Dragons! Page 8

  The Dragon had been dreaming. His legs twitched, his snufflings became more urgent; finally his eyes jerked open. They blazed momentarily with alarm; but the grass round him was undisturbed. The sun was lower now, the shadow of the fence creeping forward; and a breeze had risen, tempering the warmth of the day. He blinked, brushed briefly at his muzzle and scurried for the hedge. Just what the dream had been he could not recall; but there had been great shapes moving, noise and blood and fear. He made for the little shed, and the safety of his beansack.

  Mrs. Byres straightened, rubbing her face a little ruefully. India, allegedly, was a land of ghosts; it seemed some had traveled with her, locked away behind the drawers and paneling, now to be released. She replaced the book on its shelf, walked through to her bedroom. She removed the inlaid combs, began, carefully, to brush out her hair.

  She had not, of course, been able to remain in her employment; not after the shame she had brought. Thinking of that, her brow furrowed momentarily, her hands paused in their work. After the first anger, it had been the shame that was hardest to bear. Yet bear it she must, for she had transgressed. How, and in what manner, had been made hideously plain; and the tale had spread. The same thought was in all their minds, the same look in their eyes; Matron, the priest, her fellow workers on the wards, the casteless women who scrubbed and waxed the floors. She sat at her dressing table, then as now, touched the skin that had betrayed her while the great dark eyes watched back in misery; in the morning, she packed her things. But flee as she might, rise, as she strove to rise, in the esteem of others, the whispering pursued her. Despite her beauty, and beautiful she was alleged to be, she was a renegade, an outcast; a black girl who had tried to pass for white. Till finally she came to the high snows; and there at last, perhaps, was whiteness enough for all.

  She brooded momentarily, eyes vague. That dream, too, was soon enough besmirched. They were harsh times, in the high hill stations; for the land itself was harsh. The land, and its people. The women came to her, trudging miles through snow, their bellies slit by jealousy, their entrails in their hands. She saved them, saved their babies; she became to them a god. But her own hands could never be clean again. The hills could never be clean; they were stained with more than sunset light. Until she watched the making of the

  mantras. She realized then that all was an illusion, that pain and suffering are fleeting as the pangs of joy. And there was peace at last.

  Mrs. Byres rose, slipped a shawl round her shoulders. She walked down to the kitchen, began methodically preparing her evening meal. Later, the telephone rang. She eased the shawl back into place, went through to the hall. She stood a moment listening; then she smiled. "Of course, Sister," she said. "Yes, I'll come at once."

  The Dragon was both puzzled and alarmed. His head rose, bobbed, ducked again till his long jaw all but touched the earth; his neck extended, telescoped with shock. He raised a claw uncertainly, set it back down; his body trembled, poised as if for flight. But it seemed he could not take his eyes from the scene in front of him.

  There were strangers in the garden; the wild place that had once been part of his domain. The men advanced steadily; in their hands were strange devices that barked and screamed, jetted cones of bright blue smoke. Trees and bushes fell remorselessly; sunlight struck the walls beyond, at brash and unexpected angles.

  The Dragon edged back, one foot at a time, toward the shelter of the hedge. The men were close to the fence now, his beautiful grass all but gone. A fire blazed brightly, fed by the dry swathes; later the smoke swirled low, adding its acridness to the fumes of petrol. Nictating membranes slid across the Dragon's eyes; he blinked, and his nerve broke abruptly. He scurried for home, quick as a flame himself, dived for his old lair beneath the garden shed.

  The strangers seized the heaps of branches, breaking them roughly with their hands. They dragged them to the fire; and the flames licked up again. They blazed well into the night; when they finally died down, the Dragon once more ventured forth. He eased through the fence, approached the quivering bed of ash. Heat still radiated from it; the walls were lit by a dull and alien glow. He craned his neck, still only half believing. The garden had been reduced to a rectangle of earth and roots; an alien place, in which he

  could never feel secure again. He prospected sadly for a time; then he retired to his lair. He no longer felt safe, even on the beansack. He lay pressed to earth, watching the horizontal slit of lesser dark before him, his own eyes glowing a rich, reproachful amber. He wondered how his mistress, if indeed he thought of her as such, could have permitted such a thing; but Mrs. Byres, of course, had had no say in the matter. Vans had been arriving all day long at the house next door; in the small front garden, the blue and white board that had stood forlornly for so long had finally been removed.

