Dijaq was seething.
In fact, he was more than seething. He felt as though his lower intestine were filled with molten lava. Waru was not her old, demure, coquettish self after all; she had used her injury to fool him and put her wiles to good use after the search party had returned, with Malaraq as bile-faced as ever and Luka barely concealing his pride at carrying the dirtied, flush little red-haired girl in his arms.
That, alone, had caused stomach contents to rise in Dijaq's throat...but when Waru, bound forever to his side like abalone to a sea-cow, had noticed Ziuta looking in his direction, she had taken her chance. She had stepped in front of him-- blocking Dijaq's view of his beautiful, fire-haired angel-- and kissed him, taking both of his flushed cheeks in each of her soft, fragrant palms.
You devil. You harpy! How could you? As Luka looked on in satisfaction, Dijaq gripped Waru's wrists, held them out in front of him and shook them-- hard. "What kind of young woman are you?" he'd snapped, mortified. "To show such public displays of affection when a search party is bringing home two lost members and we must find answers for this debacle?"
Waru had tried to conceal a smirk; it hadn't worked. "Don't you mean one lost member?"
"Get away from me!" Dijaq gave her a shove toward Amiechek's dwelling and stalked angrily across the courtyard, elbowing his way through curious on-lookers and stopping when he stood between Pomoq and the blubber-laden Matron.
"You'll watch how you treat a daughter of one of our Council members!" Amiechek had barked at him, but Dijaq was quick with his own retort.
"And perhaps you will expend just as much energy teaching your child that she must have the proper manners and respect when dealing with-- with public displays of amorousness!"
Amiechek, Dijaq knew, had nothing good to say to this, and so she raised her nose high into the air, opting to say nothing.
Dijaq stole a peek at Ziuta and wished immediately that he hadn't. His spirit sank like a heavy tree root into a storm-churned river; Ziuta had seen their 'kiss'. He knew she had...he could tell. The set of her eyes, the sadness behind their cool exterior, and the heart-breaking way her pretty mouth turned down at the corners spoke volumes. If there were ever a chance in all of Weema-- in a million years, even in two billion-- that Ziuta might have loved him again, it had disappeared...flitting away from the deflated bubble called 'hope' that had tried feebly to bud within Dijaq's chest.
Without Ziuta, he was broken. He could remember now all of the irresistible feelings he'd had for the girl come rushing back to him: the way he felt when those exotic eyes probed his own, the haughty way she had shrieked with laughter when he had first refused to lay a hand on Water Fly...the delicate, graceful way she ran streaking through Hallow's Wood-- like one of the rare four-pronged deer that the folks from Hidden Well claimed as their own under hunting rights.
There would be no explaining, no way to say that 'it isn't what you think!' Nothing would take Ziuta's pain away...and Waru had known it. Like the shrew she was, she had been biding her time.
"Ziuta--" Dijaq began, reaching out with both hands palm-up in an imploring gesture-- but it was no use. Luka, unusually protective of the young girl in his arms, used one hand to shoot him an obscene gesture. There were gasps from the crowd, followed by nervous titters.
The nerve!
Dijaq balled his fists and was just stepping forward when Ziuta abruptly turned her head away and laid it carefully against Luka's chest, whereupon he crooned comforting words and laid a free hand on her head, lightly stroking the deep, rich red hair, allowing each shining strand to trail through his fingers like gossamer.
Ziuta was his woman. His! Who did Luka think he was fooling-- and where was Michek when she was needed, for the Twin Moons' sake? Surely Michek would not remain blind to Luka's blatant passion for the fire-haired maiden!
"Pomoq, what must we do?"
"Yes, Pomoq. Tell us! You are the oldest, the wisest, the most revered. What must be done with the Star-Child?"
Voices clamored as though they were one; hordes of people and their tall, lanky children, grandchildren, cousins, uncles, or aunts surged and formed a reverent semi-circle around the tired-looking old man.
"Do you say it is true that the girl, Ziuta, is responsible for the boys' deaths?" someone shouted above the din. "If so, you must decree that she dies!"
"Aye!" chorused a few others, and there were firm nods of assent.
"But what of Tuchek?" someone else probed; Dijaq turned toward the voice, which he thought he recognized, and was relieved to see Amek standing behind the mob. He smiled gratefully at her; she grinned back wryly.
"Yes, what about the boy?"
There were more clamors and shouts. "It is also said that Ziuta saved the boy by imploring that the Draca leave him alone-- and that they spoke to her in our very own tongue, affirming they would comply with her'decrees' as though she were a Queen of the Draca herself!"
This time there was anxious laughter and multiple glances toward the shy-looking girl that Luka cradled, but there was an edge to the light-heartedness. The People shied away from her, careful not to get too close. Until Pomoq gave his opinion, none were too sure they wanted to come within any close distance of the "dragon girl", as she was now being called in some circles.
