The implacable mutual hostility between man and dragon, as exemplified in the myth of St. George, is strongest in the West. (In chapter 3 of the Book of Genesis, God ordains an eternal enmity between reptiles and humans.) . . .With one exception, the Genesis account of the temptation by a reptile in Eden is the only instance in the Bible of humans understanding the language of animals. When we feared the dragons, were we fearing a part of ourselves? One way or another, there were dragons in Eden.
—Carl Sagan, The Dragons of Eden
The white-tailed buck I'd been trailing for the last hour, trying for a good shot, finally stepped out from behind the tree that had been blocking him. I gradually raised the crossbow until the butt rested firmly on my shoulder. Head lowering until cheek rested against metal stock, I squinted through the scope: I know: a scope is cheating—but it also helped keep me fed. I'd run out of food a little over two days after we left Atlanta; I hadn't exactly been thinking about what to pack in all the excitement. Today was our fourth day on the road and my stomach was grumbling. At least water was never a problem; I just dunked my flask in a nearby canal, creek, river, what-have-you. They were all clear, the water pure.
The buck lowered its head. The body was a clear shot in my sights. Stay there, you pretty bastard, I thought. Ariel knew I had to hunt to eat when we weren't around cities, but she didn't particularly like it, so she stayed around the Interstate or wandered about the woods while I sought game. I never worried about her scaring away my supper; no animal would ever know she was there if she didn't want it to. If she had her way I'd be a vegetarian, but I liked meat.
I curled my right index finger around the curved steel trigger and thought about all the kids who'd ever seen Bambi. I drew a deep breath and held it. Fuck 'em, I swore silently, they're all grown by now—probably eating Bambi's cousins to survive, just like me. I began to slowly squeeze the trigger: be smooth, be . . . .
The buck jerked its head right and bounded away into the thick tree growth. Small crackles and swishes faded away in its wake. I lowered the crossbow and stood up from behind the trunk of the oak tree that had hidden me. Cramped calf and arm muscles stretched. A scene from an old plantation movie, sunlight shafted lazily through irregular gaps in the moss that hung from tree branches like springy stalactites.
Last night we'd camped ten miles inside the South Carolina state line. By the time we camped tonight I planned to be at least forty miles inside the state, near a city called Greenville. Georgia's gently rolling hills had given way to more dramatic changes in scenery; South Carolina was no other word but hilly. Hilly but nice. The afternoon breezes were cool, especially after the sometimes stifling humidity of midday. Nothing compared to Florida's humidity, though. Nights were sharper, too, and I bundled up in my sleeping bag with Ariel beside me—I wasn't sure who was warming whom. The crickets seemed to chirp louder here, too, but once I was used to them they faded into a not unpleasant drone that even helped bring on sleep. My nights on the road had been restless. I'd been having bad dreams. I couldn't remember them after I woke up, couldn't even put my finger on why I knew they were bad dreams—but they were.
Another reason I liked South Carolina: it was sparse. Not barren—in fact, the foliage seemed heaped about in generous portions, giving the air a nice, thick but not heavy smell. Towns and cities were farther apart. Noticeable ones, anyway. I didn't count the ten-street affairs you missed if you blinked. Those were always around, though usually off the beaten path. Most of what lined the Interstate were dusty, empty gas stations and barren greasy-spoons.
I yawned. It would be dark in a few hours. If I wanted to eat before I made camp I'd better get a move on after that buck. Hungry as I was I still knew that it would bother me to kill it. There was more meat on the buck than I would be able to eat, as I could only skin it, clean it, dress it, and cook enough for me to eat right then and next day. After that the meat would spoil, and I didn't have the time or salt to dry and cure it. I was in a hurry to get to New York, though I was damned if I knew why.
With clenched teeth I set out again after my prospective dinner, and had gone perhaps half a mile when a soft voice behind me said, "No wonder you haven't got anything, with all the noise you're making." I turned to see Ariel standing not three feet behind me, tail swishing. "Anything edible within miles has had plenty of warning to burrow, climb, or camouflage itself and laugh while you stomp by."
"Okay, smartass, you do better." Which was a stupid thing to say, considering.
"I don't need to," she said mildly.
"How long have you been following me?"
"Since you got up from behind that tree."
She'd been following me that closely for half a mile? Christ! I relaxed my grip on the Barnett and lowered it to aim toward the ground. "You piss me off sometimes, you know that?"
"Why?"
"Because twigs should snap, at least! Leaves and stuff crunch underfoot, that's why! For God's sake, from three feet away I should be able to hear you breathe!"
"Why don't you just give up, and we can go back to the road and get some more miles in and then make camp. We'll be in Greenville tomorrow; there'll be plenty of stores with food in them."
"How do I know that? They could just as easily be looted, stripped bare. And hunting in the city is practically useless unless you want to eat rat. Or maybe a dog or a cat, if you're lucky. Besides, I'm not going another night without something to eat."
"Okay, fine. Just—" She quieted suddenly. I listened: light steps crunching on dead leaves. I squinted, tightened my jaw muscles to open up my ears. Just ahead, about twenty-five yards behind that group of pines . . . . I looked at Ariel. Ha! Dinner after all.
