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| wIn which Madrul carries water and there is darkness: Friday, November 18, 2005 | |
Chapter 5 Wronsteit leaned once again on the railing of the boat. He had not emerged from his cabin since they had left the island port at Buoka--instead he had spent some small amount of time with his scrolls, and a great many hours with his short sword. Though the space in the cabin was cramped, it was perfect for practicing fights in closed spaces, and he had trained Nevaya relentlessly throughout the length of the voyage. The young boy stood to one side, hanging on with both hands to the railing. There was a bruise forming along one cheek where he had not been quick enough to block a blow with the short sword--he could clearly remember Wronsteit’s blue eyes going hard as he saw the opening, and then the flat of the blade had collided with his cheek, sending him sprawling. “Wake up!” Wronsteit had snapped as he had gotten trembling slightly to his feet. “The next time you let your guard down that blatantly during a fight I will give you a scar to remember your lesson by.” Nevaya had not said anything but instead had lifted his own short sword into a guarding stance in response, his eyes going flat on their own. Wronsteit had stood watching him for a moment and then he had smiled, the gesture vaguely cold but at the same time encouraging. “You are not afraid?” he said in a low tone through that glittering smile. Only the boy’s stony eyes were his answer, and the smiled deepened. “Good,” he said. “Do not be afraid to get back up again. Never be afraid to keep fighting.” Now the wind, laden with salt spray, lashed his cheeks and made the bruise and other half healed welts and cuts sting. He lifted his face despite the pain and let himself taste the scent of land that the breeze carried. They were at last approaching the shore of the mainland, and they would once again be on their way. “Master Wronsteit,” he said, and pointed. Wronsteit looked up with a grunt and let his gaze follow the direction the boy had indicated. On the horizon a low grey smudge had appeared. “Land, eh?” he said. “Good. Good.” He straightened against the railing and arched his back, stretching his lean frame in the sea’s wind. “Where will we go next, sir?” Nevaya queried. Wronsteit rubbed his eyelids with the tips of his long, calloused fingers. “Horses at the port, and then we ride north, boy.” The ship bounded through and over the water, waves crashing up and down against its broad ribcage. Wronsteit, after a long moment, turned to go back to the cabin and begin packing their things. Nevaya made to follow him but Wronsteit waved him aside with a fluid motion of the arm and a flick of the fingers. So for a long time the boy remained at the rail, watching the approaching shoreline with his eyes narrowed just a little and his hand on the hilt of the sword that hung at his belt, all but invisible beneath the folds of his toga. He was remembering--or trying to remember--every fight he had fought with Wronsteit. There had once been a time when he could envision each battle clearly, and count them off on one hand. But that time was long since past. It had been well over two years now that he had served as an apprentice to the master swordsman, yet his precise job was still unknown to Nevaya. In his company he had learned the basics of sword fighting and was trying to learn the advanced complexities of become a master--but he had never seen Wronsteit teach anyone besides himself. He therefore could not work as a teacher, for he had no students, only one apprentice. And in the years that Nevaya had followed him, they had done nothing but travel, steal swords, and return to the capital briefly before setting out once again. He knew what would happen. Once again they would set up in a hotel. Wronsteit would send him out to stock up on supplies that they had never really seemed to run out of before that point in time. By the time he got back Wronsteit would be gone, with a note on the bed that said to take a day’s break and relax, that he would return within two day’s time, and to practice such and such move or such and such style of fighting. In two day’s time he would be back, and any lightheartedness he had gained on the journey would have dissolved into a cold, infertile bitterness that spoke of the sincere unhappiness of the soul. The salt wind had turned bitter. He wanted so badly to go with his master and discover what it was that he did, but he did not dare ask. If Wronsteit wanted him, he would ask him to come with. But how many years before he found out the truth? Did the man sell the magnificent swords that he had stolen to a very special dealer? Frequently he would return without any trace of the sword and their hard work. What was he looking for? In the cabin, Wronsteit pushed supplies into satchels and folded up a blanket or two. Nevaya’s one small bag lay shriveled next to a spare tunic by the side of his mat--carefully the blond man picked up the shirt, smoothed it, and placed it on the boy’s bed. His blue eyes were bright with an excitement that had not shone through them in years--he felt strangely light. Lastly he picked up the stolen short sword and half drew it from its sheath. For a long moment in the dull, glittering light of the