Black Scales VII: Another Gift

Orla took another parcel of food down to the lake the next night for the wild girl, and another one the one after that. Brenna showed her how to fish. They got perilously close to the cavemouth, but neither girl mentioned it, or even looked that way. Orla wondered if the dragon was home, or not, and decided not to mention it. Better to squash the wondering. It got easier and easier.

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Days trickle down the mountain of a lifetime, clinging to a familiar path and carving it deeper. Orla joined the other children near sunset, even though her arm was still no better.

After their search was done, and they'd all gone home, Orla went home, too. She fetched whatever food she could find, sometimes her own supper, and always a bit of bread, if there was any. Brenna would be waiting for her at the lake. They'd fish, and eat, and talk. When the sky got light, Brenna would return to the cave, and Orla would go home to bed.

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Tonight, Orla was especially keen to meet her friend. Brenna had agreed, at last, to teach her how to fight with the stick.

But tonight, it all went wrong.

The first children to reach the water's edge spotted him bobbing on the surface, face up. His clothing had snagged on the vicious black rocks, stopping him from floating deeper into the lake. The older ones hung back. It was too close to the Lair for comfort.

Someone screamed, which set some of the others off, as well. A couple of them, more intelligent, or more nervous, clapped hands across mouths, or dug elbows in ribs.

"Shhhh! It'll hear you, idiot!"

The grownups lingered, unwilling to venture closer, but just as unwilling to tear themselves away. The children were huddled around something, giving the object of interest a wide berth, but peering at it greedily all the same. One of the boys ran back, panting, eyes wide, to where his parents waited.

"There's a boy down there! We think he's dead."

Even this didn't draw the adults closer to the scene. Orla slid down from her rock, letting her landing be as pointedly loud as her sigh. She marched down towards the shoreline, snatches of conversation drifting up to meet her.

"Do you think he's really dead?"

"Sure he is, did you see his eyes?"

"Did you touch it?"

"No! Did you?"

"Course not! If'n I do he'll haunt me, everyone knows that."

"How'm we gonna get him back on to the land, like?"

"He's big. You should do it, you're big enough."

"I'm not touching him, neither, you can forget it-"

Orla stepped a bit heavier, holding her staff with purpose, and noticed how they all cringed back at the sight of her, making a path leading right to the body of Jenson.

Of course she wasn't afraid of the dragon, not anymore. And she wasn't scared of being haunted, either. She'd never seen Ma, after all. Not since... Anyway. Point being, There's nothing to be afraid of.

Suppressing a shiver of revulsion, she stepped right up to him and crouched down. Forcing herself to look past his squashed looking nose, and into his eyes. For a minute, fear couldn't find her , and she felt only pity. He was only a boy, after all. Almost out of boyhood, but not quite. One more Spring and he'd never have had to come so close to the Lair ever again.

Just there, almost concealed under his head, a familiar glint caught her eye. The shell-backed hairbrush she'd given Brenna. Her guts clenched and went cold, and her heart pounded. Orla pocketed it as quick and quiet as she was able.

She considered the bulk of him; she'd never be able to lift and carry him. It would have to be a disrespectful to the dead heave out of the shallows. Gripping his collar tight in her good hand, and her staff tucked under her other arm, Orla hauled. Something gave, and there was a nasty tearing sensation. Those rocks really were vicious. Orla just hoped it was his clothes. There was something awful about carving at the skin of a dead person, even by accident.

Orla lifted her gaze and kept pulling until he was clear of the water. It was easier, with her eyes on where she was going. Who knew, maybe the grownups would be shamed by the flash in her eyes and the determination on her face, and it would make them come down and help. Was there a flash in her eyes? Orla hoped so.

Maybe there wasn't, or maybe they couldn't see it from there, not in this light. They watched, unmoving and stony-faced, until she crossed some invisible line on the shore. Then they hurried forward to relieve her of the grisly burden, and they managed to do it in the most patronising way possible.

"There'll be no Scouring today," an Elder said.

Orla's heart sank.

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Thank you for reading!

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