20
- Morgan-
I quickly go through the tributes. There are the usual yellow leaves, rocks, insect shells, old bones, pieces of bark and other jungle debris. But Vyrathion is right - there must now be hundreds of Plood scouring the jungle for everything that’s golden or metal, and this time they’ve brought several iron items that the tribesmen must have dropped over the years. They are rusty pieces of various sizes and shapes, and most of them I can’t identify. But there are two rusty spearheads and a third item that I think we can use.
I show it to Vyrathion. “Look.”
He takes the object and turns it in his hands. “Trash.” He drops it into my palm.
“Actually, this is a clay pot,” I tell him. “It’s been fired and everything. Waterproof.” I tap it with one fingernail. “The tribes use it to carry liquids. And this one feels heavy.”
“It’s nowhere near as heavy as gold,” Vyrathion says, “so it’s baffling why you’d want it. Any tribe has hundreds of those.”
“Yes, butIdon’t have any,” I point out. “And what if there’s something good inside? Let’s check.” The pot is closed with a dense wooden cork. I have to use one of the old spearheads to get the thing opened. What I expected from a jar like this is healing salve, made from mashing up certain herbs and leaves. The result is green and sticky. But while this is dark green, it smells different from the usual Borok salves. This smells like actual medicine, and it reminds me of Vicks and fir resin. Probably Astrid has something similar in her shaman’s hut, which certainly smells like a pharmacy. But I never spent that much time there.
“Can I see the places where you were injured?” I ask.
Vyrathion looks down himself. “I don’t remember where.”
“But I do.” I check the places where he got some small scratches. There’s no sign of them, so instead I apply some of the salve on my own endless scratches, especially on my ankles. The salve burns a little on the newest scratches, but it’s not a bad burn, so I think maybe it has some bacteria-killing effects. But we’ll see.
“Nothing else?” Vyrathion kicks the heap of leaves and rocks.
“Just rocks,” I tell him and examine one of them. “They might be worth checking.” I quickly go through them, but none of them look like they have a speck of gold in them. I probably wouldn’t know unless the whole rock was a nugget, but I have a feeling these Plood aren’t as clueless as Vyrathion thinks.
“Or maybe they are,” I mutter as I dump the rocks. “Okay, Clyde. Good job. Next time, find gold.” Again I try to add a telepathicelement to my message by thinking of a gold bracelet, but I have no idea if it arrives.
As one, the Plood walk into the jungle in every direction, except Clyde, who I expect will follow us like before.
Vyrathion strides off into the woods without a word, and I follow.
His walk is faster than last time, and he has a grimmer look on his face. The semi-playful Vyrathion from yesterday seems to have left. But that’s not so strange. He was just reminded of how limited he is in his human form, and then the Plood came up empty again. He’s entitled to a bit of grumpiness.
With each step we get farther from the island. It wasn’t the best island, maybe, but it was somewhat safe and it kept us alive for a couple of days. Hey, who knows. There may be better places ahead somewhere.
After a while of walking I feel that Vyrathion needs to be cheered up.
I catch up with him and take hold of his hand. “We haven’t stated the obvious today.”
“Speak for yourself,” he rumbles. “I said that pot was trash.”
“You did,” I agree. “Fine. You’re in the lead. My turn. Umm. You are walking very fast.”
“This is nearly as slow as I can go,” the dragon says tonelessly. “And I will now finish stating the obvious: this jungle is full of dragonslayer tribesmen. It would be better if they didn’t hear us passing.”
I get it. He’s telling me to shut up. And he may have a point. While Vyrathion could easily deal with any attacking tribesmen, it’s not like we should provoke those encounters. They may get a lucky shot that really injures him. Or me.
I fall back into step behind him. Clyde waddles on behind us, his big, black eyes on me.
Praxigor is a terrible thing in his full dragon form. He sends terror to the bottom of my soul and makes me think my life is over. Vyrathion had the same effect in the beginning, and there’s still some of it around him. But not enough that I fear him any more than what’s healthy.
He plainly doesn’t believe that Astrid is Praxigor’s hoard and that Praxigor has no regular hoard. I get it. It would be like persuading me that humans can fly without wings or that we’re really made from wool. It’s too fantastical and too weird to take seriously. That’s how it feels to Vyrathion when I try to explain the hoard thing to him. He’s never heard of it, and his need for gold is so strong that valuing anything else seems like complete nonsense.
But what if? What if he got some gold, and he could be a dragon, and he still liked me?
What then? Astrid and Praxigor probably don’t have the easiest domestic life, but there seems to be a great deal of real affection between them. And Praxigor must really love her if he’s willing to fly out on errands. Not until I met Vyrathion did I realize how hard it would be to ask something of him.
Again, what if? Could we live in the Borok village, or right outside it, in a hut of our own? We wouldn’t even be the first or only dragon/Earthling couple in the tribe. I could enjoy thecompany of the girls and the varied food in the tribe, while Vyrathion could do whatever it is Praxigor does on a daily basis. Or he could show the tribe how to build bonfires and how to peel fruit.
