Petra K and the Blackhearts (4 page)

I had always longed for a dragonka. But the expense of one was well beyond anything we could afford. Owners spent untold kuna on their finicky diets alone, some dragonka resolving from birth to eat nothing but Ruskin caviar, others preferring the bitter chocolatey petals of the
orgona
flower. But foremost was the expense of the beast itself. Speculators had driven the price up so high that only a privileged few could afford any show-worthy dragonka. Even a runt could go for as much as a small house in the country.

Suddenly, a curtain was drawn across the display window. The crowd let out a sigh of disappointment, then, after a few moments, dispersed. I guessed I would hear nothing valuable of the so-called dragonka fever today.

It was then that I noticed a commotion going on at the main entrance of the Exchange. A Boot cart was there, and several officers were pounding on the Exchange door. It was highly unusual for the Boot to enter Jozseftown.

“In the name of Archibald, we demand admittance,” one officer shouted. But no response came. It was as if the Dragonka Exchange had become instantly deserted. The officer pounded again, but still got no response. The Boot officer looked around in displeasure, then kicked the door out of frustration. “When we come back, we will not be so polite!” he shouted at the door, then jumped into his cart and whipped his horses into a fury, accidentally knocking over a pumpkin stand in his rush to get out of Jozseftown.

In looking for answers, I had only uncovered more questions.

L
ater that week, late one night, I was awoken by a faint song. I got out of bed and peered out my small attic window, which looked out over the neighborhood. Dim paraffin street lamps burned through the misty air. Raucous drinking chants of people leaving the pubs, and the shouts of children playing late in the street, rose from the dark crevasses below. Somewhere out there, life was happening without me. I opened my mouth and hissed, in imitation of a dragonka. I wished I had doused myself with the perfume as well. My classmates had been on a wild adventure, due to me, alone in my attic—left out, even from tragedy.

Then I saw something curious. Zsofia, walking alone, through the streets of Jozseftown below me. She seemed to glow in a dull gold light, ghostlike. It was impossible. She lived on the other side of the river, in the Palace District. There was no way her parents would have let her out this late, to wander around alone in Jozseftown. I called out, but she must not have heard me, because she kept going.

I needed to follow her. Mother was most likely asleep, and if she wasn’t, I would not be hearing from her until she needed her morning tea. I opened the window and, experimentally, stretched one leg outside. With my foot, I found the trellis where ivy grew, and discovered it could support my weight. Out I climbed.

The night sky was clear and cloudless. I could see well enough that my footing was sure as I climbed down the delicate wood framework, until I reached the street. But where the neighborhood seemed so alive from my window, now it was totally silent. I looked for Zsofia, but she was already gone, so I quickened my pace in hopes of catching up with her.

Most of the storefronts on Goat Square had already shuttered and locked their windows, the shopkeepers having retreated into their comfortable hovels to count the day’s takings and eat meals of boiled pork and cabbage. The streets, once bustling with shoppers, were now deserted. A wind blew through the gates and arched passageways as though the neighborhood was emitting a great yawn and settling in for the night. Alone, I strode down a shadowed narrow street that wound like a serpent away from the square. I was cold, so I walked fast to warm myself up, keeping my eyes peeled.

Faster I strode—passing news automatons, eyes shut as though in sleep. The sound of Half Not fiddlers escaped the pubs, along with the sound of stomping feet. As I walked, a mist gathered around me, like it was trying to wrap me in its chill and billowy damp. It was crazy to be out in Jozseftown this late at night. Maybe it was true what superstitious residents said of the mist in Jozseftown, that it charmed the lone wanderer, misdirecting them, getting them lost in the mazelike warren of back streets and courtyards. I looked about myself. In a moment of panic, I realized I did not recognize the street I was on. There was a fountain, with a statue of a boy holding a fish, out of which a trickle of water spilled onto dead leaves. I had never been on this spot before.

Suddenly the copper gargoyles that hung with such poise from the gutters of the Tyyn Church appeared to move. One slithered down the drainpipe, its hungry eyes upon me. No, my imagination was playing tricks on me, I realized when I looked closer. It was simply a coil of ivy blowing in the wind. Then, in front of me, I saw a small, dark shape duck around a corner. I followed it, but when I got to the corner I found the street empty. I began to walk more quickly. The paraffin lanterns that lined the streets gave a warm orange glow to the cobblestone underfoot.