Pomoq made as though to straighten himself on the old weathered staff, and Amiechek raised her ample arms in the all-important gesture of quiet before speech-making. It took only moments for the crowd to hush; except for a few babies who coughed from the animals' foaming mouth disease, everyone else was deathly quiet.
Pomoq rarely made any official decrees-- why, he was seen even less often away from the careful seclusion of his eccentric home, which was filled with all the manner of strange animals that 'kept him company'...but when Pomoq spoke, People listened. He had been alive longer than most of even the oldest members of Looks Thrice. The People did not treat a speech from the great Pomoq, Child Deliverer and Medicinal Healer, with scorn or contempt.
"You wish to know the fate of the Star-Child?" asked Pomoq, in a voice surprisingly filled with strong presence for such a mild-mannered man.
"Yes!" Voices chimed in unison.
"Very well. Have her taken back to Hallow's Wood where she was found. Leave her there; leave the boy, also. If Ziuta is who she says she is, then the Draca will speak-- and furthermore, they will not harm Tuchek if she disallows it. That, and that alone, will answer the questions of whether Ziuta is a special woman who is to be One with the Draca-- or a fraud that will soon lose face."
There was an awkward silence.
"Left there? Alone?" Amiechek asked incredulously. "But who will be there to verify their stories? Supposing all the boys simply decide to take Ziuta's side and--"
"Luka will go," Pomoq said with an air of finality: "and Dijaq shall go. But even that is not enough. Malaraq will lead this group into Hallow's Wood and remain with them until day-break. It is then that we shall have our answer."
"Have you spoken, Revered One?" asked Amiechek, in a voice that suddenly seemed exhausted.
"Aye. I have spoken." The old man grasped his staff, shuffled up the knoll that led to his small, quaint home at the top of the hill, and lumbered inside, allowing Green Wings to flit in behind him. There was a loose, wet hacking of coughs before the door slammed shut.
The milling crowd took this as a polite, albeit disappointing, cue to return to their lodges and chores. Women with the smallest children gathered immediately by the well for discussion before it could be taken over by gangs of raucous boys and their smoke-sticks, while older People hobbled to their lodges for water, for lunch, or to relieve themselves.
None, except for Malaraq, Luka, and Dijaq, would cast the white-faced Ziuta even a passing glance. She was not be acknowledged, accepted, or rejected until the small party returned and reported their findings.
Sullen and wishing he could be anywhere but in the plaza, surrounded by people he disliked and a woman he feared he would never be able to have-- Dijaq crossed his arms and exhaled impatiently. Luka leaned his head in toward Ziuta (Dijaq felt he would explode with the jealousy) and laughed quietly when she kicked at him, demanding to be let down. This time, he complied. Ziuta stalked away from him and into the solace of the bolberry bushes northward, where she smoothed out her frock and sat down on the grass in a huff. Dijaq could not help but hurl Luka a triumphant glance-- let her sit on the ground! he thought contentedly. If she does not want to be with me, then she should not want to be with him, either.
Though Dijaq pretended not to notice, Amiechek had approached the small group and pulled Malaraq aside. The two were talking together, and Dijaq did not like the looks of their discussion...not one bit. Amiechek's eyes were drawn, but fierce. Her lips had pursed into a tiny pink star-fish, and her cheeks were flushed either with the bane of feminine hormones or pure, unadulterated anger. Amiechek's hands were balled into fists and her entire body trembled; she appeared adamant, disgusted, displeased beyond measure.
Malaraq reached out a hand to calm her, to reassure her, but Amiechek turned away.
"Only when the deed is done," she snapped, before stalking back across the common area to her own lodge, which she shared with Waru.
"When what deed is done?" asked Dijaq and Ziuta simultaneously as Malaraq strode past them; he stopped before the trees, gazing up into the foliage as though he hadn't heard.
When Luka approached them, using both hands to rip the leather band from his hair and allow it to fall freely around his shoulders, Ziuta asked him: "What deed? What is it that Malaraq is talking about?"
He looked at her with love in his eyes, and something else. "Do not concern yourself with Malaraq's rumblings, little Fruit Bird...at least, not while I am here to protect you."
Ziuta seemed satisfied for the moment, but Dijaq was not-- not by a long shot.
As the four of them began their silent trudge back into Hallow's Wood, Dijaq turned and cast a quick look behind him. He could see Michek at the front of Mother's threshold, looking after them with her hands wrapped in her apron ...and was that worry in her smooth, round face?
"Remember, Dijaq!"
