One Realm Beyond (4 page)

“Put it on.” She looked up at him. “Have you got your flute and a bar of soap?”

He shook his head.

“Well?” Ahma prodded when he didn’t move.

Cantor made another trip into the house and grabbed his comb as well as the soap, his mouth organ as well as the flute, and a rag to wash with, just in case Ahma asked if he had one.

She stood when he came out again. By stretching she could
loop the strap of his knapsack over his head. He helped by ducking into it and putting one arm through so the sack hung at his side.

She grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him closer, kissing his cheeks and patting his chest. Today it would seem he was honorable apprentice.

“I’ll know you’re coming when I see you at the door.” She squinted at the portal. “Now get, before the way is closed.”

Cantor gathered her frail form in his arms once more for a parting hug. “I love you,” he murmured against her scraggly gray hair. “I’ll make you proud.”

She leaned back. “See? You’ve forgotten.” She pointed a finger at him and gave it a shake. “You don’t have to do anything to make me proud. I’m already proud of who you are. You don’t need to be anything more.” She scrunched up her face in a disapproving grimace. “Should you be anything less, I own I would be disappointed.”

He kissed her forehead.

“Go, go!”

He walked through the portal and turned to wave to Ahma and Tom.

The air crinkled, grew cold, and drew into itself until nothing could be seen of his home and Ahma. Cantor thought for a moment that he should feel some regret, some emotion that rang of permanent change. This moment should be marked somehow with sorrow for what was lost. But in truth, joy bubbled inside him. Finally he was free to wander wherever he chose. Adventure awaited him.

He snatched off the hat Ahma had given him and threw it straight up in the air. It rolled as it went up, the different patches blurring into a jumble of colors. On its descent,
the hat’s material spread out and floated in a lazy, swinging motion that reminded Cantor of a kite riding the wind. He caught it and stuffed it into his shirt.

He whirled around, looking into the distance of north, east, south, and west. He had all the time in the world, and many worlds to spend time in. Where to begin? Which way to strike out on this solo exploration?

His ultimate goal on this first journey was to find a dragon suitable for a lifelong friendship, as Ahma had found Tom many, many years before.

“Here!” a voice came out of nowhere.

He brought his gaze from the distant horizon and examined his immediate surroundings. A few old mounds of hay dotted the field. A tree with new buds promised spring in the days to come. A brook babbled, making enough noise to call attention to itself without being pretentious.

“Here, right in front of you.”

“What or who is here, right in front of me?”

“My name’s Bridger.”

“Pleased to meet you, Bridger.” He touched his fingers to his forehead and bowed.

“Not over there. Turn just a bit to your right.” The voice added a disgruntled sound, then spoke again. “No, I guess I mean my right. There, stop! You went too far. Go back just a bit. Good, good.”

Cantor heard a contented sigh.

“You’re looking directly at me.”

“I’m looking directly at a haystack.”

“What realm are you from, realm walker? Are you so inexperienced that you don’t recognize a dragon when you see one?”

“I see a haystack.”

“I have shape-shifted into a haystack.”

“Why?”

“I was waiting for you.”

“Me?”

“Well, any realm walker, actually.” He paused, and the hay rustled. “You
are
looking for a dragon, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“What luck! You’ve found one.”

“I’ve found a haystack.”

“No, no. Use your imagination.”

“Why don’t you shapeshift back?”

No sound. Not a word. No explanation. Cantor turned to leave.

“Stop!”

Cantor faced the haystack from a little distance and called out. “I’m sorry, but I am going to pass on your companionship. My Ahma told me not to settle for the first dragon I meet.”

The haystack roared, and a flicker of fire spewed out from a spot close to the rounded top of the mound.

“Fire!” shouted the hay.

“I know. I saw.” Cantor frowned. “It wasn’t much of a fire breath for a full-grown dragon.”

“Ouch, ouch.” The haystack shimmied.

Bits and pieces fell away, and what was left formed into a respectable looking, bronze-colored dragon with indigo wings. The dragon had a beard.

