The Dragon of Lonely Island (4 page)

“
What?
” whispered Sarah Emily.

“People are nosy,” Zachary whispered back. “They’re always snooping around, exploring things.”

“The world is not always a congenial place for dragons,” the dragon continued, in put-upon tones. “We have been worshipped and admired. We have been — quite foolishly — feared. And we have been pursued and persecuted. At times we have found it wise to withdraw from public society.”

The dragon paused.

Then it said confidingly, “We also need to take naps.”

“Who would persecute a dragon?” Sarah Emily asked. “Think how big they are. They have huge claws. And they breathe fire.”

“Well,” said Hannah, “in the Middle Ages, the knights were always riding out to slay dragons.”

“That was because of the princesses,” began Zachary. “Dragons were always kidnapping . . .”

The dragon gave him a scathing look. “Young man,” it interrupted, “that is precisely the problem. Rumor. Gossip. Slander. You humans are so often hostile to the unusual, so ready to believe the worst.”

The dragon raised its right front claws as though it were taking an oath.

“Dragons,” it said firmly, “do
not
capture princesses. They could, of course, princesses being the feather-brained creatures that they are, but they don’t. What would be the point? A princess, once you’ve got it, is a poor conversationalist. It whines and complains. It refuses to sit down on the rocks for fear of muddying its gown.”

“But if you never capture princesses,” Sarah Emily said, in an apprehensive voice, “then what do you eat?”

The dragon gave the children a withering stare.

“I see,” it said, “that you share some common misconceptions about dragons. We are, as a species, vegetarian.” It cleared its throat. “Well, largely vegetarian. A green salad, a few bushels of fruit, whole-wheat grain products.” It lowered its voice and added, somewhat indistinctly, “An occasional fish.”

“We didn’t know that,” said Hannah.

“Of course not,” said the dragon. “And so few humans bother to ask. Most simply
assume.
”

“But not all?” asked Hannah.

The dragon turned its head toward Hannah and again the jade green eyes softened.

“No,” the dragon said, “not all. That reminds me of a story — a tale of a human who understood dragons. She too was a First Awake. An eldest daughter. Like you, my dear.”

The dragon gave a little sigh and its green eyes seemed to glisten. “It happened very long ago,” the dragon said, “and in another place, far away. Long ago,” it repeated sorrowfully, “and far away.”

The dragon was still for a moment. Then it ruffled up its golden wings and settled itself more comfortably. “Sit down,” the dragon said, “and listen.”

Sarah Emily lay down on her stomach on the cave’s stone floor and rested her chin on her hands, the way she did when she listened to Mother’s bedtime stories. The stone was beautifully warm, softly heated by the dragon’s inner fire. Zachary and Hannah leaned back against Fafnyr’s smooth golden tail. They lost themselves in the pictures brought into their minds by Fafnyr’s voice. It seemed, as the dragon spoke, that the walls of the cave dissolved. There was a sudden green scent of fresh plants and newly plowed soil, a chatter of foreign voices, bird song, and the soft distant gong of a temple bell. A warm wind lifted their hair. Suddenly they were inside the dragon’s story, seeing the world through someone else’s eyes.

“Long, long ago, in the land called China,” the dragon said, “in the days before the emperor ordered the building of the Great Wall, a young girl named Mei-lan lived with her family in a tiny village in the foothills of the mountains. . . .

It was a green and pleasant place filled with brooks and fruit trees, and Mei-lan’s father, who had a little farm, did well. The rains came and the crops were good and the villagers were happy. But some were happier than others. In those days in China, daughters were considered worthless, and Mei-lan, whose two younger brothers were much more important than she was, seemed to be the most worthless of all. The interests of the family’s two sons — Plum Boy and Little Peach — always came first. If there were not enough sweets to go around, Mei-lan always had to go without. If Mei-lan had something that the boys wanted — a favorite toy, a brightly-colored bird’s feather, or a sparkly stone — she had to give it up. When the nights became cold, Mei-lan always had to sleep the farthest from the burning stove so that the boys could stay warm. This, as far as Mei-lan knew, was the way things had always been and the way things always would be. But sometimes it was hard and it made her unhappy. So it went on, until one day, when she went to the mountainside to gather firewood. . . .