Dee jerked back to reality and glared to see who had startled him. It was Waru, hopping eagerly up and down beside the shrubbery next to Amiechek's garden. "Remember; you belong to me. Me! Do you hear me, Dijaq? Do you understand?"
Dijaq understood. He understood well enough to fleetingly wish Waru were dead.
..............................................................................................................................................................................................
"Franek!"
Wainrak saw the older woman sneak past the kitchen and hurriedly set down her bowl of bubbling prawn stew-- though, really, she could have gotten by without cooking anything. For the past three to four days, Dragura had not eaten at all, and had set barely a sandal on the corkscrewed stair-case that led from the upper floors to the ones below.
"What is it?" asked Franek nervously, looking behind her, in front of her, and to the sides as she nervously twisted her hands. "There are at least seven hand maidens who have not had their turns and one maid on the roof whom I must relieve now-- what is it?"
"Some updates on just what is going on around here might suffice!" Wainrak whined. "For instance, I haven't had my turn yet-- and just what exactly do the girls do when they go up there? Are they able to pet the dragons? Can they speak? Have they learned any words--"
"Not by a long shot," Franek said grimly. Footsteps seemed to clatter overhead, and both women froze involuntarily, melting into relieved slumps when the steps picked up the pace and marched on.
"But I thought that was the point of this whole plan," Wainrak protested. She wiped at a few beads of sweat on her forehead and left behind a smear of floury paste. "You said so yourself! The Draca can speak, and the others just need to learn. We can't take all year to try and make our escapes if--"
"Well will try for five years if that is what it takes!" Franek snapped. "When you still lived with your family, Wainrak, did you ever remember seeing a group of men trying to break a young bull so that it could be placated, castrated, and go to the slaughter house without so much as a snort?"
Wainrak looked at the ground.
"Are you deaf, girl?"
"What if I have? What do bulls have to do with dragons?
"Everything, girl-- and nothing at all!"
Wainrak made as though to turn back to her prawns, but Franek stepped in front of them. The expression in her eyes was frigid, chilly-- like cool gusts of wind from the snow-capped mountains.
"Most cows do not allow a Person to touch their calves until the offspring is at least one year old." Franek held up one finger. "Next, when a man must separate the male calf from its mother, it will take at least two days to wrestle it into the corral without at least fifty-- are you listening, Franek?-- fifty strong young men to help." Another finger went up. "Then comes the process of taming the bull calf so that he might live in a large pen with others, fattened up, and used for meat. Male calves are distrustful, Franek. They do not trust People, they do not like being confined, and they certainly do not like being branded...which means that re-breaking them to behave calmly must begin all over again." A third finger waved in Wainrak's face. "And we are not even talking about dragons, Wainrak. How long do you think it takes for a calf to settle down, grow up, and realize that it has nothing to fear from us?"
"Ummmm-- six months?"
"A year, Wainrak. We are talking about an entire year...and that is just for the common animals we are familiar with. What makes you think taming such beastly animals as the Draca would be any faster?"
"I-- well, the Draca could speak! And it was kind to you, with sparkles in its eyes. You are the one who told us, that, Franek." Wainrak tried to hide the red flush that was creeping up to her cheeks and snatched up a dishtowel, rubbing at the streak of white paste below her left eye. It cracked when she grimaced.
Franek sighed. "I was referring to the five Draca that Dragura permitted to grow up under her care as 'pets', if you will. She cares for them no more than she does any of the others-- but she trusts them, and she knows they will do her bidding. That is why they have been unchained without wreaking havoc. That is why they are larger than the others-- she always fed them more food-- and that is why they can speak. They have mimicked their speech patterns from the woman who bore them ever since they pecked their beaks at the egg-shell."
Wainrak was quiet for a moment. "So the others are different," she acknowledged, setting the pot of prawns on the stove to boil and stirring carefully with a wooden spoon. As the water gradually heated, the tiny prawns jumped and wriggled to escape the heat; a few burst into splashes of brilliant pink, which firmed immediately when the slime-like flesh came in contact with the boiling water. "What kind of training are we talking about here?"
"Slow conditioning, with a great, great deal of patience. Girls who were too timid to approach the beasts I have locked in their bedchambers; the lower draca, as I call them, can smell fear and terror a mile away. These girls are not appropriate for this conditioning program."
"And the girls who have more courage?"
"For now, they walk," Franek said, leaning against the kitchen door-frame. "In the last three days, we have made enormous progress. After their feedings, a different girl 'walks the line' which has been drawn on the floor of the roof, carrying on with ordinary duties such as brushing their hair, smoothing their clothes, holding small baskets of laundry...even singing or talking quietly."
"But those dreadful beasts would have worked themselves into a frenzy!" Wainrak protested. "What progress can they have made?"
