Dragon Page 11

  “I was born in 1925.” Ram is picking a path for us along the grassy bank. The trees grow tight to the stream, and Ram takes my hand so I can walk just behind him, and we help each other keep our balance.

  “So you’re sixty-eight years old?”

  “Sixty-seven. My birthday’s in November. But I’m not sixty-seven like you think of sixty-seven year-olds. Think of it this way: Azi was twelve. In human years, she’d be a pre-teen. In dog years, that makes her eighty-four. She was very, very old for a dog of her size, but compared to a human being, she was just a kid.”

  “So, what then? You’re saying in human years you’re fifteen or something? What does that make me? Three?” I’m not actually doing math, here, in case you’re wondering. I’m just trying to play it cool like my heart isn’t slamming inside my ribcage for reasons I don’t understand. I don’t even know why I care how old Ram is, or how our ages match up. But judging by the way my blood is screaming through my veins, it’s important to me.

  “I’m an adult. You’re an adult.”

  “I’m an adult?” I have to stop walking. I about didn’t get all those words out, even though there were only three of them. My face is probably red. I try to bluff past it. “Why have I never laid an egg, then?”

  “You can only lay an egg as a dragon. And the egg won’t develop unless you,” Ram coughs, inexplicably tongue-tied, “have a mate.” He’s stopped walking, too, and dropped my hand. Now he crouches down by the stream. “Why don’t we get a drink? I’m thirsty.”

  “Great idea.”

  The stream is cold, the water refreshing. I scoop it up by handfuls, my thoughts mostly consumed with everything Ram has told me. From the way he tells it, I could live a very long time. My dad is crazy old. My mom—well, now I know why I never found her picture at Saint Evangeline’s. If she attended when she was my age, photographs hadn’t been invented yet. And I wasn’t looking nearly far enough back in the yearbooks.

  My thirst quenched, I stand and stretch, yawning. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “We’ve had a couple nights like that now.” He turns and faces me.

  Part of me wishes he’d turn back around, so I wouldn’t have to face him as we talk. His eyes are so blue, so piercing, as though they can see right through me to the jumbled thoughts inside.

  But part of me is also curious to look at him, to think about how long he’s been around and how much longer he’ll live, and wonder what he’d look like without the beard.

  Ram balances his hands on the hilts of the swords at his hips. “I don’t know how much longer we should go on like this.”

  “Like what?” My face feels warm, and I wonder if he can read my thoughts after all.

  “Walking. It could take us months to get you home at this rate, and we’d have to go around the Black Sea.”

  “What’s the other option? Fly over it?”

  Ram nods. “I can teach you to fly, a little bit tonight, a little further tomorrow night, so by the time we reach the sea, you’ll be able to fly across.”

  “It’s a big sea.”

  “It is. I don’t think you could make it on your first flight. Changing into a dragon is enormously draining, especially when you’re not used to it.”

  He’d said something like that before, so I’m not surprised. At the same time, though, I feel slightly panicked. I don’t want to change into a dragon. I don’t want to be a dragon. In fact, I’m pretty sure I don’t even want dragons to exist, except that my father and Ram are both dragons, and they’re two of my favorite people in the world.

  This is tricky.

  “So, what are you saying?” I ask, kicking myself when my voice trembles, betraying my fear.

  Ram’s expression is kind. Maybe even understanding, though I doubt he really gets where I’m coming from. He’s changed into a dragon flawlessly before my eyes. And he seems perfectly cool with his reptilian alter-ego. “I think we should eat a big meal to help build your strength up, then rest for a while so you can try flying tonight.”

  I nod silently, not trusting my voice. Food sounds good. Rest would be welcome. But the dragon-changing thing? I’m not ready.

  So.

  Not.

  Ready.

