Drifter & Dragon

Boo found the baby dragon by its aroma. The carnival wagon smelled of trampled hay and lantern oil. Beneath it, cinnamon, or perhaps a captured sunbeam. Upon further searching, Boo found it curled in the shadow of a large wheel. A rusty chain looped twice around their foreleg. A real baby dragon.

Boo crouched and studied the lock with her chin on her knees.

“That looks like it hurts,” Boo said.

The dragon didn't answer. She wasn't sure if it even could. Until today, dragons were only in story books.

Boo reached out and touched the lock. It went cold under her palm. The metal groaned then, with a small resentful crack, released. For once, Boo's magic didn't hurt anyone. The chain hit the dirt. The dragon looked at the chain. The dragon looked at Boo.

They both ran accross the prarie grass. Dirt billowed up in the afternoon light.

“I'm Boo,” she said, breathless, somewhere past the big top tents.

“Johal,” said the dragon.

They ran until the tents were nothing but pale humps against the sky. Boo’s lungs burned. Johal began to drag their wings. Two furrows in the dirt behind her.

Boo stopped. Bent over, hands on her knees, laughing so hard it hurt. “We aren't being chased, so far. But, we need a horse,” she said, once she could talk again. Johal cocked her head. Her eyes were creek-water brown. Depth to them, with an amber sparkle.

“You can’t fly yet. Look at you.” She gestured at the folded wings. Stiff from disuse. “You need to heal and I can’t run forever. So. Horse.”

“Where,” Johal said.

Boo looked around. Prairie grass rolled gold in every direction. “There,” Boo said, pointing at the smudge of trees. “I can do some work and trade for one while you heal.”

They walked toward the tree line, and found a fence. Definitly, a farm of sorts. Johal limped a little. Her leg, where the chain had been, created a raw ring. Johal leaned in as they walked toward the homestead.

The barn looked as though it was held together by suggestions & prayer. It would stop fighting gravity any day now. Perhaps Boo’s magic could get them a place to sleep tonight & a horse. Only one way to find out.

An older woman stepped out onto the porch. She wiped flour from her hands onto a faded gingham apron. Silver curls pinned back loose. “Well,” the woman said. “Haven't seen one of those since I was knee high to a hopper.”

Boo froze. Ready to run again. “Ma'am, we don't want trouble.”

“Didn't imply you brought any.” The woman came down the porch steps slowly. She crouched and looked at Johal's raw leg without touching it. “That's carnival burn. If I ever... You cut her loose?”

“Yes ma'am.”

“Good.” She stood as her knees cracked like dry branches. “I'm Nan. Got a barn full of chores. More than I've got hands to do 'em. And a mare who's been wanting company since my husband passed. You work, you heal, I'll feed you both. You sleep in the loft.”

“Just like that?” Boo said.

“Just like that. World's got enough folks in trouble. You rescued her, I get to help out.” Nan looked at Johal a moment longer. “She's the one who needs earning-time more than you do, anyhow. Wings don't fix themselves in an afternoon.”

So they stayed.

Boo mucked stalls and mended fence. She hauled water till her arms ached. It was good, honest work. Johal healed. Slowly. Nan wrapped the raw ring on her leg with something that smelled of comfrey. Every evening she'd sit on an overturned bucket and watch Johal work her wings, open, shut, getting the blood pumping back into them.

“Try 'em now,” Nan said, one evening. They were two weeks in to their stay and Nan became, a trusted friend.

Johal spread her wings in the low gold light. The evening breeze caught the edges, lifted her half an inch off the dirt, and set her back down just as easy.

“There,” Nan said, “That's the whole trick of it. Not fighting for sky reach. Letting it come to you.”

By the third week, Johal could hop the length of the corral. Her wings doing more of the work each time. By the fourth, she cleared the top rail clean and came down laughing. Her first flight.

Nan watched. Johal six feet up, twenty feet across. An ungraceful, glorious, wobbling dragon. “That's a flying dragon now,” she said. “Didn't figure I'd live to see one of those again.”

“Again?” Boo asked.

Nan was quiet a moment. “They were prevelent before the circus people. Hunted them to extinction, or so I thought.” She reached for Boo's shoulder. “There's a place, west of here. Maple Valley, they call it. Used to be. The last place dragons kept to themselves and raised their young, proper like. Heard it from a drifter, years back. A tall tale, I thought.” She looked at Johal. “Might be your kin's there. Only one way to find out.”

Johal's eyes grew wide. Her wings fluttered, half-spread catching the evening light.

“We should go,” Boo said.

“Figured you'd say that.” Nan went into the barn and came back leading Compass. The mare. Saddlebags packed with more than Boo had rightly earned. Dried meat, a bedroll, a little tin of the comfrey salve in case Johal's leg acted up again on the road. “She's yours now. Earned fair, by ya both.”

Boo hugged her, quick and fierce.

Nan patted her back. They were more than a drifter and dragon. Her barn stood straighter and Nan learned to smile again. “Go on, then,” Nan said, stepping back. She blinked a little more than the dust could account for and wiped her eyes. “West. Follow the tree line till it fades into the valley. The maples turn up eventually.”

Boo swung up onto Compass. Johal took to the air beside her, still wobbling a bit.

“Tomorrow we might find your family,” Boo called up to her.

“We made some these past few weeks too,” Johal called down. Her wing brushed Boo's shoulder before climbing again. Her happy chuff echoed in the winds.

Art by The Circus Dragon

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My Creativity is fueled by tea. Lots and lots of tea.