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Hello friends! Since I’ve fallen behind on providing new content for you all, I thought you might want a little taste of the story proper. Now, I’m going to say this up front, this is very much a work in progress, and there is no doubt that many rounds of editing are going to change the words I post here today. But! It gives you a taste of how I was intending to start Pijami’s story, and that ain’t half bad.
Enjoy, my friends.
Flight.
Leather wings beating against air, lazy, unhurried, graceful and unfaltering-- was there no greater pleasure? The world below was a far-away thing, where thickets came together in raised puffs like green wool, and the dye bled out onto the floor below. Textiles were woven of farmland, divided by strands of blue water and threads of brown and gray roads. If eyes were squinted, if the time were taken, a cart could be spied below. A mule, like a dirty gray ant, pulling its burden whilst being driven to the fields. The wagon, empty, would be loaded through the day with the first harvests that heralded the height of summer. Specs were people, blacks and browns, faded into the roads they walked, barely discernible to the eyes of the woman who enjoyed this moment of unbridled freedom so far above them.
Of course, she was not alone. She did not achieve this by herself. She was, after all, only human. It was her companion, her friend, her most loyal confidant that brought her to where she felt as if she might reach up and touch the clouds. A magnificent creature of red hide and crystal scales, his wings spread to catch the winds and keep them aloft. A creature that had started life so small, when the woman astride him was just a girl. Now he was many times her size, the pair of them having grown to maturity together. She, from a little mite of a thing that had labored over his egg in the task of hatching him that would mark the beginning of her apprenticeship as a breeder, and he, from a mere armload of bones and skin that had sprawled out within the belly of the blacksmith's forge where she'd kept him warm; rolling in the coals and squalling for his first meal.
She'd risen up to a woman of sturdy build, of broad shoulders and raven hair, and a warm grin that met the morning sun while the rushing wind ripped at her olive cheeks. She'd reared him, cared for him, even as he surpassed her in height and strength, even as his wings stretched wider several times wider than her own arm span, and his fangs grew longer than her hands. In all of his adult ferocity, she could still take him on a lead, and he would follow.
She was a dragon rider, and he was her dragon.
This was something they achieved together; an expression of trust between woman and dragon. She needed no shouting over the whipping wind to direct him, no pulling upon the leather harness that fit about his head and neck to send him banking this way or that. No, despite how small she was to him, it took little more than a shifting of her weight for him to respond to her. Strapped against his brawny body, all she needed was to move herself within the saddle, and his body would find a new path through the air. Neck would curve, his nose would lead, the arrowhead-like shape of his skull cutting through the air currents for the rest of him to follow. Wingtips yawned and his tail finished the arc that his head began, all to straighten and once again glide straight on as his mistress settled herself back in the center, the maneuver finished.
Their turning changed their view. Before, to look straight on was to see where land gave way to cliffs, and where the spiderweb of roads from farms centered upon civilization. A city whose silhouette was painted black by the morning sun rising upon the eastern sea, casting long shadows over crops and the mighty river that ran near the base of the stone wall that circled it. However, their view had turned northward, and her eyes rose away from farms and roads.
Northward, to where the land seemed to meet an abrupt end. Where the tapestry that she loved so dearly was cut with a dark stone blade. Unceremoniously it sliced the fabric of the earth, paying little heed to hillock or river, demanding a straight angle of all of nature's sloping.
It was the Wall.
What lay beyond it, she truly did not know. A dragon rider most certainly had the ability to fly right over it, but the people watching it would consider such impertinence an act of war. It was a dark mystery upon the northern border, a border drawn an age past, in a time when all the words to why were lost to history. There were stories, but those stories painted unreasonable villains meant for children laying their heads to sleep. The only fact held common between it all was this; the wall was built by both the northern and southern people. By both her people, and the people who beyond the Wall, generations ago.
As she understood, it was the last thing they'd done together before agreeing to leave one another alone.
Her flight was defined by the line of the Wall. Once far enough north, she and he banked once more and turned their path westward to follow the line.
The line of her mouth imitated it. Pleasure, joy, was deprived of her as she set to her task. Dark brown eyes narrowed behind smoked glass set into a leather riding cap that protected her gaze from the wind and the sun.
It was a daily patrol to ensure that while she respected the space agreed upon in ancient treaties, the only proof her people had that the northern peoples existed at all, that those on the other side did not open their stone gates to venture beyond their bounds. That, as was agreed so many generations ago, the Wall served like human-made mountains, and be considered impassable.
