Dragon Clan #1: Camilla's Story

CHAPTER ONE

Camilla watched the old woman from concealment behind the corner of a ramshackle outbuilding on the edge of the forest. Finally, after careful consideration, she stepped into the open. The woman looked up from her wash-barrel, surprise evident on her lined face. Her eyes quickly turned away from Camilla and roamed the clearing in front of her cabin, as if ensuring they were alone, before focusing on the visitor, again.

After a pause, she said, “Come here, boy. Let me get a better look at you.”

Camilla didn’t correct the washerwoman on mistaking her for a boy. Everyone else in the village also believed her to be a boy. The woman’s hands never paused in their work, wringing and rinsing the filthy clothing. The pots and tubs she used for boiling and washing clothing sat on sturdy tables made of split timber and were located in a row along the bank of the stream. Fires burned in stone rings under a few pots. Camilla had watched the woman from hidden shadows of the surrounding forest many times like she’d watched everyone in the village of Nettleton.

Young girls living alone faced too many other problems so she kept to herself. But at the compassionate words Camilla limped closer. The old woman probably wouldn’t kick or hit her. It’s always best to be wary around strangers.

“Did someone hurt you, child? Are those bruises?”

The sharp tone the woman used, backed Camilla off a step, in defense. Before she could move further away, the washerwoman reached out and snatched a fistful of her shirt with a bony hand. Pulling Camilla closer, the woman looked at her.

Camilla looked into her rheumy eyes, seeing nothing to fear. Without asking, the woman touched and probed her injuries. Camilla twitched in pain when a wrinkled finger found her split lip, although she tried to remain stoic during the rest of the inspection.

The washerwoman spat a stream of brown tobacco juice. “Somebody hurt you bad. Shuck your filthy clothes so I can see what else he did to you. I might as well wash them, too. Dirt makes you sick, some say.”

“I don’t have others to wear.”

“We’ll find you something.” Her voice had abruptly changed again, to one more gentle, but still, there was the undertone of temper, and the bark of command as if she wanted to always sound stern. Her gentle actions belied the gruff manner.

Camilla had come to the woman for help, and in doing so, she must reveal a pair of her secrets in order to receive it. She stepped out of her britches and hesitantly pulled the coarse, torn and filthy shirt over her head. Despite the warm day, she covered herself with one hand as she turned to face the woman. She waited.

“You’re a girl!”

Standing nude in front of the woman there was no hiding the first secret. She squared her shoulders and winced in pain at the action while waiting for the woman’s reaction to her birthmark.

The washerwoman’s eyes found and locked onto the image of the muzzle and red eyes of a dragon peering over her shoulder. “Twisted gods, what’s that awful thing? Turn around so I can see it.”

The second secret was to never allow anyone to see the design on her back, but she needed help for the first time in years. Her whole family had been slaughtered because of similar birthmarks, she believed. Yet she somehow trusted this angry, spiteful woman who tried to hide her compassion with a sharp tongue.

The washerwoman made the three-fingered sign to the gods to ward off evil. “Mother, protect us this day,” she mouthed in ritual, as she moved closer. She examined the birthmark in the shape of a writhing red dragon that stretched from left hip to right shoulder, the ugly red head forever looking over the girl’s right shoulder. The lines were fine, the image as detailed as one drawn by the most talented artist. “Who else has seen this?”

“Nobody.”

“You’re sure?”

When the woman motioned with a wag of her hand for her to continue speaking she went on, “I always make sure it’s hidden.”

“Even when you bathe or sleep? Nobody has laid eyes on it?”

“Only you. I think you’re a nice person. I’ve watched you, and you talk like you’re angry, but you help people when they need it.”

“Don’t spread nonsense like that around. Pull your shirt back over your head before a customer stumbles in here to have laundry done and dies of fright.” Her expression softened to one of sympathy as she looked beyond the birthmark to the torn and battered body. She lifted the shirttail long enough to examine a few of the worst scrapes and bruises. “Got a name?”

