Dragon! Book One: Stealing the egg

CHAPTER SEVEN

Gareth’s options were few, a sure indication that he hadn’t planned well, but who could have foreseen being snatched by a dragon and carried across the mountains to a distant sea? Gareth could either swim to shore or ride in an old fishing boat to the town of Dunsmuir, where he had no means or contacts to sell his egg. Once ashore in Dunsmuir, he’d be at the mercy of anyone he offered to sell the egg to, and many working deals in back alleys who heard of the egg would plan on taking it without paying. Tales would fly. Few thieves would hesitate to murder him for the value of the egg. Or he could strike a deal with the fisherman. “You don’t think Dunsmuir is where I should be going, do you?”

The old man tilted his head and watched the wind beat the stained and patched sail. His eyes didn’t shift as he spoke. “What I think shouldn’t make a hill of beans to you, boy. There’s them in Dunsmuir Town, who’re good people and will help you when you don’t even ask. There're others who’ll slit your throat for a few silver bobs.”

“I risked my life for this egg.”

Tom’s face tinged red. “You’re still risking it, boy. If’n that dragon doesn’t come back spitting liquid fire at us, then thieves and worse will try to take it off your hands. You got no idea of what a valuable item you have in that bag, or what others will do for it. A hard-working man might spend his entire life toiling and not see as much coin as that egg will bring. Not as much money in his whole miserable life. Wouldn’t take a lot to convince a poor man like that to take your egg from you. He might say it isn’t such a bad thing. He might say that you have a whole life in front of you to earn money. If he is so quick to take your egg, imagine what a man who is a thief will do.”

Gareth wondered at the outburst. Almost like a lesson from the teachers. While it seemed direct and honest, there were overtones like the teachers used. Questions within questions. Statements within statements. Not at all like what a poor fisherman would speak. Gareth held the egg tighter to his chest. “What matters is that I have the egg of a dragon in my bag. That’s all. Not worth anything until I find a way to sell it. That’s what counts.”

Tom barked a laugh, a sound that held little humor and a lot of understanding. “True enough, son. That egg is worth more than I’ll make in many years of selling fish, even if the fishing is good. I can’t rightly say I know the full value of your egg, so I’m guessing.”

“Tom, I see your point. Searching for someone to buy my egg in Dunsmuir is like telling the whole city what I have and daring them to take it. Like standing up at an inn and making a pronouncement that you’re buying ale for the house and watching the response as everyone jumps up and tries to get their share.”

“Yup, you’ll soon have all the dregs of the city wondering if’n you are man enough to keep your egg. Got a knife in your belt, I notice, but can you use it to defend yourself? Are you willing to use it? How bout against three hungry men, all bigger than you and experienced in how to run a man through with a blade?”

Gareth lifted his chin and met the gaze of the fisherman. “I believe you were about to make a proposal a while ago, even if you don’t talk like any fisherman I’ve ever heard of.”

Tom pulled his attention from Gareth and returned to the tiller and sails before he spoke. “And I believe you don’t talk like any farmer-boy I’ve ever heard, using terms like make me a proposal. You’re different, boy. Farmers don’t use words like those, not the ones I’ve met. There’s mor’n that one thing about you that stands out as different, now that I think on it. But yes, we briefly talked about sailing to Drakesport and finding the King’s soldiers who might buy your egg. That sound about right?”

Gareth grinned at the casual-sounding response, most of which the old man had proposed earlier, however not as direct. He nodded but offered no explanation for why he was different from other farmers or the rewards Tom expected to earn for his part in the trip. The teachers had often said that sometimes it is just better to shut up and let the other do the talking so you can learn.

