Black Scales VI: A Gift for the Dragon-Girl

When the sun dipped low in the sky, the ritual began. The parents not yet numbed to it hugged their children close. The ones who could bear it watched the little ones toddle towards the lake; that black stain shrouded in mist. It repelled the eyes, as if it were a magic mirror, an evil one, and not looking at it could save you.

Garrick hugged his daughter close, breathed in the strange smell of her, the scent of her sickness which had never left. Faint, but stinging, like smoke, with an acidic edge. He pulled back, and gripped her upper arms, mindful of the sling.

"You be careful, Orla, OK?"

Orla nodded, shifting her grip on her stick.

"I'm always careful, Da."

"Stay out of the way of the others. Stay hidden if you can," he added, keeping his voice low.

"I know," Orla nodded and moved away. He watched her, because she was all he had, and he'd be damned if he gave up what might be his last sight of her, no matter how much it hurt.

+

Orla didn't fit between those rocks where she'd hidden before. Not with her arm strapped up like this. It didn't matter. The other kids avoided her. It could have been the stick, or something in her expression. Maybe the sight of her arm in a sling triggered a rare epidemic of pity. Or the odd scent that clung to her, faint but unfading. As if she brought death with her from the cave.

Trees posed too much of a challenge with only one arm, so Orla hauled herself up on a rock, and watched until the kids had done searching, and the bigger ones had squashed the smaller ones and, everybody had gone home. Then she dropped to the ground, bending her knees and spreading her stick out for balance.

Da was snoring loudly when she got in. She leaned over to smell his breath; no trace of drink. Good. Orla put the supper leftovers - leftovers! - in a bowl, and set this in a basket with some apples, and more bread. Brenna really liked bread. She'd liked the blanket as well, but Orla couldn't spare another one. Orla didn't need them anymore, with the fever still burning in her blood, but Da did.

Not enough. Not enough.

What else could she take?

Orla tiptoed back into the bedroom. The silence was thick and heavy, Da's breaths deep and slow. She crouched in the corner, and felt around in the wooden box until her hand touched the bristles. Fingers closing around the handle, she pulled away and hurried out of the room before Da could wake and catch her stealing.

He'd never know. Wasn't like he ever went through Ma's things anyway.

The back of it was milk-smooth; your fingers could feel its shine. Orla smiled in the dark. Brenna would like it. She'd liked the softness of the blanket; she'd like this.

Orla this in the basket, covered the whole thing with an old shawl of Elsie's, and left.

+

Brenna was waiting for her at the lake. They looked more like reflections of each other than ever, each with her stick, ragged clothes, and dirty feet. Oblivious to the night's chill.

Orla set the basket down. They both chose a rock. Brenna sat with one leg crooked, and the other swinging carelessly. Orla copied her, and waved a hand at the parcel.

"Brought you some more stuff," she said, as if it was nothing.

Brenna pulled the shawl back, her grin faltering when she spotted the shell-backed hairbrush.

"What's this?" she said, picking it up and running a finger over the surface.

Orla shrugged. "I thought maybe it was your birthday or something."

Brenna ran a grimy thumb over the pale bristles, and squinted at the swirls etched along the silvery handle.

"It's real pretty," she said, "You sure it's for me?"

Yes. Why shouldn't you have something pretty?

Aloud, Orla said, "Is it your birthday or isn't it? 'Cos you know, you don't have to have it."

Maybe she's offended, like I'm saying she needs to brush her hair.

Brenna looked up, and met her eyes squarely. The first time she had, at least the first time that wasn't a challenge.

"Yes," she said, cradling the brush in her hands, "I think it is my birthday. Thank you."

Orla's smile hid hot and expansive inside her chest. She didn't know what to say, so she said, "Are you hungry?"

Brenna pulled at the shawl again, and grinned again when she spotted the bread. She reached for it, and Orla put out a hand and stopped her. Brenna's skin felt... chilly.

Like a lizard!

She pulled back as if she'd been scalded.

"I-I-I.... I... um.... I forgot a spoon," Orla said. "So you have to use the bread like a bowl."

Brenna tore the bread in half and the pair scooped out the bread-guts, Brenna cramming it into her mouth, and Orla setting hers aside in the basket.

"You always eat so dainty," Brenna said, filling her crust with stew.

"I like scraping the bowl with it," Orla said, "And the fish might like it."

"Good thinking," Brenna said.

They sat and talked and ate. After that, they fished in the lake, careless of the dragon brooding at their backs.

"Will you teach me to use the stick?" Orla asked.

"What's to teach?" Brenna shrugged. "I don't think about it. Hit people with it if you have to."

"I haven't had much practise at hitting anything with anything," Orla admitted, looking down at her hands.

"I'll think about it," Brenna said. "Maybe I can help you. A bit. What about you? What'll you teach me, then?"

"Can you swim?"

"You folks swim? Here?"

This was as close as either of them had got to admitting that a dragon lived here, was probably lurking in the cave right behind them in fact, and had chosen, for now, not to roast them alive.

It was also, Orla noticed, not an answer to the question. That would have meant Brenna admitting there was something she couldn't do, something that someone else could show her.

"We used to," Orla said, looking out at the surface, which looked friendlier without the mist hanging over it. "My brother taught me. Before.... Anyway. I think I can still remember how."

Brenna scrunched her nose thoughtfully.

"Tomorrow, then. Or later. You'll come back?"

Orla smiled. "Course. We're friends aren't we?"

"Yes," Brenna said, thoughtful. "Friends. Definitely."

+

Thank you for reading!