oil lamp, he stared at the edge of the blade. Then the corners of his lips lifted in a smile. “At last,” he said, and then he pushed the sword back into the sheath and packed it away. xxxxxxx Madrul woke when the rays of the sun burst into the cave--several hours before midday. As he stirred on the mat and opened his eyes he wondered where on earth he was. The wall in front of him was not adobe, but angled rock. Blearily, he stared at it, and then there came a rush of air--a heavy breeze that flattened him to the ground and made his hair tousle vigorously, a wind that raised clouds of dust. That wind woke his memory and he leapt to his feet and turned in time to see the dragon flapping his wings as he came in for a landing. Confusion fled, replaced by a sensation akin to fear--the fear of not doing something right, for above all else he did not want to fail at his apprenticeship. He remembered that Pedrac had sometimes come home at night with a face tearstained after her day’s apprenticeship with the Siqan, having been scolded or yelled at for not having something right. Then he wondered if he would be going home. He had brought the bed roll and neither his father nor Drademar had objected--therefore this cave was his new home. He had not had much time to look at it when before he had fallen asleep, but now he could not inspect his surroundings because the dragon had turned his great head his way and was eyeing him as if he had forgotten who Madrul was. “Ah yes,” Drademar said at length, and let a large sack--diminished in comparison to his own bulk--fall to the floor. “The next time we run out of supplies I shall give you some money and you may go into town and buy some things. I only eat once a week but I am sure you eat much more frequently than that. Can you cook?” Madrul swallowed. “No, sir. Well, I can maybe cook some things, sir, but I cannot bake or... or anything like that.” The dragon snorted, sending a hot breath of air that smelled strangely metallic through the cave. “I thought as much. I tried to get food that requires no preparation and keeps for a while. When you go to buy you shall have to do the same.” He licked a talon nonchalantly. “What would you like me to do now, sir?” The dragon glanced around the cave with a twist of his neck, his eyes unblinking. “There are several daily tasks for you, young man,” he said, and Madrul realized that his tone carried a hint of--not sarcasm... what was it? Not even the author knew. It was that funny lilting twist of the voice that the rather kind master uses to address his or her apprentice, so as to avoid simply giving orders constantly in such a manner as might be described as offensivexx. That’s how the dragon talked, with natural inflections and changes in tone as normal as those in the human voice, and Madrul was just starting to recognize them in the octave range beyond deep bass in which the dragon spoke. “There is the thing with the doing of the stuff,” said Drademar, his tone a rumble that echoed against the walls like echoes do. “Also, the cave needs to be swept, and that barrel must be kept full.” He nodded at an elongated oval barrel almost as tall as Madrul was. “You can take the path down the mountain, or one of the internal tunnels should lead to the same stream.” He indicated which one it was with a flick of his tail. Madrul, on the edge of objecting--there would be no way he could lift such a thing empty, much less full!--saw a pair of buckets hanging on the wall next to it and bit his tongue. “That barrel is not for drinking from,” the dragon said sternly. “If you are thirsty, go to the stream yourself with any of the smaller buckets--I use them for various things. One of the large pair is for filling--the other will most probably not be there.” Madrul nodded. “I expect you to keep your own living area neat. I don’t tolerate slovenliness. Take your business outside, down by the stream if you can.” It took Madrul a moment to realize that the dragon meant for his latrine. “Do you want to ask any questions?” “Yes, sir,” said Madrul. “Where is...well... your forge, and your tools, and such things?” “My version of a smithy is down the tunnel. I do not want you going down there unless I invite you to. I keep my things arranged in a particular manner.” “Yes, sir. Thank you.” The dragon pivoted to watch him. “I am not used to having anyone else around,” he admitted. “So please forgive me if things are awkward or if I am forgetful in the beginning.” Madrul flushed. “I would uh... I would ask the same of you, Master, for myself.” Drademar snorted, the metallic scent once again filling the room. “Of course.” He stretched himself again. “I have some work to do. You will want to fill the water barrel soon.” With that he dipped a bucket full of water and hurried down the tunnel. Madrul breathed a light sigh of relief and took a bucket down from the wall. It was not as large nor as heavy as the ones he was used to carrying around the village--that made him feel a bit better about himself. But when he glanced at the barrel he found it hardly half full, and scowled. It would take a fair number of trips to get it full. He eyed the bag of food that the dragon had left by the entrance and then sighed. If there was anything his mother had taught him, it was that chores came before dinner. He took the