Wings of Change

by Lyn Worthen

  “Like the father’s.” The memory flashes into Bartholomew’s mind and purplish red steam trickles from his nostrils. Ice blue eyes and a nasty temper, two surefire ingredients for decades of indigestion.

  “Though his expression reminds me of Rigel’s.” Rearing onto his haunches Bartholomew stretches, listening as Rigel’s brother begins another song, one more melancholy and mournful than the first.

  “Yes,” he decides. “No doubt with the right bit of pull and twist, with just the proper tucking and dangling of shadow I could have him ready in no time. By next winter at least; all set to stretch his own wings. I might want to add the slightest breath of richest saffron amber perhaps, to polish him up as golden as my girl.”

  At the thought of Rigel Bartholomew’s eyes turn dark cobalt and he frowns. Despite all her knowledge and intelligence she never truly appreciated either him or his work. Not fully.

  “Perhaps it was her age,” he muses to himself. Watching the blue eyed boy stow the fishing poles into the shed and turn toward the house. “Someone so young, however strong they may be, isn’t capable of understanding the true nature of Shadow Dragons. My girl never realized what exceptionally sly creatures we actually are. Such complex, magnificent minds, so fond of puzzles and riddles, and half truths. Not that I purposely told her lies - ah no.” Bartholomew shakes his head as he considers the idea, fighting to conceal the glint in his eye and the smile curving about his lips, even from himself.

  “Imagine – matter bound!” Despite his efforts a deep chuckle escapes and rolls away. A pearl colored, shinning chain of bubbles, it floats upward and disappears into the cloudless sky.

  “Certainly I never told her such a ridiculous thing. No. She assumed it. No doubt that Shakespeare fellow’s to blame, filling her head with all sorts of nonsense. And yes, Tolkien as well. Lovely chap but seriously, dragons all being killed off? Whatever was he thinking?”

  From below, Rigel’s brother begins a new song, an Irish ballad – one of his mother’s favorites and, as chance would have it, Bartholomew’s as well.

  Curling his shadowy self comfortably around the chimney Bartholomew allows his well-trained mind to forget such petty matters. With a contented sigh he settles himself in for a nice meandering think.

  Long has he desired to see the ocean once again! Closing his eyes he imagines spreading himself across the waves, laughing as schools of frightened fish scatter beneath him. Taking him for a shark perhaps, or a batoid. How fun it will be to curve himself along the lapping edges of the waves, to tuck his edges in tight just where the sea foam has thickened, overlapping itself. To hear the cry of seabirds. To shadow and cool the sand.

  “I expect Rigel will be glad to see me,” Bartholomew smiles. “Once she sees me.”

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  Edward (Ed) Ahern resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales, and has had two over hundred stories and poems published so far, as well as three books. Ed currently works the other side of writing at Bewildering Stories, where he sits on the review board and manages a posse of five review editors.

  About this story, Edward says: “I wrote Care and Feeding because I wanted to rescue dragons from medieval tropes and put them into a modern day, humorous story.”

  This is one of those stories that I didn’t know I needed until I read it. The image of the junkyard dragon has stayed with me since the first time I saw it rise from the marsh, and Hrraushtu’s dry wit and simple wisdom as he helps Terry deal with the bullies that have been tormenting him make this a perfect addition to this collection.

  Care and Feeding

  Edward Ahern

  Terry fought back angry tears as he ran into the reeds behind his house. He hopped from tussock to log, managing to stay dry until he reached his secret patch of ground within the marsh. There he was surrounded by tall reeds that hid him from anyone’s view. This had been his sanctuary for the last eight years, ever since he was old enough to wander off on his own. Deer bedded there at night, but during the day the little island was Terry’s alone.

  No one else would even want to come there. Terry peeked eastward through the reeds at a brackish pond, and across the pond, at the town landfill. The town’s garbage and broken toys and worn out clothes and grass clippings had been dumped there for well over fifty years. The slope facing Terry was ash-tinged dirt and refuse punctuated with patches of weeds and scrub brush.

