Dragon Haven Page 8

  We made it back to Northcamp that day, don’t ask me how. I think Billy was beaming Strength Waves at me or something. If I could keep a baby dragon alive anything was possible, including Strength Waves. It took us all day, and Billy carried my pack as well as his own, and we stopped a lot, and every time I sat down (which I had to, to feed the dragonlet without worrying about dropping it), I thought I’d never get up again. But I did. Also standing up always made my headache worse (bang bang bang), and I kept trying to walk so as not to joggle my head, let alone the dragonlet.

  At some feeding or other I noticed that the dragonlet was already bigger than it had been two days ago. If I held it upside down in my hand now, it spilled over onto my wrist. It wasn’t going to fit up my sleeve much longer. And it was heavier too obviously. I didn’t have to come up with any way to measure that. It was a good thing Billy’d brought food. The dragonlet got through a lot of broth.

  When I staggered into the little clearing in front of Northcamp I almost couldn’t believe it. It was like adopting a baby dragon had sent me into some kind of alternate reality where things like buildings and electricity didn’t exist. Billy got the generator going while I was still sitting in a chair and staring at the stove in the big central room. Stoves didn’t exist in my alternate reality either. Or chairs. When the teakettle whistled I jumped a mile and the dragonlet woke up and started peeping. I wasn’t sure whether it was a frightened peep or a “hello, who are you?” peep but it stopped as soon as the teakettle did and went back to sleep. Feeding it sitting in a chair was weird too. Dragons just don’t fit in the human world. Duh.

  And then there was taking a bath…. In a way that was the first time some of the hairiest implications of what I’d done began to sink in. I’d told Billy, during some night feed or other, that it went nuts any time I tried to lay it down…and then we’d found out the hard way the next day that it hated Billy trying to hold it only slightly less than it hated being laid down. This was a blow. Make that a BLOW. Until it happened I hadn’t thought about having someone to trade off red welts and disgustingness duty and nooo sleep with—but it occurred to me real fast at that point that I didn’t have it. That I wasn’t going to have it. And dragonlets stay in their moms’ pouches how long??? Also I was used to Billy being able to do anything—including get me out of any trouble I was in. But I was too zonked to follow what this really meant very far. And that’s a good thing.

  Maybe the teakettle and being in a square place lined with planks (called a “cabin”) and furniture and plumbing and stuff were the thing too many for the dragonlet (see: dragons do not fit in the human world, and don’t forget the “duh”) like getting back to human space seemed to be this weird shock to me. My new permanent headache, which I was almost sort of getting used to, was making me feel queasy and dizzy. But the bath was a kind of a watershed (ha ha ha) moment for both of us. The dragonlet had a complete mini Eric-type meltdown. I thought it was going to do itself an injury when we tried to make it a nest with (a) warm ashes, (b) warmed-up blankets, (c) anything else we could think of.

  So the way it ended up was, we kept the dragonlet half wrapped in a piece of my by then truly gross shirt and moved it kind of up and down my front while I got in the bath that way and tried to wash around it, which is to say Billy held it while I tried to wash—this was more embarrassing than I can begin to tell you and it was only being so tired and out of it that made it even possible—and then I got up on my knees and Billy held it against my back while I crouched forward to wash my face and hair. Oh good. New red spots too.

  Billy noticed the red spots, both old and new—he’d probably noticed before but maybe he hadn’t realized how many of them there were—and did his more-expressionless-than-expressionless wooden-Indian face thing and I noticed, which was interesting, since I wasn’t noticing anything, but I suppose it just proves I was fully into my new dragonlet-defending-and-fostering role, because I said, “Oh, they don’t hurt, they’re just marks, they’re no big deal, they’re no deal.” And I looked at Billy and Billy looked at me and I could see that Billy knew I was lying but I just kept looking at him and…he looked away. I didn’t get into staring contests with Billy because I knew who won and it wasn’t me, and furthermore I’d had this one standing there naked and stinking (and red-spotted). The maternal instinct is sure powerful.

