A Dragon and Her Girl

by Max Florschutz

  Something had changed.

  She turned her head and met his steel gray eyes.

  He was losing his temper.

  “Words killed my family.” It was impossible for her not to see the images of the soldiers dressed in black, claiming to be peacekeepers.

  “Bullets killed your family.” His voice was cold. Not merely distant as his tone had been in the past, but cold and heartless. Hateful.

  “Bullets fired by men because of words said to them,” she countered.

  “So yours are not the only words of power?” The man raised his eyebrow, seemingly genuinely interested in what she had to say for the first time in a long time.

  “All words are power.”

  “Are my words power?”

  In his eyes, Majorie thought she finally saw what this man was looking for.

  “Are they?”

  “I was asking you the question.”

  Majorie resisted the temptation to respond with another question. There was something in his eyes, in the desperate way he suddenly needed to know the answer to this question when all the rest of the questions had been asked with such a clinical affect for so long now.

  How long had she been here? She looked back to the crack in the ceiling. It seemed to her that once it had not been a wilted flower, but a blooming one. Nonsense, she knew, but how long had she been here?

  “Why do you not answer me? Do you have no respect for your elders? Is that why your family died? Because you went against their wishes and spoke your traitorous words to anyone who would listen?”

  Majorie almost felt the cold emotions stir to life within her. Almost. It wasn’t time for them yet. For now, she still needed to remain numb.

  “My family died, as did so many others, not because they listened to my words, but because the monster who controls this country is afraid of my words,” she said.

  “The words of a little girl. Why should anyone be afraid of the words of a little girl?”

  “I don’t know. Why should they?” Majorie gave in and returned questions. “Who should be afraid of someone who is too young, the wrong gender, the wrong religion, the wrong race? What words could someone so worthless possibly speak that could impact anyone or anything?”

  “You are still so insolent. Even after all that has happened to you. To your family. Do you really think these words that you speak are so powerful? Who is here to hear them? What can they do?”

  “You are here. And you are hearing them. They will eventually free me. They will eventually free everyone.” Majorie tried to shift on the bed, but against her restraints she was only able to move millimeters. “Can you not feel them affecting you?”

  The man chuckled humorlessly. “I became immune to the tears of little girls many years ago.”

  “I am not crying. Nor am I begging. But your claim that I am does not surprise me. I would expect no less from the lapdog of a lying, murderous, petty dictator.”

  The room seemed to hold its breath as the echoes of those words faded.

  “I am no lapdog. And your great leader is no petty dictator.”

  “But you admit he is a liar and murderous?”

  The man stood. “I think perhaps you need more time alone with your words so that you can learn to choose them more wisely.”

  “That might not be wise on your part. I may finally come up with the words to free myself.”

  Walking to the edge of the bed, he looked down at her with cold eyes. “You really don’t understand your predicament, do you?

  “I guess I expected too much from a little girl. I should have realized that it was all coincidental. A confluence of events. There is no way anyone could have planned such an uprising against me, let alone a silly little girl and her family.” He dropped the clipboard and pencil upon her bound legs. “I have no further use for you.”

  Majorie looked away from the crack to meet his eyes.

  “Ah. So now you see who I am. Your deceitful words could never have turned me against myself. They are not so magic after all.”

  Majorie smiled and a giggle escaped her cracked lips.

  “You have gone insane? Good.”

  “No.” Majorie shook her head. “I finally figured out the magic words to free this country. The magic words to be rid of you.”

  The man snorted. “Words are just words. They are not magic.”

  “But they are. And so are dragons. And the right magic word, said to the right dragon, is all I need.”

  “Then say your magic word, stupid child. Say it now, for tomorrow I will have you publically executed for treason.”

  Majorie nodded. “Please,” she said quietly.

  “Please?” he snapped angrily. “Do you think you can beg of me now?”

  “Oh, I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to the dragon. And that is the magic word. Please.”

  “Bah!” The man spun on his heel and into the jaws of the waiting beast, which snapped down violently, with an echoing chomp.

