The Dragon Dreamer Read online

  THE

  DRAGON

  DREAMER

  J. S. Burke

  LIND PRESS

  Athens, Georgia

  Text Copyright © 2014 Jenny Simonson Burke

  Cover & Illustrations Copyright © 2014 Jenny Simonson Burke

  Author Site: www.jennysburke.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other), without permission in writing from the copyright owner, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. All inquiries should be addressed to Lind Press at www.lindpress.com.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014905532

  ISBN: 978-0-9960425-1-2

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, or to actual events or places, is entirely coincidental.

  Book design and formatting by Lind Press

  Interior e-format by The Killion Group

  http://thekilliongroupinc.com

  DEDICATION

  For Roger, Lisa, and Diana

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Extra special thanks to Anna, who helped long before this became a book, and to Annalise. For useful insights and suggestions, thanks to Cheryl, Diana, Lisa, Roger, Carol, Sophia, Zoe, and Becky. I’m very grateful to my editors, Zee and Janice. Thank you to Lind Press. Thanks to all of you who helped in the dragon world!

  How many dragons?

  CONTENTS

  1. The Claw of the Storm

  2. Silver Lining

  3. The Black Pearl

  4. The Shark

  5. Winter Festival

  6. Dragon Flames

  7. The Sea Boils

  8. Force of Nature

  9. A Dangerous Game

  10. Legends

  11. Storm Pearls

  12. Butterflies

  13. High Seas

  14. Born of Storm

  15. Squid Sign

  16. Cave Pearl

  17. Dangerous Dreams

  18. The Dark Abyss

  19. Green Lightning

  Glossary

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1: THE CLAW OF THE STORM

  Black clouds rolled silently overhead, devouring stars in the darkening night sky. A sudden barrage of lightning crackled above. Startled by the noise, Arak spun in the air. Again the lightning flashed! In the blinding light he clearly saw the monstrous black claw of the storm. His body shook as powerful waves of thunder rolled through him. His heart beat with the new rhythm.

  The young dragon veered left, toward the weaker side of a storm. But this storm was huge. There was no escape.

  Thunder roared as jagged spears of lightning tore open the sky, unleashing a fierce hail of ice-stones. The stones hammered Arak’s golden-scaled body as he twisted and turned, trying desperately to fly above the storm. Each wing stroke was a struggle to rise against the onslaught. The hail drove him back down, battered and bruised.

  Arak sought the edge of the storm, hoping to out-fly it. But it moved like a pack of ravenous dweer, spreading rapidly to cover any escape. He realized with frightening clarity that he might never see home again. The storm raged like a living creature. He was trapped.

  A swath of smaller hailstones appeared and he dove for the opening! Just as he reached the storm’s edge, a huge ice-stone tore through the leathery membrane of his left wing. Air whistled through the gaping hole. Arak struggled to fly. It was like trying to breathe without lungs. Then he was beyond the grasp of the storm, falling as he flew with ragged, painful strokes.

  His eyes burned from the strain as he scoured the darkness for a safe place to land. Safe? He hadn’t given that a thought when he charged out to sea, abandoning his planned route, too angry to think. A distant spot of white shone faintly on the black sea. Ice!

  Arak lurched through the sky, still falling, straining to reach the ice floe before he fell into the water. Then he would be trapped in the wintry sea, unable to launch from the water, his body cooling into an eternal sleep. He would die.

  The frozen sky chilled his body, numbing the pain and tugging at his eyelids. No! He could not give in to sleep. But he let his eyes close, just for a moment, and rested his wings. Gliding unevenly, he drifted toward sleep. In the misty borders of dreamland, Arak saw his sire and dam watching from the dragon shore. They waited for him to return.

  Arak forced his eyes open and stretched his battered wings, wincing as he reached for a stronger stroke. He pulled his gilded arms tighter against his body, streamlined to fly farther with each painful stroke of his wings. His legs and long, slender tail trailed behind.

  The small sheet of ice seemed an impossible goal, as distant as a dream. The black sea grew larger, reaching for him.

  * * *

  Time was running out. Scree gazed up through the sea with longing, her two golden eyes trying to pierce the liquid darkness above. The small octopus held her healer’s bag in two tightly-coiled arms. Could she find the quithra before it was too late?

  Scree looked back at the lively undersea celebration and her arms drooped. She was bound here by a promise. She smoothed her skin, keeping its natural red-brown color. Then she flowed slowly back to the pod, using her many arms to glide across the sea floor, moving as effortlessly as a shadow.

  The New Moon Festival was filled with delightful entertainment. An eight-armed drummer, wielding thick sticks of coral, pounded an irresistible rhythm on giant clamshells. Scree tapped three arms in a complex pattern that matched the drumbeats pulsing through her boneless body. Anxious to leave, she restlessly poked holes in the sand.

  Tempting flavors from the lavish buffet swirled around Scree, but she’d already eaten her fill of spiced crab and oysters. It was harder to ignore the huge white pearl that flashed through the water, shining like the moon, tossed and caught by a whirling octopus. She loved to dance.

