Twelve Impossible Things Before Breakfast (6 page)

Robert had but a moment to be frightened at what he had just done. And a moment to realize that his legs and palms were being slivered. Then he remembered his brothers, whose bodies had never been found.

“You great lump of putrescence!” he cried. “You murthering, heathenish fish!” It was a long speech for a McLeod. Paying no attention to his own wounds, he reared back, holding on to the neck with his legs and one hand, and set the hook with all his might into the monster's glistening eye.

The pain of that must have been something horrendous, for the dragon screamed, a sound so loud it was heard all the way to Arbroath, where the fishermen mistook it for a foghorn though the day was fully dear of the haar, the sea mist.

The dragon tossed its head back and forth, its scales now aglitter with green blood as well as foam. Robert was flung
off
on the third toss, but luck held him again in its fist, and he landed against the Zulu's bow. Climbing back into the boat, he realized he still had the rope end of the hook in his hand. This he made fast three times around the mast, then he tied it with his father's best knot. Then he sank down, exhausted and bleeding from a hundred small cuts.

But there was no time to rest or to tend his wounds for, in its agony, the sea dragon had headed down to its watery lair. And if it had gone all the way, that would have been the end—of Zulu and Robert, both. But the hook—luck three times—had caught up under the monster's eyebone, and the pain when the rope had pulled tight was so great that the dragon gave up its dive and turned back to the water's surface, where it fell onto the flat of the sea. There it began to swim, paddling awkwardly—for it was a deep-sea creature—into the east end of the firth, tail and flippers lashing the water into a froth that bubbled onto the beaches as far west as Queens-ferry, and upsetting a bevy of pleasure boats out for the day.

Of course it dragged the little Zulu behind, with the exhausted Robert hanging on to the gunnels in terror. But there was nothing he could do except pray.

The morning and afternoon sped by and night was coming on, and the dragon kept swimming westward, towing the boat and Robert in its wake.

They passed the Isle of May after dark, startling puffins off their nests, then circled three times around Bass Rock, and all the while that dragon tried to rid itself of its unwanted cargo. Then it headed back east again and out to the open sea.

That hook, made of cold iron, held fast in the fey creature's head. The Zulu, being of good East Neuk make, did not break up. And Robert, like a true Scot, went from terror to anger to cool courage. His wounds stopped bleeding and scabbed over; his heart scabbed over, too. He became a man on that first night, and something even greater by dawn.

He was to say, later, that there had been porpoises on either side of his boat, encouraging him, some riding ahead like beacons and some skirling in his wake. But that sounds like fancy to me, though the storymakers have picked it up as part of the way they now tell the tale. Still—how could he have seen porpoises in the dark? I suspect they were only the haverings of a hungry, wounded lad, for he had not had a bit of food or drink with him but only some Fisherman's Friend drops he carried for a sore throat. They were all that had sustained him on that wild ride.

Nothing, however, sustained the sea dragon. It ran out of steam by noon of the second day, tried once to stove the little Zulu in, and only succeeded in toppling the already loosened mast. The mast crashed into the sea where the dragon was lying on its side, exhausted, its ruined eye staring blindly up into the brilliant, cloudless blue sky. Mast hit hook and hammered it with one blow straight into the beast's brain. And there the sea dragon died, a hundred nautical miles from land.

By the time Robert had rowed the little boat home, towing the great carcass behind him, it was a day and a half later. A truly impressive feat. He had been aided by some good winds and a fair tide. But he'd had no mast and no sail to take full advantage. It was desperate work. Only about half the creature remained intact; the sea has its own jackals.

The entire town—all who had turned out to talk of his funeral just two days before and more—came out to greet him in their boats. He was a rare hero, the best of Anster, the best of the entire East Neuk.

When Robert finally reached land, his father grabbed his hand and held it, tears running down the old man's cheeks. His mother took him by the shoulders and shook him until they were both red in the face. And then she saw the scabs on his palms, and pulling up the legs of his trousers, saw the scabs on his legs. At that, she threw her arms around him and hugged him until they were both breathless and worn. But none of them said a word the whole time. The McLeods are not much for conversation.