Franek smiled. "You would be surprised," she said. "Now, almost every single one of the lower draca can sit quietly while the maidens pass back and forth in front of them. Even during feeding time, the atmosphere is calmer. There is less straining at the neck braces, less snarling, less snapping to get at the hand-maidens or even each other. Before, merely opening the door to the roof would send them all into a blind fury-- now, they sit or lie down like overgrown dogs."
Wainrak looked truly impressed. "How much longer until they will speak, do you think?"
"Who knows?" Franek shrugged sadly. "They may sit quietly for now, but they still growl when the maidens come close, and when eye contact is made, the upper lips part from the jaw to expose their teeth. It is classic threatening posture-- which means the next few steps could take months...if not years."
"Years?" Wainrak looked devastated. "Then why even bother? Why don't we accept the miserable lot that Dragura provided for us and go on about our lives? I don't want to spend my time playing with some stinky dragon if my efforts will not show for decades."
"Suit yourself." Franek straightened. "But remember, if they catch on quicker than we think-- and I believe that they will-- we may have mere months to be planning reunions with our forgotten family members."
"Have your wishful thinking," Wainrak said woefully, plunking the spoon beside the pot of boiling water and watching the last of the prawns bubble up to the surface, their legs stiffening in death. "I, myself, choose life. Those animals are not capable of anything more than an old, cranky dog that can still be persuaded to do a few tricks."
"Oh, but they are capable, my dear," said Franek, turning to leave. "They have our blood running through their veins, Wainrak...and somewhere inside of them, they know. They know who and what they are, even if it be on some primal level-- and our job will be to teach them not to hate themselves for it."
"Really?" Wainrak balled up her dishrag and set it down, but when she looked back toward the doorway for Franek, the older woman had already gone.
Our blood, Franek had said. They have our blood running through their veins...
Could it be done? Could the lower draca learn to civilize themselves, like their fortunate older sisters...or would they forever be rash meat-eaters, like the earth dragons that roamed the forests?
From the stove, a tiny bubble of water exploded and landed on Wainrak's arm, leaving a neat, round circle behind in its wake. Wainrak barely noticed. She was thinking about the huge egg she had passed from her own belly-- about the draca that lived upstairs, chained to the turrets-- and she was wondering quietly which one was hers.
............................................................................................................................................................................................
The two young men plodded on through Hallow's Wood in silent determination; ahead of them trudged Ziuta, who strode purposefully with her arms crossed and nose in the air. It was a position that Dijaq felt had endeared her to him more and more; how unlike the flighty women of Looks Thrice she was! Any other girl would be clinging to him in fright (except, perhaps, the wander-loving Sashek), jumping and shrieking at every little noise like a cornered wood rat. Most young men would have relished the attention: it made their man-parts stiffen, thinking of how desirable, how wanted, how needed was a man in the eyes of such women.
To Dee, they were chirruping nuisances who had not left the mother bird's nest. Now, Ziuta: here was a treasure! Steely and resolved in spite of her slender limbs and relatively small size, she did not shy away at the darkness or cower in the absence of the comforting noise of the village as it bedded down for the night, of the playful splashing of little children as they chased each other in wading pools.
Here was a young girl who strode through the forestry as though she owned it all. Allowing himself to dream, Dijaq smiled faintly and wondered if, perhaps, she really was a Queen: perhaps some ethtereal vision made of sparkling star-light and the stuff of planets, pausing only long enough to grace Weema with a kiss from her moist, pink lips.
Ziuta did not need a man. She did not want a man. Dijaq was sure most of her haughty behavior was a ruse, but it inflamed him nonetheless.
It made him want her.
"They are plotting something," said Luka amicably, falling into step beside Dee and cruelly destroying the beautiful image Dijaq had been nursing inside of his head of Ziuta-- without her frock and willing-- in his own sleeping bench, holding out her fragrant arms. ...Would he ever hold her in such a way?
"Who's plotting something?" Dijaq snapped dully.
"Have I frightened you out of your wet dream? Forgive me." Luka smiled-- the crooked one. The one that made girls want him.
"If someone were plotting something against Ziuta, I doubt you would find it so easy to breach the subject," muttered Dijaq.
"I know what you're thinking. You needn't feel embarrassed-- half the young men in Looks Thrice feel the same way. She is a beauty, you know. Dee-- may I call you Dee?"
"No."
"There is trouble afoot, Dee," Luka began in a quieter tone, gesturing ahead of them toward Ziuta. "Look at how Malaraq strides confidently ahead of her...he does not want her to run away, even though he allows the other boy, that Tuchek, to walk as far ahead to the Creek as he pleases."
Dijaq peered into the distance. Luka was right; Malaraq preceded them by perhaps about twenty yards. Ziuta walked stoically behind him, but the miserable Tuchek was ahead of them all, a mere speck in the forestry where a light wind toyed with the bolberry branches.
