Ariel (15 page)

* * *

I'd begun smoking again when I could find cigarettes, but Ariel hadn't said anything to me about it. I knew she hated to be around it, but I needed it to keep my nerves calmed. Maybe she knew that.

That night—our fifth on road—the three of us slept in a motel in Spartanburg. It was deserted but had been broken into at some time. From behind the desk I grabbed a key to a room on the second floor. The room was pale blue, with two narrow beds and a seascape painting on the wall to the right of the door.

George flopped onto the far bed. "Heck, I don't know which I want to do first—eat or sleep." Three minutes later he was snoring.

* * *

Dreams again. They brushed a tickling feather across my nighttime awareness. Muted images of hot, rapid breaths, and softness.

I awoke to find Ariel pacing restlessly around the room, though that had not wakened me. You couldn't hear her move. George slept quietly to my left. When I sat up she stopped pacing and turned to face me. A little light came in from the curtained windows, just enough to give her the faint phosphorescence of crashing waves on a dark beach. "What's the matter?" I asked.

"My leg. It's begun to throb."

"Which one?"

"Right front."

Oh. The one that had been broken. "All that walking we've been doing, maybe?"

A faint shift of luminescence as she shook her head. "I think it will get worse as we get closer to New York. The memory gets stronger as the distance lessens." She paused a few moments, then said, "You moved around a lot in your sleep. You kept  .  .  . rubbing yourself. You know, on your  .  .  . crotch. It bothered me."

"Bad dreams again." I felt embarrassed, as if I'd been caught doing something wrong. After another pause I said, "Ariel, if you'd like to quit this whole thing, we will. I don't want to do this if it means—"

"We've been through this before, Pete. We'll go."

"But—"

"We'll go. Now go back to sleep."

Twelve

Behold, the noise of the bruit is come, and a great commotion out of the north country, to make the cities of Judah desolate, and a den of dragons.

—Jeremiah, 10:22-23

Spartanburg turned out to be a lot like Greenville, but bigger. I saw a few people moving in the distance as we walked through what seemed the main drag, and once, on the sidewalk, we passed four men and a woman who stared at us openly, not saying a word. Ariel lectured George as we walked through the north end of town. "Never stand in front of one and swing your sword," she was saying. I kept looking left and right at buildings on both sides of the street—the presence of people made me nervous.

"Why not?" asked George. His low-swung broadsword clinked in time with his walk; the metal sheath hit the pavement each time he stepped forward with his left foot.

"Because it'll eat you. A dragon's main defenses are all oriented toward frontal attack. The front claws can swipe forward quickly, but they have difficulty striking to the side. Same with the head. It's on a long neck and it'll snap forward and strike like a snake, though not quite as fast. It also breathes fire. But the head has difficulty turning far to the side, close in toward its own body."

George took all this in soberly.

"Never try to stab or cut at the head. It's bony and the hide's tough; your sword probably won't go through. That, and it's easy to miss their brains, which are not exactly a vital organ where dragons are concerned anyway."

"Well, what am I supposed to do, then?"

She looked at the broken glass front of Sam & Sons Laundry and Dry Cleaning, then looked back at the road ahead. "Get it low in the side. You have to try to puncture the gasbag. That's what allows it to fly and breathe fire. If it gets airborne you're in trouble."

"Wait a minute," I said. "Gasbag?"

She nodded. "Most of the body is hollow, filled with hydrogen gas produced by chemical reaction within the body, the same way your body produces gas. Hydrogen gives it lift; without it dragons couldn't fly. Their wings aren't large enough. The gas is ignited in the throat and comes out as fiery breath."

I wasn't biting. "Hold on a second. Why the need for complex biochemistry? I thought dragons were magical."

"They are."

"Then don't they fly by magic, or breathe fire by magic?"

She shook her head. The point of her horn flashed as it caught the morning sun. "Magic is a resource, Pete. Waste it and it's gone. Why do you think I use it so rarely? Sure, dragons live by magical means—so do I. But nature isn't wasteful, whether it's labeled 'natural' or 'supernatural.' The magical power required to lift something as big as a dragon during the course of its lifetime would be tremendous. A dragon uses up magic just by existing, same as me. So rather than waste magic by using it up lifting a heavy mass, nature found an easier way."

"I still don't get it. I always thought of magic as unnatural."

"Don't be stupid. If it's unnatural it can't happen within nature. Magic is just a different set of physics laws than the one you're used to." She blinked and struck sparks. "But it still has to be consistent with itself, Pete; otherwise it won't work. There's no such thing as complete chaos."

I nodded, reminded of our first conversation with Malachi. The memory caused a sudden cold tingle at the small of my back.

"Anyway," Ariel said, dipping her horn at George, "you'll probably get off one poke, two if you're lucky. After that your sword will be pretty much useless. Dragon blood is pretty corrosive."

George accepted everything she said as gospel, but since she was in a mood for explanations I demanded to know why that was, also.

"Hydrochloric acid," she said patiently. "It causes the chemical reaction that produces the hydrogen and doubles as a defense mechanism."