Cantor had never seen a dragon with a beard, not even a picture of a dragon with a beard.

Flames licked in and out of the hairy, scroungy tufts cascading from his face. “Ouch! Don’t just stand there! Help me!”

Cantor darted for the brook. “Come closer. You need to splash in the water.”

Bridger followed Cantor in a lumbering gait. His beard smoked, but no more flames colored the twisted locks. Cantor tossed his knapsack down on the bank and stepped into the stream.

“Hurry! Get in the brook.” Cantor cupped his hands, bent over, and swooped up water, which he splashed in the dragon’s direction.

Bridger tripped over an exposed root and fell face first at Cantor’s feet, soaking the young man.

Cantor straightened from his crouch and frowned at his dripping shirtfront. “Well, that works too.”

The dragon pushed his arms out in front of him and pulled his head out of the bubbling brook. Charred stubs hung from his chin.

Cantor crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ve never seen a dragon with facial hair.”

Bridger turned over and sat with the water diverted by his plump body. One side encroached on the embankment as it continued its course.

He fingered his raggle-taggledy beard. “That was me being clever.”

“Clever?”

“Resourceful.”

Cantor waited.

“As I shifted, I realized my chin would be aflame, so I added the beard as a buffer between the fire and my skin.”

Cantor cocked his head and nodded. “That is rather clever, and quick-thinking as well.”

Bridger jumped to his feet. “It was, wasn’t it? You do see that I would be an asset to your adventuring, don’t you?”

The young realm walker shook his head. “But the idea didn’t completely work.”

“I know.” The dragon hung his head, his wings drooped, and he plodded out of the stream. “I didn’t account for the fact that flames go up. If I’d made the beard longer, perhaps.”

Cantor went to the bank and snatched his knapsack from the ground. He then turned and walked to the opposite side to climb out.

“Where are you going?” called Bridger.

“Don’t know yet.”

“I know the way.” The dragon stepped into the water, following Cantor.

“What way?”

“Any way. I was born on this plane and know every trail. I know the best cooks, the most hospitable hosts, the cheapest stores, and the kindest healers. You’ll need me.”

Cantor glanced over his shoulder and almost took pity on the bedraggled and mournful dragon. Almost.

“I don’t think so.”

“Who’s going to light your campfire tonight?”

“I have a piece of flint.” He continued walking, refusing to look back at the tag-along.

A hill swelled the earth ahead of him, and he made that his destination. He no longer heard Bridger’s breathing or the slight rustle of his leathery wings, but he didn’t look. The dragon would take his interest as an encouragement. Cantor envisioned himself with a sophisticated, educated, elegant dragon. Bridger did not fit the image.

At the top of the hill, he paused to survey the countryside.
A forest to the south, an outcropping of rocks or stone buildings against the one green mountain, too far away to see clearly, and farmlands spread as far as he could see.

He heard a whuffle from a horse’s nostrils right before he received a nudge between the shoulder blades. He whipped around and confronted a warhorse with a gleaming black coat, four white socks and a star on his forehead.

“I thought you might like to ride,” said Bridger. A fine set of leather saddlebags lay across the horse’s broad back behind a fancy saddle.

“No, thank you.”

“It’s a long way to the nearest village of any size.”

“I’m used to walking.” Cantor turned and continued on his way, taking long strides at a quicker pace than before.

Bridger shuffled his giant hooves and followed. “Walking’s okay. You could fly if you had a mor dragon for a constant.”

“I will have a mor dragon for a constant. It’s my destiny.”

The horse shambled closer. Warm, moist air huffed down Cantor’s neck. “It’s my destiny too.”

Cantor grunted and kept walking.

A HORSE IS A HORSE, OF COURSE

C
an I ride your horse, Mister?” The voice came from a tree next to the dirt road.

Cantor spotted a child straddling a thick limb. The leaves shook, and he realized a trio of children perched overhead. Two girls and a scruffy boy. The oldest, skinniest girl might have made the inquiry. Her eyes twinkled, and her lips were opening to ask another question.