  Still, that’s not until tonight. And as the last couple days have proven, anything could happen before tonight.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The weird thing about making camp is that it’s just the two of us now. No Ozzie, no Ion. And I’m not used to falling asleep in the daylight, never mind that I’m exhausted and singlehandedly ate a roast goose (Ram caught one for each of us). So we stretch out on our leaf beds in the shade, with our heads sort of together and our feet on opposite sides of a clump of flowers, like a triangle missing its side because I can’t quite bring myself to lie down alongside this guy (is that weird? I just can’t).

  I ask Ram about the dragon-changing thing. “How do you change into a dragon, anyway? Do you just blow yourself up like a balloon?” I saw more of Ion than Ram, and Ion did that laughing bit like he was sucking in air.

  Ram props himself on his side with his elbow on the ground and his hand under his ear. He’s facing me, but I’m on my back staring up into the leafy canopy above us. Ram explains, “For me, it’s like I’m holding my breath, but not really holding my breath. You have to visualize yourself changing, but most importantly, you have to want to change. Otherwise you could accidentally pop into dragon form when you sneeze. That could be a problem.”

  His words are light and I suspect he’s trying to make me laugh, but I pinch my eyes shut in despair.

  You have to want to change?

  “Ilsa? You falling asleep already?”

  “No.” I could try faking it, but Ram knows me too well for that. “What if I can’t do it?”

  “It’s going to take a lot longer to get you home, then.” He inhales slowly. “I started changing when I was a kid. Most dragons do. For your safety, though, your father thought it best that you wait until you’re older.”

  “Is there such a thing as waiting too long?” My voice has grown thick, but I can’t help it.

  “I don’t know. I’ve known so few dragons, and all of them have been dragons for as long as I’ve known them.” He falls onto his back and looks up into the leaves, too. “I hope not.”

  *

  By evening we’ve slept and eaten again, and Ram is ready to teach me how to become a dragon. He faces me in the middle of a field, looks me full in the face, and frowns.

  “You look terrified.”

  I don’t respond to the accusation with more than a shrug.

  “Don’t be frightened. You don’t even have to fly the first time, if you don’t want to—but flying is the best part. And just think how quickly you’ll be able to get home. I thought you wanted to get home.”

  “I wanted nothing more than to get home,” I acknowledge. “But that was when I thought…”

  “Thought what?”

  “That home would be the same place I left as a child. That I’d fit in there.”

  “You will fit in.”

  “I don’t know anything about it. And I’m the only dragon.”

  “You say dragon like it’s a bad word.”

  I told you he could read me too well. “Ion is a dragon. He’s bad. Eudora is a dragon.”

  “Your father is a dragon. So was your mother. I’m a dragon. The dragons I know are some of the wisest, most benevolent creatures, fiercely protective of their people—”

  “It’s that fiercely protective part that worries me. Dragons are capable of such violence.” I shudder.

  “Capable of is different from prone to.” Ram makes a commiserating face. “Look at it this way—if you become a dragon, you’ll be one of the good ones. You can choose. You define who you are and how you act. I can’t imagine you being bad.”

  Protests rise in my mind—of the looks the girls at Saint Evangeline’s gave me when they caught me eating chicken bones, of all the ways
I never fit in, of the fact that I don’t want to be a dragon. Isn’t that bad?

  But the way Ram looks at me, like he believes in me, I almost want to live up to his version of me. And I’m rather certain he’d understand about the chicken bone thing. You should have seen him tear into that roast goose.

  So I take his hands, which he’s been holding out toward me for a bit, and I grit my teeth. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

  Ram holds my hands securely and leans his head down toward mine.

  I duck away. “Whoa, what are you doing?”

  “This is how my father taught me how to change.”

  “How?”

  “He held my hands, and pressed his forehead to mine, and I changed as he changed.”

  “So we’re just going to pinch our eyes shut and say the magic words?”

  “There are no magic words. Picture yourself as a dragon. Feel the change—your nails extending into talons, your wings arching out from your back, your skin tightening, buckling into scales…” Ram’s voice drifts off.

  I’m trying to feel the changes he describes, trying to imagine myself becoming that thing like I watched Ion become. The next thing I know, Ram is a dragon.