Tom said, “But first, before we discuss it anymore, let’s you and me get a few things right between us, up front. The first is about trust. I’ve been at sea most of my life, and there're a hundred ways I can think of to dump you over the side of this boat if I want. Fact is, I’m probably stronger than you, but set that aside for now. I could sit here and wait until you stand up and then come about with the boom. That’d knock you over the side, and I wouldn’t have to move more’n releasing the line I’m holding to do exactly that. Then I could just sail away with that egg of yours. Or, I could just wait until you go to sleep and hit you over the head with an oar. Then I’d be givin’ you the big drink of salt water.”

“Why’re you telling me this? To scare me?”

Tom leaned closer and said, “Cause it’s all true. I want you to know if’n I wanted to take that egg off your hands without your permission, there’s not much you can do about it. You need to understand we must trust each other. Like partners.” He spat over the gunnels and pulled the tiller to the side while watching the sail flap at the sudden absence of wind. The boat swung around, and the boom moved to the other side as hard as if he’d pushed it. The entire boat shuddered when it hit the stop after passing inches over their heads. Its loud crack emphasized his words. “If you can’t see that . . . Well, it’s best I just let you off ashore, and we part ways.”

Gareth stared at the boom and understood that if he had been standing up, he would now be swimming, maybe with a broken arm or his head split open. Tom was right. The boat was his element. Gareth either trusted him or not.

Tom gave him a meaningful glance before adjusting sails that didn’t need any adjustment. The wind pushed the boat in the new direction.

Gareth avoided eye contact while he looked to the shoreline in the distance and saw they were now running parallel instead of directly at it. He felt he shouldn’t trust the fisherman because he didn’t know him, but what Tom had told him made sense. There hadn’t been a lot of unknown people to meet back in Dun Mare, and he felt at a disadvantage. But it was true, the old man was the master out here. Besides, he was offering help, and he expected to be paid for his help.

Gareth said, “Let me hear your idea, please.”

“Dunsmuir’s too risky, and besides, there're no buyers to make you a proper deal, anyway. You don’t have money for food or for travel on foot, so you’re not going to get very far if I put you ashore. If you manage to leave Dunsmuir Town, there’s still the highwaymen waiting for any who pass, and let’s be honest. You’re easy pickins. They’ll kill you if they think you have the price of a good meal in your purse, let alone a dragon’s egg. You won’t make it a day on the road.” He paused as if to let the words sink in. Then he nodded to the bow and said, “Up ahead there’s a small fishing village. I’ve docked there for supplies a few times. Place is called Priest’s Point. Clean, fresh water and necessities needed for us to be at sea a few days. Then we can sail for Drakesport, about three or four days’ travel by boat if the winds are fair.”

Gareth smiled. “You’ve already turned the boat for Priest’s Point, haven’t you?”

“Yep, we’re heading there unless you say otherwise, which you have every right to do. Now listen to me carefully. While we’re in Priest’s Point, you're to keep your mouth shut. I’m not making a threat or tellin’ you what to do. I’m saying when we get there, you don’t talk. Your speech tells everyone you come from elsewhere, and anything you put into words gets looked at real hard by those trying to make ends meet by killing or thievin’ and such. You don’t need to give them fodder to wonder about. Maybe best to just keep you hidden aboard.”

“What are you going to do while I’m not talking?” Gareth asked.

“Food and supplies for the trip. Jars of water, of course. Bread if it’s recently baked and cheap, hard boiled eggs, and maybe some dried strips of whatever game they have for sale. Travelin’ food. I got a few coppers stashed aside for emergencies.”

Luck was with me when Tom saw the dragon drop me into the ocean. But, as Faring says, everybody charges a price. Somebody always pays. “You’re expecting something in return for your favors, I take it?”

“That I am. Not much, in the light of what you can get for selling your egg, but we’ll talk of that later. Right now, I want you to scoot under that tarp on the seat behind you, and be still.”

“Why not share your demands for pay now?”

Tom jutted his chin to indicate a tiny spot in the sky far behind. “Because your friend is coming back.”

Gareth felt his heart almost stop. He quickly gathered the tarp and pulled it over himself. “Let me know if she comes too close.”

