A Most Refined Dragon Page 4

  The closest lissair squinted his eyes and panned his head from side to side. Despite Melissa’s ignorance, she recognized skepticism.

  The flapping monarch utter-fly picked that moment to drift into their midst. Shoroko’s reaction had been tame. It took a full minute for the dust to settle from the ensuing stampede. Melissa expected to see the equivalent of circus elephants atop little stools shivering in terror of mice. Instead she got a surprise: two even lines of ten lissairn facing off, with the utter-fly perched on a sunflower in the middle.

  One ancient-looking olissair wearing a patch over one eye yelled, “Fan-fly!” Then the game began. There was a lot of wing flapping and hopping. Near as Melissa could tell, the object was to propel the hapless insect against the skull of a member of the opposing team. Any contact with the bug cost a point, and flying more than a few feet off the ground cost two, but was sometimes necessary, because letting the utter-fly escape cost ten points and ended the game. Striking the head was worth twenty points, and cost the entranced player their pride.

  “I want to see Skatskut take a header,” said one. “Wasn’t he fun to watch last year?”

  “Not fair!” said the victim of the jibe. “That was not during a match. I say we lean on the First Hand to make him ban the use of utter-flies for love spells. It never works. Just gets Hand girls hopes up and makes the guys laugh at them.” Flap, flap. He narrowly avoided disaster and fanned the utter-fly back at the opposing team.

  “Never works? Didn’t I see you licking zizza sap off the head of a Hand bachelor sinking in quicksand after pledging him your eternal love? Didn’t know you had such a fine singing voice.”

  “Grrr!” Skatskut charged his opponent, crossed the center line and cost his team a one point penalty. A minute later, no one cared what the score was anymore. The utter-fly had landed – on Melissa.

  The world went dark and the sounds of play – far away. The flapping of the utter-fly’s wings were as drums accompanying an orchestra. New light rushed in, and Melissa was riding on the back of a white beast with a flowing mane, as a woman began her tale about hunting for a crown.

  * * *

  Sho-rascal’s brother moaned about saddle sores, but riding Snow was comfy. She never tired of galloping over fields and splashing through streams, or the way Snow lay its head in her lap when they rested. On the dawn of the fourth day, they reached the Talon Mountains and began their climb. Shorascal rubbed a four inch nub projecting from her steed’s forehead. “I’m happy your horn is growing back so fast, Snow. Could come in handy. My emmauw told me scary stories about what lives in these mountains.”

  Clinging mists kept her growing flower ringlet fresh. At the border where green kissed white and heather hugged the snowy crags, the young artist found a valiant blue sword piercing a proud patch of ice: a glory of the snow. She dismounted and plucked it. “Seven flowers, seven colors. My rainbow crown is complete!” She placed it on her head, turned around and curtsied. When she looked up, Snow was gone.

  The rascal stood in silence, stunned. Beyond the mountains lay the jungle of Ramcanopa, beyond the jungle, the Clawtill Plains, and beyond the plains, the Faithful River, and the northward road home. But she was six and knew none of that. She was lost. She sat down and sobbed.

  After her tears stopped, she saw it, half in shadow near the mouth of a cave. The flowers she wanted, she had, but this flower you didn’t find by looking, it was a flower that finds you. In another country, the citizens would call it a dandelion, but they would be wrong. Here they call it glissondra, the dragon-flower. The girl had heard whispers of it, but never seen it, yet knew instantly the puffy white sphere was meant for her. She plucked it and blew. “Huff!” The feathered seeds hitched a ride on a breeze and went to see the world.

  The bare stalk held fast to two last seeds.

  “Don’t you want to leave, too?” said the girl, wiping her tears. “No? You sisters must be my special seeds.” She plucked the first and twirled it between her fingers. How she missed her mother. “You need a kiss before you leave home.” She kissed the seed. “You shall be for a friend. Have a lovely journey!” She blew the seed and it was gone.

  She plucked the final seed and kissed it. “You shall be for me. Such a crown you shall be when you are grown.” She filled her lungs and exhaled her mightiest breath.