“Camilla.”

“What kind of name’s that?” The woman suddenly barked a laugh without humor.

Camilla shrugged instead of answering. Silence is sometimes the best response to strangers when you don’t know something. Her mother had called her Camilla. Other than that, she had no idea of what kind of name it was.

The washerwoman threw her head back and cackled again. “You can call me Robin, like the bird with the red breast. Most just call me the crazy washerwoman, but my friends call me Robin. Take your pick.”

The probing fingers touched a fresh welt. Camilla tried to ignore them until they found a place under her arm where she’d been kicked, and the skin was raw. She pulled back. “That hurts.”

“Yes, he hurt you bad, girl.” Robin knelt and gently pulled the back of the shirt up again as she touched the red swelling on the left side of her back where Camilla had been punched several times. Then she moved on to the ribs where the bruises had already turned black, tinged with green. Robin moved her fingers back to the raw mass of scrapes where Camilla had been dragged over rocks and gravel. She never once touched the image of the dragon. The washerwoman raised her eyes to meet Camilla’s.

Camilla said, “Do you know how to make the hurt go away?”

“I can help, but you’re going to be in pain for at least a few days. This time, you’ll live, maybe.” A wet rag in the rough hands of Robin dabbed the scrapes gently. “What about the next?”

Camilla shrugged.

“You still sleep in that little cave over on Copper Mountain?”

Camilla pulled away. She shouldn’t know that. What the woman called a cave was an overhang of rock wide enough to wriggle under, and twice as long as she was tall but deep enough to provide dry shelter when it rained. Against the rear, Camilla stored supplies she found or stole, mostly dried fruit and three old blankets. She’d used the cave for two years, now. Even in the worst weather, it remained dry and warm. Camilla nodded to answer her question, determined to keep her face impassive and give nothing else about her private life away. Robin already knew far too much.

At another touch, Camilla involuntarily flinched.

“That hurt?” The woman demanded.

Camilla shook her head, no. She waited, gritting her teeth. Glancing at the clearing in the pine forest, she took notice of the small stream flowing beside outbuildings before joining the river a few hundred steps away. Small barns, tool sheds, outhouse, and a cabin that seemed to lean to one side filled the clearing in the dense forest. A dozen or more clotheslines supported by dozens of split poles crisscrossed each other. Most held clothing drying in the breeze. Cleanliness is not high on a list of priorities when scrounging for each mouthful. But green, black, red, orange, yellow, and blue clothing looked almost like cheerful flags decorating the clearing.

“Take a deep breath, girl.”

She inhaled and doubled over, clutching her chest.

“Rib is bruised, maybe broken.” The woman mumbled to herself more than she spoke to Camilla. Robin turned and ducked into a shed. She returned holding up a shirt at arm’s length to mentally measure Camilla from a distance. A pair of wool pants hung over one arm. At the washtub, she picked up a sliver of soap.

Camilla watched her surreptitiously. Each of the woman’s movements seemed compact, and there was no wasted motion. She looked at the shirt without pulling it over her head.

“So you wear bright green today. Much better than the colorless rags I see you in when I catch a glimpse of you skulking about the village. Now you take your skinny butt down to the river and wash. All over. Use soap. When you’re done, I want you back up here. We have to talk.”

Talk? Camilla turned and limped down the incline passed the cottonwoods that lined the river’s edge. Further down the river stood fewer trees, but habit dictated she find a hidden place. Hiding is surviving. Since fleeing the massacre of her family, nobody but the washerwoman had ever seen the red design on her back and she was not sure she’d done the right thing in showing her.

She’d been hiding almost as long as she could remember, but there were memories, too. There were laughter and games played with many children, all older. She thought of them as brothers and sisters. Then one day came screaming and shouting, clanging swords, and horses trampling the camp. Fires burned the wagons. Afterward, the ox lay dead, several arrows standing erect like porcupine quills. But even those faint memories were fading with time, replaced with years of loneliness and hunger.

