Heart of a Dragon

Chapter Fourteen

Salvatore stared at the back of Jake's jacket. The leather was black and supple, worn from decades of use. It felt like years of wind and weather, and the scent of it permeated the small shack, leather, beer, cigarette smoke, cologne. Like the dragon in his dreams the scent was uniquely Jake, and just for a moment Salvatore stood, his hand flat on the back of the jacket and his eyes closed, making the connection.

The big man had dropped it off shortly after Salvatore returned to his home. Martinez had stayed long enough to be certain that the paints were stored properly and that Salvatore knew how to mix and blend them properly. There were other materials, as well. Martinez had bought a small wooden palette, several brushes much nicer than any Salvatore had ever seen, and a bottle of spirits for cleaning them.

The jacket was draped over the back of a straight-backed wooden chair. Salvatore had fastened the snaps in front, and found that if he stuffed the chest with his pillow, the leather stretched smooth in back. Jake had a broad back, and the surface he had to work on was both tall and wide.

There wasn't a lot of time. Jake had said he would return the next morning, and Salvatore intended to be finished by then. It was inconceivable that he might leave the work unfinished. He laid out the paints on his table, arranged the brushes and poured a small amount of the spirits into an old glass. When he turned to the jacket, he had a bit of white chalk in his hand.

Salvatore closed his eyes and drifted back into the land of his dreams. He reached out to the skyline of that dark, distant city. He sought the scent of the beach, the wet sand and the salt spray. He heard — very faintly — the cries of the dragons as they soared, far above the waves. A flash of green and gold passed before his eyes, and he smiled. Opening his eyes, he began to sketch.

He worked quickly. Salvatore sometimes spent hours thinking about what he would draw, but once his hand began to move it was always the same. It felt as if the images were trying to claw their way out of him. The chalk flew over the black leather canvas, his touch light and exact. He didn't want it to leave any mark that would remain when the paint was applied, but he wanted his outlines — his curves and motion — the essence of the dragon — to be perfect and preserved before he began filling in the colors and the shadows.

Finally he set aside his chalk and turned to the paints. He took the blue, and the yellow and, using the improvised squeeze tubes Martinez had provided, he laid a small line of each on the palette. He started with the dark colors, the green so deep it was almost black. The tail of the dragon swirled like a giant serpent, curling up and back down toward the floor. The wings were strong and powerful and ended in huge, pointed talons.

Salvatore had sketched the face turned so that it glanced back over one shoulder as the creature rose, tipping back into a long roll. He didn't just paint the dragon. He painted the motion of its body. He painted the light of that alien moon glistening off the scales of its back and the glimmering reflection of the waves and surf in the pools of its vast, glaring eyes.

There was beauty in the dragon, and incredible power. He felt it, and his mind recreated the colors and hues, shadows and motion that had conveyed that power when he'd seen them. For a long time he stood, working on the shadowed outline of one wing, unaware of the room around him, or the jacket itself, only seeing the dragon — the one in his mind.

And then, he was no longer aware of anything but that sandy beach. He held a stick, and he swirled the end of it in the sand. He raised his eyes and saw that the dark city was closer than it had ever been. Towers rose far above him, turrets and peaked guard shacks loomed like giant monoliths. There were no lights burning in that place. The only illumination came from the moon, far above, and from a strange glow that rose from the white froth on the waves. He was alone, and he knew that he should feel frightened, terrified even, but he did not. He climbed over damp dunes and wet stones, moving steadily upward toward the city walls.

He heard the screaming cries of the dragons far off, but there was no sign of them. The sky was clear, and the only sounds close by came from the crashing waves. Salvatore did not know why he headed for the city. He sensed that there was something there he should find, something important, but he had no idea what it might be, or how he could locate it. Judging from the height and obvious thickness of the walls, it was doubtful if he could even get inside unless some gate stood open.

He heard a roaring sound, but could not place it. He turned, afraid that some huge wave was preparing to pound down on him, but the ocean was as smooth as glass. He turned back to the wall of the city, and in that instant, the dragon screamed. Salvatore reeled back and nearly fell from the stone he'd been climbing. The creature glided up over the wall, from the interior of the city. It was huge, and it's body blocked the light from the moon and left him stumbling backward in shadow.

It was magnificent. Green and gold scales rippled along the underbelly and down the sides of the tail. The wings were dark, but they caught glimmers of light and flickered with barely contained energy.