Mei-lan knew she shouldn’t be angry — Plum Boy and Little Peach were boys, after all, and their wishes were much more important than those of a lowly girl — but sometimes life was hard to bear. Just that morning, Plum Boy, who was six years old, had demanded Mei-lan’s pet, a shiny brown cricket named Moon Singer, who Mei-lan kept in a tiny bamboo cage next to her sleeping mat. Mei-lan had captured Moon Singer in a field near the river and brought him home. He was a friendly little soul, cheerful and bright eyed, whose comforting creak and chirp helped lull her to sleep each night. She fed him bits of green leaves and lotus seeds and he seemed to recognize her voice, climbing on her finger when she called him and brushing his long antennae against her cheek when she lifted him up to her face.

When Plum Boy took Moon Singer for his own, Mei-lan felt as though her heart would break. “Please, Honorable Brother, accept this unworthy gift,” she had said, but her voice trembled, and when Plum Boy gleefully carried the cricket away, she couldn’t hold back her tears. Now, alone on the mountainside collecting kindling for the family cooking fire, she thought dismally about Moon Singer. “I will never have another pet,” Mei-lan told herself bitterly. “If I have nothing, nothing can be taken away from me.” She was starting to cry again, wiping away the tears with the sleeve of her pink quilted jacket, when a sound in the thicket behind her made her stop sniffling and listen. There it came again: a scraping rattle and a muffled moan that sounded like a creature in pain.

Forgetting her own sorrows, Mei-lan ran to investigate. She pushed and shoved her way through the tangled underbrush, pulling aside branches and pausing to untangle the brambles that were caught in her clothes and her hair. Suddenly she burst out of the thicket into a small clearing, in the middle of which lay . . .

Mei-lan dropped on her knees and her mouth fell open in amazement. “An Honorable Dragon,” she breathed.

The dragon lay on its side, its head resting in the grass and its jade green eyes dim and clouded with pain. Two other heads, Mei-lan saw, were snuggled down, motionless on its shoulders, eyes closed, seemingly fast asleep. One great golden wing was torn and bloodied and bent over its back at a strange and painful-looking angle. The dragon looked despairingly at Mei-lan, took one long shuddering breath, moaned again, and lay still. All thoughts of her own problems vanished from Mei-lan’s mind. She ran forward and took the golden dragon’s head in her arms. The glittering scales felt hot and dry to her touch and the dragon simply leaned, limp and heavy, against her. “Oh, Honorable Dragon,” Mei-lan cried in panic, “please don’t die!”

The dragon struggled for a moment and managed to speak. “An archer,” it said weakly. “An ambush.” It gestured toward its left shoulder and Mei-lan saw the shaft of an arrow thrust through the golden scales and deep into the dragon’s flesh. Mei-lan gave a gasp of horror.

“He shot me,” the dragon said, “and I fell.” It closed its eyes exhaustedly for a moment, then opened them again and looked sorrowfully at Mei-lan. “He did not know who I was.”

Mei-lan bowed her head. “It has been a very long time since the Great Ones have been seen in this land. Perhaps some ignorant persons have forgotten.”

The dragon sighed deeply. “I am hurt,” it said, and lay its head down again.

Mei-lan knew that something must be done immediately if the dragon were to survive. She laid a small cool hand on the dragon’s golden head. “I will be back soon,” she promised. She moved gently away from the dragon, so as not to jar the broken wing, and then ran, forcing her way through the thicket, hurling herself pell-mell down the mountainside.

“Mother! Father!” she shouted, as she burst through the gate at home. “An Honorable Dragon on the mountainside! A dragon! He needs help! Oh, please, please, come quickly!”

Mother, in a jacket patterned with crimson peonies, was preparing tea. Father was eating rice balls. As Mei-lan flung herself into the room, Mother straightened up and Father laid down his chopsticks. “Mei-lan,” Mother said reprovingly, “it is not respectful to greet your parents in this rowdy fashion.”

Father shook his head. “We will never find you a husband,” he said.