  He sat down onto a bed of trampled reeds warmed by the sun. The dried stems crackled and puffed out aromatic plant dust. Terry kept staring at the landfill without really seeing it. His anger subsided a little, but he knew he’d feel just as bad tomorrow.

  Bruce had tormented Terry ever since the fifth grade. Their last names both started with the letter G, and they were in the same track at school, so Bruce was in most of Terry’s classes. Bruce would sometimes sit behind Terry, whispering what would happen to Terry once the bus let them off and before he could run home. And Bruce made good on his threats.

  His parents had talked to Bruce’s parents, but Bruce always picked on him when they were alone, so nothing could be proved. Today Bruce had hit him twice in the stomach and pushed him down onto the sidewalk at the bus stop.

  The sinking sunlight behind him robbed the landfill of colors except for red. And as Terry stared without focusing, wallowing in his thoughts, something moved out onto the slope across the water. He squinted. It was a person, no, maybe an animal, something bigger than Terry. And then it spread its wings.

  Terry turned to run back home, but before he could jump onto the first tussock he heard a leathery whooshing and was picked up and dropped back into the islet.

  “Now there’s a bother.” It wasn’t words, but the sense of the words, uttered without sound right into Terry’s thinking.

  “I am sorry, but I’m going to have to kill and dispose of you.”

  A greenish-red something was staring at Terry, slowly beating its wings and flexing the talons where its feet and hands should be. Terry screamed at it.

  “Only thing that’ll do is scare away the deer.”

  Terry yelled again anyway. Then he stood up, getting ready to run when a front limb talon grabbed his arm. “Please, please,” he sobbed, “Let me go. I won’t tell anyone.”

  “First rule: Never trust a human. They even lie to themselves. No, I’m sorry. If you have any last thoughts, think them now.”

  Despite his fear, Terry stared at the thing clutching him. Its thorax was lit from within by greenish and yellowish lights that slowly swirled from one spot to another, vanished, and rekindled. It didn’t have a face; it had a snout with flaring nostrils and large, pointed teeth. Its black wings were skin and not feathers, with pronounced veins and tendons. Smoke roiled from its mouth, and something was waving behind its back.

  “I didn’t do anything to you.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You know that I exist—you die. But I’m not a wild beast. If you prefer I can drown you. And although it makes perfect sense to eat you, I can leave you to rot in the ground or the pond if you wish.”

  “You can’t do that, you’ll be arrested.”

  The skin around its mouth curled up, exposing more pointed teeth. “We’ve been able to hide from you for over a millennium; I doubt the police would know where to look.”

  “But I know, you just came out of the landfill. Do you live there?”

  “I wish you’d quit asking questions so we can just get on with this,” the dragon said impatiently. “One bite and it’s pretty well over. But, since you asked, you’d almost exterminated us when we discovered the garbage dumps you humans were piling up next to your cities and towns. You’ve been providing us with food and hiding places ever since.”

  “And you can eat garbage?”

  “We’re not as picky about our food as humans. We swallow all kinds of plants and animal material whole and cook it into energy—grass, wood, rats, mixed garbage, doesn’t matter, we’re better omnivores
than you are. The digestion generates almost as much heat and light as one of your furnaces.”

  “But what are you?”

  “Ah. You used to call us dragons, and spend considerable time hunting us down and killing us. Once we’d quit eating your sheep and been hiding in the trash heaps for a century or two you switched to killing other things.”

  The dragon tightened his hold on Terry’s shoulder, talon points pushing through his skin. “So, what will it be? I can just bite your head off if you wish. It’s messy, but quick.”

  Terry’s thoughts had been churning, but it was like trying to stir cold oatmeal. “Wait, ah, what should I call you?’

  “Hrraushtu. The sound is like clearing spit from the back of your throat.”

  “Hrraushtu, there must be things that you want but can’t always get living in a garbage pile.”

  Hrraushtu threw Terry down onto the reed bed and stared at him. “Of course. Fresh fruit, we so rarely get fresh fruit. And chocolates. We almost never find chocolates that aren’t all dried out and rocky.” He flapped his wings, talons curling in the process. “But no point wanting what you can’t have. Sit still young one, while I open you up.”

