The Dragon's Back Trilogy

by Robert Dennis Wilson

  "O' course you're right," continued the white-haired man, pressing for some unknown goal, "an' I knew that y' knew the answer, but what's the source o' the liquid in the bag an' why d'ya never have t' fill it?"

  "Everyone knows that there's only one source of water on all of Dragonsback," replied the boy, questioning in his mind why his GrandSire kept asking him useless questions. Yet still, out of respect for the man he tried to answer the best he could. "Our water comes from the River that flows out of the Falls at Dragonshead. It flows between the Long Mountains, down the River Valley toward the Sea, to water all the land. Wherever there's life on Dragonsback apart from the Valley, people must carry the water with them. This very boat has in its hold a tank for carrying River water to the Islands of the Tail.

  "To answer your questions," continued Jason, "on birthing day, a baby's parents give him a family waterskin fresh filled with water from the River. As to why the 'skin never gets empty, I suppose it’s the magic of the River to fill whatever it’s put into. 'Though that doesn't seem to work on people: one drink never satisfies me for very long." He paused to pat his own waterskin, hanging at his side, for emphasis and then added, as if it solved all of the old man's questions, "GrandSire, everyone knows the River is our only source of water!"

  But GrandSire had been shaking his head back and forth while Jason spoke as if he disbelieved the basic tenants of the land! "In that, you're wrong, Laddie!" he softly said, and there was sadness in his voice. "What y'ave been taught is lies. Lies spread perhaps unknowingly -- or perhaps not -- by men an' women who've nev'r tasted anythin' else but the addictin' poison of that cursed River. The Dragon's venom taints all it touches, 'specially the hearts an' minds of men! If'n the River is the only source of water on all of Dragonsback, then how d' ya think the flowers grow on the mountains, so far from the Valley floor? Look ahead, for we're turnin' t'ward the land. How do the grass an' trees o' the Outer Lands find their greenness if they need to sink their roots in the River to live?"

  The old man was growing more and more impassioned in his words. Though Jason wanted time to think about answers, his GrandSire pressed on, "True, the source of the water in your birth 'skin 'tis the River. An' true, the River's water all'ays fills what it can. But y'ave t' know that the River's poison is not all we 'ave t' drink! There's another source of water on Dragonsback! An' it's pure! Here, laddie, take up me shellbowl an' drink it down. Taste for the first time in your life the sweetness o' water that's real! An' the Gryphon's blessin’ be on ya."

  Jason would have done anything to please this dear old man who had rescued him from his Island prison. His GrandSire's words made very little sense, but he knew that he could trust this man with his life. The prohibition from drinking from a stranger's 'skin did not apply here!

  He picked up the golden shell from the deck and raised it to his lips. As he did, something strange in the bowl caught his eye, but he was committed to doing this thing. He took a sip.

  How sweet it tasted! Up to that moment, there had been no point of reference to compare what water should or should not taste like. After all, water was water: it wasn't supposed to have any taste. But now the sun had risen in its glory and the previous night's still sputtering tallow taper could but cast a shadow in the consuming light. The sharp metallic bitterness of River water was revealed solely by its absence! Jason had never experienced anything so delicious and satisfying in his life. His eyes sparkled as he raised the shellbowl higher and continued to drink until its contents were drained.

  Suddenly a sharp pain bit into his stomach! As he grabbed his middle with both hands, he raised his eyes to look questioningly, accusingly at the tall old man who sat so close.

  "Aye, laddie," said his GrandSire, and there were concern and comfort in his tone, "there's some pain involved at first. 'Tis somthin' bran' new you're drinkin' an' it 'as t' war with the old t' find its new place in ya! I felt the same the first time I drank the dew. The hurtin'll pass in a bit, but might come back till ya choose which bag you're gonna live in."

  The bellyache subsided even as the old man spoke and the sweet taste still remaining in his mouth more than compensated for the momentary discomfort. His GrandSire's words were more confusing than ever, yet Jason had a question that had to be asked. "GrandSire, as I raised the shellbowl to my mouth, just before I drank, I saw something strange reflected in its water. Where I should have seen the sun's reflection, I saw instead the brief image of a black swirling mass of shadows, blotting out its light! What did I see in the bowl?"