This flight, like so many others, was unremarkable. Beautiful weather with a clear, summer sky... and not a single speck of a person venturing onto the overgrown paths that used to be roads during the age in which the wall was built. Little impressions remained, places where the woods were thinner, where the grass didn't grow quite so thickly, in ways that even she could see it from this height. Little veins in the land, meant to be forgotten, all but for the fruit of the labor.
The Wall unnerved her. It always had. That, in a time long past, the northerners and southerners had decided their differences were so great that they could not even live as neighbors. That a wall needed to be erected, and silence agreed upon. That, whatever had happened, the rift was so great that they could not even stand to glimpse one another... the idea of any such conflict made her stomach flop, and deadened the pleasure of flight.
Then again, in the whistling and whipping wind that was unyielding outside the padded leather of her flight cap, with such an imposing structure stretching off into the distance, there seemed to be little else to think about.
She counted the wing-beats of her friend, the powerful down-strokes that pushed them higher whenever their altitude no longer satisfied him. It wasn't often, the great span of his wings carrying them great distances between each push in a lazy glide, and at the tenth time she knew they'd gone far enough. Again, they banked, and their faces turned eastward. The sun had risen for the shadows to shorten, and for the shape of home to be less obscured. The white globe of light cleared the horizon by two finger-widths from her view, now, and she could pick out the shapes of her city. There were the boxes with their slanted roofs; shops, stables, inns, homes, but those were mere specs at this distance. No, from here, there were only three great structures that made an impression. A white tower that shined in the morning sunlight, a black spire near it, and a castle's ramparts that stood taller than both of them.
Wing-beats hastened, to rise up and then narrow in speed-building dives; his way of having a little fun now that their obligation was satisfied. Rising and falling in the way an energetic child may hop about just for the sheer enjoyment of it-- she laughed faintly, even if the sound of it was stolen in an instant. She knew it was, in part, to drive off the dour feeling the Wall gave her. He knew how it made her feel, and he wouldn't have it. Greater speed made her heart rise up, and she clung down to the saddle she was strapped into as she anticipated him, a burst of delight coming forth as his wings drew in and his body rolled, corkscrewing upwards and their speed dying, only for him to unfurl and dive down again.
Laughter, she couldn't help it. She squealed and laughed like a child, certain that she could sense his satisfaction, though there was no way he could hear her against the screaming claws of the wind.
Suddenly, his dive lurched upwards, and laughter ceased.
His neck and head reared up as wings fought the air and then returned to gliding. Play had been ended prematurely, and he held steady now.
Why? An instant question as she felt the mood of her friend change, as she became aware that something was not right-- and she searched for it. Searched for the answer, and found it below them. She questioned her eyes at first, but doubt fled her when he altered their path without her direction. Dragon's eyes were far keener than a human's, after all. Something was amiss.
Something was on the Pilgrim's Road; a stone highway that linked the cities of the land for trade and travel... or, sadly, more often, for war. It was the main vein of the land, not a thready line but a thick strand of dark stone as seen from the sky. It was normal enough to see a trader's caravan coming down the way, a row of wagons pulled by beasts of burden with perchance a few followers on foot. Now and again, there were even actual Pilgrims, making the journey from city to city to pray at various temples, banded together into a group to make the trip less treacherous.
What she saw in the distance was neither of these.
What she saw was at least two thousand people, marching in ranks. Like bumpy squares at first, but the view cleared as she and her partner advanced upon them from the air. In time, even her eyes could see heads, bodies, the sun shining off of metal helms and oiled leather. They were still half a day's march from the city; the point at which the road emerged from thick woods-- the reason she'd not seen them when she'd flown out that morning. They'd been hidden by trees and shadow.
Now they were out in the open, and she most certainly saw them.
Now she took up the reins. Now she directed her dear one.
It was no longer the time for leisure and routine.
They dropped down, wings folding and speed gained as her crimson creature streaked down across the blue summer sky. He opened again as they came over the woods, catching the air to raise them up over the treetops, but only just. The cushion of air that kept them aloft made branches and leaves roil like a stormy sea, and frightened birds that scattered off frantically to escape the violent blade of air that followed after them.
A heartbeat later the woods suddenly dropped away, and they were over the road, and the heads of what looked rather conspicuously like a small army.
The ranks didn't stir.