"Of course there is trouble," Dijaq said, trying carefully to conceal an eye-roll. "Amiechek is hoping that Ziuta and Tuchek will be gone by the morning-- that way, she and Waru can continue to plan how to snare me into their good graces. Well, it isn't going to work, I tell you! I want neither of them. I would have the ugliest girl in all the village before I invited Waru into my bed-- and have you thought of the poor man who is destined to be the son-in-law to a woman like Amiechek?"
Luka shuddered involuntarily; Dijaq almost laughed.
"I am telling you, it won't work," Dijaq continued. "I have seen how Ziuta behaves with the dragons. She stunned me with how easily the water-draga took to her-- as if she were its own mother!-- and now these Draca have come into the picture. I know Tuchek-- he comes from a good family and is not prone to lying. If he says the Draca spared him after being admonished by the girl, then I believe him-- and nothing Malaraq says or does will change that. He will arrive back in Looks Thrice with us tomorrow, shame-faced and broken."
"I don't think you understand," Luka said stiffly. The change in his voice caused Dijaq to glance at him. "Did you not hear Amiechek's words before we left? She said she wanted the 'deed' to be done. The Draca will not be the one to end Ziuta's life, and Malaraq knows it." Luka was quiet for a few moments, pausing every now and then to hop over a fallen branch or large stone that Dijaq, who was less athletic, wasted precious minutes climbing over.
"Very well. I'll humor you. What is the deed?" Dijaq asked wearily.
"The 'deed' is simple. Until Malaraq completes this 'deed', Amiechek will never take him back--"
"What do you mean, 'take him back'?"
Luka peered at him from the corner of one wide eye. "You mean you don't know? About the little baby boy Amiechek lost all those years ago? That was before Waru was born."
"Well, I had heard, but--"
"Malaraq was the baby's father. Amiechek blamed him for its death-- he was warring with the people from Day Break, and was absent for both the delivery and the boy's death." Luka swept some of the long, loose hair away from his brow. "I don't think she ever forgave him for that."
Dijaq could think of nothing to say...but he listened raptly, forgetting for the moment that Luka, who wanted Ziuta as much as he did, posed the greatest threat to him.
"Malaraq always loved her, you see. They were made for each other; black-hearted and miserable, they are. Both of them." Luka snorted. "It wouldn't be a surprise to me to find out that Warumachek belongs to him, also. She is just as evil as they, wouldn't you say?"
Dijaq shrugged. The two of them had come to a small stream, which rushed merrily around the surrounding pebbles and water-weeds with a cheerful, bell-like sound. Each boy was able to traverse it with one stride; for the moment, Malaraq, Ziuta, and Tuchek were out of sight. "Waru could be his, I suppose," he said, "but it's doubtful. When Waru was just a small girl-- when we were little, that is-- she had something that I don't think either Amiechek nor Malaraq was ever fortunate enough to have. She was sweet, kind, and there was something pure about her." Dijaq looked at the ground as the two of them continued on their journey. Above, angry fruit birds dive-bombed them in hopes of keeping them away from nests; fruit birds were lovely, but foul-tempered. "Along the way, something must have happened to her, Luka. I don't know what it was, what could have been so horrible that would change her into the coal-hearted weasel that she is today...why are we talking about Waru, anyway? I hate the girl. Hate her."
"Hate is a strong word, Dee."
"I don't care."
"Well, in any event, Malaraq never stopped caring about Amiechek. I think he still loves her-- but Amiechek has always held back. The loss of her baby boy is the only thing that confirms her Person-hood to me, Dee, but the union of Amiechek and Malaraq will not be a good one."
"Why should it matter if two foul-tempered, flabby Council Members get together or not? They made a baby once. Does it matter if Amiechek takes him back?"
"Yes!" Luka hissed, with such sudden vehemence that Dijaq turned to stare at him, mouth dropped. "I told you, I know what Amiechek wants. She wants Ziuta dead. Ziuta is a threat to her, to this village-- and to her daughter, Waru, who means everything on this world to her. She has asked Malaraq to end Ziuta's life-- here, alone in Hallow's Wood, where no one will be able to see or condemn him-- and once that 'deed' is done, she will allow him back into her home...and into her bed."
Dijaq's mouth had suddenly gone dry. Blessed Moons, why had he not seen the signs before?
"What should we do?" he asked, not caring in that instant what Luka thought of him. If what he had just been told was true, Ziuta was in grave danger. He could not allow her to die. The thought of it constricted his heart, his lungs, his very breathing; Dijaq could not bear to even think of Ziuta's life-less form, lying still on some lonely funeral pyre and waiting to be burned.