  Instantly GrandSire's whole demeanor changed. He snapped bolt upright and demanded of the startled Jason, "Lad, give me the bowl, now! Our very lives may depend on it!"

  Jason rushed to comply while the old man struggled to grab his Gryphonskin. Splashing some of its contents into the repossessed shellbowl, he spun around on the deck so that he was facing in the same direction as his grandson. For the briefest moment, he gazed into the still rippling water then jumped to his feet. Jason, confused beyond questions, watched as the old man’s rapid movements took on the semblance of a man preparing for war! GrandSire drew his strange white sword and dashed the contents of the shellbowl onto its blade.

  Turning, with the authority of a battle commander, he shouted orders, "Captain! Turn your boat at once or we will all perish! The dragonsbreath is upon us and we're about to be scuttled!"

  The silent Captain and his mate had been standing at their posts like two pillars of black scaline stone. That changed instantly as GrandSire's words brought them to swift action. The boat lurched suddenly to the left in response to the Captain's furious efforts, sending both boys sprawling on the deck.

  GrandSire was still on his feet. Ducking the boom of the sail he rapidly covered the distance to the rear of the boat. "Jason, follow me, now!" he snapped over his shoulder and the youth knew from his tone that this was one command that needed instant obedience.

  The Captain still leaned hard on the tiller, causing the deck of the turning boat to lean sharply to the right. Jason looked to his left and saw that the heavy outrigger was completely out of the water, streaming foaming saltwater half a manheight above the Sea! He struggled to keep his feet beneath him as he pulled himself hand-over-hand after his GrandSire.

  The aged Heartlander had positioned himself facing backward, sword raised in both hands with his feet spread wide for stability. There he stood, like a sentry on guard next to the black-robed Captain, in the extreme rear of the craft. When the boat finally finished its turn and settled level in the water once more, they had completely reversed their course and were facing back in the direction from which they had just come.

  Jason, finally unhindered by the reeling deck, reached at last his GrandSire's side. Still bewildered by the recent events, he chose that moment to search for answers, "GrandSire, what is happening? What is dragonsbreath and why is everyone acting so strangely?"

  The sword-wielder turned his head slightly to acknowledge the youth's presence then snapped it back to the rear. "Sit down, boy!" above a suddenly growing wind, "an' hol' on for all you're worth! Maybe the Gryphon'll look on us an' we'll ride this'un out. You're about t'be hit by the biggest wind y'ever did feel!"

  The mate, also wearing the robes of a Pascal priest like the Captain, finished lowering and stowing the mainsail just as the blast hit. He dove for the rear of the boat adding his considerable weight to that of the other four already there.

  The smaller triangular jib sail in the bow had been deliberately left in place to help drive the craft before the wind and keep it pointed rightly.

  A solid wall of burning hot air, rushing down from the steep heights of Dragonshead above them, smashed into the waters of the Bay and screamed toward them and their fragile little boat. Like a twig in a torrent, the mighty wind caught the boat from the rear and slung it forward across the waves.

  Jason, in spite of GrandSire's warnings, was caught off guard by the force of that blast and nearly torn from his perch by the sudden mom
entum that it had added to the boat. He realized with a growing fear that if the boat had been caught sideways in that wind, it would have instantly capsized, outrigger or not. If they had remained on their previous course pointed at the Mainland...

  Without GrandSire's warning, the wind would have forced the craft backward through the water, swamping the low, flat-ended stern and flipping them end for end. If not for the warning, he would already be in the water, sinking with their boat into the dark cold depths of the bottomless Bay!

  The burning, foul-smelling wind screamed around him, burning his eyes and filling his ears with the multiplied living sound of the dragons from his dreams. Those remembered sounds were but the smallest of twigs compared with the forests of sound that now assaulted him.

  His every instinct told Jason to hide his face, to keep it away from that scalding heat, but he had to know. He had to see for himself.

  There standing above him in defiance of all nature gone wild, was a solitary human shield, swinging his sword at the wind! White hair and cream-colored robes whipped back and forth like the wings of an eagle launching itself into the sky. GrandSire!