Forcing herself to concentrate on the present, Camilla paused and scanned the far side of the river for enemies before laying the pants and bright green blouse on the grass. Subconsciously, she planned her escape routes to the rear, then followed with one to her left, right, and lastly, across the shallow water. At least four ways. She scanned the mud at the water’s edge for footprints, searching for any signs of other travelers. Reassured, she entered the water ankle deep and reassessed her position, then she inched to a deep pool near the center, wincing as the cold water contacted her abrasions and scrapes. She held back tears when the harsh soap bit into wounds, but she washed every inch, head to foot.

Glancing around again, she ensured she was still alone before leaving the water. A tickle of an itch on her back where the dragon image was, warned her. It grew stronger until it felt almost like a sharp itch that must be scratched, but it also felt familiar and reassuring. Her eyes raised to the sky and caught the flight of the red dragon above, as her ears heard the first rustle of the flapping of leathery wings. The huge dragon twisted in mid-flight and paused, looking directly at her, before turning and continuing on its way. She watched until it was out of sight and the sensations on her back diminished to nothing.

Wading ashore in the soft mud, she paused at the water’s edge long enough see some of the injuries in her reflection. She decided she still looked enough like a boy to pass all but the closest inspection.

The blouse was a little too big and felt alien in the cut. Besides feeling, looking and smelling clean. It was the incorrect color. Every stray glance to the green colored shirt felt wrong. She had never worn bright green, but only the dullest faded clothing. Colors that blended into the forest background.

Rolling up the legs of the pants delayed her return to the washerwoman while she considered what to do. She had come for help, but she didn’t know what to make of the old woman, her gruff words, and caring hands. Why would the woman talk of ‘things’ to Camilla? Do I even want to go back up there and speak to her?

Until now, she’d managed to care for herself. She remembered six or seven lean winters living by herself. Her goal had been finding enough food and shelter to survive until the next day, and lately, avoiding the pack of boys, intent on hurting her.

The washerwoman had always treated others well, especially those with little or nothing. She often tossed leftover food their way, and once offered advice to an elderly homeless man from a distance. Camilla had hidden and watched her for years. The woman cursed to herself aloud as she provided some meager help to someone in need, but it was as if she felt conflicted. On one hand, she helped, and on the other, she complained. Camilla drew herself to her full height and trudged up the hill.

A large wooden paddle in the hands of the washerwoman stirred a cauldron of clothing hanging over a fire. “I want you to sit on that stump over there and listen to me while I finish this batch and hang it to dry,” she commanded.

Camilla made no move to the stump.

Robin lifted the paddle dripping hot water and soap scum. She held it like a club.

Camilla sat.

The woman lowered the paddle, no trace of humor on her face. “Who did this to you?”

“Boys from the soldier’s school.”

“Listen to me, girl. Those damned second sons from the academy are going to keep on until you’re dead or crippled. I’ve seen it happen with them before. They’re like a pack of dogs chasing after a deer with a broken leg. You should have gone to the village Goodman and told him instead of coming here.”

“Would the Goodman help instead of siding with them? Would he even listen to me?”

Robin reached into her washtub and grabbed a pale blue dress, steam rising as she held it. After rinsing it in clean water, she hung it on a line to dry and poured the soapy water on the ground. After she had scooped more water from the stream into the washtub, she said, “Help you? Probably not. Definitely not, I suppose. Are you sure nobody near here knows you’re of the Dragon Clan?”

Camilla glanced around, making sure they were still alone. She searched the shadows under the trees and readied herself to run if needed. She didn’t understand the question. “Are you talking about the mark on my back?”

“Yes, yes, of course. That birthmark with that ugly thing looking over your shoulder makes me shudder with fear.”

“Nobody else has seen it.”

“You’re sure? Because if they have, men will hunt you down and collect the king’s reward.”

“Hunt me down?”

The washerwoman pinned the dress to the line and leaned forward to speak. “Like a rabid wolf, girl.”