  “No, no you don’t understand, I can bring you these things- chocolates and fresh fruit and meat…”.

  The dragon paused, and slithered a narrow, split-ended tongue over the points of its teeth. “Apples and pears and maybe even a pineapple… How could you do this?”

  “I can buy these things and leave them here for you. You could come out after dark and pick them up, but don’t let the deer get to the fruit, they like it too.”

  “And of course you would want to stay alive to do this.”

  “Yes, please. And I could bring you even more things if you could bring me something in return.”

  “What would I have that you want?”

  Terry reached in his pocket and pulled out a quarter. “We use these round bits of metal to buy things. Do you find them as you burrow through the garbage?”

  “All the time. They’re not digestable, so we just spit them out or excrete them”

  “Bring some for me, as many as you can. Not the brown ones, I wouldn’t be able to buy much with those, but the silver ones would be great. I can use them to buy you even more things. And I’ll make very sure our meetings are kept secret.”

  So, despite his better instincts, Hrraushtu let Terry jump back from tussock to tussock until he reached his yard. Terry wanted to tell his mother and father about the dragon, but felt he’d made a deal, and anyway, who would believe him?

  That evening before he went to bed, Terry emptied out his old piggy bank and searched through the sofa cushions for extra change.

  The next day Bruce wasn’t on the bus so Terry was able to make it home unpunched and walk to the corner store. He bought two bags of apples and mangos and oranges and carried the bags of fruit out to his little island. He sat there alone until dusk overshadowed the landfill and the dragon flew over.

  “Wow,” Terry said, “That was something. With your wings spread out and your belly lit up you looked like a bright, flying plate.”

  “Yes, well, fortunately for us your narrow-eyed depth perception is terrible. What is little and close at night you see as big and far away. When you notice us you think we’re flying saucers filled with aliens. Really? Aliens?”

  Terry opened up his bags of fruit and Hrraushtu handed over a plumply-filled plastic bag. In the dim light, Terry sorted through what the dragon had brought, dividing the items into two piles.

  “Ah, no, Mr. Hrraushtu,” he said, pointing to the first pile. “See, these are metal buttons from clothes. And these here are pins from elections and conventions. And these are bottle caps. None of those will help us.”

  He pointed to the second pile. “But here, these are good for buying fruit and chocolate. See these are quarters, and these are dimes, both very good for buying. And this one—wow! If this yellow one is what I think it is I can buy you a month’s worth of fruit!”

  The coins were all covered with dirt and other things Terry didn’t want to think about. When he got home Terry washed the coins with dish washing soap. The little yellow coin had 1863, $1 stamped on it, and Terry was pretty sure it was gold.

  During his lunch hour Terry walked over to a coin shop and showed his coin to the manager. The manager offered him $50 for the coin, but Terry was suspicious and said no. Before he could walk out of the shop the manager tried again, raising his offer to$100 and then $300 for the coin, no questions asked. But Terry knew he had something special, put the coin in his pocket, and walked to the grocery store.

  Bruce was on the bus going home. “What’s in the bag, runt? Are you going to give it to me? Should I just take it from you? Are you ready to get hit?”

  When the bus pulled away, leaving Bruce and Terry on the corner, Bruce punched Terry in the stomach again, and he fell, scraping his hands on the concrete. Then he dumped the bags of fruit out onto the ground. “Fruit? Fruit! What kind of an idiot are you?” Bruce stomped on the fruit, smashing it, and walked away.

  Terry scooped up as much of the broken pieces and pulp as he could and put it back into the plastic bag. Then he hopped over the tussocks to his secret place.

  When Hrraushtu arrived, he could smell the dried blood on Terry’s hands. “What happened? Are you maimed? Should I kill you to stop the pain?”

  “No and no,” Terry replied. “But all your fruit is ruined. A bully hit me and tromped on every piece.”

  “It’s not so bad as you think,” said the dragon. “Remember that I dine at the dump. But we can’t have this interference. Should I kill him for you?”

