Chapter Text
We went up the hill, and came face-to-face with a dragon.
At first, I didn’t see it at all. Then I saw an outline on the ground. Then it moved, and I realized it was alive.
I’d seen pictures of dragons before (who hasn’t?), but the supposedly-most-realistic ones made them kind of a matte reddish-brown, like old leather. They were wrong. They were totally wrong. The real thing was shimmering like a string of red jewels;–– carnelians or garnets or spinels or rubies or something;–– and he glided, instead of scrabbling and flapping like the movie dragons.
I asked, “Is that a robot? Like the one in Calais in France, or the one in Furth im Wald in Bavaria, or the ones they use at parades in theme parks and Lunar New Year festivals?”.
Clipson answered, “No, laddie; he’s as alive as you and me”.
I said, “That’s impossible!”.
Clipson answered, “No, my boy; we’re impossible. We’re the new, the strange, the new-comer on this world. He’s just as he’s always been’.
I said, “But there’s nothing about it in the fossil-record!”.
Clipson answered, “Dimetrodon, Edaphosaurus, Spinosaurus, Mosasaurus, sebecidae, Rhamphorhynchus, Quetzalcoatlus, Hatzegopteryx;–– there’ve been plenty of things like him before, and there are plenty even now, what with tuataras and monitors, iguanas and flying-snakes and little gliding-lizards. Why, we even classify gliding-lizards as Draco volans;–– Flying Dragon;–– and lophophores as Angle-Headed Dragons, and what have you”.
I figured that made some kind of sense;–– the list of therapsids, diapsids, and pterosaurs, anyway. That one was still alive (and if one, presumably others), was still enough to make my eyes pop. He was at least as big as any of the Azhdarcid family. And he talked, too. He came down like a jump-jet right in front of us, and said, “Good-morning, young Nathan Ransom. I am Traroth, of Green Wall Flight. I am honoured to make your acquaintance”, or something like that.
I’m afraid I wasn’t exactly so articulate. I said, “He’s alive! And he talks”.
He actually laughed (not exactly the way humans do, but a sort of rumble in the throat), and said, “Certainly! A little bit better than you do”.
Clipson was laughing too. He added, “‘Come, Traroth! You must forgive him; he’s only a boy’”.
Traroth said, “I see no boy; only a young man, about to embark on the adventure of his life, and face his worst fears”.
Clipson answered, “You’re right! I expect he’s faced one already, too. Losing a parent is the worst thing, as Mr. Martel remarked, for any young warm-blooded life. We’ve all got to, of course, sooner or later, but it’s a terrible thing when it happens. Now, don’t sulk, young Nathan! Talking about your troubles, putting your feelings into words, showing I understand them from the inside out, doesn’t mean I don’t care; quite the opposite. People’re always saying, He could never know if he didn’t care; and I’ve never believed that, but if it were true, I’ve proven I care, by knowing”.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but this was the way all our conversations ended up, for the rest of the trip. What I said was, “Yeah, well, it’s called Insensitivity when you talk about my feelings before I do, instead of lettin’ me feel ’m in decent privacy”.
He answered, “Privacy is for the bedroom and the bathroom, my boy! You’re in public, now, and if it’s Insensitive to recommend Sensitivity, as I just did, the bottom’s dropped out of the whole distinction! If it’s insensitive to look sensitive, and sensitive to look insensitive, we’ve all lost our minds. The point is, Let’s go”.
I asked, “Where are we going?”.
Traroth said, “To rescue your mother, and Jonas Work, of course!”.
With the luggage before and behind us, we settled down into a kind of saddle on Traroth’s shoulders, made so we were lying flat, faces forward, to reduce drag, with our arms and legs strapped down, helmets on our heads and visors on our faces. Also dressed really warm, in old-fashioned pilots’ jackets and scarves, gloves, boots, and heavy socks, which felt all sorts of uncomfortable in the hot weather, but made sense when I considered how high we were going and how fast we’d fly, and how cold flying always is.
I asked, “Hey! What’s with the design on this saddle?”.
Clipson answered, “It’s to stop us dragging the dragon, and lying flat doesn’t give the rider a sore backside. (I tried lying flat bareback for a few years, and it gave me sore thighs, too). When we were about your age, your mother and Cara and I used to sit upright; a dozen years later, we heard from a paleontologist that lying down was better, for both the above reasons”.
I asked, “Okay. Why a paleontologist?”.
Clipson answered, “She was the nearest we had to a dragon-expert. They study flying reptiles all the time”.
I asked, “What’m I supposed to hold onto?”.
Traroth said, “Me. Always trust the driver, or get off”.
I said, “I don’ wanna be rude, but you’re humungous”.
Traroth answered, “Thank you”.
Clipson interrupted, “What’s so surprising about that, youngster?”.
I said, “Well, I thought, what with the gliding lizard Draco volans and the Scansoriopterygid maniraptorans and other flying reptiles, a Western dragon would be a lot smaller than this”.
Traroth answered, “Your mother Nicole said the same thing when we first met”.
Clipson added: “Remember the Hatzegopteryx and Quetzalcoatlus again, my boy! There you have a winged creature with the wingspan of a small airplane. Likewise our friend here. Now, hold on tight”.
I got a grip on the saddle-bars right in front of me, and he kicked off and spread his wings and flew.