The Dragon's Back Trilogy

by Robert Dennis Wilson

  “What would you do if we ever got free from here?”

  But the question’s familiarity painfully snagged on his memory. Before the final word had left his mouth, he already knew the weight of its oft-repeated answer could crush even the strongest bridge. The cold, dark mass of that answer would turn to shadow even the brightest sun.

  Jason heard his brother’s voice shake in response. Emotion poured out in a litany of despair and pain. Kaleb did not hesitate to recite the words that had become his whole reason for living.

  “I would find that man, that Swimmer! I would chain him to the largest thorntree I could find, then I would break off every one of those arm-length thorns on that tree and jab them into his face. Over and over again until he died from the sheer pain of it! Then after I had laughed and laughed for the joy of knowing that our parents were finally avenged, I would take the biggest thorn that was left and go in search of my father’s father who has abandoned us here all these years! I already carry one with Marvin’s name on it. Someday I’ll get to use that, too!”

  Night-hidden tears flowed down Jason’s cheeks but a sob escaped from his heart.

  As though Kaleb suddenly understood the pain his words invoked, Jason heard him add in a softer, almost regretful tone, “Well, maybe not for our GrandSire. At least I’d ask that old man where he’s been and why he never came and got us out of here.” Then after a pause, the older boy added, “Hey Jase, what would you like to do, if you had the chance?”

  “You’ll think I’m silly!”

  “No, I won’t. Remember, I know you. I know you need to dream good dreams. Guess I’m past that though. Come on, out with it!”

  “I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately,” replied Jason, rising to his knees on the bed.

  His mind flashed to a time when they were younger. Surreptitiously, from out of their narrow upper story window of the mountaintop Orphanage, they would drop anything they could find that would roll; competing to see whose “marker” would travel the longest or wreak the most havoc among unsuspecting pedestrians in the steeply sloping streets below. Their greatest joy had been the unpredictable results of their actions. Now, as he spoke them, his words of revelation to his closest friend and companion felt like some of those markers. Slowly at first, they tumbled out. Then picking up speed, they flew!

  Jason reveled in the unpredictable joy of hearing them spoken at last.

  ”I’ve never told you before, but… But, I want to learn to be a bard! I know it’s forbidden for us to sing in the Orphanage, but I got all these songs tryin’ to burst their way out of my heart. If I were free, I’d sing ‘em all at the top of my voice and keep singing ‘til I lost my voice. Then I’d beat out a cadence with my hands and feet ‘till I couldn’t move. I need to sing, Kaleb! I need to sing!”

  He sank back down to the quilts before continuing, “And as far as our GrandSire… If I could find him, I’d give him a big hug, then I’d listen to him tell us how long and hard he’d struggled to find us!”

  ~ ~ ~

  "Thank ya', Capt'n," the solitary old man spoke with the slow, thick speech of a Heartlander. "I'll return shortly with the boys." He had waited, according to custom, until he was securely on the dock before turning to speak.

  The dark-skinned Mariner priest nodded from within the dark solitude of his black cowl but never said a word; he was from ancient Pasca, north of Dragonshead, and, like all of his fellow sea priests, had long lived under a vow of silence. Instead, drawing his serpentine shortsword, the Captain flicked his wrist so that the dull point of the ceremonial weapon swung in a quick overhead arc that ended pointing the way the elderly man was to take. It was the sign for GO.

  Next, the priest snapped his sword to an upright position in front of his face. I WILL GUARD.

  Silently, the old man drew his own shortsword to give a response. The rapid salute of arms ended with the sun-bleached blade covering his own heart and the point touching the jugular beneath his short-cropped white beard: THANK YOU, MOST RESPECTED ONE.

  Under the burning noontime sun, the dark-robed mariner priest stood as etched in obsidian, making no further response. Nor was one expected. The white-haired man had already turned to go, the rustle of his tan linen tunic lost beneath the creak of the rigging overhead and the slapping of the waves against the blackened sides of the ancient ship.

