The Dragon Griaule

 Returning to Hangtown was in some ways a more unsettling experience than had been Catherine’s flight into the dragon. She had expected the place to have changed, and while there had been minor changes, she had assumed that it would be as different from its old self as was she. But standing at the edge of the village, looking out at the gray weathered shacks ringing the fouled shallows of the lake, thin smokes issuing from tin chimneys, the cliff of the fronto-parietal plate casting its gloomy shadow, the chokecherry thickets, the hawthorns, the dark brown dirt of the streets, three elderly men sitting on cane chairs in front of one of the shacks, smoking their pipes and staring back at her with unabashed curiosity . . . superficially it was no different than it had been ten years before, and this seemed to imply that her years of imprisonment, her death and rebirth had been of small importance. She did not demand that they be important to anyone else, yet it galled her that the world had passed through those years of ordeal without significant scars, and it also imbued her with the irrational fear that if she were to enter the village, she might suffer some magical slippage back through time and re-inhabit her old life. At last, with a hesitant step, she walked over to the men and wished them a good morning.

‘Mornin’,’ said a paunchy fellow with a mottled bald scalp and a fringe of gray beard, whom she recognized as Tim Weedlon. ‘What can I do for you, ma’am? Got some nice bits of scale inside.’

‘That place over there,’ – she pointed to an abandoned shack down the street, its roof holed and missing the door – ‘where can I find the owner?’

The other man, Mardo Koren, thin as a mantis, his face seamed and blotched, said, ‘Can’t nobody say for sure. Ol’ Riall died . . . must be goin’ on nine, ten years back.’

‘He’s dead?’ She felt weak inside, dazed.

‘Yep,’ said Tim Weedlon, studying her face, his brow furrowed, his expression bewildered. ‘His daughter run away, killed a village man name of Willen and vanished into nowhere . . . or so ever’body figured. Then when Willen’s brothers turned up missin’, people thought ol’ Riall musta done ’em. He didn’t deny it. Acted like he didn’t care whether he lived or died.’

‘What happened?’

‘They had a trial, found Riall guilty.’ He leaned forward, squinting at her. ‘Catherine . . . is that you?’

She nodded, struggling for control. ‘What did they do with him?’

‘How can it be you?’ he said. ‘Where you been?’

‘What happened to my father?’

‘God, Catherine. You know what happens to them that’s found guilty of murder. If it’s any comfort, the truth come out finally.’

‘They took him in under the wing . . . they left him under the wing?’ Her fists clenched, nails pricking hard into her palm. ‘Is that what they did?’

He lowered his eyes, picked at a fray on his trouserleg.

Her eyes filled, and she turned away, facing the mossy overhang of the fronto-parietal plate. ‘You said the truth came out.’

‘That’s right. A girl confessed to having seen the whole thing. Said the Willens chased you into Griaule’s mouth. She woulda come forward sooner, but ol’ man Willen had her feared for her life. Said he’d kill her if she told. You probably remember her. Friend of yours, if I recall. Brianne.’

She whirled around, repeated the name with venom.

‘Wasn’t she your friend?’ Weedlon asked.

‘What happened to her?’

‘Why . . . nothing,’ said Weedlon. ‘She’s married, got hitched to Zev Mallison. Got herself a batch of children. I ’spect she’s home now if you wanna see her. You know the Mallison place, don’tcha?’

‘Yes.’

‘You want to know more about it, you oughta drop by there and talk to Brianne.’

‘I guess . . . I will, I’ll do that.’

‘Now tell us where you been, Catherine. Ten years! Musta been something important to keep you from home for so long.’

Coldness was spreading through her, turning her to ice. ‘I was thinking, Tim . . . I was thinking I might like to do some scaling while I’m here. Just for old time’s sake, you know.’ She could hear the shakiness in her voice and tried to smooth it out; she forced a smile. ‘I wonder if I could borrow some hooks.’

‘Hooks?’ He scratched his head, still regarding her with confusion. ‘Sure, I suppose you can. But aren’t you going to tell us where you’ve been? We thought you were dead.’

‘I will, I promise. Before I leave . . . I’ll come back and tell you all about it. All right?’

‘Well, all right.’ He heaved up from his chair. ‘But it’s a cruel thing you’re doing, Catherine.’

‘No crueler than what’s been done to me,’ she said distractedly. ‘Not half so cruel.’

‘Pardon,’ said Tim. ‘How’s that?’

‘What?’

He gave her a searching look and said, ‘I was telling you it was a cruel thing, keeping an old man in suspense about where you’ve been. Why you’re going to make the choicest bit of gossip we’ve had in years. And you came back with . . .’

‘Oh! I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I was thinking about something else.’