  The dragonlet hated all of this. I started getting so worried that it would explode or something that I sort of hurried up. Besides, there’s only so much embarrassment you can take at one time.

  The dragonlet wasn’t crazy about clean clothes either but I guess it was so glad to see its pouch equivalent again it wasn’t going to complain. And Billy had come up with some new kind of salve for my stomach (and my back, and my arm) which the dragonlet seemed to like a lot, so we smeared some all over it and then wiped some off again which kind of cleaned it up too, but the salve made it fantastically slippery like a sort of extra-large watermelon seed with legs, and by the end of the process my clean sweatshirt and sweatpants were almost as sticky and disgusting as my shirt had been, although we smelled a lot better than we had. And Billy—which may be the single best thing he’s ever done for me in my entire life—had rigged up a kind of diaper for the dragonlet—it didn’t have any tail to speak of yet, just a kind of vaguely pointy lump at the back end—so I stayed poopless.

  This was so blissful my third night of almost no sleep seemed almost okay. Even if Mom was in a lot of my dreams, when I got near enough to being asleep to have dreams. Although you may have noticed that you can dream even when you’re only about half asleep, and know it, like you know you’re still lying on a thin little rubbery mattress under mousy-smelling blankets curled up around a pillow supporting a dragonlet against your stomach. I even said to her once, I’m too tired to be dreaming. Even about you. Bang bang bang went the headache. The headache never slept.

  If you’ve ever been for a long time without anything like enough sleep you know that you get pretty non compos pretty soon. I was forgetting things the moment Billy said them and couldn’t really think of anything but feeding the dragonlet. (And talking to it. I was still doing that. Although I was still calling it Ugly.) It was like my life had become feeding the dragonlet and I hadn’t noticed or minded. This was just the way it was now. A haze punctuated by feeding the dragonlet. Speaking of the maternal instinct. Maybe the headache was the fourteen-year-old boy with a dragonlet version of postnatal depression.

  The haze was also stabbed and ripped up by visions of the dying dragon’s eye. The cavescape was still there when I looked into her eye—which is where the dreams about her always started—but I seemed to get farther in now, when I did that weird stepping-forward thing, till there was nothing behind me either except more caves—reddishy purply and shadowy and smoky and twinkling and something else, I don’t know what, some presence. Sometimes I got so far in I imagined seeing her with a lot of other dragons there, in those magical-looking caves that I’d got into by looking into her eye. Real Arabian Nights stuff. I didn’t try saying “open sesame” but I’m not sure I wanted to leave.

  I don’t know why I thought the caves had to be magical except that like I’ve told you that’s the way I’ve always been about caves. And these didn’t look anything like the caves near the Institute. These had stalactites and stalagmites that were landscapes and worlds all by themselves, and in colors you can’t even really dream. I’d be looking at some stony sculpture Michelangelo would have killed his grandmother to have been able to do, and thinking, I don’t know that color, that color doesn’t exist, but like wow. Those dreams—whatever they were—were another thing that made the headache worse, although it was a weird kind of worse, there was something kind of curvy and rippling about it, like one of the cave sculptures, and it like fitted into my head differently, almost as if it thought it belonged there and couldn’t figure out why it couldn’t make itself comfortable. And made me uncomfortable. Sometimes I felt it would have apologized if it could’v
e figured out how. Nuts of course. Of course I had a headache most of the time—it was just from not getting enough sleep.

  At least the dreams about Mom didn’t make my head hurt more. They made my stomach hurt more instead—on the inside, not the outside where the dragonlet was operating.

  I didn’t hear Billy’s first check-in after he found us—and I really don’t know how he got through the one when I should have been back at Northcamp and wasn’t—but that meant two check-ins I should have talked to Dad and didn’t. This would have made Dad frantic, and while probably the only person who could have talked him out of sending for the helicopter was Billy, it’s still interesting that Billy managed it somehow, since even on no sleep I would have noticed a helicopter. Ha ha. But even our special two-ways don’t work very well in a lot of Smokehill, which is why we always carry flares too. It’s something about the charge on the fence, and the permanent campsites were chosen almost as much for good radio transmission as a good water and firewood supply. So maybe Billy did something cute with the two-way during my unscheduled absence and just undid it once I was back again.