other bucket in hand and went out to the ledge. As he approached the place where the cave mouth broke off to make the face of the mountain below, his head reeled suddenly with the shock of height, and he had to sit down quickly. They were several dragonlengths up the surface of the mountain! And the path that wound its way down the face of the old dormant volcano, though easy enough for a walk, would be precipitous at best with arms laden with water buckets. Far below he could see the glittering surface of the stream. Hadn’t the dragon said something about internal tunnels? He returned to the cave and sought the opening the dragon had indicated earlier. They had been standing by the water barrel, and the dragon had motioned somewhere behind him, yet slightly to the right--that must have been the crevice close to the corner in which he had slept. He took hold of the buckets with one hand and plunged into the darkened crack in the wall. The darkness consumed him, and in an instant he thrust himself backwards out of the hole, panting quietly. Even the steep path outside would be easier than going into the dark tunnel. So he plodded his way desolately down the slope. At one point a patch of loose rock slipped under his foot and sent him sprawling--he landed on his back and stared up at the sun for a long, tired moment. The breeze caressed his tousled black hair, and he wondered aloud what under the stars he was doing. Something internal pushed him up on his elbows, and then he got to his feet almost before he had a retort. “Working, of course,” he said to himself. “Just working?” was his own query. He stared at the scrapes on his elbows and the rip in his toga, and opened his mouth to object that this was too much, but something inside him heard his mother’s voice. “Just do the chores, Madrul,” she said. “Silly boy.” He snorted and started down the slope again. “I am not a boy,” he hissed. And he continued plodding along the precarious slope until he reached the point at which the rock mingled with green grass and a sparse bush here and there. The ground did not level off but it swelled and dropped in a tumult of rock and earth, and between one lumpy hill and the next he found the stream. It was wide and the sunlight glittered off of it--beyond its far side the land flattened out into smooth plains rimmed distantly with the traces of forest and trees. A bird, perched on a nearby rock, erupted in tremulously high pitched song. He took a moment to throw a rock at it--he missed, and the bird took off anyway with a flurry of wings to disappear into the blue edges of the sky. Madrul took the moment to drink greedily from the stream--the cool water bit into his empty stomach and made it snarl, but he did not care for anything besides slaking his dust-raised thirst. At last he filled his buckets and turned back to the mountain. Going up was far more torturous than going down. He had to be extra careful not to slip on the steep path and spill the contents of the buckets. The slope seemed infinite--the sun poured down on him, and by the time he got to the top not only was he thirsty again but also hungry, and his legs were beginning to ache. He made three more trips before he allowed himself to lean back against the cave wall and take a break. His legs trembled as he slid them out in front of him and massaged his kneecaps. It was almost sunset--he had had nothing to eat yet today, and yet the barrel was not completely full. He estimated that it would be another trip before it was sufficient but the thought of going down the hill again pained him. He crawled over to the bag Drademar had brought--he had not seen the dragon that day since he had disappeared down his tunnel--and rummaged through it, inspecting the goods the dragon had brought. There was dried goat’s meat and fish, and bread rolls, and savvecha, which would have to be boiled in water or milk before it would be edible, and a bag filled with a variety of dried fruits, and more tubers than he could count. He ate desperately and felt some strength return to his wearied limbs, and when he had finished he carefully put the rest of the food away and cleaned up. He did not trust himself to make the trip down the path at dusk, when the shadow of the mountain cast it into darkness, and so instead he found a rather decrepit looking broom and set to work trying to clean the cave. It was a long and dusty work, and as it got darker and darker he could hardly tell what he was doing. Too late, he looked around for an oil lamp or a torch or something he might light to guide himself by but he found nothing. Soon even the last hints of the sun had faded from the sky and the cave surrendered itself to the darkness. He sat on the ledge, watching the vestiges of moonlight and starlight, the only brilliance he could find in the whole place, and trying to calm his nerves. The utter darkness of the cave scared him as much as the ebony of the tunnel had. He could see nothing in front of him or behind him, nor to either side, but he felt as if he could not stop looking, could not stop feeling strange eyes on the back of his neck. With a desperate shiver he leaned against the wall of the cave to keep the eyes off his back and turned his head to trace the line of refracted moonlight that was the stream far below. Madrul did not