The Dragon DelaSangre

Chapter 11

We both leap from the cave's mouth, into the night at the same time. "I hate to leave you just yet," Elizabeth says. She flies by my side for a few minutes longer, then sighs as she breaks away and soars across the valley. I lag behind until I lose all sight of her, climb higher and higher after that-Cockpit Country growing small and dark beneath me, my love hidden somewhere in its gloom.

The half moon stands out in the dark sky like half a gold coin laid down on black velvet. Its yellow glow illuminates the world below me, deepens and lengthens the shadows that rule Cockpit Country at night, follows me as I pass over the lights of Falmouth and Montego Bay, shimmers over the waves after I leave the land behind.

While Cockpit Country, with its crazy mélange of hills and valleys, confuses me, here at sea I know my way. I fold my wings, plummet almost to the ocean's surface, then spread them and glide just over the waves. The fresh salt smell fills my nostrils and I sigh and breathe it in, glad to be away from the heavy aromas of blooming plants and rotting vegetation.

A twinge of guilt strikes me and, for a moment, I wonder why I'm not stricken with grief to have had to leave Elizabeth behind. But it isn't her absence that fills me with joy.

This is far and away the greatest adventure in my life. Already I've crossed a good part of an ocean in my quest to find my love. I've found her, fought for her, killed for her and won her. To have stayed longer in Cockpit Country, hunting and sleeping and making love, would do nothing to bring the adventure closer to its conclusion.

Besides, I think, being far too aware of the protests my muscles make every time I flap my wings, the almost pleasant ache of my overused and congested loins-a few days' rest wouldn't be such a bad thing before I face my young bride again.

I reach the Grand Banks an hour before dawn, thank the fates when I see it riding safe and secure on its anchor line, just as I left it. In my absence, two other boats have anchored nearby, a sailboat and another trawler, and I'm glad to have the cover of the last few minutes of the night when I land on the boat's top deck, change shape, clamber down the steps and rush inside.

Fatigue tugs at me. I force myself to pull out the charts, look up the coordinates for Falmouth, program them into the GPS and the autopilot. My stomach growls and rumbles and I realize how much energy my travel and shape-changing have depleted. I almost sleepwalk as I turn dials, flip switches, cranking up the twin diesels, listening to them roar into life, then settle into a subdued growl. I throw on the generator, the air conditioning, and the once-silent craft now vibrates slightly from the hums and grumbles of its machinery.

The windlass groans as it reels in the anchor line. I stop by the freezer before I go forward to make sure everything's fast, take out a large sirloin and throw it in the microwave.

A man, woken no doubt by the noise of my activity, comes up onto the deck of the sailboat moored a few dozen yards away. As naked as I am, he watches as I secure the anchor on the bow pulpit, then turns his back and urinates over the side. An impulse strikes me to take him, substitute his fresh meat for the steak defrosting in the microwave, but I push the thought away.

I've had more than enough human flesh over the past few weeks. A simple uncomplicated steak strikes me as more of a treat right now.

He turns back and waves. I return the gesture, go inside to the galley, take the barely warm steak out and hold it in one hand, blood dripping on me and the deck as I carry it to the bridge, wolfing down chunks of it. One-handed, still eating, I put the motors in gear and guide the Grand Banks out to sea.

Later, after Cayman Brae has disappeared into the ocean behind me and blue water surrounds me on all sides, I activate the autopilot and head below to the dual luxuries of a hot shower and a soft, clean bed.

Lying under clean sheets, in that frustrating stage before sleep when weariness exists in so much excess that it denies rest, I wonder how Elizabeth will react to all of this.

She knows these things exist. She bragged to me, she saw much of it in the few border towns she was permitted to visit with her brother-the ramshackle buildings and homes in Troy and Warsop astounding to her because of their modern devices. But she's grown up in a home without any of it.

I grin, thinking of how wide her eyes will get when I bring her to the real world, how much there is to teach her, expose her to, feeling like Pygmalion.

Thinking of her makes me miss her and I picture her in my mind, the image shifting between her human shape and her natural one. I wish the boat would go faster, rush me back to Jamaica so I can endure the feast-whatever that may be-and start the long journey home.

Once there, I know, everything will be perfect. It has to be. Elizabeth will have anything she wants. I have the money and power to give it to her.

Just before I drift off, the boat rolling in its sea dance, the motors droning in the background, I remember something Father said… and I wish I didn't.

"Remember we once ruled the world," he told me. "We only lost it because we assumed we would rule it forever. Beware smugness, Peter. Our people have no worse enemy."