They marched on, following after a pair of leading figures on horseback. One, a woman, upon a white horse with gilded blinders that all but sparkled in the light, dressed in a many-layered garment that varied in color from layer-to-layer, displaying anywhere from teal to a deep navy blue. A man rode at her side, on a chestnut colored steed with white splotches, interrupted by black blinders. Unlike the woman who looked rather splendid in all of her blues, he was wearing armor like those who followed them, of oiled leather and polished steel.
Dragon and woman soared over the two of them, rounded in the air, and came to land. Unlike the marching soldiers, the horses did spook and falter at the rush of air and noise, nickering as their riders made the effort to calm them.
Straps were undone with an expert hand as her dear partner blocked the road with his wingspan, the spurs of his wingtips catching the short walls that bordered the road and his great bulk hunkering down to the earth.
If they wanted to go any further, they'd have to go around him.
When she was freed of all that kept her secure in flight, she removed herself from the saddle and slid from his back, getting to the ground to stand upon her own two feet and see these newcomers better.
As she suspected, the woman appeared to be of the temple. She wore the traditional layered garment, with brown hair tied smartly back for the travel they'd committed to in order to get here. She had a calm face, and tanned skin, with dark eyes that shined brightly. She lacked any surprise at the sudden arrival that halted both her and her company. The man with her was of paler decent, but much more was difficult to see with his helm in the way. His armor was in excellent condition; not unused, but rather well cared-for. It was his chest plate that gave the first hint of where they'd come from; a symbol etched into the metal. A circle, with a fork of lightening within it.
“Pijami, I presume?”
The temple woman spoke first, even as her white steed side-stepped and flicked its tail, displeased with even the smell of a dragon nearby.
“I am.” The woman confirmed her name with a sharp nod, stepping forward and sharing tense eyes with both of these travelers. “I am the keeper of Jiaal. You will explain these forces to my satisfaction.”
“Or be roasted, I assume.” The woman chuckled, as if amused by this prospect. The man at her side, who had managed to calm his paint-horse, turned his helmed head to look at her with a severity that found nothing humorous about this encounter.
“It's among my considerations. Now out with it, before I lose patience. You have approached my city without announcement or invitation for an armed force, when I had not thought Dritar to be so eager. This place still whispers with your dead.”
“The army is of Dritar.” The woman agreed as, finally, she got her steed to settle, though the white horse still twitched its ears, hooves pawing at the stone uneasily. She pitched forward in her saddle, running a soft hand along the animal's neck in an effort to soothe. “I, however, come to you from Malta; a messenger from the temple. I am priestess Valona... and I bring dire news for the keeper of Jiaal.”
“Malta?”
A pause. The robes were right. Pijami stared for several moments as the company of soldiers thump-thump-thumped closer to their advance riders. The man upon his paint horse suddenly lifted a hand in a closed fist, signaling the halt, leaving those behind him still as statues as the signal relayed through section leaders. Like him, their armor was cared for, but not disused. Rather, Pijami could see a number of battle marks on the front-most ranks, dents and pitting and irregularities in both steel and hide, but cared for, patched, welded, re-cast and jointed. In Dritar, a city where the arts of war were sacred, such marks were the highest status-- the marks of those who had been tested in battle, and lived many times over.
An army of warriors like these had marched to Jiaal once before, with intent of sacking the city. A force of over twenty-thousand, the majority of which were burned by the dragon riders who made their home here. Pijami's students, as well as the woman herself, had flown to protect her home from the forces of the most militaristic city-state on the continent.
She wouldn't be surprised if there were survivors of that battle scattered among the force that was here, now. The surprise came from a Maltan priestess riding at the front with whom she could presume to be the commander of the force.
“So sister-cities stand before me, Malta and Dritar, allies... do the seers of Malta desire to declare war against Jiaal as well?”
“We foresaw the burning of Dritar's forces two years ago.” Valona intoned sternly. “Our caution was discarded, of course, but we advised against it.”
The man at her side made a faint grunt. If there were words in it, it was lost inside his helm.
“And now?” Pijami demanded, her dragon stirring behind her. He knew the edge in her voice, knew the desire for action, knew the need to keep her city safe.
“We come in peace, and friendship.” Valona informed. “An offer you will not believe in, at first, but I implore you to think on it longer than predicted.”
“... I'm thinking on it, and while I am you'll kindly tell your company to go back the forest edge and make camp. I'll not have soldiers encroaching on farmer folk in the fields, nor restocking provisions from a harvest that's not theirs to take.”
Another stifled grunt from the commander on his horse, the panicked paint beginning to turn circles in defiance to staying still.