know how he fell asleep with the horrible fear of what was hidden in the darkness consuming him far into the night. But somehow he did, sleeping so deeply that he could not even remember his dreams. Yet somehow in the middle of the night he woke with a sharp inhalation from his profound sleep, awoke with a fear that all the imagined terrors of the darkness had closed around him and were about to devour him. The moon had risen and in its light he could clearly see the face of the dormant volcano falling away to one side. He pressed himself a little more firmly against the wall and glanced into the depths of the cave. It seemed as if something moved far within the darkness, swirling and twisting like ebony smoke. Before he could cry out, however, the scaled muzzle of Drademar thrust itself out of the darkness and into the moonlight, followed by the rest of his bulk as he treaded lightly, like a cat, out onto the ledge. Madrul almost cried out in relief to see the form of the dragon, but suppressed the instinct. He watched the dragon in silence--Drademar did not seem to notice him. He lifted his head and examined the night sky as if searching for friends among the stars. Then he snorted, peeled back his lips, and breathed heavily through a closed jaw. Smoke escaped from between his sharp teeth and was instantly whipped away into the wind. He grimaced and then the gesture twisted into a smile, and with a fluid bunching of powerful muscles he thrust himself off of the ledge and into the night air. His talons scraped along rock with a horrible wrenching sound, leaving great gouges in the stone. His wings beat--once, twice, repeatedly--and the wind from their actions buffeted Madrul and almost sent him tumbling backwards. He clung to the rock and watched as the dragon faded away into the night. For a long time the boy stared at the spot where the dragon’s scales had last reflected the moonlight; he swallowed against a lump in his throat, and felt suddenly quite alone in the cave. He lay, trying not to breathe so loudly in the silence of complete solitude, and dozed on and off for about an hour. Then the rush of wind woke him again from the half slumber and this time he sat up from his place just at the entrance to the cave, which was still so dark that he did not want to enter. He watched with widened eyes as the dragon backwinged to land upon the edge, once more gouging deeply into the rock with his back talons, but now he stood half upright for he held something in his hand. “Boy,” he said in a low clear tone. Madrul sat up completely, startled--he had not known that the dragon had known he was awake. “Master?” “You should go to sleep, boy,” said Drademar. “Master...” Madrul felt his ears grow hot. How was he to explain to the dragon that even if he were to find his bed mat somewhere in the corner of the cave, the silence and the darkness would fold themselves over him and consume him? He had not been so alone in all of his life, and something in the interminable darkness of the cave seemed to indicate that he was the only human being awake on the whole of the island. But to tell the dragon that-- But it appeared that he did not need to say anything, for Drademar smiled just a little, his teeth glittering in the moonlight, and then he leaned out over the edge, lifted what was clenched in one claw, and breathed slowly, heavily. With his breath this time came a burst of sultry orange flame--it must certainly be a controlled effort, Madrul thought a little ridiculously, for when they had been in flight and the dragon had labored some in breathing he had heard it and there had been no fire then. But he did not linger on the thought--he could only let himself drink in the warmth of the over bright orange light. The twisted tree branch that the dragon held burst into flame, ignited, and Drademar let his own flame die off quickly before he turned back to the cave. The fiery brand flickered and danced in the wind that teased the corners of the cave, casting shadows amongst the rocky outcroppings and illuminating the poorly swept floor. Madrul grimaced slightly but Drademar said nothing, merely stepped forward with the makeshift torch in hand and wedged the other end of the piece of wood into a smaller crevice in the wall. Madrul got to his feet and made his way to his bed mat. As he curled himself up under the covers, the dragon scuffed at the floor with one paw and then folded himself down, his legs forming a bed and his tail a cushion for his great head. His wings, arched just slightly along his back, bent down to cover his eyes and also seemed to act like a blanket against the brief gusts of wind that tore at the face of the cave. In the dim light of the torch, Madrul watched the dragon settle down and for a long time after he had finished. At length Drademar opened one eye and fixed it on the boy. “What?” he asked. “Nothing, sir,” said Madrul, a bit embarrassed, and then buried himself in his bed and tried to avoid the dragon’s gaze. After a moment or so he fell into exhausted slumber. Drademar watched him with the one eye from half under his wing for a long moment himself, and then he breathed a light sigh through his teeth, emitting an odor of stale metallic smoke, closed his eyes, and went to sleep himself.
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