  Majorie smiled at the shimmering outline of the dragon as it chewed. “Thank you,” she said.

  Taking Wing

  Julia H. West

  Sofria sat on one corner of the widest street in Tarnisi, on the plaza right outside the Guild Hall. Papa Matteo carried her there every morning, sat her down on a piece of old sacking, and arranged her twisted, stick-thin legs in front of her. Then he set her cup near her, growled, “You’d best make more today than you did yesterday, or no supper for you,” and left.

  A fine drizzle dampened the plaza. It always rained in Tarnisi, it seemed to Sofria. She pulled a rag over her head to try to keep dry, or maybe get slightly warmer, but the cloth was already soaked through. She leaned back against the building, to take advantage of the overhang of the Guild Hall’s roof, but that didn’t help much. The Guild Hall was very tall—taller than the Cathedral across the plaza. There was too much rain, and not enough shelter.

  People hurried past her, women holding shawls over their heads, men with capes and broad-brimmed hats to keep them dry. Some even spattered water onto Sofria as they splashed through puddles, but acted as if they didn’t see her sitting there. She was used to that. The fine ladies holding their gowns out of puddles paid her no heed. Only people like the stout woman with three small children trailing behind her, all holding hands, noticed her.

  The stout woman stopped in front of Sofria. “You’re soaked through, child,” she said.

  Sofria just nodded. Of course she was—it was raining.

  “Don’t you have a shawl? Nothing but that old rag?”

  “It’s all I got,” Sofria said. “Papa can’t spare nothing for a shawl.”

  “You poor thing.” The woman reached into her skirt and pulled something from the pocket hidden underneath. “Here, at least you don’t have to starve while you’re wet.”

  It was a whole bread bun. Sofria looked up at her and smiled. “Thank you so much, my lady!” she said. Sofria had discovered that everyone liked to be called “my lord” or “my lady.” It made them feel important, even if they had red chapped hands from doing laundry, like the stout woman did.

  The woman blushed. “Eat it quickly now, child. Don’t let it get all soggy.” She tugged at the children, who had stared at Sofria’s twisted legs in their much-mended stockings the whole time, and bustled off across the plaza.

  Sofria ate most of the bun, and hid the rest under her skirt where she hoped it wouldn’t get too wet. She liked it when people gave her food. If she ate it before Papa Matteo came back, he’d never know about it, and couldn’t take it away or say she had already eaten, so he didn’t need to give her supper.

  It started raining harder. The water that fell on the roof of the Guild Hall dripped from the mouths of monsters, one on each corner of the building. They decorated the Guild Hall, but also kept water from cascading off the roof and soaking people beneath. Or so Osanna the storyteller said. Channels on the roof gathered rain water and sent it to the monsters, who spewed it into gu
tters like the one not far from where Sofria sat. Sofria didn’t like that gutter—it stank of rotting vegetables and old fish, and chamberpots people emptied into it. Papa Matteo said the smell was a blessing to her. No one else wanted a corner that stank. So she sat in a place where many of Tarnisi’s people passed every day, and some might feel pity for her and drop coins in her cup.

  The monster nearest Sofria was fat and round, with clawed feet and a very wide mouth. Its wings were folded along its back, and its back legs gripped the edge of the roof far above her. She couldn’t see many details of the monster—it was too far up—but she had sat beneath it for eight years, looking up at it until it seemed like a friend. She sometimes imagined that wide mouth, when water wasn’t pouring from it, saying things like, “I’m watching you, Sofria. Someday I’ll take you away from Tarnisi.”

  But now the water dripping from the monster’s mouth became a heavier stream, splashing into the gutter near Sofria. She couldn’t imagine it talking when so much water poured from its mouth, so she sat sadly, shivering a little, as people dashed past and paid her no heed.

  Near midday the rain slackened. Sofria sat up from her miserable wet huddle in time to see a man in brightly embroidered clothing, with a sword at his hip, hurry past. Even though he seemed not to see her, he dropped a coin in her cup. Sofria smiled. She would have at least one coin for Papa Matteo. Maybe he wouldn’t beat her tonight.

