Part IV: Ovoj Kaj Infano
At first, nothing was different.
It was a moment that Fowlsing could recount with astounding clarity, even years later - the sudden silence after Wawel’s departure; the edges of the meadow grass, tinged with golden hour sunlight, bent at odd angles by Fowlsing’s feet as he ran, headlong, through the endless mountain meadow, his camera banging against his scaly chest with every step.
The lush grasses gave way to a steep, rocky slope, and Fowlsing struggled up the loose stones for a few moments before remembering, all at once, that he could fly. The great downdraft of his wings sent the yellow-billed choughs flapping out of their nests, chattering angrily. Fowlsing grimaced and reminded himself to apologize later; he and the choughs were usually on such good terms - although, granted, their friendship was mostly held together by leftover pastry crumbs.
Fowlsing landed in an unceremonious shower of gravel just outside the entrance to his den. He slipped automatically into human form as soon as he landed, leading to an awkward series of hops and tumbles before he caught himself on the mossy outer wall of the cave.
Fowlsing’s cave was a cozy affair, tucked into an unassuming tumble of rocks halfway up the mountain’s eastern slope. There were asters and Forget-Me-Nots growing in the cracks of the cave’s outer walls, tucked in tight little bundles among the moss and lichen and occasional chough nest. The den’s opening faced east, and far below, Fowlsing could see the village and even Zmei’s bookshop, its windows ablaze with the first brushstrokes of sunset.
Fowlsing considered his den one of the few perfect places in the inhabited world, and he hated the idea of a member of the Dragon Conclave getting anywhere near it. He crept cautiously through the front entryway, eyes darting around sharply, searching for a hidden Conclave member or - something. He wasn’t sure.
During Fowlsing’s long hibernation, the Conclave had warped into something he didn’t recognize at all. He didn’t know what they were capable of these days - or what would happen to a dragon who neglected his dekonaj, the regular tithe owed to the Conclave. Unbidden, a memory of several recently-invented human booby traps - pictured in grotesque detail in one of Zmei’s books - flitted into his mind, and Fowlsing shuddered, stepping a little more gingerly. He cursed the Conclave silently for making him afraid of his own den and mentally vowed several creative methods of revenge.
Fowlsing was so preoccupied with peeking around corners and watching every stocking-covered step that he nearly stepped on the enormous swath of carefully rolled parchment, strategically placed to block the entrance to the rear wing of the den.
Fowlsing narrowed his eyes and cautiously bent to retrieve the scroll. It was an ostentatious affair, covered front and back in enormous, looping Old Draconian script - this time, clearly written in an ink-dripped dragon’s claw. Fowlsing didn’t recognize the claw-writing, but he’d spent enough weeks in Zmei’s bookshop to know that the paper was expensive - and the ink even more so. Grinding his teeth, Fowlsing unrolled the immense document on the hallway floor and started reading.
Most of the first half of the writing was a stuffy admonishment for Fowlsing’s missed dekonaj. Fowlsing rolled his eyes and started skimming. He was kneeling directly on the parchment, scooting his way toward the bottom as he read, the top edge of the scroll curling towards him as he backed up. He had nearly finished the front side when a paragraph near the bottom of the page caught his attention. Fowlsing narrowed his eyes and leaned closer to read.
"IN NEW BUSINESS, two of our kind - an edziĝinta paro from the Southern Sector - have recently entered into hibernation."
Fowlsing paused. Every dragon hibernated, of course, but hibernation was unpredictable, sudden. For two dragons to drop into hibernation at the same time - much less a mated pair - this was unheard of. He frowned and turned his attention back to the slowly curling parchment.
"It was brought to the attention of the Most Illustrious Conclave of Dragons that this edziĝinta paro had recently been blessed with a clutch of eggs. Upon further inspection, the clutch was found to have certain…."
There was an uncertain break in the flowing Draconian script.
"…strange….properties. The Conclave, therefore, considered it their Sacred Duty to find a fitting guardian for the clutch, one best-suited to its…unique….properties. An emergency kunveno was called, with all dragons from the Southern Sector expected to attend…"
Fowlsing froze mid-scoot, hands still splayed over that last sentence. He did, in fact, have a dim memory of Zmei handing him a heavy envelope, delivered by overnight courier and covered in stamps and stickers denoting grave urgency. Fowlsing was also fairly certain that he had immediately repurposed the unopened envelope as a coaster for a dripping bowl of gelato. He grimaced. No apologies, he reminded himself, and returned to the parchment.
"…given your lack of attendance, the Conclave deemed it fair to assume that you were in complete agreement with the ultimate selection of guardian for this unfortunate clutch of hatchlings. Henceforth, you may consider yourself excused from all future dekonaj; your inestimable service to the future of all dragon-kind is gift enough…"
Fowlsing had jumped to his feet before finishing the last sentence. The scroll rolled up over his stockinged feet as he stood, turning slowly toward the rear entrance of the den.
By now, the sun was slipping past the horizon, sending cascading rays of deep orange over the craggy cliff face, filling the entire rear entryway with a pool of fiery light.
In the silence, for the first time, Fowlsing noticed a soft crackling sound, just at the edge of human hearing, punctuated from time to time with a soft snuffle or snort. He stood for a long time, listening in silent disbelief to the unmistakable sound of hatching eggs. He was distantly aware of a sudden rush of emotion - joy? dread? - overwhelming his mind - and of a sudden, unfamiliar stinging in his eyes.
And then, there was something incongruous among the snuffles and snorts and crackling eggshells - the unmistakable giggle of a human child.
Fowlsing had just begun inching his way slowly towards the rear entrance, drawn inexorably by his own uncertainty - but now he froze mid-stride. The sound of hatching eggs he recognized, and of course he was familiar with the laughter of human children, but - together? And here in your own den, too, added a small voice unhelpfully from the back of his mind.
Fowlsing peered around the corner, feeling the weight of the moment, the sensation of time inflecting, the certainty that nothing would ever be the same again.
There were three eggs, newly hatched, the delicate snouts of hatchlings poking out, snuffling curiously. Fowlsing’s breath hitched. Vaguely, he was aware that his cheeks were wet. He was adrift, still, in that cascade of precarious emotion, yet somehow detached from it, still functioning, still turning slowly to take in the rest of the entryway.
And there - there she sat, in a pair of soft little shoes, one chubby finger resting on the nearest hatchling’s snout - a human girl. The hatchling snorted - a dragon’s laugh, written in tiny puffs of steam. The last few fiery rays of sunset slipped slowly from the entrance of the cave, illuminating the hatchling’s delicate scales and turning the child’s eiderdown hair to gold.
© 2021 Rebecca Robbe