“It will be their harvest when they help defend it, my Lady. I have Seen it; and the consequences if you refuse. Dritar has sent its army, and Malta has sent me, for without us Jiaal will burn to the ground in fires flung from the North.”
One thing my mother loved to talk about was class; how important it was to have, how much men loved it, and how scarce it had becoming. Ever since I was seven she has drilled me with the talks. When I’d ask her for clothes that I saw the girls at school wearing, like rhinestone studded bellbottoms, or T-shirts decorated with sassy sayings, she would always say the same thing. “That has no class. Put it back.” I hated her for that.
I didn’t like telling her about any of my crushes either. The ones I told her I hated were the same ones I thought I loved. I figured that was the best way to keep them safe from her suspicious eye.
“Guys will want you when you act like you don’t want them.”
“I know that already,” I told her rolling my eyes.
“As long as you know.”
Just once I wanted to be able to make a mistake and have her pity me. But she had made that almost impossible with all the constant council she volunteered. If I ever made a big mistake, there would be no pity from her, and why should there be? She had taught me everything about life and men by the time I was ten. Unlike all of my friends, I couldn’t go out, get my heart broken, then come crying home to my mother. She had made an idiot proof system. I could already hear her voice, “You should have seen the signs.” Or “You’re not stupid, you just want to be.”
I knew most of the things she said were right. I just hated that she wouldn’t let me be young. It was as if I were her crash test dummy for undoing all the shit she’d made of her own life. I wanted to scream, but instead I let it fester, the hate.
***
It would be a shame to die from the juice of a grape, I thought to myself that Thursday morning, my tongue weaving drunkenly around the smooth, firm purple marbles in my mouth. The juice had already made its way to my nose a few times, and I snorted in reproach, thrusting my head back violently and finding myself back on the beach so many years ago. “Just stand up”, my father was yelling to me as my head bobbed up and down under water. I could hardly hear him over the sound of my heart knocking its fists against my ribcage. “Just stand up.” It seemed simple enough, but it’s hard to think clearly when you’re drowning.
I played the obituary over and over in my head. Braden Elmsley,22, dies sucking on grapes while lying flat on her back. She was dressed for a night out, hooker heels and all, assumed to be making shapes in her mind out of the white bumps of stucco on her bedroom ceiling. Her dog will collect her earnings.
Daydreaming was an activity I thoroughly enjoyed. It was something I was never allowed to do as a child, so it’s as if all the dreams had saved themselves for when I got older.
So there I was on my black cot mattress, a planet of my own, feeling like what Noah must of felt, my only reliable companion Georgy on his pillow beside me. I felt like an old shriveled man, or maybe even a tree with countless winding lifelines inside my woody palms. Really, I was quite young, a twenty something in her supposed sexual prime, with skin that snapped fast on the back of her hands like it should, and legs that could have easily gotten her out of a speeding ticket. So why did I feel like I’d been there so long? Like I’d just been standing there, my palms upturned, waiting foolishly for rain that refused to come? The grass around me was wet, but the spot where I stood was brown with burn.
I looked over at Georgy propped up on his hind legs and reaching his paws on the bed. I was his life, his only reason for living. He got excited for no reason, wagged his tail for no reason, and was practically living for no reason, but what dog cares about his reasons for living?
Georgy whined and I turned over to reach my hand in his direction, my eyes catching a glimpse of Teddy’s box, overflowing with plastic lighters, hotel mints, and navy blue designer boxers. It smelled just like him, or like his insides would smell if he had no skin. In my eyes, the depths of his being were in that box. He probably would have asked what the hell I meant by that. I wouldn’t have lied. I would have had to admit that I didn’t know. “Your a dumb ass you know that?” He was probably right. That’s how most of our conversations ended; stuffed tightly in a box, pieces hanging, ready to erupt again at any moment. He would put me down, and underneath all my layers of defense I agreed with him.
I remembered the first time he touched me. It was my birthday. I was seventeen. We were in the kitchen of his one bedroom in Kansas. The daylight was filtering in through the blinds and making stripes on my skin. He kept petting me like a delicate flower as if I would break in his palms. New shoes. “ Your so pretty,” he used to say. I wished that he would just call me sexy or something. Whenever we fucked then I imagined pretty things like lacy drapes, flowy white linen, and the flowery tablecloths my mom had made for our dining room while Jim was out cheating. I never could understand how she did it. She didn’t drink, yell, or break expensive china against the walls; just sat there sewing her heart out, with class no doubt. It made me nauseous.