“Don’t know what you’re planning to do if she does, but I’ll be watchin’ and tellin’ you. And sailing this boat as far from her as I can.”

In the dimly lit space under the tarp, it smelled old, and of rotted raw fish, like most of the rest of the boat, only more so. The rocking movement of the boat soothed Gareth. After missing sleep when he and Faring climbed the mountain to the nest the night before, his eyes felt heavy, despite the approaching danger.

“Hold still, boy,” the old sailor said. “She’s coming fast from astern. Got her eyes centered on us.”

The fear he detected in the hushed voice of the fisherman scared Gareth and jolted him fully awake. He fought the urge to pull the edge of the tarp and peek out but knew that if the stories about dragon-sight were only half true, the beast would see the tiny movement, and that might be enough to trigger an attack. He tried to breathe slower and shallower. Even the smallest of movements might alert the dragon. He heard the steady flap of her wings as she passed over and screeched one ear-piercing call as if warning Tom.

“She’s circling around and coming in for a closer look, or maybe searching for your smell. This is the time to play dead, no matter what happens. You hear me?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

Curled up under the heavy tarp he couldn’t see anything but the barest hint of light poking through a few small holes. His ears listened to the splashes of waves breaking against the bow, and the hiss of water rushing along the wood hull. The sail fluttered, indicating Tom was probably watching the dragon instead of tending the sails and tiller. That meant she was very close.

The harsh rustle of wings sounded.

“You move, and we die,” Tom said, not even bothering to lower his voice.

The beat of the leather-like wings grew stronger. Then they increased in speed as she flew past the boat, probably examining every detail while searching for her missing egg. With a wild screech, she gained altitude and spun around, heading directly for the bow of the boat. Gareth heard the increasing beat of wings flapping as she neared, again.

“Hold fast,” Tom called. “I think she’s going to attack.”

Tom’s footsteps pounded as he rushed about the boat, and his muttered curses clearly heard as he readied the boat. The beat of wings sounded closer and closer. Gareth heard the snort of the dragon spitting.

Tom yelled, sounding in pain. The boat suddenly lurched to one side. The sail flapped lifelessly in the breeze.

Gareth remained still, huddled in the dark under the tarp.

Several minutes of listening to Tom scurry about the boat passed before Tom finally called, “Come out and give me a hand, boy. Be quick about it.”

Gareth threw the tarp back and saw the old fisherman leaning over the side of the boat, holding one arm deep into the water as he furiously scrubbed it with seawater, his face contorted in pain. Above, three holes large enough to put his fist through showed in the sail. Smaller ones showed here and there. A single fist-sized mass of black slime lay on the floorboards in the stern, sizzling softly.

Gareth looked to the sky and verified it empty, then at Tom. “She spit on you?”

“A little wad of that stuff got me on the arm. Water’s helping some, but it burns like a hot coal.”

“Got any soda powder?”

After a confused expression, he said, “No.”

Gareth quickly searched the boat for more dragon spit, but only saw the one large, black pool, bigger than his hand, on the floorboards. The rest must have missed the boat and hit the ocean after burning through the sail. His imagination told him the likely outcome if he didn’t get the substance cleaned up from the bottom of the boat, fast. A hole in the hull big enough to put his leg into would sink it in no time.

Seeing nothing handy to gather the slime into, he quickly stripped off his shirt and wadded it so several layers of cloth protected his hands. In one motion, he fell to his knees and scooped most of it up in the folds of the shirt. He tossed the shirt over the side of the boat, and it floated away, hissing and smoking, as if angry at being discarded. Tiny wisps of smoke still rose from the damp spot on the floorboards. A hollow depression in the wood was clearly visible.

“What’re you doing?” Tom called from the back of the boat, still scrubbing his arm in the sea and looking at Gareth over his shoulder.

“She spit in the bottom of your boat.” Gareth pulled his knife and started scraping the surface of the indention as fast as possible with the edge of the blade. “There’ll be a hole here, soon.”

