The Origami Dragon And Other Tales

by C. H. Aalberry

  * *

  The storm beats angrily against the stone tower perched precariously on a rocky spire. The spire stands alone in the ocean, the tower a relic of an ancient empire. The tower had once served as a lighthouse in these troubled waters, now it is dark. The waves beat at the spire angrily, trying to tear it down. The tower is an insult to the oceans, a mar on their skin, an isolated stronghold of solidity in a world of fluid motion.

  There are only three ways into the tower. The first is by boat, the second by chopper. This night is too rough for either. The third way is hard, hard, hard.

  The waters are too rough to swim. The storm is surely too strong to challenge in its own domain. To bet everything on the strength of muscle, tendon, ligament would be to risk all on folly. The tower guards believe themselves safe from intrusion.

  They are wrong; there is a figure in the water.

  I swim, trying not to think of the monsters beneath me. I hope they aren’t hungry. The rain falls around me, encouraging, invigorating, lost in the waves.

  His stick-like body is a stranger in the water, unwelcome. His body slides through the water as if he were crawling through mud. The waves push it, pull it, attack it every way they can. The body won’t sink; its progress is slow, relentless. The wind howls, the body crawls, the tower waits.

  It took me three days to track down the abducted woman. That in itself is a message. The company aren’t without their own resources; they only need me for exceptional circumstances.

  He reaches the bottom of the spire. The waves try to dash him against the stone, a last attempt to destroy this unwanted intruder. The swimmer leaps from the water, rides a wave meant to crush him, catches on a thin stone ledge. The swimmer is dressed in loose, dark clothes. He begins to climb immediately, pulling himself away from the angry water. His body is impossibly tall, thin, strong. He climbs like he swims, crawling up slippery stone, grasping at treacherous seagrasses growing along the cliff. The waves roar beneath him.

  There was no reason for the woman to be taken other than to get my attention. So, I am crawling into a trap. My sister doesn’t know this, my superiors do.

  The climber moves slowly, never stopping, never slipping. It takes an hour to reach the brickwork at the bottom of the tower. He pauses there, rests. The tower is large enough to house a hundred men. It has few windows, one entrance. There is no light in the tower. The climber picks out the silhouette of a window half way up the tower. The window is tiny, barred, perfect.

  I hate being away from my work. My sister says my obsession makes me cold, hard, like the stone I carve. The company prefers me this way.

  He pulls the bars off the window silently. The hardened steel bends like soft plastic beneath his fingers, falls away silently. The window is too narrow for a man to climb through; he pushes through somehow, drops silently to the ground. There are three beds inside the room. One is occupied by a sleeping man, a gun set beside him.

  I owe the company. My debt is complex, deep, unacceptable. I work to be free of them. My sister doesn’t know this. She thinks the company is marvellous. It saved her life once, she always reminds me.

  The thin figure examines the sleeping guard. He checks his gun, subtly sabotages it, replaces it. He passes a three-fingered hand lightly over the guard’s face to keep him sleeping. The guard is carrying ammunition capable of killing the intruder. This is rare, dangerous, informative. This trap is lethal, this game will end in death. The intruder exits the room, passes through the dark corridors, a shadow in a world of shadows, unnoticed.

  These guards are killers, the best of the best. Some nearly notice me, some almost hear me. They were told I would come in a storm; they don’t believe it could be this one.

  He hunts as he searches. He traps sleeping guards in their dreams, stalks those awake. He is a haunting ghost, a skeletal hunter.

  They come to realise that I am amongst them. They expect me, for what little good it does them.

  The guards patrol in pairs, fight well, disappear quickly. The invader finds the abducted woman in a cell on the lowest floor. She is asleep, safe, oblivious. He leaves her, continues hunting. There is only one locked door in the tower on the top floor. He ignores it.

  There will be no rescue while the storm rages, the guards patrol, the trap sits unsprung. I will crawl on the ceiling, creep along the walls. I will stalk them in the shadows, drag them into the darkness.

  Nothing stands against him. The last handful of guards cluster together for safety, a herd of hardened men trembling with fear. They know what he is. He shuts them down with a grenade made from light itself. It works; their shots are distracted, wild, wide. Only one manages to hit him. The bullets bite with familiar pain, knock him backward. The intruder is prepared for this. He ducks, rolls, throws a small stone at the gunman. The stone hits the shooter gently in the chest. He falls, stays down.

  Those bullets hurt. If I could bleed I would be dead.

  The thin intruder searches his opponents thoroughly, finds only bullets, two keys, coins. He takes the coins. The woman is safe, stuck. The storm roars across the sky. He walks to the top of the tower, stares at the last locked door. There are cameras watching the door.

  I can be patient.

  He waits for an hour. The door swings open. He enters. The room is empty.

  I’m safe for as long as the rain falls above me. The rain is my safeguard, my ally, my friend.

  Silence falls suddenly. The absence of noise startles him. The storm has died. He knew it would. Help is minutes away; the woman is safe. There is more, worse, distressing. The rain has stopped completely.

  The patter of rain has fallen silent. I cannot remember a time when the rain didn’t call to me, watch over me, protect me!

  Friendly laughter echoes across the room. A camera on a robotic arm turns towards him. He moves. The camera tracks him. There is more laughter. It is charming, kind. It scares him.

  “I finally get to see the thing that has been such a thorn in my side!” the voice declares excitedly, “with a little help from my friendly weather controller.”

  I don’t know who this man is. He can stop the rain, my lifeline, my friend. I don’t want to die today.

  “I don’t like you,” says the voice happily.

  I cannot escape.

  The topmost storeys of the tower explode. The woman is safe, her rescuer’s scarecrow body is thrown into the sky.