  “I, wonder," the man spoke to no one in particular as he began the steep climb up the narrow roads of the island-city, "how the orphanage's fixed the boys for their future. The Gryphon knows I would rather've had 'em with me. What do the Island guv’ment ‘ficials know o' Truth? Pah! I had to bend the law, but t'weren't my choice! By all that's holy, it t'weren't my choice! The Gryphon knows!"

  Harbor Street was so steep at this point that it had been terraced long ago into low steps, now worn and rounded with age. The old man, puffing with exertion, jostled his way upward through a muted rainbow of peopled garments swirling in joyful pastel colors. But, always a watcher of men, the old man saw the lie in those colors and found the truth a short hand-width higher. Somber-faced men rushed to and from their businesses, carrying more than visible burdens. He saw another truth that greatly pained his long-felt inner sense of missing family. Hearty, but sad-eyed, women towed children down toward the sea-side market wishing all the while their upward journey could be lightened.

  How can y’ feel that way? he silently questioned the strangers as sudden tears filled his eyes. Y’d fast learn t’ treasure ‘em if y’ had all yer kin snatched away in a day!

  Taking a deep breath of the salted air, the tall white-haired man straightened up to his full height and deliberately altered his countenance. "No," he reasoned with himself, speaking aloud once more, "it just wouldn't do t' have a Swimmer walkin' round with a long face on. Never know who's watchin' or who I might he'p with m' smile. What's done with the boys is done, an' besides, today's startin' bran' new, full o' promise. We'll haf' t'see what'll come of it. Jus' like I always say, 'The future's hid under the Gryphon's paw, but the past is under His heart.'"

  He filled the rest of his climb with the self-appointed task of first greeting one lady, then the next. “Why, madam, what a handsome son y’ be a caryin’! He’ll surely grow up t’ be a lad fine enough fer any mum t’ be proud of… And good noontime t’ you, fair lady. What a beautiful baby daughter y’ have in yer arms. I declare, she’s as sweet as the sun on wildflowers! What a treasure t’ behold!”

  And in this way, he illuminated the noontime street and lightened his journey upward.

  Like all of the Island Cities, the buildings on Central Isle, including the Orphanage at its summit, were built of coral. Long ago the priests' decree had banned mining the scaline rock and metal of the Tail. When one lives on the edge of a bottomless sea, it’s dangerous to have your platform eaten out from under you. Only in the narrow channels between the Archipelago's Islands could the depth be fathomed and coral dredged up to use as building blocks. But neither the Great Ocean beyond the Islands nor the Bay they encircled, had ever been sounded.

  "Ah, here we be," wheezed the old man, stopping to catch his breath in the shade of the massive coral-orange building. Resting for a moment in the fruit of his labor, he turned with heartfelt satisfaction to survey the conquered challenge that lay now at his feet. "Hmmm, quite a view from the summit!" he said out loud to no one and everyone. He was past the age of worrying or even caring about what "young'uns" thought of him.

  From the height of the crest of the mountain island, he could look straight down the steep road he had climbed to the harbor at its base. People formed a living cataract cascading through its confining banks of houses, slow-motion multicolored foam descending to, and arising from, the bubbling cauldron of the Market Port far below. Barely discernible in the harbor and in the dark waters of the Bay were the small outriggered sailboats of the Pasca Priests, effectively camouflaged from casual view by their black sails and darkened hulls. Beyond the Bay, the Highlands of Dragonsback rose
to dwarf the summit of even this tallest of the Islands of the Bay, placing fresh perspective on the task he'd accomplished.

  "'Tis but a small vic'try I've won in comin' here when seen through Your eyes. Thank you, Mighty Gryphon, for puttin' me in m' place. An' there's a lesson here, even sum'un as boneheaded as me can see! Lookin' down always makes us feel bigger 'en what we’re lookin' at. It's lookin' up what puts us seein' things as they really is!"

  He paused in his soliloquy sermon to ponder the view one last time, "Yup, it's mighty impressive, indeed. I can see most o' this half of Dragonsback from up here. 'Twas well worth m' effort," and so saying, he turned to the task he had come to accomplish. The massive door he approached made him feel like the tiny frag'le boat floatin' next to a giant mountain. "Guv'ment always tryin' t' make people feel that way. It's jus' too big for its sandals and too small for its headband. Well, there's just this one more obstacle to climb, then I too can tumble down the mountain. Gryphon willing, I won't be alone. 'Tis truly a beautiful place, but's still a prison!"