"I don't think—" she began in a voice I barely heard. I motioned her to silence and brought the Barnett up, peering past the crosshairs. Yeah, a slight movement of shadow, betrayed by the latticework of sunlight above and behind it. My buck was back. I followed the movement with the Barnett. It should emerge from between the two trees right ahead of me in just a second. I began to apply gradual, steady pressure on the trigger. My mouth watered at the remembered tanginess of venison.
The crossbow was batted down with an empty sound—clomp!—just as the bolt hissed loose. It thwocked into the ground a few feet away. I jerked away from Ariel, holding the Barnett protectively. "Why the fuck did you—?" Before I could finish she nodded her head toward the knot of pine trees. Tingling redness flew up my neck to warm my cheeks and forehead. A boy not older than fifteen stood at the space between the two trees where I'd been aiming a moment before.
* * *
"It's not that you're dumb, Pete," Ariel replied. "You just don't think ahead sometimes."
"Gee, thanks. You're not even going to let me feel guilty."
She looked from me to the boy, who'd stopped, smiled, waved, and begun walking toward us. "Have it your way," she said. "You're stupid."
The boy wore a black T-shirt with a picture of a green alien head, and droopy shorts so big and baggy they missed being long pants by about three inches. He stopped before us, still smiling toothily. Long, sandy hair and penny-colored freckles set off very white skin. "Hi," he said, accent turning the "I" sound into an extremely short "a." "My name's George." He looked at Ariel. Most people react strongly at first sight of her—they become short of breath, or they gape, or shake their heads, blink—overcome by her ecstatic beauty, or something. Hell, I don't know. She hit me the same way when I first saw her. But this George kid—he didn't look impressed one bit. "Hey," he said. "Your horse looks pretty neat."
Not again. "She's not a horse," I said, trying not to sound exasperated. "She's a unicorn."
"Uni . . . .?"
"Unicorn."
He repeated it. His accent made the vowels roll almost as much as the local countryside rolled. He said it again, feeling the word, tasting it, voice seeming to fold around its edges. "Unicorn." He nodded his head, perched atop a long neck. "I know they call it a unicycle 'cause it's only got one wheel, so I guess they call it a unicorn 'cause it's only got one horn." He paused, frowned, and smiled again. "Why isn't it a unihorn, though? Makes more sense that way."
I looked at Ariel but she was playing the dumb horse act, head bent to the ground, pretending to chew on grass. An airbrushed Mr. Ed, with extras. "Her name's Ariel," I told him, shooting her a disdainful look. She scratched at the grass and went on munching.
"Ariel." His voice changed it, put the accent on the first syllable instead of the last. He said it again, the same way. "Ariel. Can I pet her?"
I folded my arms. This might prove interesting. Either way, I'd learn something. "Sure, go ahead. If she'll let you."
Still sporting that idiot smile he walked to Ariel and ruffled her neck. "Hey, she feels pretty good. You must wash her a lot. We used to have horses at home but Pop had to turn 'em loose when we couldn't feed them no more." He walked thin fingers through her mane and patted her high on the neck. "Yeah, you like that, don't you, girl?"
Ariel raised her head and spat out grass. "This stuff tastes like shit," she said.
The kid damn near levitated. He jumped back, gasping, and his eyes widened. Suddenly they narrowed and he looked at me. "Hey . . . did you—"
"No, he didn't," interrupted Ariel. "I said it."
"Well . . . ." He couldn't decide which of us to look at, and finally settled on Ariel. " . . .hot damn! I ain't never seen nothing like this! I mean, those stories I heard from people, I thought they were all just . . . stories, you know?"
"Well, I guess some of them aren't," I said.
"Yeah." His face became thoughtful. "Hey, yeah." He turned to me with an urgent look. "Those stories they tell about dragons north of here—are those real too?"
"Well, I've heard that there were dragons in the Carolinas," I said. "Though I couldn't say for certain. Ariel?"
"I've never been this far north. How would I know?"
"Well, I hope they're not real." His expression reflected it.
Ariel's comment had reminded me, though: we had to be on our way. "Look, George, I'm afraid we're in a hurry to get someplace. We've got to be moving on."
"Where you headed?"
"North on Eighty-five," I answered vaguely.
He brightened. "Hey, could I go with you? Me and my folks live just outsida town. If y'all follow the road you'll go right by my house. Heck, it'll probably be dark by the time we get there—why don't you stay for supper?"
I looked at Ariel. She dipped her head and closed one eye, regarding me skeptically with the other. "Sure," I told George, staring at Ariel all the while. "Thanks."
He nodded happily. "Mom and Dad ain't gonna believe this," he said.
* * *
George lived about a half mile west of the highway and three miles south of Greenville proper. His family grew enough vegetables to keep themselves going and then some: there were five or six acres planted with different crops, and George said his family consisted of himself, his mother and father, and his little sister. Their house was an old, two-story, wooden affair, once painted white, now fading gray and dirty. The setting sun highlighted cracks in the wood with shadow. Chickens pecked randomly in the yard.
