Chapter NEVER in Order: Monday

            “Did you go to the bathroom? Do you need to go to the bathroom? We aren’t stopping until we get to Hvammur.”

“I went already!” Alva, all elbows and knees at six years old, hopped from one freshly polished shoe to the other, kicking up dirt. She stretched up her arms for Monday to lift her into the basket-like saddle on the dragon's back.

Monday blew a disgusted harrumph through his gray whiskers and regarded the bouncing child with narrowed eyes. “Go again!” he barked, “and hurry up!” Alva scampered away to the outhouse, holding the periwinkle skirts of her best dress high above the course, damp grass of the field.

It was too early in the morning; a prickling mist flavored the air, veiling the fiery hues of the forest that enclosed the runway field. Monday pulled his wool-lined aviator cap more securely down his bald head and glowered at the saturated skies, daring the heavens to do their worst. It began to rain in earnest. “Perfect,” he muttered, and stalked around the waiting dragon to double check the harness and fastenings. He was a full grown horned dragon and as good natured as a dragon can be expected to be – which means too lazy to be vicious. His broad, flat back was well suited for carrying many passengers, if they didn't mind getting tossed like a salad.

Monday found his older brother, Sunday, rubbing the dragon's smooth brown cheek to keep him calm. A billow of white smoke escaped from his nose slits. Jovial at any hour, Sunday cheerfully informed Monday that everything was in order for the flight.

“You sure you don't want to trade with me?” Monday asked, leaning against the dragon's neck, scales warm like the bricks of a fireplace.

“Are you still trying to get out of going?” Sunday said sharply, “you haven't visited home in decades, and Gran will eat her beard if you miss the autumn festival again! Besides,” he softened his tone, “there's no chance I'm giving up a week with the house myself, with no block-headed brothers to annoy me.”

“Let the others go, then! I'll stay and help you mind the ranch.”

“No,” Sunday shook his head firmly, “absolutely not. You're going, and you will enjoy yourself.”

Monday grumbled bitterly, avoiding Sunday's keen gaze. A weathered hand squeezed his shoulder. “Don't worry, brother,” Sunday said, “it will be good for you to return home again, after all this time.”

Monday swatted the comforting hand away. “Doesn't feel like a long time, still feels like it happened yesterday.”

Sunday smiled sympathetically; he found it difficult to lift the corners of his mouth. “I know,” he said.

Monday grunted and turned away.

Above him, the other dwarves were occupied arranging luggage and bickering over who sat where in the saddle. Friday leaned over the side, snakes of red hair plastered to his forehead and wild beard soaking up the rain, “What are we waiting for?” he called, ever impatient, “let's fly already!” Thursday, frantically wiping his thick glasses with the edge of his shirt, and Wednesday, a water droplet hanging off his beak-like nose, echoed his complaints.

“Hush now!” Sunday chided, “Alva will be along shortly!”

Soon enough, Alva came dashing out of the mist and skidded to a halt next to the dragon, who wagged his spiked tail restlessly and singed the weeds in front of his head. She threw herself into Sunday's embrace, burying her face in his sweater. “Are you sure they'll like me, Uncle Sunday?” she whispered.

Sunday chuckled, his white beard tickled her chin, “Don't worry little one,” he said, hugging her tight, “they'll love you because we do.”

“What if they're like Uncle Monday? He doesn't like me at all.”

“Nonsense! Of course Monday loves you, he simply doesn't know how to show it. Give him time.” Sunday smiled warmly, with apple cheeks and a twinkle in each eye, “You'll fit right in at Hvammur, just remember to smile and show off those teeth you lost.”

Alva put on a brave face and let Monday lift her up, Tuesday reached for her hands and hoisted the rest of the way into the saddle. She scrambled to the back and nestled down beside Saturday, who had surrounded himself with the softest bags and was prepared for a nap. There she would have the best view unobstructed by beating wings. The other passengers bundled up in their scarves and jackets and settled in for the ride. With surprising swiftness for his bulk, Monday clambered up to the driver's seat at the base of the dragon's head and took the reins, still grumbling about the dismal weather, their late start, and a rock in his boot.

