The Dragon's Back Trilogy
Page 30
“Are we heading all the way up there?!” Kaleb asked timidly, craning his neck to look at the distant fog-shrouded terminus of the journey he would soon take.
“Sure, I’ve done it lots of times before. If it can hold my weight with a full battle pack, I’m sure it can hold both of us when we’re dressed light for travel. Besides, it’s the shortest way. ‘Getting high in the Dragon’ we call it. Nothing like this ride in all of Dragonsback. The sheer force of it buckles your knees and makes your heart pound like a man-sized hammer. You either love it and bask in the incredible excitement or else you turn green and drop your breakfast all over the unsuspecting fieldworkers down below.” From the way the young giant laughed, Kaleb knew without a doubt that he had seen and enjoyed that spectacle before.
Kaleb made up his mind then and there that, no matter how un-nerving the ride, he would not embarrass himself in front of his friend. If Raven could take it, so could he.
Raven held open the basket’s wicker gate offering his companion entrance. With a show of unfelt boldness, Kaleb stepped quickly inside. The device contained no seats or amenities except for the chest-high padded edge of the basket’s rim.
Kaleb had a moment to notice that the basket site actually stood quite close to the place where the tributary of the River roared out of a huge hole in otherwise solid rock. The engineers of the lifting device had harnessed the force of that water to reset the counterweights once the basket ascended. After each upward journey, a wheel with buckets on it would be lowered into the stream and allowed to turn. The large spindle that it connected to would then rewind the rope, lift the weights, lowering the basket back to the ground.
Very ingenious, thought Kaleb, but then he realized that Raven had entered the basket and firmly latched the gate behind him. The giant moved to the very center of the basket that probably measured about one mansheight across. Forsaking the padded side (which only reached to his hips), Raven reached above his head to securely grasp the juncture of the six stout ropes that connected the basket to a thicker cable above.
“Hold on tight, little brother!” warned the giant with a laugh. “Here we go!” So saying, Raven gave a nod to the blackrobed attendant standing safely on the ground next to the spindle.
As the man raised a sharpened sword over the security binding of the great spool, Kaleb suddenly remembered a drawing he had seen on one of the scrolls in the Orphanage. The text contained details of certain “war engines” used in battles against fortified cities. He remembered the picture of one such device called a “catapult” which had a similar cuttable binding.
Suddenly Kaleb became the boulder hurled upward by that catapult. They left the ground with all the speed of an arrow launched from a longbow. His own increased weight tore Kaleb downward, impaling his armpits on the padded edge of the basket. As Raven had predicted, for a long moment his legs nearly buckled. Only by strength of will and body did he manage to regain that lost stature. At last, he stood fully upright once more and dared to look around.
The speed of their upward passage turned the placid air of the cavern into a howling force to be reckoned with. He caught Raven’s eyes and found there a look of approval.
With his confidence bolstered, Kaleb glanced over the edge down at the river valley below them. Shouting above the wind, he questioned his friend, “Where does this branch of the River flow after it leaves this cavern?”
The giant had no trouble making his answer heard. (They probably heard him on the other side of the cavern, thought Kaleb.)
“It actually passes all the way through the mountain to exit into the Bay from a secret cave just below Hindquarter Cove. Those on the Islands think that the allotment of water they receive comes directly from the River Valley. We make a show of carrying a few barrels over the mountain passes, but the vast majority comes through Draught Cave. To do otherwise would be physically and economically impossible. Otherwise, we could never meet all the demand.”
“So the dragonmen are responsible for shipping water to the Islands? Kaleb called out. “I thought that was the job of the Pascan priests.”
“No, they only ship it across the Bay,” boomed the giant. “We are (and always have been) the real suppliers. The income from its sale is one of our chief sources of revenue. In fact, if the truth were known, all River water bought or sold on Dragonsback passes through our hands one way or the other!”
Even without having attended the upcoming summit, Kaleb had suddenly developed a growing respect for his benefactors. Obviously, their influence could be felt everywhere on Dragonsback. And they had accepted him and made him one of their own!
Looking down again he noticed something strange about the distribution of the light-giving moss in the cavern below him. Although the dragonmen obviously cultivated the pale green plant on the man-made shelves they had carved into the walls of the cave, it occurred naturally only in the valley floor and slightly up the sides of those walls. The irregular patterns looked for all the world that someone had spilled a syrupy liquid from a great height so that it dropped on the valley floor and splashed randomly on the walls in great running droplets. To each of these spots clung the dragonmen’s moss.
Kaleb, about to comment on his observations, suddenly found it very difficult to breathe. His eyes burned and all communication was reduced to a series of choking coughs. He soon recognized the cause. A pungent odor had been gradually growing stronger and stronger as they climbed into the heights. Kaleb now recognized it as the same acidic smell that assaulted his nostrils and momentarily stung his eyes when he opened one of the leather-bound packets of VR moss, only the intensity of this odor left him blind with tears and gasping for breath.
