Heart of a Dragon

Chapter Ten

The world whirled slowly back into focus. Salvatore stared at the ceiling over his head. It was not his own, but at first he couldn't place it. There were sounds, too, but he couldn't separate them from the rushing sound in his ears. Finally, after closing his eyes and lying very still, he was able to think. It was Martinez' home. He was lying on the floor on a thin pad. His head rested on some sort of pillow and he was covered in an old blanket.

He heard footsteps and turned toward the sound. Martinez was walking slowly about the room. Salvatore glanced up and saw that there were a number of items arranged on the table. Martinez steadily added to the pile, first going to one shelf, and then to another. Salvatore sat up slowly. He must have groaned, or made some sound, because Martinez turned and smiled.

"Back in the world of the living, I see," the old man said.

Salvatore opened his mouth to speak, but it was dry. His lips were gummy and stuck together. Martinez saw and was at his side in a moment with a small cup of water.

"Drink this," he said. "You've been sleeping for several hours."

"I am sorry," Salvatore managed after a second sip of the cool water.

"No reason to apologize. You've not been sleeping well lately, and what you are doing — the dragons you are drawing — that effort is draining your energy as well. We are going to have to find you some food before you start your painting. Jake will be dropping by your home this evening with his jacket. I told him I'd get you back on your feet and ready to work. He's very excited."

"Will it be okay?" Salvatore asked. "The painting — the dragon. I see them, but I don't understand. I have never drawn one until…"

"Until after the man was dead." Martinez finished. "I know. This will be different. This jacket will be very special to Jake, and it will help to protect him. It is a good thing you are doing, and soon I will complete the paints that you need for the job."

There was a soft knock on the door, and Martinez opened the door. On the step a young girl curtsied shyly. She held a covered bowl in her hand.

"Evangeline," Martinez said. He leaned and took the bowl from her hand. "Where is your mother?"

"She could not come, sir," the girl said. "She is serving at the church tonight. They are making soup."

Martinez slid a hand into one pocket and pulled out a folded bill. He handed it to the girl.

"You make sure to give her my thanks. Tell her she has been a help to me, and that I will not forget. Can you remember that?"

The girl nodded. Salvatore knew her — he'd seen her playing in the park on sunny days and running errands for her mother in the streets. They seldom spoke. Most inhabitants of the Barrio ignored Salvatore. They though he was odd, and they knew of his connection to Martinez. Salvatore watched her, and when she caught him gazing, he blushed and smiled. He wished at times that he had more friends near his own age — those he could share his dreams with and not worry that he sounded foolish.

The girl, returned his smile, tilted her head prettily to one side, and then turned. With a quick flash of white cotton and tan legs she was off down the steps and into the street. Martinez turned back to Salvatore.

"Her mother, Maria Santiago, is a very fine cook. I have helped her when her children were sick, and I looked after her husband when he was injured in an accident several years ago. She sometimes sends me food. I asked her to send me something for you. I believe it is bean soup. I have some bread, and a bit of cheese. I want you to eat all of it, and have some milk. Then you must rest. When I am done here, we will carry the paints to your home, and wait for Jake."

Salvatore sat very still. He was unused to anyone looking after him. He was also, he realized, starving. He couldn't say when the last time he'd had anything that resembled a real meal, or anything to drink other than tepid water. His eyes pooled with tears, but he blinked them back. He did not want to humiliate himself in front of Martinez.

"What you are doing will help us all," Martinez said. The man's voice had softened slightly. "Eat. I have much to do before we will be ready."

Salvatore rose and took a seat at the table. Martinez placed the soup before him with a large spoon, a chunk of bread, and a moment later followed it all up with some cheese and a cup of milk. Salvatore didn't know where to start. It smelled delicious.

Martinez went back to his preparations. As he ate, Salvatore tried to pay attention. There were three simple earthenware bowls on the far side of the table. Between each and the window there were metal stands from which colored crystals dangled on chains. Martinez worked slowly and carefully. He mixed ingredients first in one bowl, and then the next. The first two were flanked by blue and yellow crystals. The last had a red crystal, and it was on this bowl that most of Martinez's attention was spent. The old man consulted often with a printed sheet of paper.

Salvatore was fascinated. He'd seen paints before. He'd even used them once or twice when the church gathered young people in the summer. They allowed him to attend, even though he had no parents to vouch or sign for him. Salvatore enjoyed those times very much, interacting with other young people, working on the crafts and hearing the stories of the priests. He listened carefully and never forgot a tale. The others, the children from better homes, and those who attended school regularly, seemed to take the words for granted, but for Salvatore stories were magic — almost as appealing as the images he created, day in and day out, to fill his ours and free his mind.

Martinez worked at the three bowls with a pestle, grinding the ingredients into a paste. He added oils and some water, and worked at each again. The old man was patient, and though he could not hear the words, Salvatore saw Martinez was speaking constantly as he worked. The mumble that was discernable was rhythmic, like a chant, or some sort of incantation. Salvatore very much wished he could hear, it but there was the cheese, and the cup of milk to consider, and he was afraid that if he spoke, or moved closer, he would interrupt the old man's concentration.