Camilla shuddered inside but said nothing.

“You’re what? Twelve? Thirteen years old?”

“I don’t know how old I am. You say they’ll kill me just because of the dragon on my back?”

“Yes, of course, they will. It’s the mark of the Dragon Clan!”

Camilla lowered her eyes and remained silent as she considered the implications. No wonder her mother had impressed secrecy on her. “Why? I don’t know anything about dragons but what I see when they’re flying by me.”

“You’re too young to understand. Just keep that horrible thing hidden.”

“Why?”

The washerwoman emptied a bucket of water on the ground and refilled it. She reached into another tub and grabbed a pair of gray pants with both hands and twisted, harder than needed. Mind made up, she snapped, “Because someday you will be able to call down dragons.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Camilla said, refusing to speak of the prickles and twinges she felt on her back whenever a red dragon flew over. There had been blacks and one green dragon that flew over her, but only the red ones made her back feel like tiny spiders crawling on it. When it flew closer, or there was a threat nearby, the spiders seemed to bite harder. The more danger, the more pain.

Robin paused in her washing and motioned for Camilla to come closer. She reached two fingers into a small stone jar and smeared a dab of greasy gray ointment on each cut and scrape. When done, she scooped a measure onto a small oiled cloth and folded it neatly. “Everything but the rib will probably heal in a few days. Spread this medicine on each cut.”

“You didn’t tell me what ‘calling down dragons’ means.”

“We can speak more of that at a later time. Tell me about the beating.”

“Some boys from the training place chased me. Today, there was a new one leading them. He’s meaner than the others.”

“How many in all?”

Camilla shrugged, reluctant to tell more. Already she had told this woman more personal information than she had told anyone in memory.

“Can you count?” The washerwoman snapped.

“Five.”

The old woman scowled, then used the large paddle to swirl around a garment in the scalding water and satisfied with the progress, lifted it with the paddle to a cauldron with cold water. She had several containers of water, with clothing soaking in each, waiting its turn. “Five? You can’t fight five trainees by yourself. They’re older, I suppose. Bigger? Dressed in tan uniforms?”

“Yes.”

“Damned, second sons from fathers of wealthy families. They’ll soon be officers in the king’s army ordering peasants around as if they’re better than any of us.”

Camilla nodded as if she had heard it all before.

“Listen to me, girl. They’re scared, too. I see it in their eyes when they bring me laundry, and I hear them talking to each other. Scared of the future. Rich boys sent from their homes to learn the art of soldiering or becoming priests because only the firstborn will inherit the family wealth and position.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re nothing. You have no job and no future. You don’t even have a family. Those second sons beat you because they can. They have all the power and you have none. Boys in their position can kill you, and nobody will care, other than maybe someone scolding them and telling them not to kill any more hapless wildlings. You are nothing. That makes them feel superior by default. Understand?”

Camilla nodded slowly, not understanding at all.

“Best to just stay out of their way, which I guess you already try doing. No matter, I’m going to teach you a few things about how to survive long enough to grow taller than me. That won't be long because I’m a short woman.” She cackled again, spit a wad of brown in an arc, and hung another sopping wet blouse on a nearby clothesline.

Camilla could have slipped away, but Robin’s words piqued her interest. Robin knew things about her that she didn’t know about herself. She said, “They’re bigger than me, and they train to fight at their military school.”

“They do all that and more at that fancy school of theirs. They think you’re a boy, not a girl. Keep it that way. At your age, a wild girl will attract all sorts of men looking for romance and more. The boys learn to fight with swords, and they yearn to use their skills. To them, you’re no more than a painted practice target pinned to a tree unless they learn of your sex.”

“I can’t run away all the time.”

“They’re lazy and spoiled. Let me ask you, have they ever trained in the rain or snow? No. On those days, they sit inside their buildings beside warm fires and learn from speakers or books. Even on the best days, they’re often sitting inside learning from books. Others cook their food, wash their clothing, and scrub their floors. Do you see your opportunity?”