  The sun broke through the clouds, and Sofria raised her face to its warmth. Above her, the stream of water falling from the fat monster’s mouth dwindled, and Sofria imagined it licking its lips and saying, “That was a fine meal.” She imagined it shifting its wings a little, getting more comfortable on its perch atop the Guild Hall. Does the monster have a name? Sofria thought. What can it see from up there? The golden statues in the Cathedral? The Duke’s Palace? Heaven? Sofria didn’t know much about heaven. Sometimes men in black gowns stood in the middle of the plaza. She remembered everything they said, though it never made much sense. They shouted about how good people went to heaven when they died, and wicked people went to hell. It seemed heaven was above her, higher than the top of the Guild Hall. Hell sounded like where she lived with Papa Matteo—hot, crowded, and stinking. She didn’t want to go there.

  With the sun out, and the streets drying, people slowed their steps as they crossed the plaza. The storyteller, Osanna, took up a place on the rim of the fountain. Soon children—and some older people—gathered around her, sitting cross-legged on the cobbles. Today the story was about a hero who had gone through many trials to find and kill a dragon. Osanna’s words came clearly to Sofria as she described the dragon. Tall as a cottage, with scaly back and wings. It had claws on its four legs, and a mouth full of sharp teeth. It opened its mouth wide to breathe fire.

  Sofria considered the monster far above her on the roof of the Guild Hall. It had wings, and four clawed legs, and a mouth that opened wide to . . . spout water. Was the monster above her a dragon, then? A dragon that breathed water instead of fire? She imagined asking it that. “Are you a dragon?”

  It laughed, a great bellow of a laugh. “I can be a dragon if you want me to, Sofria,” it said.

  But the dragon in Osanna’s story was wicked, and killed people and ate their sheep and cattle. “You’re not wicked, are you?” she imagined asking the monster above her.

  “Not all dragons are wicked. Do you want me to be wicked?”

  “Oh, no!” Sofria had seen enough of wickedness in her life, and didn’t like it. She liked good people, such as the stout woman who gave her the bun, and the man with the sword who dropped a coin in her cup.

  “Then I will not be wicked. I will be a good dragon for you, Sofria.” Sofria smiled, and realized she had missed the rest of Osanna’s story while talking with her dragon.

  “Do you have a name?” she imagined asking her dragon.

  It made a gruff noise, as if clearing its throat. “I have been called many things.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I drip water on people’s heads, they look up at me and yell things like,” the dragon paused, then said a few words that Sofria knew were not very nice. Papa Matteo yelled them at her and the other children when he was angry.

  “Those are not good names,” said Sofria solemnly. “My name is Sofria. You need a good name, like that.”

  “When I was being carved, my maker called me—”

  A woman with a wrinkled face and a threadbare green shawl came up to Sofria, smiling. “I have something for you, little girl,” she said. “My own little girl grew up and doesn’t need it anymore.” She took a red ribbon, rather frayed but quite long, from her pocket and put it into Sofria’s hand. “Such a cheerful color, red,” the woman said. “I hope it makes you happy.”

  Sofria stared up at the woman, lips trembling. “It is beautiful,” she whispered. “I’ve never had anything beautiful. Thank you, my lady.”

  “Shall I tie it in your hair?” the woman asked.

  Sofria was about to say no, that if Papa Matteo saw it he would take it away to sell, and then decided she could wear it for part of the day. “Yes, please,” she said.

  The woman smoothed Sofria’s hair, put the ribbon around the back and over the top, wrapped it twice, then tied it atop Sofria’s head. “There. May it bring you joy.” She patted Sofria’s shoulder and hurried away before Sofria could thank her again.

  That was the last pleasant thing that happened to Sofria for most of the rest of the day. Two boys splashed water from the stinking gutter onto her, laughed, and ran away. A man with puffy sleeves and very tight trousers told her beggars shouldn’t sit in front of the Guild Hall, that it cheapened the building in people’s minds. A puppet show set up in the plaza, but since the stage faced toward the Cathedral, all she could see was the curtain covering the people who made the puppets move.