  I look down at myself with a surge of terrified excitement—

  And I’m still human.

  Ram switches back. He’s still in his boxer shorts, which he stripped down to in preparation for changing, because he’s already destroyed enough clothes on this trip, and if I don’t hurry up and figure out how to become a dragon and fly home, he’s going to run out of clothing. Not that I’d complain. Personally, I think he looks mighty fine in his boxer shorts—crazy beard notwithstanding.

  “Are you sure I’m a dragon?” I ask when he gives me a look that questions what went wrong. “Maybe I was switched at birth. Maybe it skips a generation. Maybe I’m a dud.”

  “Maybe you don’t want to be a dragon.” He crosses his arms over his chest.

  I cross my arms, too, and meet his eyes, but I have no snarky comebacks.

  “All right, Ilsa.” He spreads his arms wide in a gesture of defeat. “You tell me. How can I make you want it?”

  I have to bite my lip and turn my head away. Did I mention that Ram is not wearing a shirt, and he looks very good not wearing a shirt? I did mention that, didn’t I? Yeah, probably because I can’t stop thinking about that.

  “You know you’re going to have to walk home if you can’t fly, don’t you?”

  “Actually, I’ve been thinking about that.”

  “And?”

  “You said you could fly and carry Azi home, right? Why can’t you carry me? I weigh less than Azi.” Technically, I’m not sure that’s true about my weight. The girls at school were always horrified when they saw how much I weigh. I’m not fat—not at all. I’m just a very dense person. I always figured it’s because muscle weighs more than fat, and I took it as a good indicator that I was stronger than all the waif-girls at school.

  After all, I did a lot of strength-training activities. I was on the rowing team and I did archery. The archery was especially fun because every year we’d go up to Scotland to the Highland Games and do exhibition shoots with things like moving targets and flaming arrows. It was one of my favorite parts of school.

  I probably would have done fencing, too, if I’d have known it would end up being so important, but the fencing time conflicted with rowing practice and I didn’t want to let my team down. They needed me. Most of the other girls were waifs.

  “You didn’t like it when Ion carried you,” Ram reminds me, but his expression says he’s thinking about it.

  “That’s because he was trying to kidnap me. And he was holding me rather tight.”

  “You can ride on my back, actually,” Ram concedes, though he looks disappointed. “Don’t you at least want to give it another try?”

  For his sake I try again, but my heart is not in it. I mostly just want him to carry me.

  So when he turns into a dragon and I don’t, he kneels down low in front of me and I climb onto his back, between his wings. He still has his backpack on, the straps looped around the joints where his wings sprouted from his shoulders, and he’s wearing his swords, just as I’m wearing mine.

  I lean close against his back, loop my arms up under his wings, and hold on as well as I can without hurting him. Unlike some pictures I’ve seen of dragons, Ram doesn’t have spiny plates coming out of his back like a stegosaurus. I can only assume those artists got dragons confused with dinosaurs.

  But in a lot of other ways, Ram looks like the classic artistic depictions of a dragon, including horns and a long tail scaled tail. But unlike some pictures, which show a tail with an arrow-head-like tip, Ram’s tail has four spikes jutting out sideways…much like a stegosaurus. So I totally understand how artists could get the two confused. Unlike the horns on his head, which are pointy-sharp on the tips, Ram’s tail spikes are rather blunted, more of a smashing weapon than the slicing spears that protrude from his skull.

  He beats his wings and we rise above the treetops, gliding eastward. His movements are smooth, strong, graceful. As he picks up speed I wrap my arms more securely around his neck, careful not to squeeze him. Flying is a bit frightening, but mostly exhilarating.

  Ram is careful to avoid towns and highways, or anywhere people might be. The night is cloudy, though, so I doubt we could be seen. He’s not even glowing much. He’s just slightly iridescent tonight. I wonder if he has an internal dimmer switch to control how brightly he glows.