Finally the mixtures met Martinez' approval. He checked the sheet of paper a final time, then folded it and slipped it between the pages of one of his books. Next he walked to the window and opened the shade. The late afternoon sunlight streamed in at an angle. The old man returned to the table and examined the small stands. The crystals were just out of the sunbeam's reach. He adjusted them so that the light shimmered through, bent, and sent colored shimmers over the table. Martinez moved the bowls next, so that the line of light breaking through each crystal found the far rim of each bowl. Salvatore saw that as the sun continued to set, the light would slice across the center of each bowl. One yellow, one blue, and one brilliant red.

Martinez turned to Salvatore and smiled.

"Now," he said, "we wait. These will be special paints, the kind of paints that can make a difference. When you paint Jake's dragon, they will give you strength. When your vision clouds they will provide clarity. It is important that you make the connection within yourself — that you see both man and dragon as one. Do you understand?"

Salvatore wanted to tell Martinez that, though he always saw the man and dragon as one, and he was certain that he could paint the dragon- particularly with such wonderful paints, that he did not understand. He did not understand why he was now the center of so much attention. He did not understand how he could see what others could not, or why it was so important that he do this particular painting now. He wanted to thank the old man for the food and the drink, and for not leaving him passed out in the street where he'd fallen.

Instead he just nodded and sipped the last of the milk. He was very full, and a little sleepy. He wanted to stand and walk around to look into the bowls, but he could see no way to do so without blocking the sunlight, and he understood somehow that the light was important.

"What are they?" he said at last. He pointed at the crystals.

"They concentrate the color," Martinez explained. "The light through each contains the purest hue of one of the primary colors, yellow, blue, and Red. All other colors are shades of these, dilutions, or complex mixtures. The power in a painting-the power in any image-is focused on a foundation of the three. I have one more thing to do. Do you want to watch?"

Salvatore nodded. Martinez stepped to the sink and small counter that served as his kitchen. He grabbed a long, slender knife from the rack on the wall and turned toward the door. Salvatore rose and followed. The old man stepped out into the dying sunlight and walked around the side of his home. There was a bench there, pressed up against the wall. Martinez climbed nimbly up onto this, and Salvatore stood below, watching.

He balanced on the bench and stared up toward the eaves intently. There was nothing there to see, and Salvatore frowned, screening the last of the day's light with his hand so he would miss nothing. There were deeper shadows just under at the edge where the roof met the wall, and thought he couldn't see into them, he knew that Martinez could.

Something small and quick darted across the white stucco of the wall. Martinez struck like a snake. A small lizard with brilliant blue and black stripes was pinioned to the wall by the striking blade. Salvatore cried out, but Martinez let out a grunt of satisfaction, spun, and pressed the squirming creature deeper onto the blade.

He didn't glance at Salvatore as he passed; he hurried inside. Then, as Salvatore's stomach grew queasy, the old man leaned in from the side, careful not to break the beam of light from the crystal, and held the gecko over the red bowl. A single drop of blood dropped into the mixture, and Martinez pulled back. He strode to the door and flipped his wrist, sending the dying lizard flying into the street.

Salvatore still stood, staring into the bowl where the drop of blood had spread, slowly, and then- as if the paint hungered- was swallowed and disappeared. He stretched out a hand toward the bowl, and then pulled it back as if afraid he'd be burned at the touch.

Martinez returned, placed the knife in his sink, and stepped up beside Salvatore, watching as the light moved slowly toward the far edge of the bowls.

"There is no red closer to prime," the old man said. "We have no dragons here, but it is close enough, I think. When you blend these colors, you will find every hue of your dragons in their joining. The more powerful your prime colors, the more complete the spectrum of your work.

Salvatore thought about this for a moment. He closed his eyes, and saw the subtle blends that created his purple, his green, and his orange. He thought of the dragon he'd drawn with the chalk on the sidewalk and how difficult it had been to get the colors right. He'd had to force them, trying again and again. This would be different. A very small amount of the paint could be blended, and then more added to change the hue. When he opened his eyes, he smiled.

"You understand," Martinez said. "It is good. You must be very careful with these paints. I will not be able to make more in time. I do not believe Jake's will be the last dragon you are called on to paint, and we must be ready. I will show you how to store and preserve the paint. You must listen carefully and do exactly as I say. A great deal depends on it."

"I will be careful," Salvatore said softly.

Martinez nodded, but he was already moving again. He pulled three sheets of white plastic from a drawer. He grabbed the blue paint bowl and very slowly, very carefully poured the paint onto the plastic. It was thick, and it didn't run toward the edges as Salvatore feared it might. Martinez deftly rolled the plastic, tying it off at one end with a bit of cord. He pressed the plastic, worked the paint down toward that tied end, and then rolled the plastic so it came to a cone-shaped tip at the far end, which he also tied off.

"You'll be able to loosen this," Martinez said. You can squeeze some of the paint out the tip, and then seal it again. We must keep it moist, and cool. I will help you to find the proper place- perhaps we will dig a small pit in one corner of your floor."

Salvatore nodded. He was already thinking of the perfect place, the twisting, helpless body of the lizard impaled on Martinez' blade fading as the image of Jake's dragon struggled to the surface.

Martinez repeated the process of sealing the other two colors. Again, Salvatore saw that there was extra care taken on the red. He couldn't understand this, under the circumstances. There was very little of the red in Jake's dragon. It was gold and green, scales gleaming brightly. He felt it reaching out to him and heard its call.

"We'd better get going," Martinez said, after bundling the paints carefully. He held the door for Salvatore, who stepped out into the dying light of the day. Together they disappeared into the Barrio, heading for Salvatore's small shack. Jake would be there soon, and it would be time to paint.