"Oh." Until then I'd assumed she was bullshitting George on his dragon-slaying technique and that we were speaking academically; now I realized she was serious as a heart attack. Sometimes it surprised me to hear her speaking knowledgeably about something like biochemistry; she apparently remembered everything she'd read.

"Never look a dragon in the eyes," she continued.

It was George's turn to question. "Why not?"

"Just don't."

A couple hundred yards ahead was a road sign. SPARTANBURG CITY LIMIT. Though the city proper continued a few miles past that, it made me feel better.

I looked up from the road atlas. "We're going to have to pick up our pace. We either walk faster, longer, or both." I had traced our route with a finger, only moderately pleased. Five days out from Atlanta, a little better than a hundred fifty miles. We could do better. I should have brought a skateboard. With my luck, though, it would be as workable as a bicycle.

"Faster," said Ariel.

"Longer," said George.

"It's unanimous, then—faster and longer."

Neither of them seemed too happy with that.

Our projected route would put us in Charlotte in two days. I didn't like that. Small towns were one thing; cities were a whole 'nother mess. I wanted to avoid them but I-85 went straight through Charlotte. Skirting around the city would just take up more time. Damn. But at least Charlotte would have places where I could pick up hiking boots—mine were nearly worn out. I also needed a change of clothes. I'd been wearing my ugly green army shirt and black cords for six days. I tried not to think about what my underwear and socks smelled like by now; I even had to sleep in them. I'd also have to pick up cigarettes. I'd run out that day; I'd be having nicotine fits tomorrow. Peppermint for Ariel, too, to keep her from bitching about my smoking.

Hell, I might even pick up a skateboard. Purely out of curiosity, of course.

* * *

Ariel asked me to rub her right foreleg after we made camp. Nothing felt wrong, but she gasped when my kneading hands circled the ankle joint. "I'm sorry!" I said.

"It isn't you, Pete." She lay on her left side and I was beside her on my knees. George had run behind a group of trees to go to the bathroom. I had told him to be careful; it was dark and something might grab him while he was in an impossible position.

I bent forward, resting my weight on my left arm, and stroked her mane. It looked like moonlit fog in the early morning just before the sun rises. "Is there something I can do?"

She bent her head up and nuzzled my arm. "I'll be okay, Pete. Really. It's remembered pain, that's all. It's in my mind."

I followed the curve round her shoulder, along the length of her once-injured leg with my fingertips. My throat felt full. I wanted to clear it.

Suddenly I was holding her tightly, arms around her neck. My eyes stung; tears slid down my cheeks and onto her hair, beading like dew on a spider web, and somewhere in the back of my mind I thought, God, I look stupid. But I didn't care. I just felt scared, very scared.

"I wish  .  .  .  ." I said, sniffling. My nose had plugged up. "It isn't fair!"

"What isn't fair, Pete?" Her voice was gentle; none of the underlying pain that had been there before was present.

I couldn't answer. I just cried harder.

"Tell me."

"I just  .  .  .  . I wish so much that you were a woman!"

She was quiet a long time. I think George came back but respectfully kept himself scarce. After a while she spoke, and her voice sounded far away, as it had the time she'd brought me back from death and I hadn't wanted to come.

"So do I, Pete." She sighed. "Sometimes  .  .  . so do I."

I stopped crying soon. Ariel felt like the soft stuffed animal every child should have guarding his sleep, and eventually, lulled by that warm security, I did sleep.

* * *

The dreams again. They grew worse each night. I only remembered fragments, but they became more and more detailed.

Hot breath mingling with mine. Sweat tickling my back, cooled by a light night breeze. A faint groan—mine? Sensations assailing me: infant-soft skin, warmth and wetness, and a persistent sliding  .  .  .  . My name, said in a voice all breath—

My eyes snapped open. The lopsided waning moon shone down on Ariel, from whom I'd rolled a few feet during the night. The lumpy shape of George in his sleeping bag snored lightly six feet away, on the other side of Ariel. I realized I was cold. It hits you like that when you wake up.
Oh, yeah—I'm cold
. I got up quietly. My penis pressed against the fabric of my cords. I looked down at it. Those dreams  .  .  .  . I crossed the dark silver ribbon of black-bordered highway, went behind a tree, and unzipped my pants. I tried to urinate but the muscles wouldn't relax. Frustrated, I went back across the road. Fred was lying beside the cocked crossbow atop our piled packs and next to the Aero-mag. I picked it up and unzipped my sleeping bag. George snored on. Ariel's right foreleg jerked. Her head twitched. I crawled into the sleeping bag and zipped it up, left arm out and holding on to Fred. I closed my eyes.
Shit—I have to go to the bathroom.
Exasperated, I tried to unzip the bag, but the tab caught in the cloth and I had to crawl out. I took Fred along and went behind a tree.

As I zipped my pants backup a cry startled me. I turned around, drawing Fred as I spun. The sword arced out and a shock went through my hand as the blade cut through something. I danced grotesquely when something landed at my feet, and stopped when I realized my trained reflexes had caused me to murder a branch. The cry came again. It sounded like a hungry baby's wail. Some kind of bird. Or a squonk, maybe. I sheathed Fred and returned to my sleeping bag, hearing the eerie cry once more.

