The Dragons of Babel (7 page)

Will walked up and down before him. Leaf-green eyes glared up out of that silt-black face with a pure and holy hatred. There could be no reasoning with this boy, nor any taming of him. He was a primal force, an anti-Will, the spirit of vengeance made flesh and given a single unswerving purpose.

All the words that the rebel-boy could not speak poured from those amazing eyes. They passed effortlessly into Will's head, and he accepted them for his own.

Behind No-name stood the village elders in a straight, unmoving line. The Sullen Man moved his mouth slowly, like an ancient tortoise having a particularly deep thought. But he did not speak. Nor did Auld Black Agnes, nor the y age-witch whose use-name no living being knew, nor
Lady Nightlady, nor Spadefoot, nor Annie Hop-the-Frog, nor Daddy Fingerbones, nor any of the others. There were mutters and whispers among the villagers, assembled into a loose throng behind them, but nothing coherent. Nothing that could be heard or punished. Now and again, the buzzing of wings rose up over the murmurs and died down again like a cicada on a still summer day, but no one lifted up from the ground.

Back and forth Will stalked, restless as a leopard in a cage, while the dragon within him brooded over possible punishments. A whipping would only strengthen No-name in his hatred and resolve. Amputation was no answer—he had lost one limb already, and was still a dangerous and unswerving enemy. There was no gaol in all the village that could hope to hold him forever, save for the dragon himself, and the dragon did not wish to accept so capricious an imp into his own body.

Death, then. Death was the only answer.

But what sort of death? Strangulation was too quick. Fire was good, but Tyrant Square was surrounded by thatched roofs. A drowning would have to be carried out at the river, out of sight of the dragon himself, who wanted the mana of punishment inextricably linked in his subjects' minds to his own physical self. He could have a hogshead brought in and filled with water or, even better, wine. But then the victim's struggles would have a comic element to them. Also, as a form of strangulation it was still too quick.

Unhurriedly, the dragon considered. Then he brought Will to a stop before the crouching No-name. He raised up Will's head, and let a little of the dragon-light shine out through Will's eyes.

“Crucify him.”

To Will's horror, the villagers obeyed.

I
t took hours. But shortly before dawn, the child who had once been Puck Berrysnatcher, who had been Will's best
friend and had died and been reborn as his nemesis, and who had then raised up a rebellion that might well have ended in the dragon's downfall, breathed his last. His body went limp as he surrendered his name to his revered ancestress, Mother Night, and the exhausted villagers could finally turn away and go home and sleep.

Later, after he had departed Will's body at last, the dragon said, “You have done well.”

Will lay motionless on the pilot's couch and said nothing.

“I shall reward you.”

“No, lord,” Will said. “You have done too much already.”

“Haummgnmn. Do you know the first sign that a toady has come to accept the rightness of his lickspittle station?”

“No, sir.”

“It is insolence. For which reason, you will not be punished but rather, as I said, rewarded. You have grown somewhat in my service. Your tastes have matured. You want something better than your hand. You shall have it. Go into any woman's house and tell her what she must do. You have my permission.”

“This is a gift I do not desire.”

“Says you! Big Red Margotty has three holes. She will refuse none of them to you. Enter them in whatever order you wish. Do what you like with her tits. Tell her to look glad when she sees you. Tell her to wag her tail and bark like a dog. As long as she has a daughter, she has no choice but to obey. Much the same goes for any of my beloved subjects, of whatever gender or age.”

“They hate you,” Will said.

“And thou as well, my love and my delight. And thou as well.”

“But you with reason.”

A long silence. Then the fire-drake said, “I know your mind as you do not. I know what things you wish to do with
Red Margotty and what things you wish to do to her. I tell you, there are cruelties within you greater than anything I know. It is the birthright of flesh.”

“You lie!”

“Do I? Tell me something, dearest victim. When you told the elders to crucify No-name, the command came from me, with my breath and in my voice. But the form… did not the
choice
of the punishment come from you?”

Will had been lying listlessly on the couch staring up at the featureless metal ceiling. Now he sat upright, his face cold with shock, as in that instant after being struck before the blood rushes to one's head.

All in a single convulsive movement he stood and turned toward the door.