"Mom! Dad!" George called, and ran inside. He left the front door open. The screen door banged shut behind him. Ariel and I waited in the yard. In a minute his mother, father, and little sister came out, followed by George.
"Tom," said his mother, drying her hands on a red-and-white-checkered dishtowel, "you see that?" Her accent was more pronounced than George's.
George's father was a barrel-chested, thick-bearded man with large eyes and scraggly, dark brown hair. Sort of a lumberjack and pre-Change truck driver rolled into one. "Yeah," he said, voice flat and midwestern. "I see it."
They just looked at Ariel. I put my hands in my pockets and waited, used to her stealing the spotlight.
George's mother hung her dishtowel over her left shoulder. "Is that like what you said you saw once?"
He nodded. His eyes shifted; he seemed to notice me for the first time. He stepped forward and held out his hand. "Tom Neiman," he said.
I took it. "Pete."
He looked back to Ariel. "I saw one of these once, about four years ago. I was out catching rabbits and I saw it walking through the trees. It stopped when it heard me. It was lit up by sunlight coming in through the branches, like a painting of Jesus. Prettiest thing I ever saw. 'Til now." He heaved a sigh. "Ran away, though. Thing was fast."
"Mr. Neiman, this is Ariel. Ariel, Mr. Neiman." He shot me a look I was accustomed to: you're introducing your horse to me, fellah?
"Hello," said Ariel.
"Lord!" said Mrs. Neiman by the front door.
"Uh—hello," said Mr. Neiman.
George came up beside his father. "I met 'em hunting, Dad. I asked if they wanted to eat supper with us. They can eat supper with us, can't they?"
Mr. Neiman looked puzzled. "Why . . . sure, but . . . ." He turned to me. "What does she eat?"
I shrugged. "Ask her."
He looked back at her, eyebrows raised, but said nothing.
"I don't eat anything, usually," Ariel said. Her tone turned hopeful. "Unless you have any peppermint candy?"
"I'll, uh, have to check. I don't know if we . . . ." He trailed off.
His wife stepped forward. "I think we may have some from our last trip into town. I got some candy for the kids."
"This is my wife, Ellen," said Mr. Neiman.
She smiled; she seemed to have recovered pretty well. "Well, come on inside. I'll have supper ready in a jiffy."
We walked into the house. As we passed through the front doorway George's sister put out a hand to Ariel's snowy fur as it brushed past. Gap-toothed, pig-tailed, freckled like George—I remembered an expression my father had liked: "Looks like she swallowed a hundred-dollar bill and broke out in pennies." Adorable, in a puppy sort of way. I pretend-shot her with an index finger as I went by. She hugged the doorframe and giggled again. She was probably too young to remember what the gesture meant.
The house looked, to be tactful, "lived-in." The furniture was threadbare. Bath towels were tucked over sofa cushions, either to deter wear or to disguise it. Creaking underfoot with a comfortable sound, the maple-syrup-colored floor was scuffed, worn, and dirty. Cream-colored draperies around the living-room windows had been ripped and sewn up again with white thread. I wondered why they didn't just go into town and get new ones. Ash trays on the two end tables by the sofa, and one on a windowsill, were full almost to overflowing. The memory of cigarettes tickled at my chest.
The screen door clacked shut. "Go on, make yourself at home. We don't get company often." Mrs. Neiman was suddenly full of bustling activity. She stepped ahead of us, picked up an ash tray, and dumped the contents into the one at the other end of the worn yellow couch. Too full already, ashes drifted onto the floor and the large rag rug, oval and multicolored, in the middle of the living room.
"Oh, my," said Mrs. Neiman.
"Sit down, Pete," said Mr. Neiman, paying no attention to his wife's clean-up attempts. "Park your pack and gear by the wall here." He frowned. "I don't know what—"
"It's okay," said Ariel. "I'll stand."
He nodded uncertainly. She was huge in the living room.
"Evie, come help me in the kitchen."
"Oh, Mom!" Evie left to join her mother.
I sat on the couch. Ariel stood by the fireplace at the far side of the living room. Mr. Neiman sat in a brown vinyl recliner. It had ripped in several places and cotton stuffing puffed out when he sat. He pulled a pack of Winstons from the breast pocket of his faded and spotted work shirt. "Where you headed?" he asked, lighting up a cigarette. I glanced at Ariel. I could tell she wanted to say something about the smoke but was restrained by politeness. Which was unusual, as I'd taught her few manners and she really hadn't been around other people enough to have acquired a sense of etiquette.
I gave the same answer I'd given George, who'd sat in a dark brown rocking chair in the corner opposite his father. "North."
From the way Ariel returned my gaze I knew she could tell I was dying to bum a smoke.
"How far north?" He blew metal-blue smoke.
"Well—up the coast to New York." Couldn't hurt to tell him, I guess.
He pursed his lips and bobbed his head approvingly. "Always wanted to see New York. Course, that was before things went crazy. Probly just a bunch of empty buildings now." He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Bet you'll see some strange things along the way."
I didn't bother to tell him we'd already seen some strange things. He went on to ask how we'd met each other, how we'd got to be friends, what it's like palling around with a unicorn, where was I the day of the Change, the usual things. I gave polite and vague replies.