Tom quickly knelt beside him, pouring water from a mug onto the spot. “Didn’t know it’d do that or I’d have let my arm rot. Water might help thin it out, some.”

Gareth scraped the area as fast as he could, tearing splinters and layers of spit-darkened wood free. The water combined with the wood shavings turned it into a pulp of dragon spit, a foul combination. Small splashes stung and burned Gareth’s hands and arms, but he kept on. Finally, seeing nothing else handy, he stood and pulled his pants down, using a trouser leg to soak up more of the acid mix, then he used the other leg to wipe the depression clean and dry. He tossed the pair of pants overboard.

“You did good, son,” Tom said, inspecting the hollow in the oak and then the rest of the boat for any more black blobs of acid. “Seems I owe you, now.”

“How’s your arm?”

“Red. Hurts like I stuck it in a stove, but I think I got it all washed off. Why’d you ask me about soda?”

“It makes the dragon spit . . . innocent.”

“That’s how you did it, right? You covered yourself with soda to get close enough to the nest to steal the egg?”

Gareth stood naked and chilly while nodding.

“Smart. Guess I should carry some of it with me, just to make sure when dragons attack me. That was a joke, but if’n it wasn’t for you, my boat would soon be on the bottom, and I’d be swimming, and that is no joke.”

Gareth grinned and duplicated Tom’s manner of speech. “If’n not for me, that dragon wouldn’t be lookin’ for her egg and spittin’ on fishing boats.”

The fisherman grinned. “I’m thinkin’ both of us are speaking some of the truth. I have a foul weather slicker in that locker on the port side.” At Gareth’s hesitation, Tom pointed.

Gareth pulled out a cloak made of heavy, stained canvas soaked in rancid fish oil. Rain and water wouldn’t penetrate it. It felt odd in the stiffness of the joints each time he moved, and the fish-smell would drop a strong man to his knees. Still, he was grateful. “What about those holes in your sails?”

“We’ll take it easy so they don’t tear out. A rip will have us mending them at sea. When we get to Priest’s Point, I’ll drop the sails and sew some new patches over the old ones. Those sails are getting to be more patch than sail. These days’ fishermen learn to sew almost as much as they fish. You have family, boy?”

Gareth objected to continually being called a boy, but without a beard, many considered him younger than his true age. “I don’t know of any family. Probably not. Just me for as long as I remember.”

Tom kept wary eyes on the sky, which thankfully remained flat blue and empty. No clouds floated above that a flying dragon could hide behind, but once a far-off seabird made him do a double-take. A low strip of blue ahead of the boat evolved into land. Late in the day, a piece of land jutted from the rocky shore. Several houses and outbuildings stood in a clump near the water’s edge.

“Priest’s Point,” Tom confirmed, as he knelt to check on the depression in the plank where the dragon spit landed. Apparently satisfied all was well, he stood and continued speaking, “Would’ve been a long swim if’s you didn’t think quick back there. I’ll be needing a new plank laid in the hull before long. That one’s pretty thin in the middle, so don’t step on it.”

“New plank for the hull and new sails. Anything else you need?”

Tom turned to look at him, shrugged, and showed brown teeth. “I could use a new hat. One that looks like those the captains on big ships wear.”

“Never seen one. Never seen a big ship, either. But if I manage to sell my egg, I’ll get you a plank, sail, and hat. Maybe even have a little left over for your purse.”

“In that case, I’d appreciate it if you put that bag with the egg in a nice soft nest you make from the tarp you hid under. Then put it under the seat. Don’t want you tripping and breaking the thing, or foul weather smashing it. Do you think a new net for my fishing is a possibility to add to our bargain?”

Looking past Tom to the tangled pile of gray netting in the bow, Gareth pulled at the stiff, oiled cloth cape wrapped around him and said, “Get me something to wear besides this stinking cloak and we have a deal.”

