Dragon Page 4

  Chapter Five

  I have never seen a picture of my mother before this moment. She died before I was born (I know, I know—the girls at school had a heyday with that one, too, but I was always told she died before I was born, so I believe it, even if it’s not medically feasible) and my dad could never bring himself to speak of her, because he loved her so much and misses her.

  For a flickering second, as Ram hands me the card, I wonder how I’m supposed to know if the picture is really of my mother, if Ion’s sign is actually proof my father sent him, when I don’t know what my mother looks like. It could be a picture of anybody.

  Then I look at the picture, and I know.

  It’s me.

  No, not me. I have my father’s coloring—his jet black hair, rusty brown skin, and his eyes, which are a weird shade of brown that, to be honest, almost look red.

  The eyes never helped with my popularity issues at Saint Evangeline’s.

  But other than her coloring, which is obviously fair in spite of the fact that the picture is old and sepia-toned, the woman looks like me. She has my full lips, bent in a sweet smile. The cheeks that are a little rounder than I’d like. The eyes, big and expressive under high arched brows, which give away every secret and lose at poker, like whenever I was invited to play the covert night games, which I’m sure only happened because the girls knew it would be easy to win my money.

  Something great and tragic wells up in my throat. My mother was beautiful. Never mind that she looks like me. In her own way, she was beautiful. I hold on to the card, being careful not to bend the picture. It is such a gift.

  “Now is not a good time,” Ram informs Ion. “The yagi are swarming. They attacked my dog this evening.”

  So, our enemies are called yagi, hmm? It’s amazing what I’ve learned since Ion showed up. I like this guy more and more. Why couldn’t Ram have told me that much already? At the same time, the word sounds familiar. Yagi. Doesn’t that mean enemy?

  But I can’t think about how I know the word. Ion is talking.

  “They are precisely the reason you must come now. They are hunting for Ilsa. While they search for her here, we can sneak away. There are fewer on the path home.”

  Home. The word echoes in my ears. I turn to Ram. “He’s right. We should go now.”

  Ram doesn’t look happy at all. I know he likes being in charge, and he is really, really, really serious about following my dad’s instructions. To. The. Letter.

  I’m pretty sure my dad is his boss, the only one who can tell him what to do. Ram isn’t fond of being questioned, let alone opposed, and certainly not outnumbered. “Come in back. We’ll discuss it.”

  Ram locks up the storefront and turns off the lights while I lead Ion through the back to the anteroom where Ozzie is waiting, resting in a heap near the back door as if to block the entrance from outsiders. I run over to see how she’s doing, and she thumps her tail weakly in greeting.

  To my relief, it looks like Ram did a fine job wrapping her injuries without blocking her nose or eyes. I place a hand on her back and pat her gently, while Ion turns to face Ram as he enters.

  Ram fires off protests. “How would you have us travel? The dog is injured. She cannot make the trek on foot. Nor can we bring her or our weapons on trains and planes.”

  “I have a car.”

  Ion is my hero.

  Ram looks as though he’s trying to think of another excuse, a reason not to go along with Ion’s proposal, but he can’t, and this makes him even more frustrated. “At the very least, we should wait until morning.”

  “Night is the best time to leave—under the cover of darkness.” Ion’s reasoning makes plenty of sense to me, never mind that I’m exhausted from a day of butchering that was even more rigorous than usual.

  “Ilsa and I are tired,” Ram points out.

  “You can sleep in the car while I drive.”

  Ram turns to me. “Did you pack a bag?”

  “It’s just inside my door. I can grab it on a moment’s notice.”

  I can tell Ram is running out of objections. What I don’t understand is why he feels so strongly the need to object. If my dad says it’s time for me to come home, it’s time. It’s past time. I want to be there now. Yesterday. Ten years ago and every day since.

  Ram makes one more futile protest. “We’ll need to bring our weapons. They’ll cause trouble at the border crossings.”

  Ion only laughs. “I’ve gotten far worse than a few swords and daggers across the borders, in more desperate times than these. Let’s get your bags and go.”