  “Absolutely no,” Terry said, “but I’m not sure I can bring you fruit while he’s on the bus with me.”

  Hrraushtu thought for a minute. “Shouldn’t you cripple him so he is unable to take the bus? Or would you just like to intimidate him?”

  Terry laughed despite his fear and sadness.

  “Bruce is much bigger and heavier than I am.”

  “And probably slower. Does he hit you with his right talon or his left?”

  “His right, always his right. But I don’t want to hurt him, just make him stop hitting me.”

  “Hmmm. Slightly more difficult. Okay I’ll show you what to do.”

  In a blur Hrraushtu swung his forelimb, talons closed, and knocked Terry into the reeds.

  “Ow!” Terry yelled. But even though it hurt more than Bruce’s punches Terry didn’t cry, for he knew the dragon meant it as training.

  “Is Bruce that fast?”

  “No, slower, much slower.”

  “Then this will be easy for you.”

  The dragon showed Terry how to side-step, grasping the fist as it was swung toward him and twisting it hard enough to strain the wrist.

  “This is great,” Terry said, “Bruce won’t bother me once his wrist is strained.”

  Hrraushtu sighed, belching out greasy smoke and little flamelets. “How have you survived this long? He’ll be both angry and a little afraid. He’s bigger than you, so he’ll try and wrestle you to the ground, and then punch you with his left talon.”

  “So I shouldn’t have twisted his hand?”

  “No, no you pathetic biped, when he grabs you, you grab one or two of his fingers and twist them until they dislocate.”

  “I’m not sure I could do that.”

  The dragon sighed again, smoke swirling around his head. “Okay, just until he yells. That should stop him from hitting you. Here are more of the flat metal circles. If you could find squishy center chocolates that would be a very good thing. For the next several days we practice.”

  Four days later, during lunch break, Terry bought pears, a ripe cantaloupe and a box of chocolates. Bruce sat behind him on the bus, hissing threats. When they got off, Bruce moved in front of Terry and clenched his fist. Terry dropped the grocery bags and waited. When Bruce swung, much slower than the dragon had, Terry side-stepped the punch a
nd grabbed Bruce’s hand, pulling and twisting in the same direction the punch was swinging. Bruce howled and jumped back, grabbing his right arm.

  “Now you’re going to get it,” he yelled. Bruce rushed at Terry and grabbed him around the waist. Terry reached down, grabbed a finger and yanked. Bruce howled again, almost a scream, and backed off. Bruce was crying.

  “Leave me alone, Bruce” Terry said. “If you try to hurt me again you’ll be sorry.”

  Terry picked up the grocery bags and went home. After dinner, he hopped out to his little island. At dusk Hrraushtu, wings thrumming, landed on the reeds. He sniffed at Terry. “You’re not injured,” he said, sounding pleased.

  “No,” Terry said, and told the dragon what had happened. “I almost feel sorry for Bruce. But will he try and hurt me again?”

  “I don’t think so. In his mind you’ve gone from being prey to being predator. But I’d stay alert.”

  The dragon slobbered his way through the pears and cantaloupe, and gobbled the chocolates, box and all. “Ahh,” he sighed, the flames almost singing Terry’s eyebrows. “That was good.”

  They sat for a moment in silence, watching the sunset. Hrraushtu stirred, and began picking his teeth with his index talon. A charred bit of green paper fluttered to the ground. Terry noticed the number 1 printed on it. “Hrraushtu,” he asked, “how often do you find these green and gray paper rectangles with numbers in the corners?”

  “Oh yes. All the time, usually tucked inside something else we’re eating, like pants or a mattress. They’re bitter tasting; full of chemicals and ink. Do you have a use for them?”

  “Oh yes. I think you’re going to be eating a lot more chocolates.”

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  Laura Ware lives in Central Florida, where her weekly column, “Laura's Look,” appears in the Highlands News-Sun and covers news items or ideas she can talk about for 600 words. She is the author of a number of short stories and several novels, and her essay, “Touched by an Angel,” appeared in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Random Acts of Kindness. You can find out more about her, as well as news about her current and upcoming titles, at www.laurahware.com