Evie came out from the kitchen during our one-sided question-and-answer conversation and handed me a glass of lukewarm water in a plastic Slurpee cup. I thanked her, thinking, there's no way she could imagine what a Slurpee was. Evie's smile displayed the gap in her front teeth as she walked shyly to Ariel, one hand clenched behind her back. "Momma says she'll put water in a bowl, if you want some. But I thought I'd ask first." Her accent made the words sound like a bow drawing across a bending saw blade.
"That's okay, thanks."
Evie giggled again, enchanted by what she thought of as a talking horse. Like I said, Mr. Ed with a horn. But little Evie was too young to remember that, too.
Evie brought the hand from behind her back. "Momma said for me to give these to you." In her opened hand were a half-dozen Brach's Starlight Mints.
Ariel laughed. This made Evie giggle harder.
Goddammit, if she could have her precious peppermint then I could have a smoke. In a small voice I asked Mr. Neiman if I could, pretty please, possibly grab a cigarette and a light from him.
"Surely," he replied, and tapped one out of the red and white box.
Ariel glared as I worked the flint. By her right front leg Evie unwrapped mints and held them over her head. Eyes on me, Ariel spitefully nipped a red and white disk from the girl's hand and crunched loudly. I blew smoke in her direction. It was stale and foul; it tasted great.
* * *
Small talk continued until Mrs. Neiman announced dinner.
Dinner was strange.
Not the food itself. That was plentiful, hot, and good—better than I could remember having in a long, long time. Chicken (cooked outside on a charcoal grill, it turned out), string beans and mashed potatoes (canned, but so what—they were both heaped and steaming on my plate), home-made vegetable soup, fresh fruit ("Help yourself, Pete," Mrs. Neiman said hefting the huge fruitbowl with both hands. I did), and two loaves of fresh-baked bread.
Mr. Neiman said their family'd always had a half-barrel Franklin stove out in their junk shed, and when the power had gone out and stayed out they'd carted it in, cleaned it up, and put it to use.
Ariel stood at the foot of the table, opposite Mr. Neiman and rather dominating the view; the Neimans couldn't help glancing at her throughout dinner. In front of her was a saucer, and on it were unwrapped peppermint candies. I thought she looked damned silly, but I said nothing. The Neimans were only trying to be hospitable in the face of something they'd never quite had to deal with. What would Emily Post have said about proper etiquette for having a unicorn over for dinner?
I sat to Ariel's right, beside George. Mr. Neiman talked to me between mouthfuls of soup. I tried to listen and not be rude while shoveling food into my mouth as fast as I could.
"There's a lot to be said for tradition," he said during a lull between slurped spoonfulls. "It preserves the family way. Hell, when I was a young man—about your age, Pete, maybe even younger. How old are you?"
"Twenty." I fingered my soup spoon. I pulled the brimming bowl of thick soup toward me, trying to be subtle. It clinked against my plate and brown soup sloshed onto the table. I looked around self-consciously but nobody seemed to notice. Or care. They were all sneaking glances at Ariel, who munched quietly on her candy.
Another loud slurp from Mr. Neiman. "There, you see? Way before I was twenty I was out on my own like you are now. See the world, right? Those were some of the worst times of my life, and some of the best." He set down the spoon, raised the bowl to his mouth, and sucked loudly. When he lowered the bowl with a satisfied "Ahhh," bits of vegetable clung to his beard. I dunked my spoon in my own bowl and tasted. Salty, but good.
"Believe it or not," continued George's father, "I wouldn't trade those times for anything. Taught me a lot. Now, George, here, he needs to get out on his own, too. Six months, maybe a year. Do him a world of good, teach him to deal with what's out there. It was strange enough before, but now?"
I "mmm"ed noncommittally, still working at my soup. Mrs. Neiman was looking at her husband sharply. George stared at his plate, not eating. Evie, food on her chin, stared frankly at Ariel.
Mr. Neiman lifted the bowl to his mouth, drained it, dragged his left arm across his beard, wiped that on his pants, cracked his knuckles, and belched. "I've always wanted to get some kind of family tradition started, you know? Something George could pass on to his son."
I finished my soup and attacked my plate. That food was better than I remembered food being. "Tradition is useful," I said, staring at the crispy drumstick I was trying not to shove whole into my mouth. "As long as it doesn't make you close-minded."
He nodded. I glanced at George. His lips were pressed tightly, white-bordered. The candlelight showed faint peach-fuzz on his upper lip. He'd be shaving before too long.
"Smart man," Mr. Neiman said. "You know, one time right after all this Change business happened, I was out in the woods a couple miles from the house, setting traps." To his right, Mrs. Neiman stared at her plate, face getting tight. "That was before we realized that the sporting-goods section in any department store was ours, if we wanted, and we were doing things the hard way. Man, what I wouldn't have given for George's Indian bow then!"
"We always left money at those stores," Mrs. Neiman muttered.
I said nothing, not wanting anything to come between me and the end of this meal.