  He saw more strange things, in the days that followed.

  The children the newcomers brought with them were unprepossessing. The girl, a pallid, dumpy creature, adopted the little attic bedroom for her own. She painted its walls blue, spent a week or more decorating them with hearts and rainbows. Mrs. Byres, divining the activity, smiled a little sadly to herself. The results, of course, would be gross. She wondered, not for the first time, at the lack of charity of the Christian god; to gracelessness he so often accords an equal lack of skill. At once, a certain Shade was in the room. Her husband, the Sahib. Strange how she still thought of him as that. It had always been a joke between them; or perhaps it had had its serious aspect. Perhaps the old ideas still lived in her, there was the notion of expiation. He smiled with equal sadness; and she bowed her head. Later, to ease her mind, she took up her sewing frame. On the linen grew broideries of other gods, dark dancing girls; finally, of Dragons. Their eyes were amber, their undersides ridged and pale; their bodies glittered with scales of green and gold. For a time she quite ignored the garden, and the pond. If she was disappointed at finding the shed deserted, she gave no sign of it; she had half expected it anyway. She still left the offerings of cereal; later she prepared her own meals, calmly. Each carrot scraped, each zucchini rinsed and halved, was itself an Act completed, needing no rationale.

  Liam, the younger of the next door children, was coming six; though as yet he had spoken no words. In their place, he made certain sounds; his mother, a wispy, defeated-looking

  woman, knew the meaning of them all. The commonest, a throaty chuckle, meant that something was undergoing pain; though she had long since concluded it was best to turn a deaf ear. There was nothing wrong with the child, nothing that time wouldn't cure; and in any case the torture had its benefits. It stopped him squalling, got him out from underfoot. The screaming was too much for her, it was all too much; the house, the workmen, constant noise of hammering. One of the men brought a kitten for the boy; a tiny thing mewing and pot-bellied. Taken from the nest too young, if she was any judge; not that she cared overmuch for cats. Nasty dirty creatures, always underfoot like Liam. Nonetheless she did her best, only to be rewarded by messes. In the hall, under the sink, on the new-laid carpet. Her temper snapped at that; she added pepper to the filth, pushed the little creature's face into it to teach it better manners. Then Liam took it away, and she heard the chuckling start. Next morning it was dead; a damp rag of a thing, scarcely noticed till she all but stepped on it. Liam drowned it, in a hole he filled with water; he held its head down many times, for the pleasure of the bubbles, releasing it occasionally to allow it to cough and spit. But that was of equal unimportance; he was merely growing up a healthy, normal lad.

  The Dragon watched the process, again with puzzlement. His raised claw quivered, his head weaved and bobbed; twice his tiny wings rose and rustled, as though he was indeed prepared to fly the scene. When it was over, and the small creature showed no more signs of life, the man-child lost interest. He stumped toward the house, forgetting his bucket and spade, bawling already for food.

  The Dragon edged forward, across the dangerous open ground. He nuzzled the little animal; but it
s eyes were closed, the mud caked into its fur already beginning to stiffen into points. He stared up at the house. As ever, his expression was inscrutable; but it seemed that for a moment his eyes blazed with more than their customary fire.

  In the house the woman lay back wearily, a glass in her hand. She drank from it deeply, felt the thirst that always seemed to be on her temporarily assuaged. As ever, she had

  tried to pace herself through the day. She had done well; supper was in the oven before she turned to the corner cupboard. There was ample need for caution. Only a moment ago, glancing into the garden, she was sure she had seen a flash of green and gold; as though some small, bright animal had scuttled beneath the hedge. She knew from experience what such visual portents meant. She had stiffened with alarm; but now, the gin fumes sliding into her brain, she was more relaxed.