  Billy made sure I heard this one. I heard it through my haze, but Northcamp is small anyway, and we were both (all three of us, but I doubt the dragonlet got much out of it) in the central room. Also Dad was pretty noisy. The roaring coming out of the radio as soon as contact was made must have just about knocked the thing off the table except that Billy was holding it down.

  Even Billy’s eyes narrowed a fraction but he flipped the switch as calmly as ever and said, “You can talk to Jake in a minute, Frank, and he’s fine.”

  Flip—ROAR—flip.

  “Frank, listen to me. I’m afraid I have some bad news. Something Jake discovered. I think you need to hear this first.” And Billy went on to make up some true-as-far-as-it-went story about a dead dragon and a dead guy. The sheer bald chutzpah of it almost jerked me into full attention—Billy sounded like he was telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help him whatever.

  At the same time what he was telling—even without what he wasn’t telling—was of course totally huge—the BIGGEST—scary news for us anyway, and was going to distract everybody very, very effectively from Jake’s first solo, even Dad right now in full roar. Dad sounded almost normal as he said head-of-Institute things like “Where?” and “Just the one man?” and “No visible time line, I suppose?” which is to say who killed who first, which was going to be a big one. It was all big and deadly anyway, but if she’d killed him first, it was worse. Dad said a couple more times, “Let me talk to Jake,” and Billy finally said, “Jake’s a bit in shock, you know. You might let it pass for now. You can talk to him about it later.”

  There was a pause that probably wasn’t so long in actual time terms but it sure echoed in Northcamp’s little common room. The dragonlet chose this moment to rearrange itself too, so I felt briefly like I was caught in some kind of nowhere between my old life/world and my new one. Sleeplessness makes you dizzy too, in case you don’t already know that.

  “Okay, Billy,” Dad said finally. “Thanks.”

  Another, shorter pause, and Billy nodded to me, and I put my hand under the settling-down bulge of dragonlet and went over to sit down by the two-way. I flicked the switch. “Hi, Dad.”

  As awkward father-son conversations go this one was pretty impressive. It was even worse than the one we’d had about sex about a year before. At least this one was over the two-way where we didn’t have to be obvious about not being able to look each other in the face. But I agreed that I was fine, just like Billy had said. And I did try to say something about the dragon, just to sort of, I don’t know, show I was trying or something, but all I could manage to get out was, “They’re so big, you know? You know they’re big—I walk by that picture every day—” It’s one of those artist’s representation things, right outside the theater (and not half bad by the way, it does not look like someone who is trying to make ends meet because his only job is part-time substitute illustrator for a bad comic book series), and it goes on and on and on and on because eighty feet (plus tail) is a lot of wall, or a lot of dragon. But my voice cracked when I said it, and Dad let it go, and I changed the subject to asking if there’d been any interesting new orphans since we’d been gone, which was the best I could do at subject-changing and Dad wouldn’t know how bad a try it really was.

  Then I gave the two-way back to Billy and he and Dad started discussing immediate ways and means. Billy was going to stay out here a few more days, needed help, and couldn’t spare anyone to see me safe home while they investigated because he wanted anyone who could be spared to join the hunting party. Clue-hunting party. He said, And besides, Jake can help. That was the best joke of all. I heard him say it. He lied amazingly. I didn’t know he had it in him. Billy can just not say things, although I’d never heard him do it on quite such an epic scale before, but I’d never heard him lie.

  I’d better make this point now and then I’ll make it several more times later on because it’s one of the things that makes no sense—or maybe it’s the thing that makes the no-sense make sense to you reading this about Crazy Jake and His Dragonlet. If it hadn’t been for this sticky, smelly, hot little blodge of dragonlet I’d’ve been totally blown away by the poacher. I should have been totally blown away. This was The End of Life As All of Us Knew It, at Smokehill. Dragons were safe here, that’s what Smokehill was for—we may save raccoons, rats and squirrels too, and provide cage space (and cleaning) to a lot of lizards, but dragons are what we’re for. But to everybody outside Smokehill, the really important thing that Smokehill was for was to prove to people, from the other direction, that dragons were safe—that they didn’t kill people and nobody ever, ever had to worry that they might, and besides, no one could get through the fence.