"So there I was in the woods," Mr. Neiman continued, ignoring his wife, "and I heard something behind me making all kinds of racket, clomping on dead leaves and branches. I turned around, and damn if I'm not looking at the biggest, meanest-looking bear I ever saw." He grinned. "You know the expression 'bear hug'? You ain't felt nothing 'til you get one from a real bear." A Southern accent that had not been present ten minutes ago was filling his speech. "It just picked me up and squeezed, easy as if you'd decided to grab little Evie. Broke two a my ribs before I stabbed it to death."
"We're at the dinner table, if you don't mind," Mrs. Neiman told her plate.
"I'm just saying." He grinned at me. "I just managed to get out my Bowie and make short work of that creature. I tried to stuff his big ole head and mount it up on the living room wall, but it rotted. Made an ungodly stink."
"Tom." Mrs. Neiman looked pained.
"I hear ya." He looked at me as if we shared a secret. "You know, if that bear had taken a swipe at me there wouldn't have been a thing I could do? Don't understand why it just grabbed me like that. I didn't come away clean, though." He pushed his chair back and lifted his work shirt to reveal the pink earthworm of a scar burrowing around the side of his stomach.
I still didn't say anything, but I figured his story had probably changed with time and elaboration. The bear might have been a mother and Neiman came too close to her cubs. Its first instinct might have been to grab him, get him the hell away from them. I doubted he stabbed it to death with a hunting knife right there. More likely he'd wounded it until it let him go, then followed it until it had bled to death. Still—credit where credit's due. I wouldn't have wanted to figure out how to fight a bear. If that was what he'd done; for all I knew, he went into the woods with a six pack and tripped on his own knife.
Mrs. Neiman sat very straight in her high-backed chair.
"I don't want anyone to think I'm bragging or anything," he continued, "but I'm proud of this scar. I earned it. I didn't kill something out of an old-time story, that's true—" he was looking at George now "—but if the opportunity had come up, I know I'da done my best. That's what I'm talking about."
He looked back to me. "Pete, is it true about there being dragons up around North Carolina and Virginia?"
"Huh? I mean, I—" Oh, shit; suddenly I saw what was coming. Poor George. "I've only heard it as a rumor," I said carefully. "I wouldn't know first-hand."
Mr. Neiman rocked back on the chair's hind legs, then came forward and leaned toward George, elbows on the table. "Son," he said, "I want you to go slay a dragon."
* * *
"A dragon!" Evie squealed, delighted.
"Tom." Mrs. Neiman sounded weary. None of this was news to her. "You heard the boy; you don't even know if there are any dragons. I thought we talked about this."
"A dragon." George said it as if he were repeating a hanging judge's sentence—which in a way I guess he was.
A crunch punctuated the silence. I narrowed my eyes at Ariel, who only tossed her head at me.
"We don't know that there are any dragons," Mrs. Neiman repeated to George.
"I've talked to travelers," Mr. Neiman insisted. "They've said a lot of the woods around the Appalachians and the Blue Ridges have been burnt."
Well, yeah, I thought. What's to stop 'em?
"Dragons do have a penchant for mountains and caves," said Ariel.
I leaned toward her. "You're not being very helpful," I whispered. "Don't you see what's coming? He's about to ask if—"
"Excuse me—Pete?" Mr. Neiman had leaned forward with a gleam in his eye and a chicken leg in his hand. "You and your, uh, Ariel, you wouldn't mind taking George along with you when you leave, would you? Sort of look out for him? As far as Tennessee, is all."
"We're trying to get up north as fast as we can," I said, trying to think my way out of this. "We're leaving tomorrow."
"That'd be perfect! My son here can travel light, and he knows how to live off the land. He'll be more help than burden, I promise you."
"But why do I have to kill one?" asked George, who up to now had been showing admirable restraint.
His father colored. "Because you got to prove yourself. You think that's a world for boys out there? Look at Pete here—you think he got through everything being a boy?"
I wanted to tell him I preferred not to be dragged into this, thanks very much, but his attitude didn't really allow for interruption. Mostly I was just looking for a good opening to get the hell out of there.
George's father folded his arms and dug in. "I earned my damn scar, and now it's time for you to be a man and earn yours, and that's all there is to it."
It dawned on me that you don't have to be stark raving to be mad. This guy was nuts.
* * *
In the end I couldn't bring myself to refuse Mr. Neiman's request, mainly because I felt sorry for George. Poor kid—he was toast.
Dinner broke up with what could euphemistically be called a downbeat air. Ariel and I were to sleep in the living room.
I was on the couch, cleaning Fred with a shoft chamois cloth and cleaning oil, as Malachi had instructed. I'd been practicing every day on the road.
Rubbing the bright metal, appreciating the blade's simple beauty, made me think of Malachi. I wondered where he was now, and if we were following the route he'd taken. I'd figured the fastest route would be to slant over toward the coast and follow the interstates straight up the map to New York.
Ariel was out back with Evie, playing ring-toss with a small rubber hoop by torchlight. I wondered how she abided little kids. Their innocence, I guess. Normally I couldn't stand the little crumb-snatchers, but I had to admit they were certainly forthright, no-bullshit creatures. It's not easy to fool kids, and if they think you're lying they'll say so to your face.