  At least Liam had drifted off to sleep; suddenly and unexpectedly, as was customary with him. He sprawled in the high chair they still used, remnants of food drying round his mouth. If only Mandy would stop making that goddam row though. The thudding from the record player drifted down the stairs, endless and repetitive; but her mother knew yelling would have no effect. She wouldn't even be heard. She lit a cigarette, glanced quickly at her wrist. Her husband would be home at six sharp; and supper had best be on the table, or he would know the reason why. There was time to finish the fag though.

  Not that Tom hadn't been good to her, after his fashion; she had a lot really to be grateful for. He had his faults, but that was just his way. He took after his father; real chip off the old block, as he was found of proclaiming. And his Dad had been a wild one, in his younger days. She wished of course that she could talk to him about Liam; but the subject was a delicate one. Dangerous, if he was just back from the pub. He'd made his own way, like his father before him; these people in white coats, these doctors and psychiatrists, what did they know? Timeservers, the whole pack of them; ought to be given an honest job of work, find out what the world was really like. No son of his would ever need their help; if they knew what was good for them, they'd best keep out of his affairs.

  The woman took another sip of gin. He'd had a lot to put up with; she always reminded herself of that. All those years slaving away; and him a full-fledged butcher, paid as a Meat Operative. The chance of promotion had been unexpected; but he'd grasped it with both hands, she was proud of him

  for that. He was a manager now; which was why they'd sunk every penny into buying the house. She'd been unsure. She hadn't argued though; Tom didn't pay for crossing, not when his mind was set. "Just think of it," he'd said. "Thirty bob an hour that's earning us, just by sitting there. Thirty-six quid a day. We can't lose . . ." And that had been the end of it.

  She shivered slightly. The thought of white coats had conjured up an image of the abattoir; the slaughterhouse, as he preferred to call it. None of those fancy frog terms for him. The lines of men, alien in their protective clothing; hissing of the great hoses; and the flood of crimson, swirling toward the drains. She'd visited the place just once, at his insistence; but she'd refused to go again. Liam though had seemed excited; he'd cooed and chuckled, all the jolting journey home.

  The noise from upstairs ceased abruptly. She looked up. Her daughter was standing pouting in the doorway. "I'm 'ungry," she said accusingly.

  The woman stubbed her cigarette. "All right," she said tiredly. "All right, don't start. I'm comin' . . ."

  The Dragon was in trouble; trouble of the worst possible sort.

  It had all started innocently enough; innocently at least on his part. The folk next door had acquired, or had been given, a puppy; a four-month-old Alsatian, with paws like large soft sponges and a fine, glossy coat of tan and black. Liam's father, the squat, redfaced man the Dragon feared so much, had taken charge, hammering a great stake into the hard earth by the kitchen door. To it she was tethered, without benefit of kennel. Kennels cost hard-earned cash; besides, the dog was to grow up tough. Dogs should be tough and mean; and the process was to start at once. A plate of scraps was produced, and she was left alone. She keened for a while, interspersing the sounds with hopeful yaps; later it seemed she became resigned to her lot. She settled, nose on paws, watching the kitchen door a few feet away. Presently it opened, and a small boy appeared. He was chubby and

  fair-haired, and walked with a staggering, curiously uncertain gait. The pup's tail began to thump the ground; but he made no response. He stared down, expressionlessly; after a time he stumped away. When he returned, he was carrying a pointed stick. He gauged the distance, thrust it at the creature's face. She flinched, twisting her head, hampered by the shortness of the chain. The stick missed by inches. Liam thrust again, aiming for the eyes. He began to chuckle.

  The Dragon had been attracted by the high-pitched sounds of misery. He left his foraging, eased his way under the hedge. He was unable for a time to locate the source of the distress; an old shed, built largely of tar paper, masked his view. The ugliest object in the garden, it was the one thing that had been suffered to remain. He was forced to advance farther than was advisable across the open ground. He gained, finally, the partial security of a stack of old crates; some of the rubbish the newcomers had brought with them. He was in time to see the puppy, tired of the lethal game, butt the small boy gently with her head. Liam sat down with a thump, and began to howl.