  High above him, ensconced within the coral towers, out of sight and mind of the world, two wards of the state were unaware that their lives were about to change forever. Jason, with the youthful exuberance of any thirteen-year-old, looked out of a barred window at the same scene the old man had just surveyed, with the added advantage of five additional levels.

  "We are so lucky!" he commented to his brother who sat behind him on the bed. "Our room is high up and faces the Mainland across the Bay! We can even see the tip of Dragonshead from here. We're probably the only ones on the Island who can!"

  Fifteen-year-old Kaleb had long ago outgrown the exuberant stage, if indeed he had ever had one. His brother's sunshine fell on hardened clay, so long baked into brick that even noontime heat failed to soften it. Kaleb, looking at the same window, saw not the beauty, only the bars. Shaking his head at his brother's back he commented bitterly, "There's no such thing as a 'lucky' orphan!"

  JUSTIN

  “Pop-Pop, is Jason really getting stuck with thorns or are you just tryin’ to make a point?” Justin giggled and looked up at me.

  I laughed at Justin’s joke and tousled his short red-blond hair. Recognizing more than just a question in those youthful eyes, I responded with the approval I knew he sought with his humor.

  “So you think I’m trying to make a ‘point,’ do you?” I asked, wiggling my extended pointer finger back and forth in front of his face as though it had suddenly become a thorn. “And you think I’ll give away a secret in my story if you come up with a funny and clever way of asking me?”

  He had been lying on the bed, propped up by the pillow, with his arms up and both hands tucked behind his head. His eyes had lost their question, instead, they first glanced from the fleshly thorn back to its owner, then squinted sternly at me as if to say, “I dare you!”

  Too late, Justin attempted to unlock his hands and use them for cover. Like any good grandfather, I had responded to the challenge. “I’ll show you a point!” I exclaimed and my threatening finger descended rapidly to poke him lightly several times in the side just below the ribs.

  He squirmed and laughed under my touch and I rejoiced to hear that joyful sound. From the very first time I had seen his misshapen smile—as a newborn in my arms—I had always loved to see him happy.

  With little effort, he securely shackled the offending digit with two strong hands. In obvious triumph, Justin’s always-expressive eyes were again filled with a hint of question.

  “OK. OK, Justin, you win! You’ve caught me.” I said in mock surrender. “The answer to your question is… ‘Both!’”

  I smiled at his responding groan and continued, “and if you want to know what that means, you’ll just have to listen to more of my story. But first, something I forgot to tell you about Dragonsback, they don’t have any books there!”

  “Hey, great!” he almost shouted. “I wanna go there! No school and no homework!”

  “Hold on, I didn’t say that. They do have schools, after a fashion, and they do have some writing, on scrolls, that is, but not very much of it. No, instead of writing things down they memorize all the words they want to keep and share.”

  “Memorize? You mean word for word? Yuck!” Justin screwed up his face as if he had just sucked on an unripe lemon.

  “It’s not as bad as you think,” I responded, laughing at his expression. “They turn everything into rhyming songs set to music. It helps them to remember all the words that way. In fact, you remember how Jason said he wanted to be a bard? Well, a bard is a special singer who spends his life memorizing the old songs, writing new ones, and traveling around the land to share them with all the people.”

  “Wow, Granddad, that sounds like fun, even if they do have to use their memories. Can you sing me one of their songs?”

  “How about the very first song from Dragonsback, the oldest one ever written? Will that one do?”

  THE CANTICLE

  OF BEGINNINGS

  By Moshe the Leader

  In the Oasis of Beginnings,

  On the dawn of yesterday,

  The Gryphon's breath became our own,

  When He gave life to clay.

  Our Father and our Mother

  Stood before Him on the shore,

  Then rose to walk the Gryphon's Land

  Where all was good and pure.