  Scree waited impatiently, curling her arms in frustration. Why must they always celebrate the new moon? It was tradition, but . . . couldn’t they celebrate something else? Life was tied to moon cycles, and this was an important time to collect healer supplies.

  She should leave now, to find the ice floe that would attract quithra. These small, colorful creatures spawned only once a year, with the new winter moon, so she needed to gather their eggs tonight. Quithra eggs were a crucial ingredient in her potent salve for aching muscles. But she could not leave before Orm’s performance.

  At last, Orm pulsed onto the small stage.

  He settled onto a large coral head and let his eight tentacle arms hang down. Orm put three front arms together, straight, and flattened them to enlarge the living screen of his body. Vivid pictures flashed across his body screen as he shared a pod legend. Special color cells in his skin provided realistic detail. He used another arm on either side to weave words through the water.

  Tall poles were set in the sand, arranged like rings around the full moon. The top of each pole held a container of food and small glowing creatures swarmed about them, lighting the festival. Scree could see Orm clearly by this light, and the cluster of youngsters near the stage. They were unnaturally still, mesmerized by his story-telling.

  Scree smiled as her mate explained that there were four New Moon Festivals every year, one for each season, to celebrate the Moon. Orm told his favorite legend: the Moon and the First Octopus. He finished with a dramatic flourish.

 
The entire audience erupted in silent applause.

  Bright octopus arms shot up through the gray water, with skin changed from a dull brown into neon colors. Scree waved emerald arms with lines of pure gold. Other octopi chose ruby, silver, or teal. These colorful waving arms created a fantasy fountain more brilliant than a coral reef.

  When the applause ended, Scree turned brown again and gripped her bag more firmly. She slipped from the rock, anxious to be on her way. Suddenly, a bright red arm snaked out and wrapped around one of her arms. She jerked away in surprise.

  Orm’s whole body was scarlet. “Why must you leave? This is the Winter Festival!”

  Scree stroked his arm with a soothing gesture. “I need to find the quithra tonight, before they spawn.” His angry color slowly faded.

  Just as Scree turned to leave, her good friend Tron took the stage. He looked right at her and waved an enthusiastic welcome. With an octopus sigh she settled back again, still clutching her bag. Would she be too late?

  Scree fiddled with her healer’s bag. It was a gift from a grateful patient, to replace her old, tattered kelp sack. The bag was made from cloth-of-gold, woven from the thin, wiry strands of pen shells. The golden fabric was nearly indestructible. Tiny brown shells covered the gleaming cloth, giving Scree’s bag a natural, earthy appearance similar to her skin. Inside were four compartments, separated by the flexible skeletons of sea fans.

  The first compartment held needles, vials filled with odd liquids, medicinal seaweeds, and pearls. The second had tightly-rolled kelp bandages and live limpets. The third held empty shell containers for collecting, sponges to clean wounds, and a sharp surgeon’s knife of glittering black garnet. The last held crab claws, food for her delayed journey.

  Tron signaled the drummers to begin. He stretched his body tall and turned chalky white. Small spikes sprouted on his eight arms as they became stiff, jointed legs. His head broadened to mimic the lumpy-flat shell of a northern king crab.

  Tron began the dance of this huge crab. Four of his legs tapped one rhythm while the legs in-between tapped another. The drumming grew faster and he quickened the pace. The beat stopped. He smoothed his skin and flowed back to his normal red-brown, flexible shape.

  Scree waved her arms high, turning them bright colors to show appreciation. Tron’s performance was remarkable. Octopi were natural shape-shifters, able to change their shape, color and texture to mimic many different creatures. But few learned the dances of others.

  Tron was a rare friend, since only he and Scree explored alone. He knew the feel of cold snow brushing your skin, the taste of melting ice, and the rapture of colored lights waving like seaweed in the night sky. Would Orm ever experience this?

  Scree turned to her mate. “I must leave now, but I’ll be back soon.”

  “Please be careful.” Orm’s arms curled and uncurled with anxiety. “It’s not safe to be alone, away from the pod.”

  Scree sighed. It was unnatural to travel alone. Most octopi appreciated the security of a village, with its seafood farms and sturdy dens. Each spring, many thousands of octopus eggs hatched. The tiny hatchlings drifted far from home on sea currents. Few survived.

  Orm was a young juvenile on the return migration when a shark tore by and killed all of his comrades. Scree still saw the haunting memory in his eyes. He could not believe that anything she found was worth the terrible risk of exploring. Scree twined two arms affectionately with her mate. “Your research can be done here, but I must leave to gather healing supplies.”

  Orm handed her a large pearl. “For luck.”

  “A black pearl . . . that’s new. It’s beautiful.” She placed it in her bag and looked into his eyes. “I will be careful.” Scree flowed away into the darkness.

  Scree pulsed through the inky dark waters toward the starlit surface, seeking rare items for her healer’s bag. She also sought solitude and the magic of the stars, which shone in their full glory during the new moon. Few octopi ventured so far from home. Fewer still risked the dangers of a journey through open water, with no place to hide.