To forestall any conversation about Bridger, Cantor answered quickly, “I don’t have a horse.”

“Then why’s that horse following you?”

Cantor turned slowly, pretended to start at the sight of Bridger, then scratched his head. “I don’t have the faintest idea.”

“Well, since he’s not yours, we can ride him for sure.”

The children scrambled down through many limbs, the oldest helping the smallest child, the grunge-covered boy.

The diverse colors of dried, crusty mud smeared into the boy’s hair and coating his skin fascinated Cantor. “How did he get so dirty?”

“Pigs!” said the middle child, a girl who wore a little less dirt than the boy.

The older girl set the boy down and pushed him behind the younger girl. “Stay, Ding-dong, until I see if he’s safe.”

The boy nodded and opened his mouth in a circle. Just before his lips sealed the gap around the thumb, Cantor noticed how much cleaner that part of the boy was compared to all the other visible parts. Even his clothes looked stiff with dirt.

The oldest girl approached Bridger, whose head towered above Cantor. She barely came up to his flank. One wrong move, and she would be knocked over. Cantor breathed easier when he realized the dragon/horse stood exceptionally still.

“Does he bite?” she asked.

“I have no idea. He’s not my horse.”

Bridger whinnied and shook his head.

The girl laid a calm hand on the horse’s cheek. “He’s a fine horse.”

Bridger’s head bobbed up and down.

“Intelligent and gentle.” She kissed him on the nose. “Very gentle.” She gestured to the other two to come closer. “We can ride him. Maybe we can even keep him.”

The two skipped into the road and stood beside the massive warhorse.

The younger girl pointed to the horse’s back. “What’s that?”

Cantor had to move to the side to see where she pointed. “I don’t know. Saddlebags? I think they’re called saddlebags.”

“What’s in ’em?”

Cantor had just been wondering the same thing. Why would a shape-shifting dragon transform into a horse with saddlebags, in addition to the saddle? “I don’t know what’s in them.”

The oldest pulled the middle child closer. “Come on. That’ll be something to hold on to.”

“How am I going to get all the way up there? He’s huge.”

“Climb in the tree and jump on the horse from your sitting branch.”

Cantor gasped and held up a hand. The children were about to commit suicide. “Wait. Do you know what kind of horse this is?”

The middle child grinned. “Sure! He’s a
good
horse.”

Thumb-sucker nodded. Bridger snickered air out of his nostrils and bobbed his head.

Cantor scowled his most fearsome, mature, and judgmental frown. “He’s a warhorse. Not a pet.”

Hands on her hips and toe tapping, the oldest squinted her disapproval. “How do you know?”

“By the size of him.” Cantor reached up to put his hand on Bridger’s back. “He’s probably trained to charge into battle. It’s not likely at all that he’s friendly to little children.”

Two of the children backed up a step or two. But not the instigator of mischief. The oldest stood her ground.

Cantor chose to change the subject and perhaps divert the children’s attention. “What are your names?”

The oldest girl answered. “I’m Ella, my sister is Bella, and Ding-dong’s real name is Eddie.”

Cantor performed his most elegant bow. “I am Cantor D’Ahma.”

Ella and Bella giggled, then curtsied. Eddie removed his thumb, uttered a quiet “hi,” and reinserted his personal plug.

Ella moved to stand between her siblings and put an arm around each of their shoulders. “Can we ride your horse now?”

“I told you he’s not mine. He’s a warhorse, and he’s probably not suitable for children.”

Bridger moved closer to Cantor and laid his chin on the top of the young realm walker’s head. He ducked and moved away. Bridger followed and again put his chin on his head. The small audience laughed.

Cantor sidestepped to get out from under Bridger’s nose. The horse merely followed him. When he again shifted, this time in the other direction, Bridger moved to set his chin on Cantor’s shoulder. His warm, moist breath tickled his ear.