A Dragon and Her Girl

by Max Florschutz

  “And Li Zhou?” she asked.

  “I will grant neither of his demands.”

  Will not rather than cannot. It was still possible, then.

  Li Na took a deep breath and gathered her feet under her. Pain screamed throughout her body and made spots dance before her eyes. Blood flowed freely; it streaked her simple gray shift and slicked both her thighs and ankles. Her life would end here this night—that much was clear—but there were still tasks to perform.

  She clasped her hands above her and bowed low until her head touched the floor. “Great Huanglong, guardian of rivers and master of words, please forgive the vain words spoken by my husband, Li Zhou, who is in anguish.”

  The baby shrieked louder and kicked at the thin linen covering her.

  “Your daughter needs you,” the dragon said.

  “Great Huanglong, guardian of rivers and master of wor—” She gasped again, and her arms began to shake. The potion had failed, and she felt the slow tear of her own flesh deep inside her body. “Master of words, please forgive . . . both me and my husband.” Her voice was the barest whisper.

  Li Na waited for the dragon to speak, but the only sound she heard was her daughter’s abandonment crying into the chill night. She made to repeat her prayer a third time, but her strength had fled and all she could do was wait. As she listened for the sound of the dragon’s high, tinny voice, her daughter’s cries began to fade.

  Yet even as her sorrow welled up at the dragon’s silence, she could not blame Huanglong either for her lies or for the terrible oath Li Zhou had made. Her husband’s misunderstanding was her own fault; in her reverence of the dragon, she had kept too many things to herself.

  Her breath came slower now, and the pain began to ebb, first to a dull ache and then vanishing altogether. So this was the sensation of dying; not unpleasant. Li Na felt a touch on her head and was surprised that she had the strength to sit back.

  Huanglong stood before her, its golden body no longer a tiny brass statue, but fully twice the length of a man and made of iridescent flesh that pulsed with life. Where the statue was smooth and vague, the true shape of Huanglong clearly revealed each tawny hair on its long, camel’s face with its scant beard and branching, golden stag’s horns. Each of the glistening amber carp’s scales on its wingless, serpentine body spoke of perfect balance between necessary opposites—yin and yang, discipline and compassion, thought and deed. Even down to the five hand-length eagle’s talons that protruded from each of its soft lion’s paws.

  It was the first time Li Na had seen the dragon’s true form, and it quietly spoke of so much more power than even she had ever imagined.

  Though its body curled back and around the small cedar shrine, its head was level with her own, and it looked her straight in the eye with its piercing amber gaze. In its upturned right paw rested her daughter, quiet now and snugly wrapped in linen. Li Na took the child from the dragon and hugged her tightly to her breast.

  “I cannot undo your injury, but I can ease your pain,” the dragon said in the same high, tinny voice she had always known. “I have heard your words and they are true. So by the word of my power, I declare the oath of Li Na’s husband forgotten.”

  She bowed low. “Thank you, great Huanglong.”

  When she raised her head, the dragon spoke again. “While I can forgive your husband his words, I cannot change his heart. He has called this child a ‘mewling thing’ and a mistake; he sees her only as a failed promise.”

  If only she had more time. But the dragon could not undo her injuries, so she could not explain to Li Zhou that no promise had ever been made to her.

  She nodded her understanding. “Is it possible at least to remove my family’s curse from this child? She will bear enough burdens without this additional weight.”

  The yellow dragon closed its eyes. “I did not speak those words; I cannot rescind them.”

  Li Na wept, and a wave of fatigue washed over her. Her time had come. She reached down and gently kissed her last child on the forehead. “I’m sorry, little one. Find peace as you can.”

  She lay down carefully on her side and pressed the child to her face. As her eyes fluttered closed, she heard a voice. Not the high, tinny voice of Huanglong, but a deep, rich voice that echoed in every part of her being. Not loud, but penetrating.

  “The curse declared against the line of Pang Ji is ended,” the voice said.