  The little girl imagined that the two sister-seeds would be carried far north, past her family’s cottage. The first would turn east and come to hover over green fields beside the Bittersweet River, while the second would bend west and find another mountain range, and drift among canyons, over the fiery fissures, pumice and steam of Borgash. All their old companions in the bud would find damp earth and grow beneath trees or beside springs, but the twin seeds would be held captive by the wind. Ten years would pass, and most of a second ten before their seed-hood could conclude in germination.

  Such an odyssey is suitable for a sturdy seed, but not a tender child. Looking down, she saw a trail of large, white scales and great paw prints with claw marks. The shadows flickered from an unseen light around the corner, and a puff of smoke made her cough. She heard scraping on stone. Biting her lip and holding her crown tightly on her head, she walked forward and passed a boulder hiding the entrance to a cave.

  From its darkness, two glowing eyes blinked. “Silly glissond, how did you get so far from home? I shall have to fetch a ride for you. You must stay with me today so I can feed you a good supper. Come along, or a tagger or a rigrash might make you its supper. What is your name, child?”

  The child stood very still.

  “Don’t be afraid, I will not harm you.”

  “Shorassa.”

  “Welcome to my home, Shorassa. I am White Talon.”

  The little girl followed the voice. As she walked, she spotted a third seed clinging to her sleeve. “What, you want a kiss too? Very well.” She kissed the seed and gave a puff to blow it away. “You’re for my brother. He wouldn’t come on my adventure, but I’m not going to miss his.” And so it flew, until entranced by the ocean breezes of the east.

  She entered the cave, then clapped her hand over her mouth. “My queen!” Hurriedly, she removed her garland, placed it on the white hair of the lowered head of her host and bowed.

  “Thank you, child. I am blowing glass today. Would you like me to teach you?” Her host extended a wing and pointed toward her workbench.

  That day Shorassa made a new friend. A very big friend, and an even bigger stir. Never in all of history had a girl or boy been invited to become apprentice to a dragon.

  The story of the brave little girl meeting a dragon was a happy one, but it is okay to be sad, for if the little girl passes on, who will tend to her seeds?

  * * *

  Melissa slowly untangled her mind from the vision. She couldn’t understand why anyone would be so upset about a few seeds blowing in the wind. They could still be planted, no? She persisted in trying to reassure a dying woman until she realized the woman couldn’t hear her, and twenty ancient dragons were staring at her, trying to hold back their snickering, though one in the back failed. She looked down at a puddle on a rock and saw her reflection. There was a daisy-chain crown on her head.

  “You look… regal, my lady,” said one.

  Melissa cleared her throat and smiled. Deep within she felt the courage of a six-year-old wanderer and friend of dragons well up, and her stage-fright vanished. She knew what to do. “Fair are the winds that carried you here.”

  In unison twenty white lissairn replied, “And true the flame of all whites that burns clear.”

  They became silent and she stalked back and forth before them, reviewing her subjects. These are powerful, long-lived creatures. I can’t fool them. Time to wrap poetry around a crisis so they won’t suspect I’m clueless. She stared at silent, white faces and the burnt husks of trees behind them, then spoke. “And who is the flame of the whites?”

  “White Talon!” they shouted back.

  “Does m
y flame burn true?” She held out her claws for silence. “Does it? I cast my flame upon the orb in search of the lost. The orb answered.”

  The lissairn and olissairn glanced at each other, then faced Melissa more intently.

  “Was it Silverthorn?” said Melissa. “I am not ashamed to say that my eyes were so clouded by tears that I could not be sure. Yet the one I saw bestowed a gift, and a mission. Can our flame destroy?” She mustered all her breath and cast flame at the single tree that remained standing amidst the ashes. Over the crackling blaze she said, “Can our flame also heal? I believe it once could, and can again. And must again.” She trembled while making her unfounded assertion. Was the blue flame a natural ability of the Lissai unlocked in time of stress? Or a by-product of the unusual invasion of a dragon’s body by a human soul? Another survey showed a few skeptical faces. Time to turn things upside-down. Wish I had a team roster. “The sun is bright. Who stands at the rear? Come forward.”

