“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.
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