  The house door popped open. In her hand, the thin woman clutched an old-fashioned carpet beater. She wielded it, tight-lipped; and the dog began to scream.

  The Dragon was transfixed. There was a time, perhaps, when he was confused; but pain-signals are not to be mistaken. He blinked and hissed, scrabbling with his claws; but once again, his instincts were in conflict. A part of him wished perhaps to aid the sufferer; but his paramount need was to stay concealed, hidden from the eyes of all but Mrs. Byres. She, certainly, would never have allowed such a thing; but Mrs. Byres was not at home. The knowledge added to his helplessness; he danced on the spot, in an agony of indecision.

  It seemed the beating went on for an age. When it was over, the pup retreated to the farthest extent of her chain and was sick. A final imprecation; and the house door closed with a bang. The Dragon ducked and gulped; and the light above him was occulted.

  He glared up, blinking. He had stayed too long. Liam was

  standing over him. His eyes were gleaming; and in his hand was the pointed stick.

  The Dragon fled, flame-fast; down the path, into and through the hedge. He dived beneath the hut, scrabbled his way as far as possible into the dark. He hissed again and panted, claws gripping the earth; and in front of him the light was once more blocked. The boy still gripped the weapon; and his movements, now his interest was focused, had become more purposive. He lay down, puffing a little, began to work his way into the narrow gap. The stick wobbled, moving steadily closer.

  The Dragon took a great breath, and another. He was trapped; it seemed his heart, in its pounding, might break clear of his body. The stick jabbed; and the fear that was in him exploded, in a great burst of light and heat. The light was dazzling almost, in the confined space.

  Mrs. Byres was late back from the hospital. It had not been one of her normal days for visiting; but a lunchtime call had needed her attention and she had stayed on, moving quietly from ward to ward, helping calm and settle the new patients. She spoke to all in the language of their birth, or in a close approximation. The Hindi she had learned at her mother's knee, the Pushtoo she had acquired in circumstances frequently distressing and bizarre; but she had a working knowledge of many other dialects. She knew these people, understood their pride and fear; from small beginnings she had become a tower of strength to patients and staff alike. Though the notion would have been the last to enter her mind. The Surgeon-Registrar, himself a hardworked Anglo-Indian, realized her worth; and his word carried weight. He it was who had defended her, in no uncertain terms, when Admin queried her non-official presence; but of that she was equally unaware. The great place need
ed her, it needed many like her; but they were seldom to be found.

  She rubbed her eyes tiredly, as the bus ground up the long hill toward her home. Today it seemed much power had flowed from her, so that she felt drained; though that of course was a mere effect of age. It had troubled the

  Reverend Byres, the Sahib, increasingly as his ministry drew toward its close. Though of course he had never yielded to fatigue; if anything, he had driven himself the harder. She would chide him for it, gently; but his answer was always the same. He would take her hand and draw her to him, where he lay back in the long cane chair. "The Lord provides the work, Richenda," he would say, smiling. "It is up to us to provide the strength." And she would smile in turn, lay her hand softly on his forehead; while the fans swished, moths chirred in the endless, velvet night. The image had stayed with her, strongly; it was with her now. She did not resent it; rather she welcomed its recurrences. It was a comfort sent by that same Lord, whoever he might be.

  The bus had reached her stop; she climbed down, waited her opportunity to cross the wide, endlessly busy road. She turned the corner, past the old cinema that was now a supermarket, headed toward her house.

  She paused, frowning slightly. The normally quiet street was full of bustle. Neighbors gawped and clustered; lights of amber and blue flashed from the roofs of cars. The reflections dazzled; so that she raised an arm to shield her eyes, her purse, with the keys, still gripped in her other hand. There were policemen with radios and clipboards, others who wore vivid orange surcoats. The questions confused her momentarily. Yes, she was Mrs. Byres; yes, this was her home. In what way could she help?