Reverend Dougal used that ride as the topic for a month of sermons, each one longer than the last. No one slept a wink at the kirk services, for fear of missing a word of the story.

And what was left of the beast, Annie McLeod salted down. It filled seventeen full barrels and one neat little firkin. Sea dragon tastes a bit like herring cooked on an open fire, only slightly sharper. It was so much in demand, she traded most of the barrels for tatties and neaps, enough to keep the McLeods full and hearty for years to come.

As for young Robert, after that ride he'd enough of the sea to last him a lifetime. He moved to St. Andrews and apprenticed to a blacksmith. He made hooks. Lots of hooks. All of good cold iron.

I understand they are quite the best in all of Britain for killing monsters, on land or under the sea.

ZENA BOUNCED down the brownstone steps two at a time, her face powdered a light green. It was the latest color and didn't think she looked particularly good in it, all the girls were wearing it. Her nails were striped the same hue. She had good nails.

“Zen!” her mother called out the window. “Where are you going? Have you finished your homework?”

“Yes, Mom,” Zena said without turning around. “I finished.” Well, almost, she thought.

“And where are you—”

This time Zena turned. “Out!”

“Out where?”

Ever since Mom had separated from her third pairing, she had been overzealous in her questioning. Where are you going? What are you doing? Who's going with you? Zena hated all the questions, hated the old nicknames. Zen. Princess. Little Bit.

“Just out.”

“Princess, just tell me where. So I won't have to worry.”

“We're just going Wilding,” Zena said, begrudging each syllable.

“I wish you wouldn't. That's the third time this month. It's not ... not good. It's dangerous. There have been ... deaths.”

“That's gus, Mom. As in bo-gus. Ganda. As in propaganda. And you know it.”

“It was on the news.”

Zena made a face but didn't deign to answer. Everyone knew the news was not to be trusted.

“Don't forget your collar, then.”

Zena pulled the collar out of her coat pocket and held it up above her head as she went down the last of the steps. She waggled it at the window. That, she thought, should quiet Mom's nagging. Not that she planned to wear the collar. Collars were for little kids out on their first Wildings. Or for tourist woggers. What did she need with one? She was already sixteen and, as the Pack's song went:

 

Sweet sixteen
Powdered green
Out in the park
Well after dark,
Wilding!

 

The torpedo train growled its way uptown and Zena stood, legs wide apart, disdaining the handgrips. Hangers are for tourist woggers, she thought, watching as a pair of high-heeled out-of-towners clutched the overhead straps so tightly their hands turned white from blood loss.

The numbers flashed by—72, 85, 96. She bent her knees and straightened just in time for the torp to jar to a stop and disgorge its passengers. The woggers, hand-combing their dye jobs, got off, too. Zena refused to look at them but guessed they were going where she was going—to the Entrance.

Central Park's walls were now seventeen feet high and topped with electronic mesh. There were only two entrances, built when Wilding became legal. The Westside Entrance was for going in. The Fifty-ninth Eastside was for going out.

As she came up the steps into the pearly evening light, Zena blinked. First Church was gleaming white and the incised letters on its facade were the only reminder of its religious past. The banners now hanging from its door proclaimed
WILD WOOD CENTRAL,
and the fluttering wolf and tiger flags, symbols of extinct mammals, gave a fair indication of the wind. Right now wind meant little to her, but once she was Wilding, she would know every nuance of it.

Zena sniffed the air. Good wind meant good tracking. If she went predator. She smiled in anticipation.

Behind her she could hear the tip-tops of wogger high heels. The woggers were giggling, a little scared. Well, Zena thought, they should be a little scared. Wilding is a pure New York sport. No mushy woggers need apply.

She stepped quickly up the marble steps and entered the mammoth hall.

P
RINT
H
ERE
, sang out the first display. Zena put her hand on the screen and it read her quickly. She knew she didn't have to weary. Her record was dear—no drugs, no drags. And her mom kept her creddies high enough. Not like some kids who got turned back everywhere, even off the torp trains. And the third time, a dark black line got printed across their palms. A month's worth of indelible ink. Indelis meant a month full of no: no vids, no torp trains, no boo-ti-ques for clothes. And no Wilding. How, Zena wondered, could they stand it?

