The Dragon Griaule

 Jarcke seemed embarrassed by the town. She made no attempt at introductions, stopping only long enough to fetch another coil of rope from one of the shanties, and as they walked between the wings, down through the neck spines – a forest of greenish gold spikes burnished by the lowering sun – she explained how the townsfolk grubbed a livelihood from Griaule. Herbs gathered on his back were valued as medicine and charms, as were the peels of dead skin; the artifacts left by previous Hangtown generations were of some worth to various collectors.

 ‘Then there’s scalehunters,’ she said with disgust. ‘Henry Sichi from Port Chantay’ll pay good money for pieces of scale, and though it’s bad luck to do it, some’ll have a go at chip-pin’ off the loose ’uns.’ She walked a few paces in silence. ‘But there’s others who’ve got better reasons for livin’ here.’

 The frontal spike above Griaule’s eyes was whorled at the base like a narwhal’s horn and curved back toward the wings. Jarcke attached the ropes to eyebolts drilled into the spike, tied one about her waist, the other about Meric’s; she cautioned him to wait, and rappelled off the side. In a moment she called for him to come down. Once again he grew dizzy as he descended; he glimpsed a clawed foot far below, mossy fangs jutting from an impossibly long jaw; and then he began to spin and bash against the scales. Jarcke gathered him in and helped him sit on the lip of the socket.

 ‘Damn!’ she said, stamping her foot.

 A three-foot-long section of the adjoining scale shifted slowly away. Peering close, Meric saw that while in texture and hue it was indistinguishable from the scale, there was a hairline division between it and the surface. Jarcke, her face twisted in disgust, continued to harry the thing until it moved out of reach.

 ‘Call ’em flakes,’ she said when he asked what it was. ‘Some kind of insect. Got a long tube that they pokes down between the scales and sucks the blood. See there?’ She pointed off to where a flock of birds was wheeling close to Griaule’s side; a chip of pale gold broke loose and went tumbling down to the valley. ‘Birds pry ’em off, let ’em bust open, and eats the innards.’ She hunkered down beside him and after a moment asked, ‘You really think you can do it?’

 ‘What? You mean kill the dragon?’

 She nodded.

 ‘Certainly,’ he said, and then added, lying, ‘I’ve spent years devising the method.’

 ‘If all the paint’s goin’ to be atop his head, how’re you goin’ to get it to where the paintin’s done?’

 ‘That’s no problem. We’ll pipe it to wherever it’s needed.’

 She nodded again. ‘You’re a clever fellow,’ she said; and when Meric, pleased, made as if to thank her for the compliment, she cut in and said, ‘Don’t mean nothin’ by it. Bein’ clever ain’t an accomplishment. It’s just somethin’ you come by, like bein’ tall.’ She turned away, ending the conversation.

 Meric was weary of being awestruck, but even so he could not help marveling at the eye. By his estimate it was seventy feet long and fifty feet high, and it was shuttered by an opaque membrane that was unusually clear of algae and lichen, glistening, with vague glints of color visible behind it. As the westering sun reddened and sank between two distant hills, the membrane began to quiver and then split open down the center. With the ponderous slowness of a theater curtain opening, the halves slid apart to reveal the glowing humor. Terrified by the idea that Griaule could see him, Meric sprang to his feet, but Jarcke restrained him.

 ‘Stay still and watch,’ she said.