The dragon soared over the waves, climbing impossibly high, and then turned, just as he had seen it — just as he had known it would. In that instance Salvatore locked his gaze to that of the creature and felt a snap of power and strength binding them. He turned and held out his arms, and the beast dove. It plunged so rapidly there was nothing to see but a blur of green and gold. As it drew near, Salvatore felt the rush of wind and heard the thunderous flapping of its wings. He stood, still as stone, waiting, knowing it would come for him — knowing that he would fly.

He toppled backward, but made no attempt to halt his fall. He trusted the dragon to catch him, trusted his instincts. He never struck the ground, but neither did he fly. He fell away to a soft darkness, the last sound he heard the triumphant scream of Jake's dragon.

~* ~

When Martinez opened the door to Salvatore's shack, he nearly stopped in shock. Only quick reflexes allowed him to rush across the room and grab the boy's shoulders from behind, easing him to the floor and preventing a nasty fall. Salvatore still held one of the brushes in his hand. Martinez took it gently and stepped to the table. He did not look at the jacket. Not yet.

Working quickly, the old man cleaned the brushes. He sealed off the tubes of color and wrapped them carefully as he had shown the boy to do the day before. It was early still, not quite four o'clock in the morning. The streetlights would soon flicker out — what few of them actually operated properly in the Barrio. Before long the sun would begin to tickle at the skyline, and not long after that, Jake would arrive.

Before that happened, there was work to be done. He needed to get the boy into his bed, and covered up so that he could rest. He needed to find food, and drink. He was certain Salvatore would be famished. Whether the boy actually understood the magnitude of the power he wielded or not, there was no way to escape the way such an encounter with the supernatural drained strength and stamina. Salvatore was already too thin — too weak.

Martinez tucked the paints away carefully, then turned and lifted Salvatore from where he still lay on the floor. The boy was light, but Martinez could easily have lifted twice his weight. He was old, but much less fragile than he appeared. There are a great number of ways to conceal one's self, and Martinez was familiar with them all.

When Salvatore was as comfortable as possible, the old man leaned in and rubbed a spot of green paint off of his pale cheek. Then he turned, and at last, he confronted the dragon. The moment he cast his eyes on it the image etched itself into his mind, and he knew he would never forget. His breath caught in his throat, and he took an involuntary step back.

The creature's eyes were deep, yellow-gold pools. They shimmered, so real he sensed the liquid at their center, and so powerful he felt their scrutiny across veils and dimensions. He was certain that, in some way, the thing saw him as well. Maybe it was just a momentary connection — a thread between worlds. It snapped, and he stepped closer.

There was no doubt that this dragon was Jake's. Every line in the creature's body traced a weathered crease in the man's face. The power of the beast was undeniable, but there was something more — an intelligence, and the sensation that — despite the sword-like talons and glistening teeth, it could be trusted. You could turn your back on it, and it would cover you in a fight. You could call out to it — and it would answer. It had answered.

Martinez glanced sharply at Salvatore. He wondered in that moment what the boy had been doing — what he had seen — when he let himself fall back. What had he expected to happen, and where had he been?

Martinez stepped onto the porch and whistled. A young man slipped from the shadows, where he'd been waiting.

"Go," Martinez said. "Bring food and drink. I will wait with him until he wakes. We must both be gone before the dragon arrives."

The boy disappeared into the shadows, and Martinez seated himself on the step. He didn't want to face the painting again. Not yet — and not alone. He sat, and he watched the sunrise. When the young man returned with the food, Martinez took it and disappeared inside.

~* ~

Salvatore woke to Martinez shaking his arm gently. He sat up quickly, blinking, and stared around the room as if he had no idea where he was.

"Easy," Martinez said. "I woke you because you need to eat. Jake will be here soon — he will want to see his dragon."

Salvatore spun, saw the jacket, and rose, all in one motion. He stood, and he stared at what he had created. He traced each line carefully, his gaze critical, and amazed. He stepped first to one side, and then to the other. He could find no flaw. He turned to see how Martinez was reacting, but to his shock, he found that he was alone. Without sound, or warning, the old man was just…gone.

There was bread and cheese on the table, and a small jug of milk. Suddenly, Salvatore was hungrier than he'd ever been in his life. He turned from the dragon almost apologetically, but the food drew him. He devoured every scrap in a matter of moments and washed it down with the milk. He'd intended to break it into portions, save some for later, but it wasn't possible. He could have — and would have — eaten twice as much. When he was done, he sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the dragon. There was nothing left to do but to wait for Jake.