Page 66 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
A razor-thin slice of sun cut the horizon, illuminating his features for my human sight. That made lying hard, but a clever answer could be truthful.
“My memories from the wyves of war flow through Fènnù,” I said. “We have escaped her—my mind is beyond her reach—so the memory has faded. But the flute was here.”
The man listened, eyes wide. He repeated, “The flute?” Then the rising morning sun caught Yuánchi’s hulk. The man pivoted, and his jaw hung. “?Ye rode the scarlet dragon.” He thumped down on his knees in front of me. His improvised weapon, the scythe, clattered onto the stony hilltop. “Ye heard us. Yecame!” He stabbed the fingers of his right hand at his heart. “Banrigh nan Dràgon.”
The man introducedhimself as William MacLeod while he led us down a steep hundred-yard path to the river. The village was on the far shore, the houses simple dwellings with thatched roofs and rough, unpainted plank walls, not the turf walls that usually insulated homes in this climate. They looked new, the wood not yet weathered, and were placed in peculiarly regular rows, each with an identical, inadequate strip of farmland as if the village had been built to some miserly plan. Three single-masted fishing boats were anchored along the river’s mouth, and the wind carried a strong scent of herring.
Some warlike habit of mine inventoried draca. Six were bound in the village. That would be an impressive count for a mid-sized English town, but this village had a mere twenty or thirty houses. They must bind like the Britons, ignoring human restrictions of class.
People ran out of the houses as Mr. MacLeod rowed us across the river. They gathered and chanted “Banrigh nan Dràgon,” the Scottish name for a great wyfe. Eager arms pointed out Yuánchi across the river.
A cry roared as we clambered out of the skiff and joined the mass. Mr. MacLeod all but danced ahead, shouting, “?She has come!Banrigh nan Dràgon!” Fording the flood of greetings, we followed him to the largest house. That proved to be a community building, laid out like the turf-and-stone longhouses I remembered but built with thin, chilly plank walls. There were three long tables with bench seats, enough for the entire village if they packed in, which they proceeded to do.
Darcy and I were ushered to seats across from each other at the center table. The villagers eagerly settled, some sitting backwards on the benches to watch us.
“What do they expect?” Darcy asked me, his words buried in the din.
“A great wyfe,” I said, not sure how else to articulate the history—and the responsibility—that title carried in the Highlands.
The man’s wyfe, Mistress MacLeod, took a seat beside me and waved hushing gestures at the room. When it quieted, she said, “We read stories sayin’ a dragon burned London. ’Course the newspapers are filled with nonsense, aren’t they? But here ye are, a dragon and a great wyfe.”
Exclamations swept the room, and boots pounded in a rough, regular stomp. Her husband cried out, “?’Tis the legend reborn!”
“Where did ye fly from?” Mistress MacLeod asked, quieting the room. She was not the eldest wyfe in the village—I would have placed her in her mid-twenties—but her title “Mistress” signaled authority. Perhaps that reflectedher binding. We had passed their lindworm in the street, a rare breed, this one a ruddy oak-brown.
“Derbyshire,” I answered. “We flew all night.”
“All night! Have ye broken yer fast?” When I shook my head, she fell back in her chair with comic dismay and cried, “Shall we feed the poor lass?”
“Ayes” resounded.
Women ran out and returned with several round, crusty oat bannocks, three battered tin plates of smoked herring, a stone jar of sheep butter, and another of soft cheese. The food was divided between the tables. A small dish of dried berries and apples was placed for Darcy and me, likely a treat at this time of year.
I had expected a raft of questions, but absolute quiet fell other than reverent murmurs of “Pass the butter” or “The fish, please.” Darcy and I exchanged a look but joined the meal; it would have been insulting to refuse. We had landed mid-flight and eaten bread with cheese, but I was starved and wolfed down a chunk of the griddled oat bread slathered with butter. I avoided the herring—I had developed a petty distrust for fish that stared back at me ever since I was startled by a splashing draca in a river. That seemed silly now, a childhood fancy, but it had been less than two years ago. Darcy had steadied me that day—held me, really, as much as propriety allowed. We had known each other a month.
I watched him compliment the bread, and my dishonesty prickled my conscience.
The food, not much for so many, vanished in two minutes. A peculiar disquiet climbed my shoulders. I pulled back my hair, tying it—any trace of style had been blasted away by the gale of Yuánchi’s flight—then recognized what made me uneasy. The villagers’ cheeks were sunken, their necks thin… every face was gaunt. This village had survived a hungry, hard winter. A young girl near me was picking crumbs from where the bannocks were sectioned, and I regretted taking a slice.
I turned back and met Darcy’s gaze. He inclined his head infinitesimally to the emptied serving plates. He had noticed also.
Mistress MacLeod introduced herself formally and nodded to Mr. MacLeod, seated beside Darcy. “That firebrand’s m’husband.”
Her husband grinned. “Fire is good for the soul, wyfe, whether it be ’tween a man and a woman or for roasting mutton.” His eyes glittered in his weather-creased, freckled face. “A dragon, though. That’s a fire that’ll put me in my place!” The other men chuckled agreement, and Mr. MacLeod capped it by shouting, “And put others in their place, too!”
“Haud yer wheesht,” his wyfe snapped. Her husband grinned.
“What’re those?” the girl who had been picking up crumbs asked me, pointing at the goggles dangling from my neck. She was about nine.
“They are like spectacles,” I said, “but to block the wind when we fly.”
“By golly.” Her lips blew an inexpert whistle. “Ye ride in the sky? Like a flying kelpie?”
“What is a kelpie?” I asked, resisting an urge to attempt her Scottish lilt. It was terribly infectious.
“A water horse,” Mistress MacLeod answered for her. “This girl loves those bonny stories. In the old times, they talked of all manner of creatures rising from the lochs. Folk dinnae ken it was draca sleeping in the water, so they dreamed up nymphs and kelpies. But it’s all nonsense.” She ruffled the girl’s hair.
The girl, evidently her daughter, squawked “Ma!” then asked me, “Is yer dragon hungry, too?”