I gripped the twined handle and turned the blade to work on the other side. I worked slowly and methodically from tang to tip and back to tang. One slip and I'd lose fingers.
Mr. and Mrs. Neiman talked in the kitchen. I kept polishing my sword and didn't bother to move. Eavesdropping might save my bacon someday.
"Tom, why do you press him so hard? He's still a boy; he's not ready for something like that."
"He's fifteen. I'd been on my own a year by that age."
"You might not of seen that age if your daddy'd sent you chasing after dragons."
He snorted. "If he's not ready now, he never will be. You know what the world's like now."
"I know what you think it's like. I also know me and my family live just fine on a farm about the same way my grandparents did."
"You can't keep him here forever. He's got to make his way in the world, Ellen."
I wondered what books this joker had been reading.
"Not tomorrow morning, he doesn't. He's not ready and he doesn't want to go. You know that kind of thing don't hold no glory for him."
"You're saying he's afraid."
"I'm saying think about what you're sending our son out to do."
Mr. Neiman was silent as dishes clattered. "Why do you always make him feel like he's got to do at least as good as you, or better?"
A pause. "When, then? We wait another year and he's sixteen and he's still too young. Another year and he's seventeen. One day you look and there's a full-grown boy living in your house who don't know a thing about being a man and would curl up and die if he had to take care a himself. In the old world he'd be old enough to drive, old enough to see girls, old enough to—"
A plate slammed into the dishrack, followed by a tense silence.
"He leaves tomorrow and that's all there is to it. I'm not kicking him out, Ellie, I'm growing him up. He'll be back. And when he comes back he'll come back a man."
"Will he."
I sheathed Fred and went out the front door, puzzled. If my father had pulled something like this, I think I'd have left home just because he was crazy. I sure as hell wouldn't come back with a dragon's head for a trophy. Yeah, you bet, Dad, I'm off to kill a dragon just for you—gotta go; don't wait up! Riiiiiight. Not to mention my mom would have been screaming bloody murder: what do you mean, sending our kid off on some damn-fool crusade that'll get him killed. You kick him out and we'll both leave you.
But I guess if you live with somebody long enough—especially your parents, whom you can't compare to anybody, really—you don't realize they're a little off, because you're used to it. Families are like those petri dishes: they grow on their own, isolated, using rules that seem obvious to them to keep them going on, until you end up with a pretty different kind of germ from what you'd find in another petri dish.
George sat with his back to a tree, elbows on knees, chin on palms. A cricket Woodstock was being held around us.
I squatted in front of him. "Cheer up. It could be worse."
"How?"
I had to think a minute. "Well, he could have asked you to bring one back alive."
He didn't think it was funny.
Giggles made me turn my head. Evie and Ariel had come around the house. I wondered if the little fart ever stopped giggling. Ariel still had a hoop around the base of her horn where Evie had scored a successful toss. Boy, would I give her hell about that—she looked like something on a merry-go-round in Disneyland. The thought saddened me: Ariel and I had nearly gotten killed when we went through Disney World in Orlando. It had grown dangerous and just plain weird.
"Whatcha doin', Georgie?"
"Nothin'. Ain't you supposed to be in bed?"
She ignored him. "Thinking 'bout the dragon, I bet."
"Yeah, well."
"Do they really dive outta the air and eat people?"
"Be quiet, punk."
"Ariel says they can throw a whole cow in the air and eat it on the way down." She tossed a hoop and caught it in her mouth, then wrung her head and made a little-girl version of monster-gobbly noises.
George glanced at me and I shrugged.
Evie pulled the ring from her mouth, grinning. "You're gonna get et, Georgie."
"Shut up!"
I doubt George slept much that night.
* * *
Ariel woke me at sunrise. She was a perfect alarm clock.
My sleep had been disturbing, full of twisting dream-images, misty and elusive. I don't know if it was part of my dreams or if it really happened, but sometime in the night it seemed as if I had awakened with an erection so hard it was painful. It pressed uncomfortably into my stomach and I twisted around. I remember feeling upset I had an erection; I don't know why. I had rolled onto my back and slept again.
"Sleep good?" I asked Ariel as I got up from the couch and stretched. The couch had been uncomfortable to sleep on; a spring had shuffled off its mortal coil, stuffing had rubbed against my nose, the towels tucked into the cushions kept coming loose, and it was hot and stuffy.
"Mmm," she answered.
"I'm going to wake the others."
"Right-o."
I looked at her carefully. She seemed to be acting too casual. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Don't bullshit me. What is it?"
"I'm really not sure. Maybe that's what's bothering me: I don't like not being able to see directions. I don't know if this dragon-slaying business is going to turn out all right for him or not. Or for us, for that matter."
"Why are we going to New York?" I blurted.
She looked surprised. "I don't know the answer to that, Pete. I thought you did."
I thought about it. I wasn't any superhero justice-maker; I wasn't setting out to make the world safe for anything except me and Ariel. Maybe that was my answer. Her life was endangered just because she was what she was. A good man had died for her; a near-stranger who was also a friend had taken it upon himself to defend her by pulling up stakes and setting out alone on a dangerous journey. Those were good enough reasons for us to go. Nothing's worth living for if there's aren't things you think are worth dying for. I guess that makes sense.