"You can do whatever you'd like," Luka said, whose amicable demeanor had suddenly grown cold. "I plan to protect Ziuta from that monster, and from anyone else who would see her harmed. I have one day and night to come up with a plan to defend her. That is all." With those parting words, Luka gripped a satchel that he'd packed for the journey a little tighter against his back and hurried away.
"But-- but where are you going? You can't just leave!" Dijaq shouted. His efforts were of little use; Luka had also disappeared, leaving Dijaq alone, frustrated, and hoping against hope that he could still find his way to Haven's Creek. Malaraq had chosen a different route to approach the water (had he done it on purpose?), but there was little time for Dijaq to turn around and take a more familiar path now.
He would have to keep trudging ahead-- just like all those before him. Thinking of Ziuta suffering in Malaraq's dirty, brutal grasp, his heart felt as though it would crack and weep its own tears. Luka, of course, would try to save her at the last moment, and he would probably succeed...though that gave Dijaq little consolation.
He wanted to be the one to come to Ziuta's aid. He wanted her to look into his eyes with awe and praise; he wanted to be the one to knock Malaraq unconscious and let him rot in his own filth.
But how could he compare?
Dijaq knew the answer; he couldn't. Not against Luka, certainly not against the Draca-- and perhaps not even against Tuchek, who was younger than him but still a good five inches taller. Again and again, Dijaq had proved himself unworthy and unfit to be Ziuta's savior. Never again would she look at him as she had that afternoon under the bolberry tree-- and that was assuming Ziuta would survive the night.
Dijaq looked up at the sky, at the Twin Moons which had given him such comfort as a child, and did something he hadn't done in nearly ten years.
He prayed.
Wota and Wona, Blessed Twin Moons born of the sacred breast of our Planet, please protect the star-child, Ziuta. Bind me to her in a way that will link us as a couple for all of Eternity. Give me this one gift, and I will dedicate myself to you as a Star Watcher for the rest on my years.
Unaware that tears trickled down Dijaq's cheeks, he trudged on into the forest and the darkness. And above him, twinkling as merrily as the stars that danced around them, the blood-red Sisters of Weema's night-time sky heard-- and they listened.
...........................................................................................................................................................................................
Dragura sat up straight in bed, jolted awake as if by a boom of distant thunder. Around her, the air seemed charged, prickling the delicate skin on her arms and causing the short, smooth hairs there to stand straight up. She ran a nervous hand along the nape of her neck and drew back, irritated; even the fine hair close to her skin had an electric tingle; she felt almost like an anxious dog, bristling to protect her pups.
What had woken her up?
The remnants of a dream flickered before her bleary eyes-- visible one moment, then obscured the next. A face, a gentle one, gazed upon her own with wonderfully gentle eyes, but just as soon as she thought she could make out its features, the face vanished again.
Dragura pulled the cool, satiny sheets of her bed up to her chin and shivered. Lately, there had been no maid-servants standing watch over her bed, waiting to jump at her every command as she ordered them to bring cold glasses of tea, small saucers of delicate prawns (considered a delicacy if eaten with sauce while they were still alive), or fresh grapes plucked from the vine-- no, now another helping of grapes, because didn't their fool eyes see that the old grapes were starting to prune?
In a growing, brooding depression which seemed to have no genesis, Dragura had shooed them all away, retreating into her bedchambers as though she were a crab, sequestering itself into a lonely shell.
How long had she paced back and forth, alone?
How long had it been since she'd been getting her own water from the washroom, or munching on the remains of stale fruit-bread that had been fermenting under her bed? One month? Two?
Dragura could not remember.
She had not drawn a bath to cleanse herself; she had worn the same silky bed-camisole that she'd had on the night she'd pushed Azee into the den of Draca and learned a terrible truth: they had not eaten her. They had not ripped the girl to pieces.
Why?
What was different?
Settling back onto her bed and heaving an uncomfortable sigh, Dragura was nearly startled out of her senses again when the reality dawned: it was too quiet.
The Draca...they are not making any noise!
Any other day or night, there would have been chains rattling, snarls and yelps as the beasts fought each other for old scraps of the same old bone, and even a faint vibration which could be felt from below as one Draca tackled another, hurling it to the ground with thousands of pounds of force and fury.
Yet tonight, it was as still as a stone-- it was as if they had all flown away and left her. Left her alone in the fortress to fend for herself, and if the Draca would abandon her, then the hand-maidens would have the upper hand. There would be too many of them, dozens against her...and what would she be able to do to save herself from their twisted retribution?
I must go to the Draca. Now! I must ensure that they are still where I chained them; still affixed to the turrets, where they can neither fly away nor create any devious ruse. I must--
"Is there a problem, Mistress?"