  I can’t BEGIN to tell you how important this was—how important everyone at Smokehill knew it was. Except me. I knew the poacher was really bad and everything—but wasn’t it time to feed the dragonlet again? Yes. It was always time to feed the dragonlet again. If there were any cracks in my dragonlet obsession, they were full of remembering its mom. The way she’d looked at me. Slightly in my defense, it was a pretty overwhelming experience. It had been overwhelming enough that Billy reminding Dad of it had stopped Dad in midroar, which wasn’t something that happened in the world as I had known it. And Dad didn’t know the half of it.

  That first conversation with Dad I got sort of for free though. I had to pull it together more after that, because of course Dad was expecting me to. That was pretty bad. I had this brilliant idea of telling Dad I’d walked into a tree branch while I was looking the other way and it banged up my throat, so talking kind of hurt. After Billy assured him it was no big deal Dad let me get away with this too. I don’t know if he suspected anything right away or not—but he probably couldn’t afford to waste time thinking about it. Dad had to figure out what he was going to tell the world about the poacher, and he had to figure it out fast, so I imagine that he was relieved to take Billy’s word for it and leave his clumsy, idiot son in Billy’s hands for a while longer. He did sound a little distracted, although it made him keep asking me if I was really okay, which I suppose meant he cared, although it sounded a lot like he’d just forgotten I’d already said yes thirty seconds ago. Although really it was pretty amazing of him to remember he had a son, in the circumstances. I’m not sure I would’ve in his shoes.

  Billy’s everyone, when they arrived, turned out to be three more of the oldest Rangers, and he must have told them what they were getting into because I don’t remember their acting surprised when they were introduced to me and my new buddy. Or maybe I don’t remember because I was so stupid from being that tired. I registered that they’d brought me some more clothes and a couple of old baby bottles from the stash at the orphanage. I didn’t ask how they’d got them past Eric. And I wondered when Billy had told them what kind of orphan to expect.

  Anyway, Whiteoak took o
ver the Jake-tending duty while Billy, Jane and Kit went on to Pine Tor. They were away for three days. And when they got back something else had happened. The dragonlet had gone from needing to be fed every half hour (or twenty minutes) to needing to be fed every two hours. Suddenly. On the tenth day of its life it had still wanted half-hour feedings. That night it slept two hours…and then two hours…and then two hours…and then two hours.

  When it woke up, there was Whiteoak with warm broth. I don’t know if he’d been waiting an hour and a half each time or not and I didn’t ask him. Only partly because he wouldn’t have answered. I was in awe of Whiteoak—he could speak English but he didn’t want to, and mostly he talked to the other Arkholas in their own language which I knew about six words of. (Eleanor, for whom it is a principle of life never to be in awe of anyone, said that he did this so he got off tourist duty. I wouldn’t want to say absolutely that she’s wrong. But that only made me admire him more.)

  It was weird enough to have anyone waiting on me, even if it wasn’t for my sake but the dragonlet’s, but it was particularly weird that it was Whiteoak. I mean, just his name—all the other Arkholas had some kind of Anglo name that they used. I guess Whiteoak thought he was meeting us halfway by translating whatever the Arkhola for “white oak” is into English. So it was kind of all part of the space-cadet quality of everything that it was Whiteoak who got left behind to keep me going. And then I was dazed by getting some sleep, finally. You know how when you finally do get some sleep you’re more tired? That’s how I felt. Three days without sleep didn’t seem to faze Whiteoak at all.

  But it was still confusingly weird, like I had any room for any more confusingness or weirdness: wham—two hours was okay, for feeding the dragonlet. I know how it sounds to put it this way, but it was like the dragonlet was now saving my life, for saving its.