  And, though he saw in that wild figure above him a fleeting resemblance to another sword-wielding man on a boat, Jason could not be deterred. Every fiber of his being told him to duck and hide from the stormy fire that tore down on him, yet...

  Slowly, with great effort, he also fought the wind. Jason struggled and then stood to his feet next to this man he loved!

  He had no whitened sword to raise against the burning blast that filled his head with dragon screams. He knew instinctively that his own scaline sword would have no use in this fight. Yet, incredibly, past comprehension, he found in his hands the still wet form of a golden shell.

  In defiance of the wind, in desperation, as an offering to that unknown One who could protect them, with both hands he raised up the shellbowl above his head!

  GrandSire turned his head, and seeing the boy at his side, smiled proudly, then raised up his voice to rival the wail of the wind, "In the Name of the Gryphon, be gone!"

  The sudden and profound silence that greeted them was deafening. The boat sat in perfectly calm waters under a sunlit sky. A cool breeze fluttered the sail behind them and toyed with their robes. They were once again many leagues from their destination.

  Jason turned to the tired-looking old man who stood next to him. The boy could find no words, but his eyes gave voice to the question that burned in him like the fire of dragonsbreath: Why?

  The Heartlander gently took from Jason's willing hands the golden bowl he had held against the wind. Raising his scrimshaw blade in one hand and the shellbowl in the other, GrandSire gratefully lifted them into the sky and answered the boy in song:

  When the shadows o' Darkness rise,

  Unto salvation 'twill make you wise,

  'Twill bring new Light t' darkened eyes.

  The Water an' the Sword.

  'Twill waken those who fall asleep,

  'Twill comfort those who can but weep,

  Protecting those y’ cannot keep:

  The Water an' the Sword.

  In pathless ways 'twill be your guide,

  'Twill show you where the dragons hide,

  And cleanse from poison deep inside:

  The Water an’ the Sword.

  The Water an' the Sword, are one,

  'Twill finish that which they've begun,

  To make y’ like the Gryphon's Son:

  The Water an' the Sword. 3

  THE TALKING MATE

  When the black-robed mate of the Flying Eagle threw himself into the rear of his boat, his reasoning had been very sound. The more weight in the stern of the craft, the higher the bow would be lifted out of the water: the higher the bow when the wind struck, the more likely the boat would ride over the waves instead of being driven down into them.

  His reasoning was sound, thought Kaleb rubbing a painful, purplish knot on his forehead, but his timing was terrible!

  The mate, a large muscular man under his concealing robes, had launched himself from amidships toward a vacant spot in front of the raised wooden housing of the tiller box. This would have placed him judiciously near to the Captain at a time when the mate's strength and skill would be sorely needed.

  However, at the exact instant, his feet left the deck, the full force of the dragonsbreath struck the craft from the rear, catching the remaining sail and catapulting the boat suddenly forward across the Bay. Seeing his target approaching much more rapidly than he had anticipated, the mate tried to perform an in-flight course correction.

  Tucking into a rather large ball, he just managed to bring his knees under him as he slammed into the housing, splintering its wood with a crack! Then careening off of it headfirst to his left, in a flying flailing heap he crashed into unsuspecting Kaleb, knocking himself and the boy unconscious in the process.

  Kaleb awoke to find himself pinned to the deck by a crushing weight wrapped in black robes. His face burned as though he was holding it above a fire and his head was filled with the sounds of ringing chimes and screaming. It sounded like all the women and children on Dragonsback were all being torn limb from limb at once by an army of torturous monsters!

  Then out of the corner of his eye, he noticed two figures standing above him. Their backs were turned and their wind-whipped robes stood out behind them like flags on festival day, making it difficult to see what they were holding up into the raging wind. Yet he knew who they were and marveled!

  He heard the voice of his Swimmer GrandSire shouting something into the blast. The noise of the wind was so great that Kaleb felt free to voice his mocking thoughts out loud, "Yeah, right, old man! That's really gonna help!"

  The silence descended so instantaneously that he suddenly found that he was the only thing making noise. The Captain bent over from his seat at the tiller, having clearly heard the single word, "help!"