  I study the picture of my mother and wonder vaguely in the back of my mind what Ion could possibly do for a living to have crossed borders with weapons so many times. He doesn’t look that much older than I am.

  Ram makes every aspect of their discussion sound like an objection, but finally, he and Ion agree on the next several steps. Ram is going to round up our weapons—swords, daggers, and their sheaths, and hand them off to Ion. Then Ram will carry Ozzie and meet Ion in front of the building.

  Between the two of them, the men will not leave me unattended, not even for a moment. Ram is adamant about this. I consider pointing out to him that I’m not completely helpless, but the red stain of blood has already begun to seep up through the gauze of Ozzie’s bandages, reminding me how real the danger is.

  Ram and I select our favorite swords, and Ion takes the selected weapons. While Ram scoops up Ozzie, I rush to the back door and hold it open for him. The evening air is slightly humid. The scent of yagi hangs heavy in the alley, and for an instant I’m tempted to slam the door shut again.

  But no, we have to go. We must pass through the scent of evil if I’m ever going to get home.

  Ram makes a face, but he carries Ozzie outside ahead of me, looking about warily as I come up behind him and close the door.

  “Should we leave a note for the Jitrnickas?” It occurs to me that we don’t even know for sure if they’re okay. I mean, if Ozzie was attacked, who knows what might have happened to them? Not that they ever check out with us before leaving for the evening, but they’re usually still closing up the front of the shop after we’ve cleaned up the back and left for the night.

  “They’ve always known we would leave suddenly. If anything, they’re surprised we’ve stayed this long. They will be safer once we’re gone.” As Ram talks we trek down the alley toward the street. I look up, above my little flat, to the third floor apartment that straddles the two storefronts, Michal’s butcher shop and the mending business his wife operates next door, which she shares with her sister, who lives in the second floor flat next to mine.

  As I’m looking up, Tyna opens a window, mutters something in Czech about the smell outside, and closes the window again, but not before I hear easy laughter in the room behind her.

  The Jitrnickas are fine. The yagi have not bothered them.

  This is a huge relief to me, even if Ram already predicted it.

  Ion puts our swords in the front storage boot of his four-door Skoda (which have the engine in the rear) and Ram gently settles Ozzie into the back seat.

  I’m standing dumbly on the curb, watching to make sure Ozzie doesn’t whimper too much, when Ion says to me, “Let’s grab your bag.”

  I dart up the stairs with Ion behind me. My bag is where I left it, next to the kitchen door. It’s pretty big for a backpack, but still, it looks small when you consider that everything I need is packed inside, including a spare toothbrush. I don’t have much. The pans and dishes in the kitchen belonged to the Jitrnickas. I won’t need my coveralls on the road. There isn’t much else. Jeans, t-shirts, a jacket in case it gets cold.

  But I’m used to the cold.

  “Got everything?” Ion asks. He looks calm, but eager to get going.

  “Yup.” I’m eager, too.

  Ram steps out from the front door of his flat across the street as Ion and I head for the car. Ram pauses at the curb, though no cars are coming and it’s safe
to cross. He sniffs the air and his brow furrows as he turns to look down the street.

  I look, too.

  Nothing appears out of the ordinary. Swirls of graffiti mar the once-lovely facades of Baroque buildings, but that is not unusual for this neighborhood. It’s long past sunset and the buildings are heavily shadowed.

  The shadows bother me. They could hide anyone, or anything.

  Ram darts across the street toward me. His hand at my back guides me into the rear seat. Ozzie takes up much of the seat, but I place her head on my lap and we both fit.

  “Let’s get going,” Ram tells Ion as the pair close their doors and Ion starts the car.

  I’m stroking Ozzie’s back, but I look up as we pull away from the curb. The shadows shift behind me, and shapes like men step out into the fringes of the light. Two, three...a dozen.

  Men? Or yagi? I open my mouth to say something to Ion and Ram, but we turn the corner, and whatever I saw passes out of sight.

  I clamp my mouth closed. We’re leaving them behind, so there’s no point saying anything that might make Ram or Ion decide to stick around for even a moment longer.