They laughed together.

With the sea calm, the breeze brisk, the boat continued sailing ahead, but slowly. Tom had spilled much of the air from the sail in hope of preventing any holes from running into a tear and making them useless. The boat advanced causing hardly a wake. He took a long pull of water and handed the jug to Gareth, and then sat and ate some hard tack, chewing slowly as he watched the sea, land, and sky, all without talking.

Gareth watched him. Every movement by the old man had reason and seemed to consume the least amount of energy possible. He sat at the tiller and adjusted course minutely, compensating for the wind, tide, and the natural tendency of the boat to veer to the right. While Gareth understood little of the tasks, he figured out most of them without asking questions, a trait that Tom seemed to appreciate.

After a time, Gareth said, “You should bring a book out here to pass the time. Let the boat take care of itself.”

“Can’t rightly fish and keep an eye on all this if you’re reading a book.”

“You look like you’re just sitting.”

Tom smiled a little, showing maybe ten teeth, all stained a deep mahogany. “Be a mistake to think that.”

The shore drew closer, and Gareth saw over twenty wooden structures, all unpainted and looking forlorn. At the water’s edge, the docks were on crooked poles holding them up. Eight boats were moored. Six were similar in size and shape to Tom’s, obviously fishing boats. One much larger vessel carried a cargo of small logs. The last boat, moored all alone, was long and narrow, with a single mast standing taller than any other. A small house-like structure sat near the stern. Every brass fitting reflected the sun, not a spot of rust showed, and a fresh coat of white paint had recently been applied.

Tom nodded in its direction. “We stay away from that one.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“And fast. It belongs to a greedy pig of a ‘trader’ who works these waters. He’d as soon slit your throat as not, like they say he’s done to others. Little more’n a pirate if’n you ask most good people around here. He’s a smuggler, bounty hunter, thief, and killer. That’s before he finds out about your egg, then he gets mean.”

“Does he fish?”

“To own a boat that shape and size, a boat that don’t really do any work like fishing or hauling cargo, the owner has to kill off more’n one man to afford it, you see? Name’s Flagon. He’s someone to fear. If there were another place to replenish our supplies, I’d be heading there.”

Evil seemed to surround the white boat. “I’ll stay away from it.”

Tom snorted. “You’ll do more’n that. About now, I want you to drag that old tarp back across the bench seat there in the middle and make yourself sort of a tent. Be quick about it. You get under it, takin’ care of our egg when you do. Don’t talk or move till you know we’re back at sea again, and only then come out when I tell you.”

Gareth hadn’t missed the change in Tom’s speaking from “his” egg to “our” egg. Somehow it didn’t upset him as he carefully moved the egg under the bench-seat before adjusting the tarp. When he had created a small space under the seat, he inspected it from above to ensure it appeared the tarp was carelessly tossed there, and he crawled under. Tom lowered the sail and pulled out the oars for entering the port.

Gareth found he wanted to go ashore and see the town, which would be only the second town in his life, but knew carrying the egg with him would be a fatal mistake. Leaving it on board unprotected while he went ashore was unthinkable. He heard Tom call out a greeting to someone, and felt the motion of the boat change as it bumped gently into the dock. He heard and felt the shift in the boat as the old man climbed out.

Then he heard nothing but the gentle sighs and moans of a boat tied to a pier. Soon he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Two days and a night without rest caught up with him. The night whispers came immediately. As usual, they had no words, only feelings, and hints of things to come. They hissed of impending danger. Images of dragons and teachers in pairs spread fear to his sleep. Somehow Tom’s image became mixed in with the impressions.

He woke briefly, scared, and stiff from the cold. Or from the angry whispers. He rationalized that they warned him not about Tom, but of any who tried to intrude on his ownership of the egg. They didn’t know Tom and probably had never faced the dangers of being in a small boat in a large ocean.

But it hadn’t seemed so.

The whispers made him shiver more than the cold.