  But Winged Dragon asked our mother

  To gaze into the falls,

  Forbidden flow, she didn't know

  That she would be the cause

  Of pain and death and agony:

  A world compelled to live

  Upon the Dragon's living form.

  This answer did she give:

  "A fountain and a flowing falls,

  Water all the land,

  And from the fountain, we may drink,

  But 'tis our Lord's command,

  That we must never sip the falls,

  Though all the world grows dry,

  For in the day we drink of it,

  We will surely die."

  "The water is not poisoned,"

  Winged Dragon quickly said,

  "Or else the plants along its banks

  Would surely all be dead.

  The Gryphon only seeks to keep

  It’s nectar for Himself,

  He knows 'tis wine to make you wise.

  He seeks to hoard its wealth."

  So first she touched, and then she drank,

  And then she took a swim;

  Then next she found her willing mate,

  And shared the same with him.

  In the Oasis of Beginnings,

  On the dawn of yesterday,

  When our parents swam beneath the falls,

  They then were sent away.

  Stern Gryphon, their Creator,

  Placed the rebels in a boat,

  Without a sail, without an oar,

  He set the pair afloat;

  Yet guided by His unseen paw,

  They sailed the watery track,

  To pass the circling clouds and come,

  At last, to Dragon's Back. *2

  MARVIN

  Marvin patiently rearranged the scrolls on his desk. He liked everything to be in order, in its properly designated place. His desk. His office. His home. His wife and eight children. But especially the Orphanage, which was under his control.

  "The government has picked me for this position," he would say each morning into the spotless mirror which hung over his washbowl, "and the government always knows what it is doing."

  Then, as he filled his cut-scaline washbowl to the precise predetermined level with fresh imported River water (an allocation from the government), he would repeat his mantra aloud with an air of extreme confidence, "It is my destiny to bring order to a chaotic world. Harmony, peace, and fulfillment can be found only in a world governed by rules; and in rules governed by order. Today, I will bring order into the life of another!" Marvin would never say, "another'
s life" or "another man's life," but always "the life of another," for he felt that contractions were contradictions -- sloppy shortcuts that degraded the purity of language. And since rules were conveyed and communicated using the vehicle of language, then concise, accurate language must be the pillar on which all of life should rest and the standard by which he could instantly judge all men.

  At that precise moment, Marvin heard a tentative knocking on his office door. "What is it, Miss Periwinkle?" he asked, knowing that no one else would dare knock on his door. Proper channels eliminate chaos!

  The middle-aged woman who entered the room portrayed the image of sobriety and decorum. Her graying hair, tightly bound behind her head, mimicked the fashion of widows and elderly school teachers. Robed in a charcoal tunic that reached discreetly to mid-calf, and belted in black with the wide sash of the single, she projected a practiced picture of plainness. Her unpainted somber face formed the perfect accessory to finish the look of her ensemble. Miss Periwinkle had once told her friends that she at one time had aspired to be an actress. Serving Marvin was her ultimate role.

  "I am sorry to interrupt you, sir," she intoned (and, Marvin noted unconsciously, that she employed just the right volume and perfectly executed diction), "but there is a ...man to see you. He does not seem to have an appointment, but he does have some official-looking papers."

  Marvin had hired Miss Periwinkle because she was prim, proper, and precise. The fact that she failed to insert the usual "gentle" before speaking of the "...man" did not escape his linguistic notice. Of what exactly was she trying to warn him?

  "You know," he told her rather sternly, "that I do not like interruptions, especially unscheduled ones." In his self-ordered world, even the interruptions were planned, numbered, allocated resources, handled with dispatch, then documented in triplicate.

  "Miss Periwinkle, interruptions are the sign of an undisciplined life," he preached at her as though she were the cause and not the harbinger of the disturbance. "We cannot allow chaos to be our master, can we?" In response, she shook her head violently from side to side in a silent but emphatic negative. "A schedule," he continued barely noticing her response, "with strict appointments will correct all such chaos and keep life in line. You did say this '...man' has official papers? Well, I guess you had better show him in." And the ever-accommodating Miss Periwinkle scurried to comply.