Nick was waiting by the Wild Wood Central outdoor. He was talking to Marnie and a good-looking dark-haired guy who Marnie was leaning against familiarly.

“Whizzard!” Nick called out when he saw Zena, and she almost blushed under the green powder. Just the one word, said with appreciation, but otherwise he didn't blink a lash. Zena liked that about Nick. There was something coolish, something even statue about him. And something dangerous, too, even outside the park, outside of Wilding. It was why they were seeing each other, though even after three months, Zena had never, would never, bring him home to meet her mother.

That dangerousness. Zena had it, too.

She went over and started to apologize for being late, saw the shuttered look in Nick's eyes, and changed her apology into an amusing story about her mom instead. She remembered Nick had once said, Apologies are for woggers and kids.

From her leaning position, Marnie introduced the dark-haired guy as Lazlo. He had dark eyes, too, the rims slightly yellow, which gave him a disquieting appearance. He grunted a hello.

Zena nodded. To do more would have been uncoolish.

“like the mean green,” Marnie said. "Looks coolish on you, foolish on me.”

"Na-na,” Zena answered, which was what she was supposed to answer. And, actually, she did think Marnie looked good in the green.

“Then let's go Wilding,” Marnie said, putting on her collar.

Nick sniffed disdainfully, but he turned toward the door.

The four of them walked out through the tunnel, Marnie and Lazlo holding hands, even though Zena knew he was a just-met. She and Marnie knew everything about one another, had since preschool. Still, that was just like Marnie, overeager in everything.

Nick walked along in his low, slow, almost boneless way that made Zena want to sigh out loud, but she didn't. Soundless, she strode along by his side, their shoulders almost—but not quite—touching. The small bit of air between them crackled with a hot intensity.

 

As they passed through the first set of rays, a dull yellow light bathed their faces. Zena felt the first shudder go through her body but she worked to control it. In front of her, Lazlo's whole frame seemed to shake.

“Virg,” Nick whispered to her, meaning it was Lazlo's first time out Wilding.

Zena was surprised. “True?” she asked.

"He's from O-Hi,” Nick said. Then, almost as an afterthought, added, “My cousin.”

“O-Hi?” Zena said, smothering both the surprise in her voice and the desire to giggle. Neither would have been coolish. She hadn't known Nick had any cousins, let alone from O-Hi—the boons, the breads of America. No one left O-Hi except as a tourist. And woggers just didn't look like Lazlo. Nick must have dressed him, must have lent him clothes, must have cut his hair in its fine duo-bop, one side long to the shoulder, one side shaved dean. Zena wondered if Marnie knew Lazlo was from O-Hi. Or if she cared. Maybe, Zena thought suddenly, maybe I don't know Marnie as well as I thought I did.

They passed the second set of rays; the light was blood red. She felt the beginnings of the change. It was not exactly unpleasant, either. Something to do, she remembered from the Wilding brochures she had read back when she was a kid, with manipulating the basic DNA for a couple of hours. She'd never really understood that sort of thing. She was suddenly reminded of the first time she'd come to Wild Wood Central, with a bunch of her girlfriends. Not coolish, of course, just giggly girls. None of them had stayed past dark and none had been greatly changed that time. Just a bit of hair, a bit of fang. Only Ginger had gotten a tail. But then she was the only one who'd hit puberty early; it ran in Ginger's family. Zena and her friends had all gone screaming through the park as fast as they could, and they'd all been wearing collars. Collars made the transition back to human easy, needing no effort on their parts, no will.

Zena reached into the pocket of her coat, fingering the leather collar there. She had plenty of will without it. Plenty of won't, too! she thought, feeling a bubble of amusement rise inside. Will/won't. Will/won't. The sound bumped about in her head.

When they passed the third rays, the deep green ones, which made her green face powder sparkle and spread in a mask, Zena laughed out loud. Green rays always seemed to tickle her. Her laugh was high, uncontrolled. Marnie was laughing as well, chittering almost. The green rays took her that way, too. But the boys both gave deep, dark grunts. Lazlo sounded just like Nick.