Which seeing, the dragon sneered, “Do you think to leave me? Do you honestly think you
can?
Then try!” The dragon slammed open his door. The cool and pitiless light of earliest morning flooded the cabin. A fresh breeze swept in, carrying with it scents from the fields and woods. It made Will painfully aware of how his own sour stench permeated the dragon's interior. “You need me more than I ever needed you—I have seen to that! You cannot run away, and if you could, your hunger would bring you back, wrists foremost. You
desire
me. You are empty without me. Go! Try to run! See where it gets you.”

Will trembled.

He bolted out the door and ran.

T
he first sunset away from the dragon, Will threw up violently as the sun went down, and then suffered spasms of diarrhea. Cramping and aching and foul, he hid in the depths of the Old Forest all through the night, sometimes howling and sometimes rolling about the forest floor in pain. A thousand times he thought he must return. A thousand times he told himself: Not yet. Just a little longer and you can surrender. But not yet.

A little longer. Not yet.

Soon. Not yet.

The craving came in waves. When it abated, Will would think: If I can hold out for one day, the second will be easier, and the third easier yet. Then the sick yearning would return, a black need in the tissues of his flesh and an aching in his bones, and he would think again: Not yet. Hold off for just a few more minutes. Then you can give up. Soon. Just a little longer.

A little longer.

He looked at the sky and could see by the position of the Scythe that there was still more of the darkness before him than behind. All his resolve, all his restraint, had filled next to no time whatsoever. He found himself weeping in self-pity. He had tried! The Nameless Ones knew, he had tried, and what had come of it? It was foreordained that he should fail and, that being so, he might as well give up the fight. And so he determined to do.

Soon.

Thus progressed the night, in continual defeat, yet with his surrender perpetually deferred. Sometimes he struck the harsh bark of the elm trees over and over again with his hands, just for the slight distraction the pain afforded him. The Scythe wheeled and dimmed unheeding of his suffering. This wasn't working! It was time he admitted it, and gave in. Time he returned to his master and acknowledged that he could no longer live without him.

Not yet.

Soon.

By morning, the worst of it was over. He washed his clothes in a stream, and hung them up to dry in the wan predawn light. To keep himself warm, he marched back and forth singing the
Chansons Amoreuses de Merlin Sylvanus
, as many of its five hundred verses as he could remember. Finally, when the clothes were only slightly damp, he sought out a great climbing oak he knew of old, and from a hollow withdrew
a length of stolen clothesline. Climbing as close to the tippy-top of the great tree as he dared, he lashed himself to its bole. There, lightly rocked by a gentle wind, he slept at last.

A
fortnight passed.

Two weeks after his escape, Hag Applemere came to see him in his place of hiding. She found him sitting in the shade of an oak tree at the edge of a meadow rich in milkweed, horned-god's paintbrush and Queen Mab's lace. Honeybees dutifully worked the flowers. A short distance away was a cairn not of modern make but from some long-ago time, which treasure hunters had broken into and from which they had scattered the bones. There he had slept the night before, upon a bed of field grass, while outside it had thundered and stormed. Folk avoided the cairn, for it was said to be wraith-haunted, but if so, the spirits did not bother Will.

The truth-teller bowed before him. “Lord Dragon bids you return to him,” she said formally.

Will did not ask the revered hag how she had found him. Wise-women had their skills; nor did they explain themselves. “I'll come when I'm ready. My task here is not yet completed.” He was busily sewing together leaves of oak, yew, ash, and alder, using a needle laboriously crafted from a thorn, and short threads made from grasses he had pulled apart by hand. It was no easy work. He had learned from it a new respect for seamstresses.

Hag Applemere frowned. “You place us all in certain danger.”

“He will not destroy himself over me alone. Particularly when he is sure that I must inevitably return to him.”

“It is true.”

Will laughed mirthlessly. “You need not ply your trade here, hallowed lady. Speak to me as you would to any other. I am no longer of the dragon's party.”

“As you wish.” Hag Applemere drew her shawl about her and plomped down cross-legged before him. All in a single gesture, she had become Bessie again.

“It's a funny thing,” Will said, still sewing. “You're not so many years older than I am. I can see that now. If this were a time of peace, who knows? Two years, six years down the line, I might well have grown enough to claim you for my own, by the ancient rites of the greensward and the silver moon.”

