  Chapter Twenty

  Once Phigby leaves, I stand and stare down into the small glen for the longest time. It was a good thing that we weren’t attacked, because in all honesty, right then, I made for a poor watchman as my thoughts were not on protecting the camp.

  Rather, they were on the evil that I had felt in my bosom, the rank stench of rage that fouled my person, and the hideousness of cold-blooded murder that had gripped me in its icy arms.

  Yes, the carrion ghouls are vicious creatures who had tried to kill us, but I hadn’t wanted to slay them in self-defense, I had wanted to murder them in the worst possible way I could imagine.

  That was something the drogs and Wilders had done at Draconstead, and Prince Aster at Dunadain Keep and Dronopolis.

  And Vay.

  After a bit, I’ve made up my mind and steal down from the little knoll to stand before the golden, whose eyes are closed in sleep.

  Taking the Voxtyrmen and Truorka from my tunic, I lean down and place them between the golden’s legs, where she will see them when she wakes.

  I start to walk away when I hear a soft, “Do you really think that is the answer? To just walk away from responsibility and deny the awful wrong that you committed tonight?”

  Hesitating, I slowly turn to find the golden all but face to face with me. “Golden Wind,” I stammer, “I thought you were asleep.”

  “Asleep?” she snorts. “Like you, how could I sleep? Your acts touched not just the ghouls this night, you know. I was there too, remember?”

  Swallowing, I nod. “I know.”

  I keep my eyes on the ground as I’m unable to face her. Motioning toward the gemstones, I murmur, “I can’t do this. I—”

  “You’re right, the Hooper I saw tonight cannot.”

  My mouth sags a bit. In my pride, I thought perhaps Golden Wind would try to talk me out of walking away.

  Instead, it appears that she’s encouraging me to leave. I raise my eyes to meet hers. She doesn’t speak, but her eyes hold a hurt, disappointed expression.

  I stand there, like a child who’s guilty of wrongdoing and is trying to explain it all away to a parent but doesn’t know quite where to start.

  Letting out slow breath, I concede, “I made a horrible mistake, and I am very sorry.” I shuffle my feet, unable to go on.

  “What mistake was that, Hooper?” she asks.

  I wet dry lips, my head down. “I misused the gem.”

  “Misused? Is that what you call dishonoring Pengillstorr’s gift, his very life? You acted as if you were one of Vay’s minions!”

  The lash of her rebuke is a thousand times worse than anything that Vay could ever say or do to me. I cringe and for an instant, my knees buckle and I feel as if I’m going to collapse to the ground.

  I know just how the carrion ghoul chieftain felt when I brandished Galondraig above him, helpless and terrified.

  Hanging my head, I’m unable to bring my eyes to her. “But I had to save Cara,” I stammer in my defense, “I couldn’t just let her die. It was for her.”

  I feel a warm breath on my face and then a firm voice, “Hooper, look at me.”

  Somehow, I manage to raise my head and meet her eyes. They’re still unhappy, but the anger is gone.

  “Hooper, the fault lies not in the thought of saving Cara, but in how you went about it. Yes, the ghouls are foul and loathsome creatures, but in that glade you were little more than they.

  “You would have massacred them if I had not stopped you and then what? Would you have come back and gloried in your triumph over helpless creatures who stood no more chance against your power than a fly against the stroke of my spikes?”

  She pauses, her eyes sad but stern. “Hooper, when I said that you couldn’t do this, I wasn’t speaking of the remorseful Hooper who stands before me now. I was referring to the angry child that I knew back in Draconstead, the one who couldn’t get past his hate and bitterness. That Hooper wouldn’t have rescued me from the Wilders, or climbed the vine-covered walls of Dunadain Keep and faced Vay in the tower chamber.

  “That Hooper wouldn’t have saved the little sprites in Logath’s cave, or fought off a raging Varg pack, or faced even Vay herself in the queen’s chamber.

  “No, the Hooper I saw tonight would have thoughtlessly slain those ghouls just to glory in the power he wielded. The child Hooper would have played with their lives, taunting them, basking in his bloodlust.”

  She pauses. “The courageous Hooper that single-handedly clashed with the ghouls tonight to save Cara, he is the Hooper that is to come, once you put aside the boy-child. The question now is whether you can become that person or not.”

  Her voices hardens, becomes grim. “Hooper, you’ve gained a measure of courage, but if you cannot control your unrighteous anger, your pride, you may well walk an unholy path that will draw you close to Vay herself.

  “And bravery alone will not save you from her clutches.”

  I stagger back from her words as if she had taken a talon and knocked me backward. My heart pounds so hard that it feels as if it will explode within my chest.

  Me? Become like Vay? I almost retch at the thought. I slump to the ground and sit there staring at her for the longest time.

  “No,” I whisper. “No, I cannot, will not become like her.”

  Peering upward at Golden Wind, I plead, “What do I need to do?”

  Her eyes, hard and penetrating before now soften, and she brings her muzzle close. “Hooper, there is absolutely nothing wrong with selflessness—the ability to put the needs of others before your own. That’s what you did for Cara, and because of it, you saved her.”

  I drop my gaze to the ground. “But, it was the way I acted, the way I lashed out,” I utter in a rasp, “I was so blind to everything. I was so afraid that Cara—”

  “Might die?” the golden asks.

  “Yes,” I moan.

  “And what if you had massacred those ghouls,” the golden asks, “and Cara lives to find out about your deed? What and how will she think of you then? Do you think that she or anyone could trust you after that? That each time you brought out the gemstones they’d wonder if you would use them for good or perhaps on them . . .”

  “I—I,” stammer only to stop. Is that how my companions would come to view me? As someone who’s capable of turning on my friends as I did the ghouls tonight? The thoughts rush through my head only to stop at one particular and soul-searching thought.

  Am I capable of doing such a thing? />
  I’m silent for a long, long time. “No, I want Cara to think of me with only good thoughts. Not with the cruelty . . .” I take in a shaky breath and whisper, “or the bloodlust.”

  “And what of Pengillstorr?” she demands. “What of him? Is this how he would have you wield his gift? In the way of Vay?”

  She might as well have taken her tail spikes and driven them through me. I feel as if I’m back in the birthing barn and Malo stabbed his Proga lance into my stomach.

  “No,” I groan, “that was so wrong, that’s not why Pengillstorr gave me the gem, to become like—like . . .” I cannot bring myself to say, to become like Vay.

  She lets out a breath, and her voice is both soft and firm at the same time. “No, Hooper. That was not the intent of his gift.”

  “Look at me, Hooper.” I raise my eyes to meet hers. “Each of us makes mistakes, but the greater mistake is to repeat the error, to not learn from the misdeed. However, once the mistake is done, it is over and done with.

  “One cannot change the past, one can only learn from it and from that point forward if you are genuinely willing to change, to never, never, repeat the wrong again. If you can do that, Hooper, then you will surely leave behind that boy from Draconstead and instead, wield the extraordinary gifts that are yours and yours alone.

  “From high expectations, Hooper, come great sacrifice and selfless service.”

  She brings her muzzle close. “And from those come great deeds.”

  Nodding in understanding, I ask in a meek voice, “What do I do now?”

  Her eyes search my face for a long time. “Sometimes on a journey, you must stop and start several times before reaching the end of your travels. Let’s just say that tonight was one of those stops, and on the morning, we start anew.”

  Biting on the inside of my inner lip, I question, “Are you sure, because I’m not.”

  Staring at me, she asks, “How do you feel inside, Hooper?”

  “Like a gutted pig,” I admit, “with all my insides ripped out and thrown to one side.”

  Nodding, she says, “Good.”