  As far as I’m concerned, we can’t get away fast enough.

  “Which way are we headed?” I ask as Ion navigates through Prague’s narrow streets.

  “East.” Ram’s tone is final, communicating that he knows I’m going to ask for more specifics, but he’s going to refuse to give them. I know that tone well from previous conversations. So many other times, I’ve given up asking when he used that tone.

  But Ion wasn’t with us those other times.

  I keep asking. “How far east?”

  As I’d hoped, Ion is not so close-lipped. “We’ll go through Krakow—”

  “Budapest,” Ram counters.

  “Poland, then Ukraine,” Ion insists, turning a corner sharply as though to take us there this very second.

  “Slovakia, Hungary, Romania, Bulgaria,” Ram’s deep voice bellows the name of each country like commands, listing cities that mark a far different route than the one Ion suggested. “We’ll go south, through Istanbul.”

  “North through Russia,” Ion talks right over the top of Ram, as though he’s not even afraid of him, which is craziness. They may be close in height, but Ram is huge compared to Ion. Although, to be honest, I don’t know how much of that is beard.

  “Russia is too dangerous.”

  “South is too dangerous.”

  “We’ll be east of the Balkans, east of trouble,” Ram insists. “Russia is too dangerous.”

  “It’s only civil unrest.”

  “It’s not the civilians I’m worried about.”

  The two bicker like that, weighing the pros and cons of countries I only know about from geography class and news broadcasts—usually bad news—and I stroke Ozzie’s fur and wonder where it is we’re ultimately going. Where is my homeland? Who am I?

  “Where is it we’re ultimately going?” I ask in a lull, while Ion studies a street sign and Ram basks in the wake of an undisputed assertion.

  Ion makes up his mind and turns left. “To your home. To your father.”

  “But where is that?”

  “Ah—” Ion begins.

  “She doesn’t need to know yet.” Ram cuts him off.

  “We’re going there, Ram,” I remind him. “You can tell me now. We’re going there, no matter what.”

  Ion laughs. I’m not sure what the laugh means and I don’t know if I like it. Is he laughing because I’ve made my point? Or because I don’t know where I’m from? Is he laughing at Ram or me?

  Ram’s voice rumbles through Ion’s laughter. “Azerbaijan.” He states flatly. “Your home is in the mountains of Azerbaijan.”

  I sit quietly in the back seat, unable to respond. The word is a foreign one. It’s one of those countries formed when the USSR fell apart. I think. I’m really not sure. Nor do I know where it is. Somewhere along one of the edges of Russia, most likely. Somewhere past Poland and Bulgaria.

  The tension leaves my body as I settle back into my seat, and Ozzie sniffs a little sigh.

  We’re going home. And Ram has finally, finally relented to tell me where home is.

  It’s just that now, I feel as lost as ever. Because home is suddenly a long word I can’t spell, and know nothing about. And I wonder if maybe I’ve been gone too long, if the home I’ve dreamed of is too strange a place now. If I’ll be a stranger there, too.

  Ion drives slowly down a dark road. I watch the shadows shift outside. I’m not sure if it’s the moonlight playing through the clouds, or if those are more men, or yagi, or just my fear playing tricks on my eyes.

  But I can’t help wondering if maybe Ram was right. Maybe we should have stayed in Prague. Maybe home was just a dream, anyway, and the road is too dangerous to travel.

  Chapter Six

  We leave Prague behind. The countryside is dark. When I peer out my window, all I can see are shadows and the reflection of my own face, the only Azerbaijani face I know.

  Except that I’m half Scottish—on my mother’s side. She attended Saint Evangeline’s when she was young, although I scoured the old yearbooks for anyone resembling me and never found her. Now I look again at the picture in my hand.

  No, I never saw this picture, or this face among the others.

  Questions rise in my throat, but I don’t know how to put them into words, and I doubt Ram or Ion would answer me anyway. They’re too busy arguing about going north or south. And it’s not for lack of asking that I don’t know my mother’s name.

