The Dragon Dreamer Page 2

  She was right. These injuries needed serious attention. Scree extended an arm and curled it back to herself. The creature hobbled toward her, to the edge of the ice. At least it understood that gesture!

  Scree lost her fear as she became absorbed in her work. It held quite still while she bandaged the jagged tear in its wing, using sturdy kelp leaves held in place by limpets. These small sea snails with shell hats would hold tenaciously to any spot for a day. Then they’d be released and replaced with fresh limpets.

  The creature watched with obvious interest but moved only as directed.

  Scree felt the rough break in its leg beneath the torn scales. She cut two sturdy splints and a generous supply of gray-green kelp bandages. Then four of her rubbery arms worked together, setting and wrapping the broken bone. Her remaining four arms were spread wide for support. She added pieces of iodine-rich seaweed to protect the wound from infection.

  Scree’s eight flexible arms had additional brains to control the endless possible movements. They were tactile marvels lined with powerful, yet delicately sensitive, suckers. And each sucker had millions of sensory cells. As Scree dressed the wound she felt the shape and texture of the break, sensed micro-changes in temperature and tasted the salty-metallic injury. She gathered detailed information to better treat her unusual patient.

  Scree sighed. Would she ever know enough? Breaks and tears were obvious problems. But with such a fall, it could have a more serious, hidden injury. Even fatal.

  Scree admired the hard, diamond-shaped scales as she worked. Each scale was a golden gem tipped with ruby-red, covering its body in a perfect mosaic. A ridge of sharp gold scales ran down the back of its long, slender neck.

  She checked the leg wrap once more, making sure it was neither too tight nor too loose. Then she knotted the bandage and trimmed it above the splints. Finished, she flowed back to rest on the submerged half of the log, with her head above the water.

  Scree and the sky-being studied each other. Its big, aqua-blue eyes looked remarkably like Orm’s, brimming with curiosity; she could almost see the myriad questions sparkling within. Only the color was different. Such familiar eyes in a strange creature seemed stranger still.

  The alien bowed its head, seeming grateful.

  Scree bobbed her head in return, wondering what that really meant. Was it hungry? She mimed eating, raising an arm repeatedly to her mouth.

  The sky-being copied her mime and added a vigorous nod.

  Scree slipped an arm into her bag and tossed the crab claws up onto the ice, one by one. Each claw landed neatly at its feet with a thunk and a spray of ice. Then she slumped back, arms hanging limp. Her skin was tinged gray with exhaustion. Her stomach was an empty cave, and she had just given the patient her entire supply of journey food.

  She watched warily as it crunched through the hard shells. Long, fearsome claws extracted every last shred of meat. Then it raked through the remains, wrinkling its nose, searching hungrily. Her patient clearly needed more food. It would also need bedding against the cold ice, since she had felt warmth beneath her arms while wrapping its leg. A potion made with crushed coral would help the bones grow together. And . . .

  Scree made a mental list of supplies, hoping she had enough strength to gather everything. Weary and weak with hunger, she mimed leaving and returning. Did it understand?

  It gazed steadily back, a sharp-edged alien, deadly and helpless. Scree grasped her healer’s bag and slid off the log. The glow of its eyes reached through the darkness, watching her as she sank into the sea.

  Was there a hidden injury? Would her patient be alive when she returned?

  CHAPTER 2: SILVER LINING

  A wave of loneliness washed over Arak when the creature disappeared into the sea. He nervously rolled the shimmering black gem from claw to claw. What was that strange, floppy creature, with no bones or scales? Why had it helped? His stomach growled. Would it return? Too hungry and restless to sleep, he relived his disastrous journey. His first solo journey.

  The glorious Winter Festival had just ended, with dragon games and a bounteous feast. Arak took the final test for his journey. He passed easily, surprising the elders with the strength of his trance-mind. The thoughts he shared mind-to-mind were crystal clear.

  Arak remembered the frozen sand crunching beneath his claws as he stood on the shore, impatiently waiting to leave. Most dragons journeyed during the summer, but he just couldn’t wait for his solo. He planned to fly south along the coast, looking for copper, of course.

