The Poacher

He thought of fire as he watched them settle on the rocks, beautiful and utterly fascinating but impossible to touch.

            Before the stars had even started to fade from the horizon, he had settled there to wait, wrapped in a moldering old horse blanket stolen from a stable.  The boy’s muscles had stiffened so badly that he wondered if he would be able to rise when the moment finally came.  His fingers felt heavy and thick with the numbing cold that had never left the ravine, even when the sun began to rise.  But he did not fall asleep.  He never succumbed to sleep when waiting for the prey.

            Wide, brown eyes caught the first sight of the descent and the boy felt his thin chest tighten as he watched them come, tumbling from the sky like brilliantly colored scarves, reflecting the sunlight off their tiny scales in fluid flashes.

            It seemed as though fragments of a rainbow had fallen into the ravine as the dragonlings descended to perch on stones and sticks and small outcroppings, some of them diving directly into the water of the stream.  They chirped and trilled in their pleasure like exotic birds, their high, keening voices filling the boy with a sudden sense of euphoria.  He realized why nobles would pay half their estates for even one of the precious creatures.

            A blood-red dragonling flew up through the streams of water trickling off the rocks into the deeper pool and emerged shaking the glittering droplets off its iridescent body in a shower of light particles.  Another, gold-green creature stretched its bat-like, translucent wings so that the early light shone through them, illuminating a network of delicate, spidery veins.  The flaming orange dragonling perched below it lifted a slender neck and nipped playfully as its neighbor’s wingtips with a mouth of brilliant, needle-like teeth.

            “You might be able to handle one of them if he calms down,” the old man had said, “But you don’t want to spook the flock.  They’ll tear you up like a swarm of pretty knives.”

            The boy admired the vicious claws on a sky blue specimen as it preened itself neatly, scraping off dead scales with the curved hooks on the ends of its perfect wings and the sharp tip of its slender tail.  The small beasts, no larger than kittens, could inflict tremendous damage with their sharp, fierce bodies.

            Examining each individual in turn, his gaze fell upon the smallest of the flock, a tiny, lithe, little creature that seemed created of molten gold.  Her lovely little head dipped down to the surface of the water again and again, lifting out and tipping up to the sky to let the liquid slide between her teeth and down her slender throat.  This action exposed the finer scales covering her supple neck and tiny chest, making her appear incredibly vulnerable. Sunlight pierced her translucent wings, turning them blindingly white.

            Almost of their own, the boy’s hands begin to move in the familiar pattern as he began to whisper a spell of binding under his breath.  Closing his eyes, he delved deep into his mind for the image and the traces of magic that would bring it to life.

            Out of nowhere, an enormous, screaming griffon descended into the ravine, eliciting shrieks of horror and outrage from the dragonlings.  Some attacked the figure, but were unable to make contact with the illusion.  Chaos filled the ravine and in the confusion, a single dragonling dropped to the earth like a sunbeam, bound with stands of blue magic.

            As the last of the flock disappeared into the forest to escape the sudden illusion of the griffon, the boy scrambled out of his hiding place and caught up the struggling captive in his thin arms.  She fought fiercely at first, but he whispered the words of a calming spell and fed her bits of dried meat until she ceased to resist his touch and allowed him to run tentative fingertips over her smooth, golden scales.

            After a few hours, she ate happily from his hand and followed him around without any bindings to keep her from escaping.  The boy smiled, remembering the words of his old teacher, Any beast will be your friend if you fill its stomach.  Even the wisest creatures are more fickle than humans.

            Taking flight, the dragonling hovered over the boy for a moment before alighting gracefully on his shoulder.  Laughing with his exhilaration, the boy reached up to stroke his new pet, rubbing the scales at the back of her neck and behind her wings.  He felt the tiny dragon push her head into his thick hair and hum softly in her throat, the vibrations tingling against his skin.  In her contentment, the dragonling almost seemed to be purring, and in that moment, the boy realized that he could never sell such anexquisite being.  All the gold in the world couldn’t rival the gold of his tiny dragon.

            In autumn, the trees of Sorvyrn Forest shed leaves that smelled of cinnamon and fell like slender flames to the ground below, already carpeted with their fallen comrades.  Among them, the boy walked, his dragonling on his shoulder, and the leaves descended around them from the overcast sky.

            The dragonling trilled softly and left his shoulder to chase the falling leaves, her body melding with the red-gold in the air, the most beautiful leaf of all.  Watching her, the boy felt like singing or dancing around like an idiot, or turning cartwheels, if he knew how.  The dragonling had eaten the last of his dried meat, but it didn’t even matter any more.  He had never felt so safe and content in his entire life.

            In the back of his mind he heard a song, carried on the wind; the sweet voice of a young girl.  At first the boy thought it must be the dragonling singing, or even an illusion he had created without thinking.

            Through the falling leaves came two riders on sleek, dark horses, and the boy felt fear contract in his throat.  For a moment he couldn’t think, couldn’t imagine that anything that sounded so beautiful could be dangerous.

            The golden dragonling settled on his shoulder again and pulled playfully at his mussed hair.  Swallowing, the boy sized up the newcomers.

            On the first horse, a slender, young man looked down, his impassionate expression turning the boy cold.  He wore a rich, green tunic and a dark braid hung over his shoulder to brush his left hip when the horse shifted its weight.

            Behind him, a pale girl sat on her own steed, so pale that she seemed to be a ghost.  Her dress spread out over the flanks of the horse, the color of summer clouds and her hair cascaded around her face, almost like a bridal veil, long and white as fresh snow.  The girl herself seemed little more than a child, but he saw a hunting bow strapped to her back and an elegant sword hanging from her saddle, while her male companion appeared unarmed.

            “Who are you to walk in the forest of the Sorvyrn Prince?” the young man demanded in an even voice.  His dark eyes glittered with suspicion as he regarded the boy’s ragged appearance.

            “Miyara,” the girl murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper, “He has the littlest dragonling, Hrelle.”

            The man nodded, tilting his head to regard the dumbstruck boy.  “The creatures that abide in this forest are the property of the Prince.  Removing any one of them from the Sorvyrn Forest results in death.”

            Rooted with fear, the boy searched his mind frantically for an illusion or spell to escape the situation.  The dragonling on his shoulder tensed and looked attentively at the riders.

            In a simple, fluid movement, the girl opened her arms and raised her hands to the sky as if to receive a blessing.  Her voice quivered richly in the forest like the vibrating of a fine harp.

            “Little Miyara,” she sang, more golden than the leaves or the scales of the dragonling that rose from the boy’s shoulder, “Come to me, lovely one…”

                Something flew from the boy’s chest with the dragonling, who hovered in the air for only an instant before settling in the open hands of the girl.  He watched with pain as she held the creature to her chest and removed one hand to fetch a treat from a bag at her side.  The dragonling took the morsel enthusiastically and rubbed its face into the side of the girl’s neck, emitting soft, vibrating sounds of contentment.

            Even the wisest creatures are more fickle than humans.

            They left him then, riding away into the forest as if the boy had never existed.  Standing in the gentle shower of leaves, the boy made a choking noise and clenched his eyes against tears.  The smell of cinnamon surrounded him and leaves fell into his hair, giving him the appearance of a ragged forest sprite.

            I’ve been robbed, he thought numbly, trying to ignore the harsh ache in his chest. They took a possession from me.  She was mine.  He finally looked up and glared through the landscape of leaves, blurring before his burning eyes.