  Li Na opened her eyes, but saw only Huanglong, who now bowed its head and crouched low to the ground. She tried to sit up so she, too, could give honor to this unseen dragon to whom even the mighty Huanglong bowed, but her body refused to obey.

  “Can you give my daughter peace, great dragon?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

  “I can watch over her,” the encompassing voice said. “If that is your wish.”

  “What must I do to earn this great blessing?” she asked. “I have little left to offer.”

  “Any bargain is between you and me alone; not even your husband may know of it.”

  “But he is my love and my strength, and he has already suffered so much for my secrets. Is there no other way?” Silence. No, then. “Then I will hear the costs, great dragon.”

  “This child will live in loneliness until the last days of her life. She will be buffeted by forces and powers she can neither see nor imagine. Her destiny is to be utterly forgotten in this world.”

  “Must you heap such misery upon her?” Li Na asked.

  “I do nothing; such are the natural consequences of choices already made,” the penetrating voice said, and she knew it to be true. The nature of dragons was to aid, not interfere; to give counsel, not direct; to buoy up, not crush down.

  Though she felt no pain, her strength had gone. There was no more time.

  “But you will watch over her,” Li Na said, “if I consent?”

  “Yes.”

  Footsteps sounded on the sandy ground outside the front gate, and Li Na struggled to keep her eyes open. Li Zhou stepped into the temple holding a bowl of rice and a cinnamon stick—the same offering she made every day in this temple. He stopped when he saw her lying on the ground before the shrine, clutching their daughter, her dress streaked with her own blood. He dropped the bowl and rushed to her.

  Li Na saw that Huanglong had returned to its perch as a brass dragon atop the simple shrine and smiled. She wondered if her husband could even have seen a dragon in its natural form. He clearly could not hear their voices. Of course, he did not serve them, and so did not earn their blessing; she was their messenger at this time and in this place.

  “Choose her name,” the penetrating voice said.

  Li Zhou knelt by her side, oblivious to the great dragon’s powerful voice. “Forgive me,” he said. “I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

  She wanted to pull him close, to whisper comforts into his ear. She wanted to ease his pain and soften his heart. But it was too late. All she could do now was answer the dragon and believe in both the dragon’s power and her husband’s good heart.

  “My child shall be called Kai,” Li Na said and let her eyes droop closed.

  “Don’t leave me,” her husband cried and bent over her, clutching her close. “I need you.”

  The great dragon’s voice echoed throughout her being.

  “You act with compassion and wisdom. Serve me here, and I will not only watch over Li Kai, the last child of Li Na, but I will ensure that she chooses her own fate—though destiny must still have its due. Yours is the power of creation; ours is the magic of inspiration. By this pact, Li Kai shall know and wield both.”

  And while she knew her husband would misunderstand her words as speaking to his bargain and not her own—that he would be injured by them every day until his heart grew cold and hard—it was a necessary thing. She had chosen her daughter’s name carefully, knowing the words of Li Zhou’s vain oath.

  “The bargain is accepted,” Li Na said with her last breath as her husband wailed out his grief.


  He had demanded that either Li Na live or the child be made into a boy. Though such was impossible in this life, she nonetheless chose a man’s name for her daughter—at first to give her husband peace, but later to give her daughter hope.

  This last creation of her flesh would be called Kai, which meant victory. She would choose her own fate by the power of her own soul and with the aid of dragons who alone among creation were honorable in all things.

  There could be no other choice.

  High Noon at the Oasis

  Jaleta Clegg

  The first ray of sun kissed the top of the dunes. Phaedra shook her mane, lifted one black hoof. She paused. Hoof? Mane? Sand cascaded from her black hide as she scrambled to her feet. She stood, legs splayed, sides heaving. Her head hung low, horn brushing the sand. Her shadow stretched down the dune.

  She took a tentative step. Her front hoof sank into the loose sand. She shifted a back hoof forward, sliding a step down the side of the dune. She planted her feet to stop the slide. Her body felt awkward, her center of mass shifted oddly.