  And anyway, I guess I do know other Azerbaijanis. My father, and presumably Ram and Ion, and of course, everyone I knew before I left, though I can’t recall much anymore. I had a friend, Arika, who lived two doors down from me. She had a doll with a beautiful embroidered cloth face. I don’t remember the doll’s name, but I can picture it.

  I can picture the doll more clearly than the face of my friend.

  The questions knot in my throat. I glance around the back seat and spot a road atlas on the floor.

  Eastern Europe and the Caucasus.

  Carefully, trying not to disturb Ozzie, who’s snoring on my lap and who needs her sleep, I reach for the atlas, snag the tip of one corner between my fingers, pull it closer, and lift it above the dog.

  Eastern Europe is basically everything between the Czech Republic and Russia, including parts of Russia, depending on who you ask. But I’m not familiar with the Caucasus. I flip to the Index, then the introduction, then I know.

  The Caucasus is my home. The mountain countries between the Black Sea and the Caspian Sea—Armenia, Georgia, and Azerbaijan—they’re the Caucasus. The people there are Caucasians.

  I laugh aloud.

  “What?” Ram stops arguing with Ion and turns to me.

  “I’m Caucasian.” I hold the atlas so he can see. “I always checked the box for ‘other/unknown/mixed.’ Turns out, I was probably the only real Caucasian at Saint Evangeline’s.”

  Ram shoots me a wry smile. “Semantics.”

  “I know.” Given how much the other girls liked to hold their every perceived advantage over my head, the truth strikes me as particularly ironic, and kind of funny. “I never understood why we had to check a box at all. There should only be one box. Human. We’re all human.”

  Ram opens his mouth as though to say something, maybe even argue with me, but Ion makes a snorting noise and Ram turns back to the front of the car so I can no longer see any of his face, just thick black hair and silence.

  I don’t know what that’s all about. We’re human, obviously. I return my attention to the atlas, to the section on Azerbaijan. It contains a couple of paragraphs about the country, which are fortunately in English. I don’t think any of the countries in the atlas actually speak English, but it’s one of the most common secondary languages people study, and perhaps the only one the mapmakers figured their target audience might share.

  I read the introduction.

 
Historically known as the ‘Land of Fire’ due to jets of natural gas that burn as they escape from the ground, and the practice of fire worship, Azerbaijan is reawakening as it emerges from Soviet Control. Its rich culture is largely unknown to those who live beyond its borders. Many regions are accessible only on horseback or with a four-wheel-drive vehicle, so the close-knit communities of the remote areas remain a mystery to outsiders.

  From its snow-capped mountains to its fertile valleys and subtropical forests, Azerbaijan can seem like a land forgotten by time. Medieval villages continue to look much the same as they have for untold centuries, a sharp contrast to the high rise buildings and modern architecture blossoming in the cities.

  The guide then goes on to list stats—Language: Azeri, literacy rate: 97%. The population, it says, is similar to that of New Jersey, but the land area is roughly ten times that of the same state. I’ve never been to New Jersey, either, but I guess it must be ten times as crowded as Azerbaijan.

  The guys in the front seat are still weighing the pros and cons of their proposed routes, so I flip open the big two-page spread that shows the whole region, from Prague over by my left thumb, to Azerbaijan, which barely escaped being cut off on the right side.

  I can see the problem right away.

  If you draw a line between Prague and our destination, it would run right through the Black Sea, which is a huge body of water. We’ll have to go around it either to the north or the south, but it looks to me like the south, Ram’s proposed route, would take us further out of the way, maybe even by hundreds of miles.

  So I don’t understand why Ram’s so determined to go that way. I mean, yeah, we’d avoid the Russians, but what’s so important about that? There weren’t many Russian girls at Saint Evangeline’s, but the few I knew were some of the least snooty people in the student body. So I’m kind of thinking Ion’s route would be better.

  Nonetheless, Ram insists we head for Slovakia instead of Poland. And for reasons that are even more puzzling to me, especially when you consider Ion has control of the steering wheel, that’s the route we take.