  Scree twirled beneath the starry sky. Then she headed for a small ice floe that she’d found earlier, where a weathered branch protruded. The branch was a rare, desirable perch, likely to attract quithra.

  Quithra were lovely sea slugs with long oval bodies of brilliant violet and rose. A dozen fleshy yellow spikes ran down the back, and each spike ended in a blue eye dot that could see only light and dark. They sought the surface when it was time to spawn, releasing their eggs. Like many slow, vivid creatures, quithra were poisonous to eat. Their bright color served as a warning. The oily eggs tasted bitter, were slightly toxic, and had a numbing effect that was perfect for her salve.

  Scree twined an arm around the branch, looking. There were no quithra. Was she too late? She shivered as eddies of fog from the ice blew in cold swirls across her skin. She gathered a cluster of red seaweed, useful for dressing wounds, and stowed it in her healer’s bag. Then she waited, nervously changing colors, hoping for quithra.

  Scree felt a slight change in the currents. What was it? She turned to stone, not moving, while her eyes searched the sea. Quithra! Three swam slowly toward her, using their muscular body flaps. They settled on the branch and began to spawn. Scree eagerly collected clouds of small, bright yellow eggs on her sponge. She placed the sponge securely inside a clam shell purse and added it to her bag.

  A golden streak seared the dark sky. A falling star! Her eyes widened as it plunged toward the small ice sheet, growing to the size of a shark. The crash shattered the night, rocking the ice and almost knocking her off her log seat. The star flopped, in a very un-starlike manner.

  Scree had never seen anything like it.

  She instantly camouflaged, changing her color to match the log perfectly. Scree could stretch about two feet across between the tips of her arms. But this frightful, alien creature must be at least eight feet long and it had gleaming sharp claws. She trembled and flowed away, matching the log as she moved, invisible.

  Scree glanced back, ready to slip into the sea, hanging by the tip of one arm.

  The creature writhed.

  Scree stopped. It looked more dangerous than a shark, but it must have been injured in such an incredible fall. She felt the weight of her healer’s bag, and the responsibility. She struggled to look beyond the deadly claws, noticing instead the crimson splashes of blood that stained the snow. Scree rippled back onto the branch.

  * * *

  The young dragon gasped for breath, stunned by the crash. Red-hot fire shot through his right leg. Arak struggled upright despite the searing pain, flinching as he tried to stand. He collapsed, twisting as he fell, writhing in agony.

  “My first solo journey,” he moaned.

  He had reached the ice floe. But this was not the island he’d hoped to discover. Dragons needed copper supplements to survive and their mine was almost empty. Finding an island source would make him a hero. The other dragons wouldn’t taunt him anymore. Instead, his wing was torn and now he’d broken his leg.

  Arak hung his head. Karoon was right, he was just a dreamer. He hadn’t even noticed the storm signs, and he had crashed on his important first solo. He would never live this down.

  The pain was growing like flames and he desperately needed help. Arak automatically reached for his chest pouch. It was gone! The ice sheet was small; it could only hold a few dragons. He looked under his wings. Nothing! His eyes frantically swept the ice, probing every thin shadow. The barren ice gleamed serenely white under the stars. Empty. There was no sign of his pouch or anything else.

  Arak trembled, shaking like the last leaf on a winter tree. He had lost everything in the storm. His missing pouch held a meal, a silver flask of spiced tea, vials of rare ground metals, a magnetic lodestone, and his precious aquamarine globe . . . his trance-stone. He needed his trance-stone to contact the clan for help.

  Arak was chilled to the bone. He yearned for his own cozy shelter, which was well-st
ocked with blankets and hearty dragon-snacks. But he was trapped on the ice, wounded and unable to fly, with no food or warmth or healer. So he would die here, alone. A sob caught in his throat. Arak watched the sea, sparkling with reflected stars, and tried to calm his mind.

  * * *

  Still camouflaged, Scree studied the fearsome creature from the edge of the ice. It had sharp-tipped arms and a head full of sharp teeth. Only the long, slender tail seemed harmless. Unlike her eight matching arms, it had three distinctly different pairs of limbs. The huge golden fins seemed to be adapted for sky-swimming. One leg was bent at an odd angle, probably broken in the fall.

  Scree knew several techniques for treating broken bones, despite the fact that she was boneless. Some of her earliest patients had been fish. But she didn’t know how to communicate with this strange creature. How could she get its permission to help? And what did it eat? Hopefully not octopus! She shuddered at the thought.

  Scree studied the being. It needed help, she was a healer, and she must get its attention. She took the large black pearl from her bag and rolled it to the creature’s claws. The pearl gleamed like a dark rainbow against the cold white snow.

  The golden head turned, following the pearl’s path back to her. Its eyes grew wide.

  Scree made the sign of a healer, bending her two front arms together into an upright triangle. This symbolized a broad, stable base of healer knowledge supporting the healing point of change.

  There was no response.

  Scree curled her arms in frustration. Then she stretched taller and concentrated on the color cells in her skin. She made a detailed picture on her body of the creature holding out its injured leg and sky-fin.

  The creature stared. Then it slowly copied her picture, and a trembling sky-fin unfolded.