Once when he had been on the pilgrimage with his GrandSire and brother he had found a wild onion. When the old man had identified the delicacy, Kaleb had ripped off its skin and devoured the spicy raw contents. This had only produced a little discomfort, for the Islanders were known for their tolerance and enjoyment of spicy foods. However, Kaleb had made the mistake of rubbing one of his eyes before he washed his hands. His present discomfort felt like he had rubbed his face with a whole handful of raw onions!
Apparently Raven noticed his plight for, although he laughed at his fellow traveler, he offered him a cloth saying, “Here, take this, wet it from your ‘skin, and cover your face with it. The fumes from the moss accumulate up here near the ceiling. We’re almost to the top so you’ll be out of it soon.”
Kaleb did as the giant told him and so found some limited relief. He just had time to wonder, If the fumes are this bad, what’s the moss doing to me? And then the basket bumped past a protruding landing that led to a tunnel up through the stone.
Raven had not warned him of the quickness of their stop. The echoing retort of the great counterweight hitting the sand of the cave floor echoed up eventually even to Kaleb’s ears. But in the meantime, the basket, free at last from its weighty and tyrannical taskmaster, continued to float upward under its own recognizance.
Kaleb, absorbed with both hands as he had been in treating the discomfort caused by the fumes, found himself first floating, then falling several manheights as he more or less followed the path of the bouncing basket. He landed, winded but unharmed, on all fours with a wet rag still wrapped around his now blushing face. The young man struggled to his feet and to some semblance of decorum.
“So that’s why your passengers turn green!” he commented, trying to cover his embarrassment.
This final unforewarned indignity of the trip brought his giant companion no end of mirth. He clapped the still shaken Kaleb on the back and, roaring with laughter, informed the object of his humor, “Congratulations, little brother! You’ve passed the initiation! And I must say, I’ve seen few who’ve done it better their first time. I do believe you’ve set a new flying record today. Definitely, the longest time in the air that I’ve ever seen! Come on, let’s go up the tunnel. You could probably use some solid ground right about now. You’ll also find fresh a
ir and sunshine at the top!”
Weakly Kaleb smiled at his friend and then followed him on still-shaking legs up through the short spiral tunnel toward the mountain’s outer face.
SPENT THORNS
by Jason the Bard
Spent thorns are those weapons
That others did use
To hurt us
Sometime in the past,
They are kept as reminders
Of the battles we lose
In hopes we'll
Get even at last.
But spent thorns in your pack
Will continue to grow
Even though they're
Removed from the tree:
For the ever-expanding River
In them does flow
Like a waterskin
You can never empty.
Spent thorns are not empty,
Spent thorns take a toll,
That is measured by the pain
They exact on your soul.
Spent thorns are the poison
We drink day by day,
Hoping to make others sick
And make others pay.
Spent thorns used against you,
Are never really "spent";
They'll refill and grow
Heavier each day,
To poison your mind
As you remember the event:
Your only recourse
Is to throw them away.
Dropped thorns cannot hurt you,
Their poison is gone
It bleeds harmlessly
Out on the ground.
You can drop thorns through the Love
Of the Gryphon's Swimmer-Son,
Who was thorn-pierced
For your sake and was drowned.
Spent thorns are not empty,
Spent thorns take a toll,
That is measured by the pain
They exact on your soul.
Spent thorns are the poison
We drink day by day,
Hoping to make others sick
And make others pay.
The thorns that He wore
Had our names on each one,
Had He kept them
We all would be lost;
But He threw them in the Sea
When His sacrifice was done:
So drop your thorns
When you add up that cost.
Those thorns that impaled Him
Belonged to you and to me,
For our payment
His life He did give
Freely making that payment
So we could be free:
If you're forgiven much, also forgive.
Dropped thorns show His love;
Dropped thorns take His grace;
Dropped thorns are the proof
That the Son you embrace.
Dropped thorns are the cure
That we drink day by day,
Hoping to bless those who curse us
And their pain take away. 2
THORNLINGS
The sound of loud laughter met the two bards from over a small rise. Clearing the low hill, the travelers looked down upon a group of people surrounding a solitary immature thorntree. The path they had been following was now much closer to the River, so the sight of more thorntrees in the area surprised neither of them. The activity of the ring of people below Jason did surprise him.
“What are those people doing? I thought thorntrees were a place of conflict, but it looks like they’re having a party around that tiny one down there!” In truth, though the solitary tree was wide, it was short enough for a grown man or woman to look over, so each of those in the circle had a clear view of the faces of all of the others.
“Ouch!” shouted one of the partiers on the opposite side of the tree; and all the others roared with laughter. The person who had hollered obviously had not been hurt too severely for he soon joined his companions in their mirth.
“That was a good one, John,” called out one of the men to another, “but I bet I can top it!” The speaker, a short rotund man with a shiny bald head, then deftly began weaving a complicated message with his ceremonial short sword at the same time he was whistling a loud and lively tune. While he held everyone’s attention with the fancy swordplay he created with his right hand, his left hand stealthily reached into the thorntree and silently snapped off a small, thin thornling about as long as his hand.