The dragon lumbered to his feet and the saddle swayed disconcertingly, but the girths were secure and no one fell out of their seat. Alva twisted around to wave to Sunday, who was trotting backwards to a safe distance and hollering last minute reminders to give Uncle Regi and Cousin Bolo his greetings, and to make sure Alva ate her vegetables. Alva clutched the raised edge of the saddle as the beast unfurled his wings, digging her nails into the hard leather in anticipation of the rocky take off that was to come.

A horned dragon is a cumbersome creature, with the aerodynamics of a brick with bat wings. To keep its stout body airborne, an adult's wingspan can stretch up to seventy five feet. Short, stubby legs allow for an ungainly waddle; it achieves flight with a series of earth shaking bounds, clawing up the ground until finally, having built up enough speed, it launches its great mass into the sky with powerful hind legs, passengers nearly horizontal in the saddle and holding on for precious life. One mighty down stroke, wingtips just scraping the ground, and the dragon is propelled upward, no longer tied to the earth.

…If all goes well the first time.

Proud of a successful take off, the dragon let a burst of light orange flame erupt from his snout, which quickly dissipated in the damp air. He gained altitude with a few powerful wing strokes, and then banked slightly to the right as Monday pointed his nose toward Hvammur. The passengers relaxed; one tongue bitten and two heads conked were trivial injuries for dragon trainers. Alva pressed her tongue against a baby incisor, it felt looser than before.

The bright leaves of Cerulea's forests gave way to dark pines and firs, the distant ground sloped gradually into the roots of mountains. Alva shifted in her seat, a tingling wave reverberated up her left leg, the foot attached to it was a dead weight. She yawned for the hundredth time in four hours and resumed gnawing her fingernails down to the quick. The biting wind tasted different, it was crisper and hinted at snow. They were close. This was her first trip to Hvammur, her first time meeting her adopted uncles' friends and relatives. Alva unconsciously scratched at her smooth cheek, wishing she had a beard like the dwarf girls did.

Hvammur lay in the foothills of the Timur Mountains, one of many underground dwarf settlements and mines tucked among the craggy bald peaks. Hunched over in his seat, protected by bug eye goggles and a flapping scarf, Monday guided the dragon between two sagging pillars of granite – Mount Yeron and Adra, named after the heroes of legend – into a valley carved by a tumbling river. Chimneys bristled out of the mountain faces, venting billows of smoke from forges deep within. With taught wings, the dragon glided lower and lower; Alva feared his claws would brush the tops of the gaunt evergreens or that his tail would dislodge a boulder and start a rock slide. Her worries proved needless, as Monday was a capable pilot and knew the area well – he grew up in these hills.

Touchdown was a jarring affair; the landing field was a small target and less than level. Alva lost another tooth from the teeth chattering involved. Even before the dragon's wings were folded, Friday and Tuesday had jumped out of the saddle and were racing up a steep dirt road, raising a ruckus and disturbing the tranquility of the natural scenery. Soon after, dwarves swarmed the clearing, spilling out of modest holes and tramping down narrow paths, bellowing greetings in a jargon of Mannese and a Dwarvish dialect. They pressed close to the horned dragon, showing no concern for his flammable breath or sizable teeth and nails, and unloaded him with industrial efficiency. Monday handed off the reins to a dwarf with elaborately braided facial hair, after vigorously pounding each other on the back. The greeting party scrambled to get out of the way as he led the bumbling reptile off the field, booming “Make way!” over their laughter and salutations.

Alva was whirled away in a sea of introductions. Faces and names were hopelessly scrambled; strangers patted her on the head and spoke to her in an alien tongue. She scoured her brain for the Dwarvish phrases Wednesday had drilled her on, but there were too many voices gibbering too rapidly for her to catch onto a word and follow the meaning. Squeezed between heavy boots and impressive belts, Alva was pushed along with the crowd, tripping over her own skirts and frantically searching for one of her uncles. A voice like scraping glass rose above the merry chatter: Monday. Alva elbowed her way to the grumpy old dwarf and fastened herself to his shirt sleeve, for once grateful to hear him lashing out with his tongue, admonishing people left and right to “be careful with that chest!” and “watch where you're swinging that thing!” To her surprise, he didn't shove her away, but guided her forward with a hand on her back.

A little ways up the path, the double doors of the main entrance to Hvammur towered over them, fit into a yawning cave mouth. They were inlaid with precious stones and engraved with runes, evidently designed to flaunt the riches within. Craning her head back, Alva noticed the giant hinges were rusted with disuse, and many cavities where gemstones were missing. Two smaller, more practical doors stood open at the base of the impressive ones, it was through these Alva and the six dwarves passed into the entrance hall.