  A breath of air stirred her mane. She raised her head, nostrils flaring at an unfamiliar scent. Images of cool water and green grasses nudged her toward it. The errant breeze died, but not before she fixed the direction in her mind. Down the dune, over the next, angled away from the blazing sun climbing over the horizon.

  Phaedra attempted another step. Coordinating four slender legs took all her concentration.

  She tossed her head. Where had that thought come from? Four legs? She swished her tail in frustration. If she focused, the thoughts scattered. She couldn’t remember anything before waking up in the sand. But those little tastes of memories floated loose as she concentrated on other things.

  She moved without thinking, her legs managing quite well on their own. Until she realized she was walking down the slippery dune slope. A back leg kicked into a front hoof, shattering her rhythm. She flailed with all four legs, her tail rising in her panic. She tumbled down the dune in a tangle of long legs, ending in an undignified heap at the bottom.

  A high whinny escaped. She huffed a couple of breaths, then scrambled back to her feet. The packed sand at the base of the dune made balancing easier. She tapped her front hoof, testing the hard crust. Her foot clacked on a rock. She took a step, feeling for the rhythm of four legs. If she let go and just let her body move, her gait was smooth and even. When she tried to consciously think about it, she faltered.

  Like breathing.

  No voice, then, nothing but a neigh. She’d turned into a horse, somehow, although she couldn’t remember what she had been before.

  She trotted toward the scent of water, moving easily while her mind chewed over other things. Her hip muscles twitched at a sudden itch on her flank. She whipped her head around to bite whatever had caused the itch and almost impaled herself with her horn.

  Horn? On her head. She crossed her eyes trying to see it. Glimpses showed a gleaming obsidian spike.

  I’m a unicorn.

  She wanted to laugh, but all that came out was a bray of horse noises.

  Someone turned me into a freaking unicorn. Once I remember who that is, I’m going to skewer them on my horn, then use all four feet to stomp them into the dust.

  Her hooves clattered over stones as she rounded the dune. This time, she heard a distinct metallic clatter. She stopped, then backed slowly until she heard it again. She kicked experimentally with her back hoof. Yep, definitely metal somewhere down there.

  “Do you mind? I just got things settled and now you’re knocking everything sideways!”

  Phaedra reared, twisting to face the source of the feminine voice. Her front hooves came down on either side of a plume of fuchsia smoke.

  “Never fails. I get all relaxed, ready for a break for a few decades, then wham! Someone knocks on the lamp again.”

  The smoke resolved itself into a very curvaceous dark-haired beauty in a skimpy harem outfit. She blinked at the black unicorn, her full lips compressed in consternation. “Who are you?”

  Phaedra. And someone turned me into a unicorn.

  She tried to speak, but her mouth only nickered.

  The woman grinned, then leaned on a puff of smoke that settled into a divan underneath her. “You’re not from my usual clientele, obviously. The horn and the whole ‘I’m a unicorn’ thing kind of give that away. Well, you summoned me so the rules say I have to give you three wishes.” She spread her hand, examining her flawless manicure. “You got a limit, though. New rule. You can only summon me three times. Some lawyer got hold of a djinn and abused the system until headquarters got involved and changed up the rules.” She flicked a glance at Phaedra. “Not much for words, are you? Well, we’ve got time. I’m here until you make your wishes. Landscape hasn’t changed much,” she said as she glanced at the towering dunes.

  Phaedra made frustrated noises and stamped one hoof. You talk too much. Listen, please!

  “Are we going to lounge here all day? It’s going to get extremely hot soon and I’d rather not be out in the sun. I believe there is an oasis that way.” She pointed with one lacquered nail. “Just pick up my lamp and carry it. I’m rather attached to it. Literally.” She laughed at her own bad joke.

  Phaedra rolled her eyes. It wasn’t very effective as a horse. Too much like panic and not enough like contempt. Not horse, unicorn. Whatever. She wrapped her lips around the handle of the lamp to work it out of the sand before she clamped down with her square teeth.