  ~ ~ ~

  Kaleb had never seen a person shouting with a sword before, but very obviously the silent Captain was serving up a royal rebuke to his still dazzled mate. The poor man had just been manhandled into a sitting position and had saltwater splashed on his face when his black-robed ministering angel had noticed the damage done to his boat.

  The boy laughed in spite of his pain at the exaggerated swordsign and furious arm motions of the angry Captain. The Priest, cowl askance, was signing so swiftly that Kaleb caught only some of the words: BIG COW... STAY ON LAND... FIX?... MONEY? ...WAGES! ...RAISE SAIL, NOW! TURN US ABOUT, YOU…

  Kaleb thought his last sign meant something like "mud-worm" or "dirt-slug" and wondered, chuckling, what new signs he might have learned if the Captain had not been a Mariner priest!

  "Yes, Sir, Captain! I'm sorry, sir. I'll get right on it!" spoke the mate, and both boys snapped their heads around to look first at the mate and then at each other. Kaleb knew his brother was thinking the same thing as he: Pascal priests were under a vow of silence, yet this man had spoken!

  "Well, I guess m' fish is outa' the basket!" said GrandSire with a weak laugh. Then addressing the mate he asked, "Are you all right, Nathan, me lad? An' how 'bout ye, young Kaleb?"

  Oh, sure, thought Kaleb to himself, still angry at his GrandSire for betraying the memory of his own son by becoming a Swimmer. Check on the fake priest before you see if your own kin is all right!

  "Boys, come here!" GrandSire called out. "I have someone I want you to meet!"

  "I think we already met!" mumbled Kaleb angrily under his breath, but his sarcasm was lost, overpowered by the booming bass voice of the pseudo-priest.

  "I think that had better wait a bit," announced the black-robed stranger, smiling in their direction," or our fine Captain will run me up the rigging. I am supposed to be his mate for this trip, and he's not too happy with me at the moment!" All this came from the fake priest, while he was furiously hauling up the mainsail. The man laughed and shook back the black cowl that had hidden his features.

  Wit
hout knowing why Kaleb instantly disliked the tall mate. Oh, he was handsome enough, with his curly brown hair, short-cropped beard, and rugged features. The boy imagined that the man since he obviously wasn't a priest, was probably quite a hand with the ladies. His big sparkling smile looked the type that would melt any girl's heart!

  Yet that wasn't why he disliked or even distrusted this man. Kaleb would have had trouble saying exactly why he felt the way he did. He didn't have a specific reason.

  Maybe the fact that this stranger had deceived them for some unknown reason kept the boy from trusting him. Or perhaps the happy nature of the pretender disturbed the youth so much. No one, thought the disgruntled youth, in this dismal, weary world had the right to be that happy unless they had just gotten married or had a rich uncle die!

  The nasty bump Kaleb was nursing on his head might have also influenced his opinion. Sure the man, as soon as he had returned to semi-consciousness, had attempted to sign an extensive apology to the youth for smashing into him, but swordsign does little to remove throbbing headaches. And, if the man wasn't a priest and could have issued a proper verbal apology...

  Needless to say, a short while later, when the mate finally finished his duties and moved toward them to make a formal presentation of himself, he found Kaleb wrapped in a very dark mood. This day that had started so good, in his perspective had rapidly become a very bad one.

  True, he had been granted temporary freedom of a sort. Yet, freedom for what? A pilgrimage? To go on a pilgrimage implied a purpose: a religious purpose; and Kaleb owned none of the common religions of his world. Nor did any of them own him. Rejecting as empty foolishness and words with no strength all the various theologies he had been taught in the Orphanage, he longed for remembered shadows from his infancy.

  Locked in his earliest memories lay a treasured vision of his parents in some dark mysterious place filled with people. Like a gallery of intricate paintings, he could still walk past each scene in his mind. As the showpiece of the gallery, he saw an image of his parents, robed in shimmering black gowns that sparkled in the torchlight, as they had bent down to lay their hands on their son. Young as he was at the time, he vividly recalled their touch for it filled his entire being with an overwhelming feeling of wild joy and limitless power. He could not remember much about the ceremony that night or any of the words his parents and others had chanted over him, but that brief touch of invulnerability had ever since haunted his thoughts and defined for him what "religion" should be.