  The assembly parted and a Lissair with a patch over his left eye strode to the front. “How may Ollsurrodot serve?” The quaver in his voice spoke of great age.

  “Who standing here is held in highest regard by the other klatches?”

  Ollsurrodot bowed his head. “Parassam, my queen.”

  How can you tell if a crocodile is smiling? Melissa scanned the faces looking for something. Flared nostrils? She made eye contact. “Approach.” Nailed it!

  Ollsurrodot shuffled to the side, and Parassam stepped forward. Was that a swagger in his tail?

  “You shall be our Prism, which divides white into all the other colors. Take your place as emissary to the other Lissai.”

  “But what of…”

  “He deserves rest. Prism, advise me. In your judgment, who here is most trusted by the Hands?” Melissa noted that two olissairn stood taller, one on the left and one on the right.

  “Cullatalak, my queen,” said Prism.

  Which is which? Melissa darted her eyes back and forth, before settling upon the one on the right. “What do you say?”

  “Pardon my presumption, my queen. It is Cullatalak, of course.”

  “I see no presumption, only an eagerness to be useful.” Melissa faced the olissairn on the left. “Cullatalak, you shall be Talc, like the powder the Hands use to strengthen their grip. You must take firm command of our deteriorating relations with our neighbors.”

  “May I bring our klatch honor.”

  “You will honor me if you answer candidly. Who is fearless enough to face a stampede alone?”

  Talc bowed ever so low. “Might I suggest a contest before you make your next selection?”

  “Grrrrr!” Several Lissai were tossed aside by the charge of an incensed comrade covered with scratches and missing one long, curved tooth. He stood a head above the rest. Just as he reached Talc…

  “Skatskut? Sorry, I forgot you were here. No contest necessary, my queen. Behold your champion.”

  “Skatskut, I believe the name Tusk fits you best.” Too many snickered for him to growl at each individually.

  “And what staffing matter will you assign to me?” said Tusk.

  “Your mind is as quick as your temper, I see,” said Melissa. “Very well. I charge you with our defense, and in turn ask: who is swiftest in flight?”

  “Only one can outrun the clouds: Soorararas.”

  “The coming days will stretch us thin. Soorararas, you must fly as never before to keep us informed as events unfold. And your admirer has chosen your name for you: Cirrus. As you are swift of wing, who– besides our nimble Tusk– has the quickest mind?”

  “Surely not I,” said Cirrus, “for I cannot find sufficient cause to change our leadership so near to the Census.”

  “An excellent question, but not the one I asked.” Melissa counted ten heads nodding. My own cleverness is running out.

  “Then I name Mistfire, if he can explain your reasoning.”

  Melissa eyed this one closely. When she first entered their presence, he was the one most suspicious of her. “Mistfire, your name requires no alteration. Mist conceals, and you must hide from enemies and careless mouths the secret plans that will make us prosper. Fire reveals, and you must burn away the fog of fear and confusion that stymies our progress.”

  Mistfire bowed. “May it be so. And to satisfy Cirrus, the logic is clear. White Talon is stepping down.”

  A chorus of tail thumps, scrapes of claw against stone, and indignant snorts signaled the general confusion and disapproval.

  Mistfire continued. “The question is: why aren’t you following the ancient traditions that govern succession?”

  “Because I am stepping out, not down. These assignments are until the immediate crisis is over – a month or so. At that point, if I have succeeded in my mission, I will resume my post.”

  “Which explains why you had us collectively select who should lead us. Wisely done.” Mistfire bowed his head and extended his right claw, facing up, in respect. “To which post have I just been appointed?”

  Melissa smiled. “Because you did not presume to know, I name you acting hlissak. In my absence, all authority rests in you.”

  “About your absence…”

  “Except the authority to question me about my mission.”

