Page 2 of Serving my Dragon
Perhaps the women didn’t have power over the males after all.
When the man would have stalked past her to reach me, the female grabbed hold of his arm. The male, his expression twisted in anger, grabbed hold of her and shoved. Shoved hard enough the woman stumbled and kept reeling right over the edge of the cliff.
This predictably led to the other female wailing as she tore at her veil, screaming as she hit her knees.
In my distraction, I’d not been paying the other males any mind.
An arrow launched and as I jerked to avoid it, my foot slipped and I lost my balance. For a second I teetered, then I fell. Plummeted fast. If I had my wings, I would have swooped to safety.
But I was but newly hatched. Not even a day old. Unfed. Weak. Undeniably unlucky.
I hit the water hard and knew no more.
Chapter One
It had been a good day’s hike, and I dropped my knapsack on the ground as I surveyed the shore of the river snaking through Charcani Chico. The view never failed to calm. Just what I’d needed after the insane hours I’d been putting in at work.
When I’d gone to study dentistry at Cayetano Heredia Peruvian University in the city of Lima—a sixteen-hour drive that meant not visiting home often during those years, breaking Mama’s heart—I’d been excited to open my practice in Villa de Cayma where I’d been born and raised. I’d understood I’d probably be busy, I just never realized how insane it would get, especially since I did my best to keep costs reasonable, and in some cases, didn’t charge at all. For the families who couldn’t afford it, I usually provided care in exchange for a service. Like Luis, in pain because of a rotten root. He handled my garden. Or Maria, who’d needed several cavities filled. She repaid me by keeping my home clean—mine not Mama’s who’d been greatly offended when I made the offer.
But being so busy and trying to find ways to pay the bills when many of my clients provided food, goods, or service instead did take a toll. It was Mama who took one look at me and said, “You need a vacation.”
“I can’t,” I’d replied, already thinking of the long hours I’d have to put in the next week.
“You will, because if you don’t, you’ll be useless like your papa.”
It should be known my father was dead. Died of a heart attack at forty-nine because, as Mama lamented, “He wouldn’t listen and worked himself into an early grave.” Actually, his bad heart had been the true cause, but Mama did have a point. Burnout did happen, so I cleared my calendar for a week. A week where I’d have no one to answer to but myself. Seven days of hiking and reconnecting with nature, something I’d not done in years. I’d almost cancelled when Misti erupted. However, the volcano quickly settled and the winds kept the ash clouds away.
The emergency alert for the area didn’t last long. The government wasn’t eager to lose the tourism dollars they raked in from the Andes, which drew even more visitors with the eruption.
While environmental scientists claimed the area and waters safe, I’d been warned by Papa’s sister, Tía Carmelita, not to eat any fish as they could be contaminated with evil spirits. She claimed the volcano god Solimana was showing his displeasure at all the sinning happening in the world. The older members of my family tended to believe in the old legends. Me, not so much.
I chose to hike along the Rio Chili, the route popular with those looking for outdoor adventure. It ran through Charcani Chico, a canyon with breathtaking views that did much to reenergize my tired spirit as I spent days trekking its length.
Late afternoon, two days before I had to return to reality, I set up camp, knowing that this time of year dusk would arrive shortly, and I wanted to bathe before then so I could enjoy the sunset. I cleared an area of debris, using the rocks to form a ring to build a fire. It took me a bit longer to scrounge out some branches for kindling, not that I worried about getting cold. It was more about keeping the wildlife at bay. With that set up, I laid out my oversized sleeping bag—which I’d likely have to shake before I crawled in, in case any insects decided it looked comfy.
I’d heard my lack of tent and other amenities was called “wild camping.” I preferred it to the commercialized excursions offered to tourists that involved fancy tents with bendable poles that exploded into mini houses. Portable stoves. Inflatable mattresses. They even toted around composting toilets!
Personally, I preferred to interact with nature on a more basic level, hence I slept on the ground under the stars and did my business in the bushes or dug a hole.
I stripped out of my damp, sweat-drenched shirt and shorts but kept on my tight-fitting briefs and boots. Only an idiot—or someone who enjoyed leeches between their toes—went barefoot in Peruvian waters.
As I neared the shoreline with my shirt, which I’d decided to rinse and hang to dry overnight, my attention was caught by a lump splayed over the pebbles. A lizard-like creature had washed ashore, limp and unmoving. Most likely dead. I could have left it alone, but who knew what kind of carrion feeder it would draw. Skunk spray had nothing on vulture vomit.
Rather than touch it barehanded, I returned to my pack for some gloves. Nothing worse than digging your fingers into rotting flesh. I might have a stomach of steel, but some things made even a grown man’s gorge rise.
I returned to the small lizard, a type I’d never seen before, its skin a grayish hue. As I went to push the body into the water so it could continue downstream, it twitched. I withdrew my hand. Not dead after all but definitely injured.
What to do? Tío Santiago would claim I should leave it to the circle of life and allow it to die either of its injuries or because something would come along and eat it. However, to Mama’s annoyance, I’d been the kid who brought home all kinds of injured creatures growing up. A bird with a broken wing that I splinted and set free only to see it eaten by a condor. The mangy dog Bruno who’d been my companion for four years. The toad who’d lasted a whole summer before he mysteriously disappeared, coincidentally before Tía Consuela’s frog leg bake.
It had been a long time, though, since I’d taken in a stray. My life didn’t have room or time for a pet. A wild lizard wasn’t a domesticated animal, though, meaning it wouldn’t be a long-term commitment for me. Chances were, soon as it felt better it would scurry off. And if it didn’t, then on my way back I could drop it off at a wildlife sanctuary for them to handle.
I scooped up the reptile carefully, its body small and frail, but warm. I cradled it to my chest and brought it to my sleeping bag where I sat with it in my lap. I took a moment to carefully examine its limbs for any breakage or wounds. It seemed intact, and despite my lack of knowledge about lizard genitalia, most likely female.
Given her location by the shore, I concluded she must have fallen in the water and almost drowned. While she did seem to be breathing, I held her chest to my ear to see if I heard any gurgling in her lungs. Seemed okay, but just in case, I draped her over my shoulder, head hanging down so that gravity could pull out any moisture that might be trapped in her lungs. Right thing to do? No idea, but at least it felt logical.
I rubbed the lizard’s back much like you would a baby to get them to burp. In my case, it puked. Right down my bare spine. I grimaced. Good thing I hadn’t bathed or dressed yet. I strode with my little rescue back to the water and sank down to my haunches to submerge my lower half. I kept a hand on my rescue while the other scooped water and splashed the mess on my flesh. A few drops landed on the lizard, and she stirred, making a grunting noise.
Not wanting to be shredded by a waking and panicked wild reptile, I quickly waded to shore and gently placed her on the ground. I remained crouched and watched as she twitched and opened her eyes.
