Heart of a Dragon

Chapter Twenty-Eight

By evening, the clubhouse was alive with Dragons from all over the city and some from surrounding areas. There weren't as many as Snake had hoped for, but in the confines of the clubhouse and surrounding yard, they felt like an army. Snake stood aside, watching them, and knew that an army was exactly what he needed. Even that might not do the trick, if Martinez was wrong.

He sipped his beer and listened to the conversations around him. Nervous fear rippled through their words. Those who'd been in Santini Park remembered what they'd seen, and those who had not asked questions and listened to the stories, half-believing and half skeptical, of how Vasquez had been taken down. They knew why Snake had called them together, and they had come because the colors on their backs and the oaths they had made compelled them, but none of them wanted this fight. Los Escorpiones had always been their enemies — bringing darkness to the Barrio and the streets that was unsettling and somehow unclean. What Anya Cabrera had brought was much worse.

Just after sunset, Martinez reappeared. He had the boy, Salvatore, with him. The kid didn't look like much, but Snake had seen the dragons. He'd felt the energy, and he'd heard what Jake and Enrique had done. There was power here — power that was in some way connected to himself, to those who followed him, and to the ancient, powerful creatures they'd bonded with so long ago. How it could be true, he didn't understand, but Snake wasn't one to argue in the face of reality. It wasn't a question of whether or not the painted dragons were good, or powerful, it was a question of whether he would accept them, and how he would deal with them.

Snake walked over and laid his hand on Salvatore's shoulder.

"So, we finally meet," he said. "My name is Snake."

Salvatore's eyes were wide, but he didn't drop his gaze. "I know you, Senor," he said. "You are El Presidente of the Dragons."

Snake studied the boy's face for a moment, and then turned to Martinez.

"How about you let me and Sal here talk for a few minutes. Alone?"

Martinez nodded, and Snake slid his arm around the boy's slender shoulders and led him back toward the clubhouse. All around them, the Dragons watched, wondering what Snake was up to. Some of them knew Martinez, and they spread what they knew. Others knew of Salvatore, and the dragons he'd painted. They also knew what those dragons had brought — power, magic, and death.

Snake led Salvatore to where Enrique's jacket hung, pinioned to the wall by the blade of a dagger. He reached up and gently smoothed the leather so that the dragon was clearly visible. Though it had lost most of its original magic, the painting was still magnificent.

"You know, Sal," Snake began, "when you first came around and gave Jake that dragon, I thought you were trouble. The Dragons already had a patch, our colors. I was against your fancy dragons, because the dragon symbolizes our brotherhood, our unity. Yours are individuals, like the men who wear them. They send a different message."

Salvatore's knees quivered, but he didn't lower his gaze. He did not want this man to know how truly frightened he was.

"Then,"Snake went on, almost as if he were talking to himself, "I saw how your dragons affected mine, and how they helped me. Your pictures make dragons into powerful, magnificent dreams. I've heard people talk about art all of my life, how it 'moves' them — I never gave it much thought. Somehow your paintings capture a part of the man who wears them and mirror him. You have seen this?"

Still uncertain of what Snake was getting at, Salvatore nodded. He knew that his dragons matched the men who wore them; that is how they came in the visions. He couldn't have painted them any other way.

"We have a battle coming soon," Snake said, turning his gaze to hold Salvatore's. "These are brave men, but we face Los Escorpiones, and this is a battle my dragons won't want to fight. It's not that they lack courage, but this is an old war, and their fire is dying. I want you to help me."

Salvatore's curiosity overcame his fear, giving him the courage to speak. "You wish me to fight?" He asked. "I am no fighter, Senor Snake, only a poor artist."

"No." Snake said quietly, and with conviction. "You are not poor; you are a genius, and I don't want you to fight. I want you to paint my dragon."

Salvatore's heart leaped. Again he was without speech. Such an honor! Almost instantly the dragon began to form in his mind.

"But your jacket," he blurted out, "it has upon it the patch of El Presidente! Where shall I paint the dragon?"

Snake looked at him, a warmth Salvatore had never seen in his eyes. "I don't want it on my jacket, Sal," he said. "These colors have ridden there far too long. I want a banner, a standard; let's call it a flag of honor. And when we go to fight these Escorpiones, I want you to carry that flag into the battle at my side."

Now Salvatore's heart took wings! This was beyond belief. He stuttered several times before the words finally broke free of his tongue. Snake didn't seem to notice.

"Such a dragon I will paint for you that it will seem a thing alive!" He cried. "Beyond my hopes have you honored me. I, Salvatore Domingo Sanchez, will make you proud!"

"I know that, Sal," Snake smiled. "You've got to do this fast, though. It is my men to whom you must bring the life, not my dragon. The battle will happen in tomorrow night, maybe sooner."

"Then I must go and start — I will be ready!" Salvatore said.

There is no reason for you to go, Snake said softly. "I've had them clear a space for you. It's only a small room, but it's warm. There is light, and room to work. We'll make sure you have food. I've talked with Martinez, and with Jake. If you finish my dragon, and you fall, I'll be there to catch you before you hit the floor."

