Would Lucile never stop chasing her from the only decent set of stores in the entirety of Snow Crest? They weren’t even interested in the same stores. The yarn boutique and the bead boutique were even on opposite ends of the mall-though Lucile always knew, somehow, when Martha wanted to go yarn shopping, and chased her out.
It’s not as though I’ve done anything to her, thought Martha, edging down to sit on the branch and resting her cheek against the coarse bark.
Oh, right. That incident in first grade. Martha winced. She hadn’t meant to knock out Lucile’s front teeth, but then, when had Lucile ever taken shy little Martha seriously?
She sighed softly into the tree and turned around. Bracing her back against the tree, bringing one knee up to her chin and breathing in, as if to take some of the serene aura the tree gave off into her lungs, and so into her being.
What was it about this tree that was so tranquil?
As long as she could remember, she had run to this tree when she was disturbed or scared. She had told the tree of her crushes, her hopes, and her despairs. A tree was a beautiful thing. It couldn’t betray you by spilling your secrets, or run away.
Humans could learn a lot from trees, thought Martha, staring around her leafy canopy.
Something caught her eye. Something that hadn’t been there yesterday, when she had been reading, up there, among the branches- a nest. It looked kind of like a bird’s nest, but it was made of green vines, and little orange flowers peeped out from among the creepers.
Strong curiosity had always been Martha’s weak flank- if she saw something shining on the other side of the street, she would go to investigate, and this odd shell was much too strong of temptation for her ignore for long.
Shimmying over the branch – ten years of crawling around in trees had not been in vain- she stared down into the depths of the nest.
Huddled among pale-blue eggs was a large, brilliant fire-orange stone, emitting a faint ginger glow that danced and flickered, like a campfire. Lines seemed to be carved into the surface, sprawling across the rough edge.
The luminescence reflected in her eyes, Martha reached with an awed hand and gently, gently, traced a line, finger resting on a small depression. It was disconcertingly warm, and it seemed to grow warmer as her skin brushed against the smooth stone.
Pain suddenly arced through her hand, rendering the muscles stiff and unresponsive. A tiny fire was alive on her fingertip where it rested on the stone, and blood dripped from a cut that had only just appeared. It was growing, faster and faster- Martha gasped and grabbed at her wrist, trying to pull it away- but the flames crawled up her arm, binding her to the stone itself. The fire was consuming the blood that was falling in a hungry, demonic manner, and the inferno that was her arm was numb.
There was so much heat, and yet….she was not burned. Her pale skin was completely unmarked by the conflagration, though the flames burned brightly and her arm hair sizzled.
And just as suddenly, it stopped, and the fire retreated to the stone. Martha wrenched her hand back and immediately put her finger in her mouth, the blood warmed by the mysterious flames.
The stone began to melt away, almost magma-like, into the vines, not touching nor scarring the precious eggs it surrounded.
Something tiny, something curled, remained within the last traces of magma, glowing just as the stone had done.
It unbended. A tiny, perfect lizard, thin and bony beneath its glowing orange scales, blinked at her, raising one of its front legs and extending a long, claw with skeletal talons that resembled unpolished ivory. Thin, membrane-lined wings were balanced on its delicate back, stretching weakly in the air.
Martha blanched at it, at the same time touched by its size. Why, she could hold it easily in the palm of her hand, and the eggs were almost the same height.
Anything so frail could never…
She extended her left hand and tentatively held it out to the lizard, its blazing eyes boring into hers. It cocked its head to the side, almost challenging her to do more.
Their staring match lasted for all of ten seconds, and then, Martha, upon deciding that the little thing was most unfriendly, was about to withdraw her hand and the dragon scuttled up her arm and sat on her shoulder primly, sticking its triangular head in the air.
“Oh, heavens,” she muttered, wringing her hands and staring, best she could, at the dragon on her shoulder and scooting back to the trunk. “What am I going to do?”
Steam wafted out of the dragon’s nostrils and it stared smugly at her, some glistening fangs showing from inside an arrogant dragon-smirk.
“Well?” Martha found herself laughing nervously at the dragon. “If you’re so high and mighty, why don’t you have an answer, huh?”
It hung its head, apparently wounded, though its eyes still glittered wickedly.
“Oh, great. A sarcastic dragon, as well as egotistical.” Martha laughed again, feeling dizzy. “Is there anything else I should know about, Mister Smarty Pants?”
A feeling floated into her consciousness. Not hunger or sorrow or happiness, but a feeling of…
She couldn’t quite place it.
Not belonging, belonging, comfortable then uncomfortable. The dragon pointed a claw at her, at her forehead, and then pointed at itself.
“Who? Me?” asked Martha automatically, glancing around wildly to check if anyone else was about.
Another feeling. Satisfaction.
“I’m just Martha,” she said, sighing somewhat.
Discontent. Annoyance.
“Jeez, are you the ones giving me these stupid emotions? Because if you are, stop it, OK?”
She was sure she saw the little terror roll its eyes and quite a bit of steam billowed from its snout.
“Who are YOU, anyway?” she asked, the annoyance spilling into her own mood. The dragon sort of nodded its head at her.
“I’m sorry, oh high and mighty king, that I can’t understand you.” she snapped, and it nodded again. Superior. Pride.
It suddenly hit her like a sack of bricks. She rolled her own eyes and slapped her palm to her forehead.
“OH! You don’t have a name, do you?”
Approval. Yes.
“Well, what do you want? Judas? Adolph? Nigel? Julian? Keanu? ORLANDO?!”
The dragon apparently didn’t get the sardonic humor Martha was trying to impress on him, and seemed to be considering the names. Martha laughed madly.
“Oh! So you want more noble names, huh? Kingsley? King? Duke? Baron?”
The dragon beamed at her, sharp fangs glistening.
“O.K., Baron.”
He stared at her through half-lidded eyes. Exasperation.
“Duke?” More frustration. “How about 'jester', huh?”
He sank a talon into her skin.
“King. Well, Kingsley, if you weren’t so small, I would have squished you by now.”
_________________________
This is my take on the cliche "kid bonds dragon hatching" scene.
I love the name Martha, but ever since Martha Stewart came along, the name's got all sorts of bad rap....
Oh, yes, on the names Martha suggested to Kingsley: yes, I am making a statement about certain actors.
(Keanu: duuuuuude!)
I decided that I didn't want a stupid saphire dragon, since everyone's doing that since Paolini. Besides, fire dragons are nice
and orange is the real dragon color...at least to me.....
so anyway.......
Feel free to compare
~Sumi
You've wounded me deeply.