Again, all trace of Zsofia had disappeared. Now I was alone on the street that ran along the great Pava River. I gave up my search. Before returning home, I paused to see if I could spot one of the phosphorescent dolphins that sometimes sprang from the river at night, glowing like crescent moons. Instead, my eye caught a dark figure on a bridge, upstream from me. Even though the person was not doing anything unusual, they had a suspicious air about them. In fact, the figure appeared shadowy, as though their body was cut from dark, fine silk. I crouched down by the riverbank and observed. Indeed, the person looked around, then dropped an object over the side of the bridge, into the river. The thing bobbed in the water but did not sink, and the current was such that it was caught by a jetty and shot my way. It took no more than a few steps into the murky waters to grab the discarded object and rescue it before it was submerged in the black water. Pulling it from the current, I discovered it was a coarse burlap sack, tied at the top. I almost dropped it, because something inside the sack moved, then began to squirm terribly. Somebody was drowning kittens, or an unwanted hound pup. I pulled at the string to release the pitiful animal. I undid the tie, reached in and pulled out—to my disbelief, but at the same time, satisfying an unspoken expectation—a tiny dragonka hatchling.

I looked about myself. The figure on the bridge had disappeared, nor was there any other soul about. The street was empty
but for me. The chill had evaporated from the air and the paraffin lanterns seemed to burn stronger now, lighting up the darker corners and cul-de-sacs. I breathed heavily, relieved, no longer fearful. Who was that person, and why had he tried to drown a small creature?
And why had fate intervened and sent it my way?
I had to ask this also, for behind small mysteries, especially in Pava, there often lie greater mysteries.

I hurried home. Now Jozseftown’s charm appeared to be working in reverse, for every darkened street I took led me to a brighter, more familiar one, as though hastening my trip. In no time, I was outside my house, and climbing the ivy-twined trellis up to my room.

S
AFE IN MY BEDROOM
, I slipped the creature—sleeping now—from the sack and laid it on my bed. After I patted it dry with a towel, I examined my find. The dragonka was captivating: already some fluffy hair was growing behind its ears, the sign of premature wisdom, and its markings were inkblot shaped and well defined. I’d read enough to know that its true color would not become fully apparent for another half year or so, when it began to mature: a molting process during which it would sleep for a few days, then, upon waking, shed its old skin. I turned it over to have a better look. On its belly I found a sheen of gray-green, like the iridescent color of a green bottle fly. The pale green on its flanks and body were speckled with turquoise flakes like the verdigris of a copper coin plucked from a wishing well after so many years. I pulled one of its long, elegant wings from its body; claws small as thumb tacks adorned the ends, the skin thin and transparent, soft as the finest kid leather. It might become a fierce fighter when it grew up, though it had a friendly face that belied any violence.

But the beast was suffering. Its breathing came in fearful winces; the dragonka was still in shock. I wiped away a quicksilver-colored tear that leaked from its eye. I rubbed its belly
in hope of giving comfort. It was then that I noticed a long ruddy scar that ran up its breast, as if it had been in a terrible fight. It instinctually wrapped its wings around itself, hiding the scar.

One thing I knew in my gut: I had to protect this dragonka. Some twist of fate had delivered it into my hands, and now it was my responsibility. Thoughts of my classmates would have to wait. I put them out of my mind just like that. I can be quite sinister when I want to.

I watched over the pup curled up on my pillow until I could keep my eyes open no longer. As I fell into sleep, I felt the first effects of the charm that dragonka exert over their masters. My dreams that night were not like any I had experienced before. It was like I was floating in a warm sea of spirits: not just the spirits of people, but of wild animals and dragonka, suspended in front of me in the bright chambers of my mind, chasing each other through rays of light thick as tree trunks. Great gardens of underwater flowers blossomed, their fruit both strange and hypnotizing. I shared a dream with the beast, though soon the color drained away, and I dropped into a deeper, dreamless slumber.