  “Nicely done. I always thought unicorns were smarter than horses. You just proved it, sweetie. Name’s Jadwiga, by the way. It would be nice if you could tell me yours. Maybe I should try guessing. I can’t grant any wishes until you speak, though, rules are rules.”

  You talk enough for both of us.

  Phaedra hated the taste of metal in her mouth but didn’t dare drop the lamp. Jadwiga might be the only chance she had of being something other than a black unicorn in an increasing hot desert. The promised oasis had better appear soon.

  Or what? I’ll die of thirst. If her chattering doesn’t make me kill myself first.

  Jadwiga kept up her rambling monologue as she drifted on her vaporous cushions. “I’ve only been a djinn for maybe three centuries now. Long enough to get bored, let me tell you. Lying around, buried in sand, with nothing but that lamp, that gets old in a hurry. It’s roomy enough inside, pocket dimension you know, but you can only do so many things by yourself for days on end. A little company is nice, but rules are rules. We get one week every ten years when we can go visit the other djinn in the grand stone city hidden in the heart of the desert.”

  Phaedra’s ears pricked. She remembered stone streets, clusters of strange people made of smoke and moonlight, staring at her, shouting at her. Cursing her.

  She almost dropped the lamp. The djinnis had done this to her, made her into a unicorn. And they could just undo it. Somehow. She could wish herself back to her natural form, if she could speak.

  Her hoof clacked on red stone as she stamped.

  “There’s shade at the oasis. But,” Jadwiga fanned herself, “we’re never going to get there if you keep stopping. Come on, pick up the pace.”

  Phaedra let a string of drool drip down the lamp. She had been holding her horse instincts back, but now, she let her tongue explore the odd metal.

  “Ew! Stop that. You’re getting spit in my kitchen. It’s messing up all my linens.”

  Serve you right, you magical cow. See how you like the tables turned.

  Jadwiga shouted muffled curses as she smoked back into her lamp. Her chatter faded until the only sounds left were the susurration of sand grains rolling as the wind pushed them and the occasional clack of hoof against stone.

  Phaedra flapped her tail and trotted between the dunes, wending her way toward the scent of fresh water and palm trees.

  The terrain grew more rocky, less sandy. At least a unicorn’s body was built for running. Similar to a horse’s build, but with longe
r, more slender legs, sleeker body, and of course, the horn. She tried to hug what little shade the stone banks offered as she wound between dunes that were halfway to being hills. Clumps of thorny bushes began to dot the ground. Sand drifted in long tongues out from their bases, pointing where the restless wind blew.

  And there, between two hills, a glint of deeper green caught her eye. Like an emerald set in a brooch, the tops of palm trees shivered in the heat, brilliant green against the red of the cliffs that had grown to replace the dunes. Her hooves fairly danced through the heat waves. It wasn’t just a mirage. She drew in the scent of wet stone, flowing water, and green grass.

  I can see color.

  Random thought, but a strange one. Did horses see in color? She didn’t know. And didn’t really care. She was a freaking unicorn, at least until she could figure out how to turn back into whatever she’d been before.

  Her sides glistened with sweat long before she reached the first hint of shade. The sun was brutal and that hint of green farther than she thought. She twisted through another narrow wash. Tough grass grew in cracks in the red stone. Her horse instincts urged her to snatch a bite, but she’d have to drop the lamp to do that. No, not yet. She wanted, needed, those three wishes. Unicorns could survive in the desert, but she’d never thrive here.

  The sun was sliding toward the west before she finally reached the bushes marking the outskirts of the oasis. It was a small one, a tiny trickle of water over stone that flowed into a larger pool. A dozen palm trees marked the spot. Their fronds drooped in the still air. An insect buzzed past Phaedra’s nose. She blew it away absently, focused on the water.

  She trotted into the tiny stream, her hooves barely splashing in the shallow flow. She deliberately kicked up what spray she could as she approached the pond. Her mouth was dry and tasted of brass from the lamp. She waded into the pool until water touched her knees.