Dragura looked to the doorway sharply; she must have left the chambers open last night in her desperate bid to get some sleep.
Franek was standing there. Her graying hair was fastened in the same bun that graced the back of her neck, and she stood straight and tall. Glittering eyes stared into Dragura's own; in her arms was a yelping puppy.
"What do you want?"
"I was on my way to the fortress ceiling with this gift of food for the Draca," Franek explained easily (why was there no tremor in her voice?). "There are not enough sheep left, so I have taken this cur until more calves can be born. The Draca still need to eat, but only a few of them are hungry. So I assumed that this dog would suffice--"
"You mean they are still upstairs?"
Franek looked confused. "What? Who?"
"The Draca, you idiot, the Draca!" Dragura rose to her feet and hurled a cushion at the doorway in exasperation. "Are they still where I have chained them? Why are they not making any noise? Are they sick? Are they unwell? Answer me, I tell you!"
Something unfamiliar flickered in Franek's eyes. "They are sleeping," she said shortly. "The rest are hungry. I have here a dog-- and as I have said, I will feed them." Franek spoke slowly and enunciated each word, as though speaking to a small child.
Dragura felt herself flush with mortification. How dare she?!
"Good. Then get out of my sight!" she snapped, stomping to the threshold and slamming the double doors in Franek's face.
Something about the entire situation did not seem right.
Why can I not put my finger on it? Why am I worried at all? Am I simply becoming demented with age? Because I have no child? Because I will never have a suitor--
Dragura froze, then collapsed onto her bed as the dimming remnants of her dream returned to tantalize her, to titillate her starved, feminine senses.
That face-- it was male. She knew it now...she remembered! Rugged and handsome though it was, with thick, auburn hair that stopped at the chin and kind eyes that blazed into her own, Dragura knew without having to be told that this man, this unknown mate who had appeared in her dream, was meant for her. Although a few things seemed unusual (the eyes were too small, for example, and the odd coloring of the hair different than anything she had ever seen), Dragura could have laughed with relief at the childishness of her behavior.
Of course things would seem different!
She had finally had a vision of the man who would come and be her own, the very man who would plant the seed of child in her before it was too late-- and, of course, a sacrifice would have to be prepared right away. Nothing must happen which would jeopardize this bond, and all of a sudden, Dragura's mind was awash with possibilities, planning, and long-awaited ecstasy over her future.
But the Sacrifice...that must come first above all else. Without a Sacrifice, this small-eyed suitor will never come for me...and I shall take my sacrifice from Hidden Well.
..........................................................................................................................................................................................
Mother plopped her stout little frame on the threshold beside her husband.
"You will let in cow-flies," she said pleasantly. "Won't you come in and finish your tea?"
Gormaq grunted. "Tea, tea, tea! Is that all you women blab about in the evenings?"
Mother was unruffled. "It is the kind of tea that fights the aching joints in your bones," she said. "There is still some left, if you want to have any before our daughters get to it."
Gormaq looked at the ground and sighed, rubbing his arms. "Daughters...." he said thoughtfully, allowing himself to trail off. He had been depressed for quite some time-- even more so after Pomoq had declared that Ziuta and the other boy be returned to Hallow's Wood. His was a veritable figure of hunched unhappiness, and seldom was he seen anywhere without his brown cloak; he had given it to Ziuta to wear, and looked anxious without it.
"It is cold," Mother pressed.
"No. Cool only. I can stand the weather--"
"It makes your arthritis flare."
"For the sake of the Twin Moons, woman, can't you just go inside and do some work?" the old man gruffed.
"Not when it means I can speak one-on-one with an adult-- and without an accent. Poor Joo-Lee...the girl probably can barely understand a word I say, although Sashek is making such wonderful inroads with her." Mother leaned against the huddled figure and poked him playfully in the ribs. "It does not take Bichek long to fall asleep, you know, and Sashek will be taking Joo-Lee to another visit with Pomoq. Perhaps if you are not too exhausted...?"
"How can you be thinking about love-making at a time like this?" Gormaq exploded, throwing his hands into the air and startling a few pea-hens that had been scratching for seed near his seating place. "How can you think about being happy at all? That woman, that Dragon Woman from the fortress, has been making our lives as miserable as she can for decades. My sister is gone-- torn away from us to endure the Moons know what at the hands of those earth-dragons. I will never see her, never hold her again...and never will I be able to apologize for-- for not being strong enough to save her."
Gormaq's voice cracked, and Mother patted his swollen knee with a gentle hand. "That is not all which ails you," she said pointedly. "I have been married to you for close to twenty years. As Pomoq would say: let it all out, dear, before you explode like a dropped tree-fruit and scatter brains in all directions. I, for one, am not in the mood to clean up such a mess." Mother chuckled softly.