W
HEN
I
WOKE FROM THAT STRANGE SLEEP
, I realized I was already late with mother’s morning tea. I took the dragonka, slipped it into its sack, and carried it with me to the kitchen. Placing the bag on the kitchen table, I busied myself boiling water. By the time I cracked the bedroom door, mother was awake and sitting upright in bed, looking at me with an icy gaze.

“You are late,” she said.

“Sorry,” I said.

“You are not,” she replied.

I tried to place the hot water on the bedside table, but keeping my attention on mother, should she lash out. In my carelessness, I misplaced the pot, and it went tumbling onto the floor. But my mother did not explode. It was as though she had willed or
expected me to fail at such a miniscule task. There was a look of satisfaction on her face.

“Now clean it up,” she said calmly.

I ran back to the kitchen, retrieved the mop, and began boiling another kettle of water. By the time I had finished cleaning, and remade mother’s tea, I had almost forgotten about the dragonka pup. I rushed back to the kitchen and looked in the bag. The dragonka was no longer there.

I looked behind the furnace, checked under the table, searched out the lightless space behind the pantry, but the pup was nowhere to be found. Soon, there came a whimpering sound from atop the tallest kitchen cabinet. Balancing a chair on the kitchen table, I was able to reach the top of the cabinet, where it had escaped to, looking like one of the stray vampire bats that sometimes took shelter in the house’s eaves. On the bright side, I now knew I had a flyer. And a hungry one, I could see. To tempt it my way, I offered forth a handful of poppies, but it turned its snout up haughtily. I searched the kitchen and found some oats. But again it refused, as it did with dried apricots and figs. Finicky little thing.

“Fine,” I said. “Then you just won’t eat at all.” But upon voicing those words, the dragonka’s features brightened. It was the first time I had spoken to it, and it was pleased. How
aggravating
.

I collected the pup, taking it from its perch, and put it back in its burlap sack. I quietly left the house by the front door.

T
he streets of Jozseftown were already bustling with activity. A troupe of Half Not children, led by a dwarf fiddler, pushed their tin collection cup in front of the faces of tourists, while others snuck up from behind and picked their pockets. Morning shoppers crammed the poppy dealers, buying mounds of black seeds in cones made of newsprint. Stalls selling sweet honey and fig rolls did brisk business, as did vendors selling fiery fruit brandy made of quince and imported mandarin oranges. Automatons clattered about on two legs or wheels, some in human form, some robotic animals, collecting coins in exchange for a song or a fortune. On Goat Square, an ox had gotten loose from its minder and was charging passersby, upsetting maps stands, and terrifying tourists. Just another day in Jozseftown.

When I retrieved a paper from the corner automaton, I learned some shocking news. The “dragonka fever,” as it was being called, had spread beyond the Pava School. Ludmilla’s outlet shops from as far away as South Mikulov were accused of selling goods tainted with the transformative musk. A sanitarium
had been set up in the Black Forest to cure and rehabilitate the stricken. Archibald the Precious had ordered all Ludmilla’s shops closed and her employees quarantined. There was even a connected story of a dragonka abandoned by its wealthy owners for fear of their children’s health. The reaction was unprecedented.

Perhaps that was why somebody had tried to get rid of the beast; discarding it like a prize treasure that they learned was nothing but a piece of costume jewelry. As if it sensed it was under consideration, the pup began to squirm in its sack. I could feel its tiny claws against my chest as they poked through the material. I took it from my pocket, but before I knew what was happening, it burst from the opening, flailing its wings, then falling to the ground in front of me like some failed version of a flying machine. I went to pick it up, but it scampered from my grasp. I stooped over to grab the errant beast, but before I could get it, it darted from my reach, scuttling between my legs and out of the passageway, barely avoiding being hit by a passing pretzel cart. I followed, but when I reached the square the passageway opened onto, the dragonka was nowhere in sight. I looked this way and that, but there was no sign of it.

Then, from nowhere, appeared three Blackhearts, lined up in front of me. The beast was clinging to Abel’s chest, shivering. I became immediately shy; I felt embarrassed to be caught out, unable to keep the dragonka under control, as though I had failed in some unstated mission. But, unexpectedly, when I saw it in Abel’s grip, I felt protective. I wanted it back.