The revelers were so intent on their activity that they took no notice of the two strangers approaching them. Neither did they notice as the whistler inched his way closer to the man on his left. Jason did, however, and was shocked when he finally realized the ploy the fat man was making. The man deceptively extended his chubby right arm so that his whirling sword swung far out over the tree to his right, bringing the focus of the entire group with him; all the while he prepared his move to jab his newly proffered thornling into his unsuspecting neighbor.
Jason took a quick step toward the victim and raised his hand to wave warning, but before he could utter a word, Nathan caught his arm and drew him back from the circle. “Don’t spoil their ‘fun’,” warned the teacher in a whisper that only Jason could hear. “The placing of barbs is considered an art form to these people!” Nathan shook his head in apparent disgust and turned away from the gathering at the immature thorntree. Jason, unskilled in the ways of the world, lingered a moment more to see the outcome.
His trap carefully baited and set, the fat man suddenly sprang at his target, striking the startled man squarely in the ribs with the needle-sharp thorn.
“AIEEE!!” screamed the poor man clutching his wounded side and jumping up and down with pain. All of the other men and women in the circle, seeing his obvious discomfort, burst into uproarious laughter and even applause. Some laughed so hard that Jason thought he saw tears in their eyes.
“Excellent!” cried one man, struggling to catch his breath.
“A perfect ribbing!” shouted John from the other side of the circle.
“The best timing I’ve seen in a long time,” called the woman who had been standing on the fat man’s right. “I’m glad I wasn’t your target!”
By this time the wounded man had regathered his wits enough to face his attacker. Uh oh, thought Jason from his vantage point, now there’s gonna’ be a real fight!
But, incredulous as it seemed to the youth, the injured man reached out his hand to congratulate his assailant. “Jack, you’re the best that ever was! I should have known better than to stand in the circle near you!”
And all the others agreed through their laughter and cheers.
Jason realized that Nathan had almost disappeared over the next rise, so turned to follow him, when suddenly, someone in the circle noticed that they had an audience. “Ho! Fresh Meat!” he called out and all in the circle turned to follow his gaze. Right at Jason!
“Come join us, young friend!” called out jovial Jack who stood closest to the young bard. The fat man extended his hand in invitation, indicating a place in the circle. “There’s always room for one more at the Needling Tree!”
“Oh, no thank you, kind sir,” replied the youth, thinking fast for some polite way to make excuse. “I have seen your skill with a thorn and my meager ability would be no match for such well-practiced greatness. Besides, my master is disappearing over that hill there and if I don’t soon catch up, I may be experiencing some thorns of my own. Thank you for the invitation though, but I must run.”
Jack smiled a big swaggering smile and it was evident to Jason that his answer had pleased the rotund needler (and he would learn as he grew that those that play with thorns do so for the recognition that it brings them). “Go then, if you must,” commented Jack with mock sadness in his voice, “but you’ll never know what you missed!”
By the time Jason caught up to the bard, the boy was completely out of breath from running. Two pains; his heaving side from lack of air and his youthful curiosity from lack of answers concerning what he had j
ust seen, fought each other in him for supremacy. He stood before his teacher flushed and frustrated as the short battle waged, yet in the end, the victory belonged to Nathan, who took that very moment to begin a reflective lesson.
“As I have journeyed through this land,” said the teacher as he began walking again, “I have noticed many things that disturb me. Looking with Gryphon’s eyes tends to do that to people: the injustices, the wrongs, the lack of love that people assume is the ‘norm’ all seem magnified and put in a different perspective once the poison of Dragonsback is drained from a waterskin. You and I have talked much about the evil practice of using and treasuring thorns. There is an even subtler use that the Enemy has found for them.”
Finding his voice, at last, Jason was able to quip in, “You mean, like those people in the circle?”
“Exactly, my curious young ward. Like the people in the circle. Some individuals become so enamored with thorns and their own ‘skill’ at using them, that they carry around with them their own special collection of tiny, undeveloped thornlings like those you saw in use back there in the last valley. Those deluded people mistakenly think these minuscule barbs are innocuous and even ‘cute’, and that jabbing them into their friends is the height of ‘fun’. To their deceived minds, timing and accuracy of placement are honored skills that they delight in sharpening. They even develop competitions among themselves to prove who is the best at ‘sticking it to’ or ‘needling’ the other!”
“So that’s what I saw at that immature thorntree!” responded Jason in amazement. “They did indeed seem to be in competition with one another. That’s why the injured man didn’t get mad! It was all a part of a game!”
“‘Immature’ is right and a very dangerous game, at that!” continued the bard. “It’s growing late, we can set up camp for the night near that stand of coree trees,” he said indicating the sweet-smelling flowered trees a short distance off the road. “Maybe their pleasant smell will help us think pleasanter thoughts and dream happier dreams than are found in a world filled with thorns.”