  As evening drew near, Sofria took the ribbon from her hair and stuffed it up her sleeve so Papa Matteo wouldn’t see it. She was certain the bread the stout woman had given her would be her only food for the day. She had one coin in her cup—the one the man with the sword had given her. Papa Matteo would curse at her and give her no supper.

  She bit her lips, hoping that Papa Matteo wouldn’t beat her, and looked up at her dragon. It had been telling her something when the kind woman came up. They had been talking of . . . names.

  “Dragon,” she imagined saying to it. “I’m sorry. I’ve ignored you.”

  “Most of the city ignores me,” it answered. “I am far above their heads. But you, so small below me, you have watched me for a long time.”

  “You have wings! You could fly away from here. I . . . I can’t walk. I have to be carried.”

  “But I am bound to this building. My wings are for nothing but show.”

  Sofria sighed. “Then we are both bound here. I’m glad I can talk to you. Now . . . what were you saying, that your maker called you?”

  “Pietra,” said the dragon. “But he laughed when he called me that.”

  That was not one of the bad words that Papa Matteo shouted. It sounded nice. Pi-e-tra. Pi-e-tra. “I like that name,” said Sofria. “May I call you Pietra?”

  “Of course you may.” Was it the sun in her eyes, or did the dragon—Pietra—shift its wings? She knew it could not, for it was stone. But she could imagine. And she imagined that it stretched its smooth—not feathery like a bird’s—wings a bit, then settled them against its back again.

  A man in brown brocade with huge sleeves, slashed so gold showed through, dropped a coin into Sofria’s cup, never meeting her eyes. He walked up to the great doors of the Guild Hall, pulled them open, and entered. Moments later, a woman with very wide skirts and sleeves dropped another coin into Sofria’s cup. “Thank you kindly, my lady,” Sofria called after her. Three coins. Perhaps she would get supper tonight after all.

  The next day was sunny, and Sofria gained far more coins than she had on the wet day before. People stopped and talked to her,
and the stout woman came by again and shared sugar candy with Sofria.

  “What’s your name, child?” the woman asked. When Sofria told her, the woman introduced herself. “I’m Betani, and these are Ercoli, Luania, and Vinela.” She pointed to her three children, who stood staring at Sofria’s legs.

  Ercoli, the boy, took a deep breath and then asked, “What-happened-to-your-legs?” all in a quick breath, as if he was afraid she might bite him for asking.

  “I was born this way,” Sofria said. “I’ve never been able to walk.”

  “Oh, you poor thing,” said Betani, the stout woman. “How do you get here?”

  “Papa Matteo carries me.”

  “And just leaves you? A little girl like you? My boy Ercoli is eleven, and you look much younger.”

  “I don’t know how old I am, but I might be eleven too,” said Sofria. “I remember eight years here in the plaza, after my mama died, and before that when I was little I begged with her.”

  “Eight years here! Well, I’ll watch out for you if I can. I collect and deliver laundry all over this part of the city. Be well.” She took her children by the hands and they threaded between people, crossing the crowded plaza.

  Sofria made the sugar candy last most of the day, sucking on it little by little. As the day waned, a man sitting on the rim of the fountain throwing bread to the pigeons gave her the last piece. He must have seen her watching him, wishing she were a pigeon. The bread wasn’t even stale.

  After she thanked the man and he left, smiling, she leaned back and looked up at her dragon, Pietra. “Today was a better day, Pietra,” she imagined saying.

  “I like the sunshine, too, although I fulfill my function when it rains.”

  “What does that mean, ‘fulfill my function’?” Sofria asked.

  “I was made to drain water off the roof. It makes me feel good when it rains and I can do what I was made to do.”

  “Do you think I was made to be a beggar, because of my twisted legs?” The idea did not make Sofria feel good. In fact, it made her sad.