Tucked away again and beginning to feel drowsy, I realized that I hadn't had to look to sheathe Fred. Maybe I'd get the hang of this stuff after all.

* * *

NORTH CAROLINA STATE LINE, the sign read. We'd slept a hundred yards south of it.

The day was gloomy and overcast. Ariel, George, and I trudged along in silence. We're embarrassed, I thought, because of what happened last night.

It began raining about eight-thirty, starting off as a light drizzle and ending as a toad-strangler for most of the day. I couldn't read
Don Quixote
to Ariel and George. I also worried that Fred would rust.

Weary, soaked, hungry, and roadsore, we entered Charlotte by nightfall.

* * *

Sometimes I wish we'd never gone into Charlotte. I play
what if?
and wonder what would have happened had we avoided the city altogether.

We slept in a Holiday Inn at the outskirts of the city. It was out of the rain and we didn't have to go about setting up even the meager camp that none of us felt like making. We had neighbors in a room down the hall from ours, on the second floor. Three men and two women. They thought Ariel was "really neat." I didn't comment when they told me they'd shoved three beds together in their room. I made polite, noncommittal noises when they left me with an invitation to come over any old time.

I stripped in the room, toweled myself dry, and stumbled into the bed in an exhausted stupor. George was already out on the other bed. Within two minutes I'd joined him in dreamland. I didn't have bad dreams this time. I think I was too tired.

Next thing I knew Ariel was nudging me. Daylight pushed at the curtains. I whipped the covers back and sat up.

"Oh, Pete!" Ariel sounded hurt. My nakedness wasn't what upset her. It didn't bother me, either, but when I looked down I felt sick. My feet were a brownish mess of dirt and dried blood. Blisters on the knuckles of my big and second toes had burst and scabbed over. It looked as if I'd been shot in both heels. All that walking in worn-out boots.

"Wash them off in the bathtub," she ordered. "There might still be some water pressure. Make sure you put a stopper in the tub."

I wondered why my feet didn't hurt as I walked into the bathroom, rubbing sleep from my eyes. Just enough water coughed from the faucet to make a small puddle. I lathered my feet with a miniature bar of hotel soap. The lather turned pink. The water became murky. I swished my feet around to get as much of the soap off as I could, then stepped out and began to towel them dry—and that's when they hurt. I hissed as I drew the towel across the tops of my feet. It felt like an emery board sawing at an open wound.

"You all right, Pete?" asked Ariel from the doorway.

"My feet would probably still feel okay if you hadn't pointed them out to me." I looked up. Her black eyes were concerned. "Yeah, I'm okay. I'll heal, at least. It just hurts like hell."

"Do you think you should walk today?"

"I don't have a choice."

"How about we take it easy and get some things you've been complaining about not having? New hiking boots, for instance."

I wanted to argue and decided not to. It really wasn't a bad idea. Besides, my feet did hurt a lot. "All right. Get George up. We'll see if we can loot some stores."

"George is already up. I'll go knock down the hall and see if they know where we can get clothes and stuff."

I followed her to the front door and opened it for her. "And cigarettes," I called after her.

"And peppermint," she added.

I left the door open partway and got dressed, trying to imagine our neighbors' reaction to having a unicorn bang on their door wanting to know where there was a good shopping center. ("Harry, there's a unicorn at the door—wants to borrow a cup of sugar.")

George lay awake in bed. "Morning," he said.

"Good morning. Feel like going shopping?"

"Well, yeah, I'd like to get some stuff. How're your feet?"

"Lovely, if you like Sam Peckinpah movies." The comment drew a blank look. I'd forgotten he wasn't old enough to remember things like that very well. "They don't look so good," I amended.

"When are we gonna find a dragon?"

"We'll be coming up on the Smokies soon. Ariel thinks there are dragons there. Why the sudden hurry?"

He sat up and I saw that he was already dressed. "'Cause I want to get this stuff over with and go home."

"You miss your family?"

He nodded. Poor kid—he didn't realize his father was nuts. Ariel and I were fairly committed to helping him slay a dragon; he'd never make it on his own. Sure, he wasn't my best friend in the universe, but he was a good kid—I didn't want to see him get mangled. Of course, come to think of it, we might get mangled, too. Oh, yeah.

I looked down at my feet. "Fuck you," I told them. How dare they betray me like this; I wanted to catch up to Malachi. If my feet set us back we'd end up days behind him—if we weren't already.

Ariel nudged the door open with her horn. "They said there's a big shopping mall about three miles down the road. They went by there a few days ago. They don't know if it's occupied but according to them it's in pretty good shape."

"Three miles."

She looked at my feet and nodded.

"I don't care if it's occupied. I want cigarettes. Let's go." I strapped her pack on, put in the Barnett, and looked at George. His broadsword hung ridiculously at his side and he'd shouldered his Boy Scout pack.

I turned the socks bloody-side-out and laced the boots so they were tight about the ankles and loose over my instep. It still hurt. I shouldered my pack and we left.