"That's another thing!" Gormaq puffed, turning away from her in disgust and folding his arms. "You-- you smile too much. You laugh too much! I say, what is there to smile and laugh about? Every ten years, Dragon Woman sends one of her terrible beasts to steal a 'sacrifice'. And for what? So we can all scatter like frightened pigs, squealing in terror and all the while knowing that her 'sacrifice'-- someone's mother, daughter, sister, or infant-- will still not be good enough to snare a 'mate'? Who would impregnate her? Who would want to have a child with that harpy?"
Mother listened expectantly, nodding at the appropriate times; she had become very good at listening during her years as Gormaq's wife.
"What kind of life is it to wonder whose loved one will be next when the time comes again?" Gormaq railed. His face was bright red by this time, and his usually dull eyes radiated with something fierce, something Mother had not seen for many years. He seemed alive, filled with vibrance-- but not the sort that made one peaceful inside.
"What future is there for our children? What are we to do when our daughters are defiled and our Council Members tell them we must throw them out to the elements because they are pregnant with serpents? Should we be proud that our grandchildren are reptiles that rip open the bodies of their mothers as they come into the world? Why would the Twin Moons allow this?"
"Gormaq, that is enough," Mother said quietly-- but her voice was firm. "Do you want to know why it is that a woman like me might dare smile, laugh, and be happy?" She reached out and grasped his hand. "It is because I have accepted the lot that Weema has given me. In all my lucky years, I have been blessed with four amazing daughters. One of them has holes in her heart-- and yet she wanders the land un-touched, because the Dragon Woman has been unsuccessful in stealing her away from me. Sashek has even brought us two more children to feed, love, and clothe...we are the happy family that I have always wanted, Gormaq. There will be trials, tests, and unfortunate news that seems to rip apart the heart...nothing good will last forever, Husband. But I choose the here and now."
"You sound like Pomoq when you talk like that."
"And why not?" Mother tilted her head up toward the star-light. "I relish my daughters' smiles, their giggles, their happiness when they collapse at a joke, and now the radiance that fills my daughter's face at her engagement to that nice young man...that Luka."
"Bah! I do not trust him."
Mother smoothed her crinkled apron. "No man has been good enough for your daughters."
"I do not trust men," Gormaq muttered, "especially not with men the likes of Malaraq sneaking around. I used to see how he looked at little Waru-- no wonder Amiechek would not let him into her house."
Mother said nothing, but she peered into his eyes. Gormaq dared look back, and it was as though a wave of warmth and graciousness had enveloped his stale old heart.
Gormaq, you must learn to love.
"How can I?" he wept, covering his face with gnarled hands and trying desperately to hide his tears; grown men, particularly men that were Gormaq's age, dared not weep in front of a woman. "The Blessed Moons brought me two beautiful daughters. I fell in love with them-- I would do anything for them. Anything! And that Ziuta..."
"Special," Mother agreed, nodding into the night. "Something about that girl is special. More so than Joo-lee, more so than even our own daughters. I tell you, Gormaq: the Blessed Moons chose you to act as her father for a reason. She will do great things one day; un-heard of things. She will be the savior of our lost people."
"Aiie, she is nothing but a child!" Gormaq wailed. "Pomoq has ordered her away into the forest, where the Draca now live and where they admittedly devoured those boys! And he wants Malaraq to oversee them? May the devil curse that man if anything happens to my daughter!"
"She will be safe," Mother said confidently. "I know it; I can feel it beneath the warmth of the Sister Moons."
"How do you know?" Gormaq scoffed.
"In the same way that I knew Dragura would never be successful in stealing our little Sashek from us," said Mother. "The Draca would come each time-- and each time, they left empty-clawed. Ziuta, too, will emerge from this unscathed. You'll see...now come inside for some tea."
"But Malaraq--"
"Pomoq is no fool," Mother said, grunting as she stood up. "Do you think it is any accident that he sent Dijaq and Luka along for the night?"
Gormaq was silent. He hadn't thought of that.
"And another thing," Mother added, just as she was stepping back over the threshold: "If I were you, I would quickly remember that I have six daughters, and not five."
"Whatever do you mean, woman?"
"I mean," Mother said sharply, placing a plump hand on one hip: "there is a young girl inside the lodge that wishes she had a father. There is more to feeding her and living in the same dwelling, Gormaq. Amek wants you to love her, hold her, hug her, kiss her. Instead, all she gets from you are exhortations to fetch water from the well if she scrunches her nose wrong-- while you pile all of the attention and love that your little sister will never have on this new 'daughter', your Ziuta. Think about it, Gormaq."
A tiny chip of his heart-- a trifle, really-- wilted with shame.
Mother disappeared into the lodge and closed the door.