I rubbed sleep from the corners of my eyes. Halfway up the stairs to wake the Neimans I stopped. "Hey, doesn't it bother you that we're going to attempt—and I stress the word attempt—to kill a dragon?"
"I don't like killing anything, Pete. But dragons are bullies. They get what they deserve."
* * *
I knocked softly on George's bedroom door. He answered quickly; I don't think he was asleep. He blinked in the gray morning light, opened the door wider, padded back to his bed in his underwear, and grabbed clothes laid out on his dresser. I stayed in the doorway. His bedroom walls were covered with pictures: commercial jets, fighter jets, cars of all kinds, a monorail, a supertanker. Chariots of George's gods.
One skinny leg filled a dangling blue-jean leg. "I'll get Mom and Dad up," he said. "I'll try not to take too long."
I nodded. "We're in a hurry." He looked scared and I didn't know what to say. Besides, I had places to go, people to see, evil wizards to confront, that sort of thing. I went back down the stairs.
There wasn't much to do to get ready. I'd slept in my clothes (Army shirt and black cords, the only ones I'd brought), and except for shouldering my pack, slinging the Aero-mag, and strapping Fred onto my hip, all I had to do was put on socks and hiking boots, double-bowing the leather laces. Leather had turned out to be a mistake. It got wet, dried, and broke easily afterward. Next time we passed a drugstore I'd have to remember to get new ones.
I strapped Ariel's pack onto her, ignoring her token complaints ("I know it's light and all I have to carry is the crossbow, but It's The Principle Of The Thing"), cocked the crossbow, and put it butt-first in the large pocket on her left side.
I sat on the couch and waited, feeling the ridges on Fred's handle. Ariel stood before the fireplace, tapping out uneven rhythms on the wooden floor with a hoof: tink, tink-tink-tink, tink. Tink-tink, scrape, pause, tink. It started to get on my nerves and I was about to ask her to cut it out when the Neimans trudged down the staircase, George in the lead. George wore a khaki Boy-Scout knapsack, white T-shirt, and faded jeans. The legs were too short and his blue tennis shoes stuck out comically, along with a good three inches of white tube socks. His belt drooped down on his left side where he wore, I swear to god, a large broadsword in a metal sheath. "Ready?" he asked, trying valiantly to appear as if he looked like this all the time.
I shouldered my pack and shoved Fred through my belt. Great—now we looked like some fucked-up Boy scout dramatization of The Fellowship of the Ring.
I eyed the broadsword. "You know how to use that thing?" I asked.
"I, uh—no, I don't," he answered in a small voice.
I sighed. "Let's go."
George's mother hugged him tearfully, telling him to be careful and to come back soon. His father shook his hand gravely, then did the same to me. "You won't be sorry," he told me. I didn't tell him I already was, but I thanked him and his wife for everything.
Well, the food had been good.
Evie, in plain white nightclothes, gave Ariel a farewell kiss on her lowered brow. George picked her up and hugged her and told her to be good.
We set out.
I looked back once when George did. They were still there, just outside the front door. I pictured them watching us walk along the road to the Interstate in the crisp morning air until we were out of sight.
* * *
We were in Greenville by a little after nine. It was a small town and had that kind of dead look that made me wonder if it had been just as lively before the Change. Probably; there were few cars in the middle of the streets, more in the parking lots of small shopping centers and car lots. Bird shit had made small white explosions on the windshields and helped turn the bodies to rust. Their South Carolina plates were red, white, and blue, with a palm tree and a banjo in the center, making me think of Dixie, mint juleps, and Tara. A lot of pickup trucks had a rebel-flag front plate and a shotgun rack holding, more often than not, an axe handle. There were also popular bumper stickers, faded by rain and torn by time: nra; only free men own guns; you can have my gun when you pry my cold, dead fingers from it; if guns are outlawed, only outlaws will have guns; forget, hell! and the like.
"You say the town's completely deserted?" I asked George as we walked through the main street.
"Pretty much. Some people live just outside of town, but I ain't heard of anybody living in it in a long time. My family never had no problem coming in and getting stuff if we needed to."
I stopped in a drugstore—the door was unlocked—and grabbed cigarettes (there were two packs left), new shoelaces (nylon), and a pack of peppermints for Ariel. The store owner had kept a snub-nosed .38 behind the register. I opened the magazine. Six bullets. I spun it and snapped my wrist. It clacked home. I brought the barrel to my temple and pulled the trigger.
Click.
But there'd been one heart-speeding second: what if, just this once, a gun went off?
I threw it to the floor. It clattered to the foot of the magazine section. I turned and left the drugstore.
"What are you laughing about?" asked Ariel as I joined her in the street.
"Nothing." I tossed her the packet of peppermint. She let it fall to the asphalt: what was she supposed to do with it? I opened it, still laughing, and began untwisting the cellophane packets. What a weird world.
* * *
We were back on the open road by ten. I walked on Ariel's right, George on her left. As we walked I practiced my daily regimen of drawing Fred and trying to return it to the sheath in one smooth motion without looking. I'd already cut my thumb once.