  He fidgeted as the clan leader droned on and on, giving him final instructions. Arak was so eager to explore that he barely listened. He knew what to do.

  His sire and dam stood proudly by, and his friend Taron. The other young dragons who came to watch were probably just curious about Dreamer, the trance-freak. Zarina landed and waved a friendly greeting, zigging her claws in a jagged lightning path to wish him well. Then Karoon appeared and made a joke about Arak’s safe, predictable journey course.

  Karoon stretched a wing toward Zarina, laughing.

  That did it! Arak launched skyward and headed west, winging out to sea. He ignored the commands of the leader and the worried look of his parents. He knew the dangers. But this winter had been mild, with few storms. The clan barely had enough snow for their festival.

  He tore through the sky, flying above the vast sea.

  When the dragon shore disappeared, sea and sky met in a perfect circle. As he flew, Arak remained in the center; the circle moved with him. He was alone in a private world. There was no fixed shore to judge the distance he’d flown, and no trees with lengthening shadows to mark the march of time.

  Above an endless sea, beyond the touch of time, Arak flew further and further from home.

  Arak looked down, searching the sea as he flew, determined to find a copper-filled island. That would impress the clan. He looked up and snapped his tail nervously. The sun was low in the sky. How far had he flown?

  He should have turned back long ago.

  Then the gray-green sea exploded with color. The spectacular sunset was a parade of rainbow sky colors mirrored in a canvas of curved water scales. As the red sun melted into the sea, Arak wondered if he could capture this display in an ice sculpture. The idea grew in his mind as a storm spread silently far overhead.

  Totally absorbed, Arak missed the subtle shifts in temperature and pressure that herald an ice storm. Dreamer! Dragons ridiculed him for tuning out the world, lost in thought or trance. Nothing good could come of it. Arak sighed. Maybe they were right. It was particularly humiliating to be injured by a storm. Dragons knew storms. They danced with storms! Yet he’d missed the signs, and this one almost killed him.

  Arak shivered and curled into a ball, trying to get warm. He tucked his head beneath his wing and closed his weary eyes. His mind replayed a familiar legend.

  The First Dragon was born of Storm, made from the four elements of life: Fire, Water, Air, and Land. Ruby lightning blazed through the rain-drenched sky and struck the golden sand. A golden dragon-lord leapt out of the smoking crater, with bright scales edged in red. He flew as fast as the gray winds and breathed storm-fire. He danced with lightning to honor the Storm.

  But the dragon-lord was lonely. So the Storm used a rare shaft of emerald lightning, the color of new spring leaves, to create a dragon-lady with gold scales edged in green. The dragons spiraled up together into the clouds and flew with the Storm.

  Arak opened his eyes to the starlit sky. He had been careless, but he would never have met such an intriguing being if he hadn’t crashed. The silver lining in his dark cloud of problems was so bright it was incandescent.

  Pain and hunger grew as the night wore on. Arak rocked back and forth, trying to distract himself with the rhythm. Pain, Hunger, Exhaustion, and Cold: the new four elements of life, he thought, in a feeble attempt at dragon humor.

  Arak stopped rocking and stared in disbelief.

  A huge sea turtle swam toward the ice, t
owing a long stalk of kelp. And there was the healer! Deep scratches along the turtle’s side gleamed silver. How odd. Part of the turtle’s shell was made from sections of large abalone shells. The turtle must have been badly injured, and the sea-being fixed it. The sturdy shell pieces fitted perfectly, held together by barnacles. This healer must be skilled.

  The sea-being cut the kelp into sections and pushed them onto the ice.

  Arak arranged the stalks and sank onto his thick bed, propping his injured leg onto extra leaves. The earthy smell of kelp brought a comfort of home. Crab claws and red seaweed landed beside him. How did it know what he needed?

  He attacked the claws and then ate the seaweed, relaxing as the furry red snack began to numb his many pains. Gentle waves lapped against his ice floe with the muffled drumbeat of a dragon’s lullaby. He closed his eyes and immediately sank into a deep sleep.

  * * *

  The water lightened around Orm, bringing to life a seascape of jewel-toned plants and animals. Small copper fish darted through a forest of coral branches. Bright orange starfish hunted along the reef, stalking clams hidden beneath the sand.