Mei-lan forced herself to become calm. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry, Mother. I am sorry, Father. But there is an Honorable Dragon — a Great One — on the mountainside and he is injured. He needs our help. Please, I don’t know what to do. Should we send for the villagers? The mayor and the doctor? What should we do?”

Her parents stared at her in disbelief. “Mei-lan, this tale cannot be true,” said Mother.

“But he spoke to me!” Mei-lan cried. “He said, ‘I am hurt!’ He will
die
if we don’t help him!”

Father frowned. “No Great One,” he pronounced, “would speak to a worthless girl-child. The Great Ones once were known to speak to emperors and scholars, high-born men of great wisdom and learning. But never, not even before the days of my great-grandfather’s grandfather, when the Great Ones were seen more often in this land, would an Honorable Dragon have stooped to speak with such as you.”

“Perhaps not,” said Mei-lan humbly, bowing her head, “but this dragon had no choice. He is hurt. He was wounded by an arrow and he fell. I think his wing is broken. He needs our help.”

Father shook his head. “You must cease to discuss this dragon, Mei-lan. This cannot be. You imagined it.”

“I did
not
imagine it!” cried Mei-lan, stamping her foot in frustration. “The dragon is real and he is on our mountainside right now!”

“Mei-lan!” said Father sternly. “You must learn to control your temper.”

“Perhaps the child is ill,” said Mother, worriedly. “Perhaps we should take her to the doctor.”

The doctor lived in one of the biggest houses in the village. It had a red-painted gate, and a courtyard planted with flowering trees, and a stone pool filled with goldfish. The doctor had a long drooping mustache and wore a yellow silk robe with a matching yellow silk cap. He listened gravely as Mei-lan’s father explained the problem and then solemnly felt Mei-lan’s forehead to see if she had a fever. He slowly shook his head.

“The girl has had a touch of the sun,” he said. And then, turning to Mei-lan, he explained kindly, “It is easy when one is hot and tired to imagine that sun glinting off pale branches looks like gold. Your dragon is all in your mind. Some scholars say that dragons were merely inventions of the mind, stories made up long ago by poets and songwriters. You did not see a dragon, because there was no dragon there.” He shook his head again, sat down in his lacquered chair, and picked up a book. “There are no dragons,” he repeated. Mei-lan’s father bowed and apologized for disturbing him and took Mei-lan away.

In the street on the way home, they met the village mayor, a tall and imposing man wearing a coat embroidered with lilies and kingfishers. He carried a tiny dog in his wide sleeve. The mayor and Mei-lan’s father bowed and exchanged greetings. “You have been visiting the Honorable Doctor?” the Mayor asked. “I hope none of your worthy family is ill.”

“No, we are well. But this foolish one,” Mei-lan’s father said, gesturing toward Mei-lan, “this ignorant girl, claims to have seen a dragon on the mountainside.”

“A dragon?” The Mayor laughed, and the little dog in his sleeve jiggled up and down. “Ridiculous. There are no dragons. They all died long ago. And even if one were still alive, no Great One would speak to a simple girl. The child is lying.”

“Of course, Honorable One,” said Father respectfully, bowing to the mayor. Then, as the mayor pompously paraded on down the street, Father turned to his daughter and said sharply, “Come, Mei-lan, we must return home.”

“There will be no more talk of this dragon,” Father said, as they passed through their own gate and entered the house. “You will apologize to me and to your Honorable Mother, and you will cease to make up these unfortunate stories. You have embarrassed all of us. You have been most upsetting.”

Mei-lan gave up. “I understand, Father,” she said. “I apologize. I have made a stupid mistake. I will go back and fetch the firewood now.” She bowed politely to her parents and left the room. But as soon as her feet, in their little straw sandals, crossed the threshold, she began to run, an expression of obstinate determination on her face. From the shelf in the big front room, she snatched up her sleeping quilt, folded it small, and rolled it into a tight bundle. From the storage cupboard in the corner, she took a bolt of cotton cloth —“Bandages,” she thought — and a pot of the green herbal medicine that her grandmother claimed would cure anything, from snakebite to broken bones. She stuffed a handful of sugared rice cakes into a carrying pouch, and paused at the farmyard well to fill a wooden bucket with cold water. Then, staggering under her load, she headed back, as fast as she could, to the mountainside.