Two rows of unadorned columns supported a tall, arched roof encrusted with minerals that glittered in the dim torchlight. At the far end of the austere foyer loomed a statue of dwarf sitting on a plain, square throne, watching over the hall with a stern gaze. A hard-lined beard obscured much of the face, but there was something feminine about the slant of the eyes and cheekbones. One word was carved into the steps of the throne, Alva sounded out the runes: “Ha-va-mur.” The lifeless figure was Queen Hvammur, founder of the ancient city. Alva barely came up to her knee.

They didn’t loiter in the empty chamber, but continued on through a side passage and into a maze of twisting tunnels. An energetic dwarf with a highly polished belt buckle led the way, torch held high and casting dancing shadows over the rugged walls. His name began with an F, Alva couldn’t recall more than that, and he was a cousin to her uncles. F said a few things in Dwarvish to make Alva feel welcome, but she didn’t understand half of what came out of his mouth. He switched to Mannese, but was just as unintelligible because of his thick accent. Alva bobbed her head up and down at F’s hopeful smile and shrunk closer to Monday’s side. He too found the situation devoid of enjoyment, but for entirely different reasons.

Tuesday and Saturday chatted with an old friend who carried a round baby on his back, and Friday giggled conspiratorially with an elderly dwarf, no doubt planning some elaborate prank. Lingering in the back, Wednesday and Thursday debated the meaning of an obscure prophecy from a bygone era with a red haired lady who waved her hands dramatically when she spoke. Monday marched resolutely on, one hand on Alva’s shoulder and two eyebrows knit at a ninety degree angle.

A second wave of hugs and back pounding ensued when they reached the family living quarters, a cozy group of caves packed with even more relatives. One ancient female presided over the chaos, calmly knitting in a straight-backed rocking chair. She finished the row and climbed to her feet, leaning heavily on a knobby cane. “Well?” she demanded, “where is she? I want to meet my new grand-baby.” Gran spoke loudly and clearly in Mannese, forming each syllable with care and flashing gold teeth. Her white beard was sparse and her smiling eyes milky with cataracts.

Alva chewed on her thumbnail, hesitant to step forward. Monday pushed her into Gran's open arms and she was enveloped in a bone crunching hug. Alva's face squashed against her enormous belly, which shook when she laughed. Gran smelled of pine trees and rich earth.

Gran released Alva to gasp for breath, and then examined her with curious fingertips. She felt Alva's ears and nose, smaller and more delicate then a dwarf's, and pinched her smooth cheeks. “Adra's beard, you're skinny! And so tall already!” she exclaimed, “What have you lads been feeding this child, bread crumbs?” She took Alva's hand in hers and gave it a gentle squeeze, “welcome home, dear,” she said quietly, “would you like a cookie?”

Alva grinned impishly. She liked the old she-dwarf.

Monday sat at the end of a long table, hunched over a tankard of ale. The dining hall was mostly empty at this hour, save for Friday and a handful of his pals, who were intent on enjoying every last drop of alcohol. Across the table, red in the face and slurring of speech, a dwarf raised his drink in good cheer: “Hey Monday, must be nice being a father again!”

Monday slammed his tankard down, spilling his beer and shaking the table. The sudden clatter echoed off the bare walls, an uncomfortable silence fell over the group. Monday stood mechanically and left the room.

“Nice going, Bart.”

“Yeah, Bart.”

Friday started to get up to follow his brother, then thought better of it and reached for the bottle.

Monday stormed through the tunnels, barreling past anyone who got in his way, rushing headlong and without direction. Monday found himself in a roughly hewn passageway, one he was achingly familiar with. It was a neighborhood – a tunnel that branched off into numerous chambers furnished with personal belongings and memories. Fourth hole on the left...

He traced the initials carved into the door frame and stood still for a long while. He wondered if the rooms were still empty and listened for the sounds of a family sleeping peacefully, for the sounds of ghosts. At last he turned away.

Monday stumbled back up the tunnel; he had to check on Alva. She wasn’t used to the chill of subterranean homes -- he should make sure she had enough blankets. Monday contemplated whether she would like the same bed time stories he used to tell his own daughter, about fierce giants and fabulous treasures, the ones he never had a chance to finish.