  Orm fed plankton to his carefully bred bioluminescent tunicates. These small, clear, jelly-like animals glowed in colors, and they could be attached to any surface by holding their base against it. The walls of the entrance chamber in Orm’s cave were covered with tunicates. His elegant, living mosaic glowed in vibrant reds, blues and greens.

  Orm headed for his shellfish farm. He flowed past Scree’s cave and peered in. Empty. Where was she? He flexed his many arms with restless energy. Frilly red worms, sensitive to the slightest movement, vanished into their holes in the coral. He turned in a circle, gazing into the distance. Then he looked up through the sea. Where was Scree?

  Orm continued on to the farm and checked the many oyster beds, calming himself with work. The oysters were healthy and growing well; they would feed the pod. Next he checked the three small groups of oysters that were fed special diets. He’d finally found a way to grow colored pearls. One experimental group had produced a few rare, black pearls. He checked another group and his arms curled in distress. These oysters were dying. Why?

  Puzzling the problem, Orm moved on to his abalone crop. He removed a few brightly colored pearls and smiled. He’d just succeeded in growing these exotic, organic opals. The shimmering pearls had interwoven layers of color. The pink-gold and blue-green balls were particularly stunning.

  Orm continued his work, often checking the seas above, searching for Scree.

  * * *

  Scree drifted down through the sea, too exhausted to pulse. She sank limply to the sand and collapsed in her cave, dead to the world. Watery blue-green shadows lengthened into evening. She opened her eyes just as Orm poked his head into her cave.

  “You’ve slept all day. Where were you?”

  Twining arms, Scree drew him in. “You won’t believe this.”

  “Try me.” Orm handed Scree a large clam shell filled with succulent oysters and colorful sprigs of seaweed. “But first, let’s eat.”

  They feasted together while Orm glanced around at Scree’s cave, eyeing the shelves. There were rolls of kelp bandages and a bowl filled with live limpets. Shell containers held sedative poisons, seaweed drugs, special salves and supplements. A bright red box carved from coral had sharp, hollow needles. These were made of spines from the fin of a dead lion-fish. In life, the beautiful fish could inject deadly poison through its fin.

  Then Scree told her story.

  Orm flushed gold in response to Scree’s body-picture of the strange, golden creature. His arms danced with interest. “Where did it come from? What crops do these creatures grow? What art do they make?”

  “I think it lives far to the east, on the shore. We’re still learning to communicate. This being is so different from us but, when I look into its eyes, they look like yours. Only the color is different. I can almost see it thinking.” Scree laughed. “When we can talk properly, I believe it will ask as many questions as you do!”

  “You found a good use for that black pearl. I’d like to meet this creature. I’m in the middle of experiments and I’m having problems, but I should be finished before the full moon.”

  Scree frowned. “Those shellfish farms are important to the pod. I love this food, and your pearls are a beautiful bonus. What’s wrong?”

  “I’m experimenting with oyster diet, using trace metals. Some oysters are growing like seaweed, and I’ve learned how to change the color of their pearls. But one group is dying and I need to know why.”

  “Metals can be tricky. This sky-being should be healed and gone before you finish your work.” Scree paused, considering. “I think it may visit again,” she added.

  “We should tell Spar. He is the pod leader.”

  Scree’s arms went rigid and her skin flushed with colors. “I’m not ready to tell him. He didn’t support my healing a stingray, even though it’s a fish! And this is an alien creature. He might not approve, but it doesn’t matter. I’m a healer!”

  “Spar lost the use of an arm to that stingray,” Orm said.

  Scree glared angrily. “I had everything under control! The fish panicked because Spar interfered and scared it.”

  Orm sighed. “Very well, I’ll say nothing. But Spar might need to know. Eventually, you should tell him.”

  Scree’s arms relaxed back to normal. “I know. Orm, the meal was wonderful.”

  “Someone needs to make sure that you eat.”