“No. I only see they’re bigger. And there are more of them.”

Robin smiled, a wistful expression briefly crossing her features, making her appear years younger despite her brown teeth and wrinkled skin. She sat on a stump beside Camilla and leaned closer. “I’ll tell you a story in confidence and then we will each know a secret about the other. A long time ago, there was once a man I loved. He told me of his wild youth, much like yours. He said that a bigger, stronger fighter, one better trained, will win any fight. But there are three variables in that statement, do you see?”

Camilla shook her head.

“Think, girl. Bigger, stronger, better trained. Can you make yourself bigger?”

“No.”

“Wrong answer. You make yourself bigger by living another day. Every day you grow a little bigger. How about stronger? Can you make yourself stronger?”

This time, Camilla didn’t answer. She sat as still as the log she sat upon and waited, confident that Robin would supply the correct answer.

“Girl, when you work hard you grow stronger. The blacksmith in Nettleton was once a skinny little boy. I remember him well. He grew powerful working hard. Day after day, year after year.”

“I won’t have those years ahead of me if they kill me, first.”

“Finally, a good response from one so young. If you apply yourself and do as I say, you will live long enough to grow both bigger and stronger. The third variable is training. Do you believe those rich boys train as hard as they might? No, they don’t. They have never worked a full day in their pampered lives.”

“How does that matter?”

“You can learn to fight too, girl. Work harder at it than they do. Make yourself stronger. Winter has passed, and the trees are budding. Some leaves are already opening. Up the valley lives a man who has sheep and goats. He needs herders to bring them down-valley for spring shearing and butchering. I know this man. On my word, he will feed you, and perhaps even put a few copper coins in your purse.”

“I’ll go see him, maybe.”

“You will go see him. No argument from you. That’s settled.” Robin placed a few more sticks on the fire under the pot and grabbed another handful of dirty clothes. After placing them in the pot and stirring, she added soap and said, “Yes, I also require payment of you for this favor. You must perform a few tasks for me.”

“I’ll do them.”

“Make no promises you cannot keep. The trip will take you many days, then more to gather the animals and return. The man will pay you what he will. But, I demand more of you.” She motioned for Camilla to sit still while she went into a shed and rummaged around. When she returned, she held a pole taller than herself and larger in diameter than a fat man’s thumb.

Camilla expected her to use it for washing clothes, but instead Robin twirled it around her head as if it was weightless, then spun her body around, and with both hands sliding to one end she struck a tree holding a line loaded with clean clothes. The clothing shook, but not before she danced intricate steps and jabbed the end of the pole at the wall of the shed with a resounding thwack.

Flashing a smile at Camilla, the pole spun in more circles above her head before lowering it to chest height in a swift movement. She held it near the center of the pole with both hands. Short jabs smacked the side of the shed, first with one end, then the other, again and again until the shed had been struck at least ten times.

She turned to Camilla, holding the pole in one sweaty hand, and panting, but still wearing the smile. “It’s been a while since I’ve used one of these. When I was younger, you couldn’t follow my moves with your eyes.” She held the pole closer to Camilla until she accepted it. From inside Robin’s skirt, a small, unadorned knife appeared in her palm. The old woman held it out, handle first. “Take this, too. You’re going to need it for protection.”

Camilla held the knife in one hand and the pole in the other, one end of the pole resting on the ground.

“Hide the knife in a place where you can draw it fast.”

“The pole?”

“Carry it with you. Get used to it. Swing it and strike a few trees or boulders. Return both to me tomorrow. Early.”

“You want me to come back?”

Robin fixed her with a stern look. “I do. Your wounds need checking.”

“If I run fast enough from those boys, I will be fine.”

“Better yet, stay out of their sight.” She turned her back and grabbed another armload of dirty clothing and placed them in a tub to soak.

She continued speaking, but Camilla used the time to silently slip back into the depths of the forest shadows.