  “Not question, but assist.” Mistfire stood tall. “Before the sun proceeds another claw’s breadth, we will descend into chaos as we argue over changes to klatch policy. We will forget our duty. You speak of a mission, yet you propose to set out injured. Who attacked you? By the way you favor it, I suspect your right wing is lame. How will you travel if you cannot fly?”

  Melissa took a deep breath. I’m running out of dragon clichés fast. “Who here watched the olli hatch on the day White Talon emerged?” She turned from side to side. Her rhetorical question silenced them as intended.

  But not stopped them. She heard a shuffle to her right. Ollsurrodot stopped in front of her and bowed low, but didn’t speak.

  If I told my grandfather to shut up, he would, and so shame me. “Honored one, it is not fitting for me to give a name to you, but I should learn better the meaning of the one you have.”

  “You know my name, my queen.”

  Riddling with ancient reptiles is going to land me in trouble. “But I have not understood it.”

  “I am the white part of the eye.”

  Eye analogies. Where’s Bartlett’s Quotations when you need it? “The white part can’t see a thing; it’s the pupil that lets the light in.”

  Ollsurrodot stroked his white beard. “My brothers and sisters are my eyes, and if you allow them, your eyes.”

  “I need to see what my friends have not seen,” said Melissa.

  “My friends call me Patch, because they see me. What else do we need to see, besides each other?” He removed his patch.

  The Lissai who wasn’t stared into Patch’s eyes. They harbored no deception, no ambition, only concern. How could she answer him with ciphers?

  Melissa turned around to face the cave mouth. What could be better than to see people as they were? To accept, befriend, cherish? Despite her wounds, her body was strong. She wanted to stomp the ground and roar and blast things with flame. Instead, she said, “Do not be afraid.” Staring straight up, she poured orange flame into the sky. Come on, change color! After twenty seconds of constant, skin-flaying orange, she was running out of steam. I’m a doctor – I heal. If it’s not the flame, it must be me. She lowered her head and spun to face Patch.

  For an instant, orange flame singed his whiskers and he closed his eyes. Then the hue shifted to propane blue. A cool breeze danced about his face and he reopened his eyes to a surprise. “I can see – from both eyes.”

  The flames flickered and quit. Melissa sat, drained. To stop the questions, she said, “I cannot call it forth on demand. This must stay secret. I am on a quest to understand how to use this gift for the good of our whole world.” She turned to face Patch. “Do you understand my answer?”

  “No. To see
others is good. You have helped me see my friends and family more clearly, and I am grateful.” He bowed low. “But that is not what you mean.”

  “My gift was not only so you could see us, but so we could see you. Now we see a lissair whole and vigorous. We see the strength of your heart reflected in your body. You no longer need to stand in the rear.”

  Every knee but Melissa’s bowed in honor of Ollsurrodot, their equal.

  “If you will not give a name to me, our hlissak true, then I will give one to you. The Meloah plant is rarer than Aliosha, and eagerly sought for its curative properties, yet you exceed it in virtue. You are the Meloah of the Lissai, so I bestow on you the name Melissa.” The old dragon winked.

  Her first thought: What does he know? Her second thought: I am not here by accident.

  Chapter 5: The Fountains of Ramcanopa

  Late Morning, April 2nd, Talon Mountains, Rampart.

  Shoroko dragged the last sack of provisions to the clearing before White Talon’s cave. He’d only caught parts of the Lissai gathering. While the one he knew as White Talon hadn’t said anything indicating knowledge of her people and customs beyond language basics, her deftness at delegating authority without arousing undue suspicion made him suspicious. Every lissair she picked was perfect for their new job. Her kind can get testy, and she smoothed everything over. What’s she up to? How should I act? Trusting for now. Even injured, she could crush me.

  Melissa circled the pile, sniffing. “How’ll we carry all this?”

  “Not in your stomach, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He whistled. A distant neigh was his answer. A four-legged beast trotted up, swishing its tail. Its front was tan with stripes, its rear, solid white. Shoroko pulled out a sweet smelling stalk and offered it to the eager creature. “Tell me again, why am I supposed to call you Melissa?”