“Why, Will.” Bessie smiled. “Are you flirting with me?”

“If I were”—he bit the thread—“I'd be sitting closer to you. Nor would I be at needlework. I'd have a care to hold my hands free, so that they might advance my argument.”

“You're
feeling bold today.” She studied him for a long, silent moment. “And you've grown, too. Physically, I mean, as well as emotionally.”

“It's all that cold iron, I think. It forced my growth. Only months ago, I would have found the notion of us together unsettling. But now… Well, in any event, it's not going to happen, is it?”

“No,” she said, “it's not.” Then, cautiously, “Will, whatever are you up to?”

He held up the garment, complete at last, for her to admire. “I have become a greenshirtie.” All the time he had sewn, he was bare-chested, for he had torn up his dragon sark, charred it, and since used strips of it for tinder as he needed fire. Now he donned its leafy replacement.

Clad in his fragile new finery, Will said, “How many would follow me, do you think, were I to show them an end to the dragon's reign?”

“None. As his creature, you are far from beloved. Puck's crucifixion weighs heavy on many a mind.”

“Not even you?”

“Oh, well.” Bessie blushed. “I'd follow you, yes. For what little that's worth. But I'm only me—what could I do?”

“You could lie.” Will looked the truth-teller straight in the eye. “You can lie,” he said, “can't you?”

Bessie turned pale. “Once,” she said in a tiny voice, and reflexively covered her womb with both hands. She looked downward, avoiding his glance. “And the price is high, terribly high.”

He stood. “Then it must be paid. Let us find a shovel now. It is time for a bit of grave robbery.”

I
t was evening when Will returned at last to the dragon. Tyrant Square had been ringed about with barbed wire and harsh, jury-rigged lights that cast everything in shades of white and gray. A loudspeaker had been set upon a pole with wires leading back into his iron hulk, so that he could speak and be heard in the absence of his lieutenant. Taken together, these improvements made the square look like a concentration camp writ small.

“Go first,” Will said to Hag Applemere, “that he may be reassured I mean him no harm.”

Breasts bare, clad in the robes and wide hat of her profession, Bessie Applemere passed through a barbed-wire gate (a grimpkin guard opened it before her and closed it after her) and entered the black-and-white arena of the square. “Son of Cruelty.” She bowed deeply before the dragon. “Your lieutenant has returned to you.”

Will stood hunched in the shadows, head down, hands thrust deep in his pockets. Tonelessly, he said, “I have been broken to your will, great one. I will be your stump-cow, if that is what you want. I beg you. Make me grovel. Make me crawl. Only let me back in.”

Hag Applemere spread her arms and bowed again. “It is true.”

“You may approach.” The dragon's voice sounded stat-icky and yet triumphant over the loudspeaker.

The sour-faced old grimpkin opened the gate for him, as
it had earlier been opened for the hag. Slowly, like a maltreated dog returning to the only hand that had ever fed him, Will crossed the cobbled square. He paused before the loudspeaker, briefly touched its pole with one trembling hand, and then shoved that hand back into his pocket. “You have won. Well and truly have you won. Thou art victorious over all my desire.”

It appalled Will how easily the words came, and how natural they sounded coming from his mouth. He could feel the desire to surrender to the tyrant, accept what punishments he would impose, and sink gratefully back into bondage. A little voice within cried: So
easy! So easy!
And so it would be, perilously easy indeed. The realization that a part of him devoutly wished for it made Will burn with humiliation.

The dragon slowly forced one eye half open. “So, boy…” Was it his imagination, or was the dragon's voice less forceful than it had been fourteen days ago? “You have learned what need feels like. You suffer from your desires, even as I do. I… I… am weakened, admittedly, but I am not all so weak as that! You thought to prove
that
I needed you—you have proven the reverse. Though I have neither wings nor missiles and my electrical reserves are low, though I cannot fire my jets without destroying the village and myself as well, yet am I of the mighty, for I have neither pity nor remorse. Thought you I craved a mere boy? Thought you to make me dance attendance on a soft, un-muscled half-mortal mongrel fey? Pfaugh! I do not need you. Never think that I… that I
need you!
”