"Hey, Pete," George said as I drew the sword once more. "If you're in such a hurry to get up north, why don't you ride a bike? Ariel could keep up with you, couldn't she?"
I locked my wrist. Yeah, that felt right. Resisting the temptation to look at my left hip I slowly bent my sword arm at the elbow. The back of the blade slid along the top of my left wrist. "Yeah, she could keep up," I said, pulling the blade back and trying again. "But I won't ride one." I pulled the blade up until I felt the tip slide to the top of the scabbard.
"Why not?"
Now if I used my left thumb as a guide . . . yeah! It went into place and I brought right hand close to left. The guard met the scabbard with a small clank. "Because you can't hide when you're riding a bicycle." I drew Fred again. My stride made the blade bob and I missed yet another attempt to return it to the scabbard on the first try. "Besides, I tried to ride one once. It wouldn't work." I cheated and looked. The sword went into the sheath. "Shit, I'll never learn how to do this." I walked in front of Ariel, who'd been watching me with amusement, then over to George. "Let me see that," I said, indicating his broadsword.
"Huh? Oh, sure," He pulled it from his belt, scabbard and all, and handed it to me.
I turned it in my hands, then drew it. "George, you couldn't cut a fart with this thing."
He colored. "I'll learn to use it," he said defensively.
I shook my head. "Sir Lancelot couldn't use this," I said, and it was true: what I was holding was a sword someone had taken from a gift shop somewhere, more wall decoration than weapon: dull, unbalanced, unwieldy, ill-fitted, wholly impractical. "Where'd your dad get it?"
"I dunno." He ducked his head and kicked at the ground. "Found it."
"Found it." I sighed, sheathed it, and handed it back to him. "Step away from Ariel," I told him. "I want to see you draw that thing."
Awkwardly he put it back into his belt. "Okay." He grabbed the double-handed grip with his right hand and pulled. And kept pulling. His arm was straight out and the sword was still in the sheath. It was longer than his reach.
"You're going to have to get a bigger belt and sling it lower," I told him.
"It'll drag the ground."
"What can I say? It's one or the other."
Ariel scraped a hoof on the road.
"Oh, neat," George exclaimed at the trailing sparks. "Did you see that?"
I glanced at her. "Yeah. Whoop-tee-doo."
She looked over at me, mock hurt in her midnight eyes. "Whatever happened to the Don Quixote you were reading me?" Her voice was pouting.
"It's in the pack somewhere."
She looked at me expectantly.
"Jesus Christ, now?"
"What's wrong with now? I want to find out what happens. Besides, I like Rosinante."
We passed a Ford station wagon turned sideways on the left side of the road. With headlights knocked out and front grille bent it looked like a sleeping drunk. "Rosinante's just a stupid, worn-out horse," I commented. "She's hardly even dealt with."
She scraped a hoof. I ignored George's awed exclamation. "So? Rosinante follows Don Quixote faithfully—no matter how futile the quest." She looked at me pointedly, to use a bad pun.
I snorted. "That's because Rosinante's too dumb to know any better. 'A horse is a horse, of course, of course,'" I sang. "R-r-right, Wi-ilbu-u-rrr?"
"Why, Pete, you sound a little hoarse."
I groaned. "You're making an ass of yourself, kid."
She let out a horse-like fricative. "How can a kid make an ass of itself? Besides, I'm an equine unicorn, not a caprine one.
"So now it's goats, is it?"
"Fuck ewe." She looked smug.
George looked around, surprised. "Hey, you mean she talks like that?"
I ignored him. "What happened to your horse puns? They run out on you?"
"Yeah—they weren't very stable in the first place."
I groaned again. "No more. Please."
She shook her head. "Pretty fleece."
"You aren't even being consistent. Fleece is from sheep."
"You're full of sheep. Anything can have fleas."
"Stop, you're killing me."
A gleam in the black diamond of her eyes. "Whatever you say, Pete—just quit stallion around and read me some Don Quixote."
I made another pained sound. "All right. You win. Anything to stop the offal puns."
"I suppose you could try punishment."
I threatened not to read if she kept it up. She shut up. I asked George to reach in the lower left pocket of my pack and pull out the thick, dog-eared, paperback copy of Don Quixote. He did, then looked around at the scenery, gaze settling on the power lines ahead that played host to dozens of birds. "Lotta birds around."
"Mmmm." I opened the book where it had been marked, knowing George was bored. I hadn't asked to play nursemaid; he was going to have to think up his own ways to occupy time. I unfolded the marked page.
"When do we stop for lunch?" asked George. Ariel shot him an irritated glance.
"We don't," I said. "We eat while we walk. Only time we stop is to eat late dinner and go to sleep."
"What are you in such an all-fired rush about?"
"I'm trying to get to New York to meet a friend. Now be quiet." I cleared my throat and began reading. "'Chapter XVII. Wherein is continued the account of the innumerable troubles that the brave Don Quixote and his good squire Sancho Panza endured in the inn, which, to his sorrow, the knight took to be a castle.'" I glanced up to Ariel. She nodded attentively and I continued.
* * *
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."