  Scree just smiled. He knew her so well! Orm was her mate and long-time companion. They mated once each year and carefully tended the eggs for a moon cycle until they hatched. Scree and Orm took turns gently stroking the hanging egg curtain, careful to oxygenate all the eggs with new seawater. There were many hundreds of eggs, but few hatchlings would survive their season of drifting on the surface. Any that grew into juveniles and migrated home would be welcomed back to the pod.

  Scree glanced at Orm. Had any of their offspring survived? She would never know.

  Scree grabbed seaweed samples and stuffed them into her healer bag. “Crabs alone can’t properly nourish this sky-being. It has golden scales and copper claws, so it probably needs special trace metals.” She added a chunk of turquoise for its copper content, a clamshell for mixing, and a small sack of crushed coral.

  Scree twined arms affectionately with Orm and left, heading back to her patient.

  * * *

  Three dragon-weeks had passed, Arak’s wounds were healed, and it was time to leave. The dawn sky flushed with gold and rose as the sun climbed above the sea. Colors caught on the waves and brushed the clouds, surrounding his ice floe with deceptive warmth.

  Arak grinned joyfully at Scree as he fastened the new kelp pouch securely across his chest. He inhaled the aroma of raw oysters and seaweed from the meal inside. Then he flamed a hollow of ice and collected water in his carved coral flask. The pouch, food and flask were gifts from Scree for his long flight home.

  Arak was ready to leave, but it was surprisingly hard to say good-bye. “How do you make skin pictures?” he asked, instead. They communicated well now, using snow pictures, mimes, and Scree’s body pictures.

  Scree’s entire body suddenly turned bright green, then blue, then pink, like an exotic flower. Arak snapped his tail up and down in amazement.

  “There are many color cells in my skin, and cells that are almost like eyes. When I feel danger, I change colors to match my background.” Scree camouflaged, perfectly matching her log seat, and then changed back to her normal red-brown. “We learn to control this ability, to make an image of choice.” A detailed, golden picture of Arak emerged from her skin.

  Scree pointed to his wing. “How was it hurt?”

  Arak slashed his claws like rain and lifted an ice ball. “Storm ice tore it.”

  Scree nodded. “A storm pearl.”

  Arak shrugged his wings. They were the same shape, and storm pearl was a good octopus name for an i
ce ball.

  “Orm is interested in dragon art,” she said.

  “Kragor would love to talk with him! Our Winter Festival is full of art. Winter storms drive us into the cave, and crowding can lead to fights. Art is good way to channel all that edgy energy.”

  Arak stretched his claws to frame a circle larger than Scree’s head. “Dragon-ladies grow big snowflakes in the clouds. Most have patterns with animals.” He sketched an ornate, six-pointed design into the smooth-packed snow using a sharp copper claw.

  Scree peered at the drawing. “Fish and sea grass,” she said approvingly.

  “Dragon-lords carve ice sculptures with facets that bend the light. This makes glowing pictures inside the ice that change with time.” It would be so much easier to describe if he could make skin pictures as Scree did.

  Scree tilted her head in a dragon-like gesture. “I’d like to see them. Orm works with a different type of cold light. He breeds tiny creatures that glow and uses them to make living murals.” Scree imaged the colorful walls of Orm’s alcove. “He wants to meet you.”

  Arak studied the beautiful, alien artwork. “Let’s meet here again.”

  “The next full moon would be a good time to visit.” Scree pointed to the floe and slowly moved her arm southwest. “The ice is drifting southwest and will be closer to my village when you return.” Reaching up, she twined an arm around Arak’s claws. “My falling star is ready to rejoin the heavens. I’ll miss you, my friend.”

  Arak reached for another arm, for the double clasp of friendship. He would truly miss Scree, with her easy acceptance and fascinating perspectives. She was, unexpectedly, a kindred spirit.

  Morning mist rose off the ice like steam from a scalding-hot mug of tea. Tonight he would enjoy the spicy flavors of that dragon drink. Arak wanted the familiar crunch of sand under his claws, the traditional aroma of roasting fish, and the freedom of wind beneath his wings. He wanted the liveliness of the clan.

  Taron was his best friend, like a nest-mate. Zarina listened to him, but she’d grown and now he felt awkward with her. Arak even missed his parents, despite the irritating way that they fussed over him. Why did they worry so much? He did not miss Karoon.