  At first it’s a tad terrifying being up so high, especially since my last experience in the air was when Ion hurled me toward the earth. But before long I relax and try to see what I can of the land and where we’re headed.

  There are mountains ahead of us—they look like jutting shadows in the night, but I recall from Ion’s road atlas that the Carpathian Mountain Range dominates the Romanian landscape, and Ram had said the stream we were following probably originated there.

  We fly on and on, it’s difficult to say how long. Hours? I’m watching the mountains grow larger as we get closer, but at the same time, dark shapes loom above the mountaintops, and lights flicker ominously.

  A thunderstorm is building beyond the mountains. As we draw closer, I realize the storm is moving toward us, swelling as it approaches. Soon I can hear the thunder, and see streaks of lightning instead of mere flickering lights.

  We haven’t been flying that long. I doubt it’s even midnight yet, but I don’t think we’ll be able to go much farther. The storm looks dangerous.

  Like the stillness before the storm, the air around us is stagnant and heavy with humidity. Ram begins to sag in the sky. We had a bit of a breeze when he started out, and I think the air currents helped him stay aloft and glide. Ram has been beating his wings hard to stay above the trees, but soon the leaves seem to reach up as though to grab us, and the thunder threatens, growing louder and more fearsome the further we fly.

  Just as I’m beginning to worry that Ram is going to scrape the treetops, he swerves toward a building in the distance.

  I’ve seen several of these from the air, mostly in remote areas, their architecture varying from medieval to gothic, baroque to neoclassical, from classic castles with enclosed courtyards to sprawling country villas, all of them in varying states of disrepair. Most looked abandoned, as does this one. But it is night and looks can be deceiving.

  Ram swoops toward the fortress, over its high crumbling walls, and sets down gently in the courtyard. I slide off his back and land on my feet as he converts to human form.

  He’s still wearing his boxer shorts. Yes, I checked.

  But he’s also panting heavily, doubled over, gripping his knees, maybe even trembling.

  “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m fine.” He doesn’t sound fine. He sounds knackered.

  Horrified, I realize what’s wrong. “I’m too heavy for you, aren’t I?”

  Ram shakes his head. “It’s not
you. I’m not used to carrying someone when I fly. I’ve fought Ion and the yagi, hiked through the woods, changed for you, changed again—”

  “Changing takes a great deal of energy,” I recall aloud, trying to keep my voice down in case this place, which looks abandoned, isn’t.

  “I just need a breather. When the wind died down, I lost the updrafts and had to beat my wings more. It’s all part of the equation.”

  “Can I do anything for you? Can I get you something to eat?” I look around. There are doorways on all sides of the courtyard, hidden under the shadows of a second-story walkway perched atop arched supports. Some of the doors are closed, some open. Some doors appear to be missing altogether. I peer toward them and they gape back, toothless voids that could hide anything.

  I shiver. The night is cold and the storm is drawing closer, bringing frigid mountain air. Lightning crackles through the sky, illuminating the courtyard like a strobe light. I don’t know where we’re going to find any food.

  Ram hasn’t answered my question. He’s pulled his backpack off and is stepping into a pair of jeans.

  “Where are we?”

  “I’m not sure exactly.” He tugs a t-shirt on over his head and slips his arms into the sleeves of a flannel shirt. “The Romanian government—really most governments of Eastern Europe—seized control of royal estates following the World Wars. They claimed they were taking them for the public good, but in most cases, they failed to keep the buildings in proper repair. Now that the Iron Curtain has fallen, governments are trying to return the estates to the families who originally owned them, but the process is lengthy. A lot of these places are still abandoned.”

  “Is this particular place abandoned?” Lightning flickers again, and I can hear rain approaching. We step toward the shelter of the second-floor balcony, ducking cautiously through an archway, unsure what we’ll find.

  “It looks abandoned, but I don’t know. It could be the family has only recently claimed it. They might be living in part of the building while they slowly rebuild the rest.” Rain starts to patter above us as Ram speaks.