Salvatore stood very still. Despite all his efforts to appear calm and brave, this was too much.

"I…I'll need my paints. Martinez made them, and…"

"I'll send for them," Snake said. "I'll get you anything that you need to do this, and to do it quickly. You and I, we come from different worlds in many ways, but in others we are much the same. This fight — this battle I told you about. It will be for the safety of our homes, and our streets. It isn't just for the Dragons. If Anya Cabrera and her followers get their way, and Los Escorpiones own the streets, there will be nothing standing between them and the rest of the city. Do you know what a cancer is?"

Salvatore nodded.

"That's what they'll become. They'll creep across the city like Black Death, eating everything in their path. I think it's up to me, and to you, to stop them. I think that what we do in the next few hours will define us both. Are you ready for that Sal?"

Salvatore nodded again.

"I will do this thing," he said, "or I will die at your side."

Tears streamed down Salvatore's face, but he ignored them. No one had ever spoken to him as an equal except, on rare occasions, old Martinez. No one had offered him protection, or asked that he stand at their side. No one had ever acknowledged him at all. He met Snake's gaze, and the big man laid a hand on his shoulder and smiled.

Jake wandered over then, and stood on the other side of Salvatore.

"You ready to see your new digs, Sally?" he said. "I guess I sort of told everyone about your shack. Figured you might like a warmer place to crash and someone to talk to now and then. Hope you don't mind."

Salvatore didn't know whether to nod that yes, he wanted to see his new 'digs' or to shake his head that he didn't mind.

"One more thing," Snake said.

Salvatore turned back slowly, because the man's voice was suddenly charged with emotion.

"This dragon you will paint," Snake said softly. "You have seen it? You already know what it will look like, the colors?"

Salvatore swallowed, and nodded.

"You've known you had to paint him all along, haven't you?" Snake asked.

"When they come into my dreams," Salvatore said, "I have no choice. I think if I don't draw them, or paint them, that I will go mad. They call out to me. They have been leading me to another place — a city by an ocean, but not the ocean that I know. I think one day the dragons will take me inside that city, and then I will know why they come to me, and why I must set them free."

"I've dreamed too," Snake said. "I didn't see a city, but in those dreams, I could fly. Give me my wings, Sal. Make it all real."

Then, without another word, Snake turned and left the room.

"Come on Sally," Jake said. "Martinez went to get your paints. We'd better get you set up."

Salvatore followed Jake down a hallway toward the other end of the building. Jake didn't look back, but as he opened a door at the end of that hall and ushered Salvatore inside, he spoke.

"That man isn't one you want to cross," he said. "If you give him everything you have, he'll stand by you through anything. You paint that dragon, Sally. You paint like you've never painted before. I have the feeling we're going to need all the help we can get."

He left then, and Salvatore stood alone in a small bedroom. There was a shelf on the wall, a small cot with clean sheets, a blanket, and a pillow, a table and two straight-backed chairs. There were no leaks in the walls; it was warm and dry. Salvatore stood still in the very center, and let his tears flow freely.

Then he sat at the table and waited for Martinez, already planning where he'd hang the flag while he worked.

~* ~

The next time the door opened, Snake led Martinez and Jake into the room. Jake had a bundle under one arm, and Martinez carried the paints and supplies from Salvatore's shack. They trooped solemnly into the small room, and Salvatore stood, eyes downcast. He wasn't sure what to say, or what to do. Luckily, Jake had no such problem.

"Hey, Sally," he said. "Help me hang this up, will you?"

Salvatore glanced up. Jake held what at first looked like an old sheet folded over his arm. When he shook it out, Salvatore saw that it was a piece of white canvas — the kind of canvas he'd seen in art shops from the street. The kind he'd dreamed of painting on one day.

"Over here," Snake said, stepping to a bit of wall where there was no furniture to impeded them. "We'll pull the table over for the paints."

Jake walked to the wall, and Salvatore followed. The big man turned, and held the bit of canvas up against the wall.

"How high is good?" he asked.

Salvatore took a step closer and held up his right arm, as if he had a brush in it. He let his finger fall against the center of the canvas.

"It is perfect," he said.

Jake nodded. He held one corner of the canvas to the wall. Snake stepped up and placed a nail against the canvas, then drove it home with shiny metal hammer. Jake moved to the other side and lifted the canvas until it lay flat against the wall, and Snake pounded in a second nail. Then he did the same for the two bottom corners. The canvas was nearly four feet wide and another three tall.

Salvatore stood in front of it and stared at the white empty space. He closed his eyes, and summoned that other place…that dark place with its impossibly tall walls, the ocean waves crashing, and the moon silver gray behind banks of clouds. The sound of the table's legs squeaking on the floor brought him back, but his mind remained in a fog.

"It's time," Martinez said.

"Time?" Salvatore answered. "Time for what?"

Martinez unrolled the tube of red paint. He turned to Salvatore.

"It will be red. Is that not true?"

Salvatore nodded.

"This is special paint," Martinez went on. "All of the colors that I mixed for you are special but this…"

He turned and stroked the tube of paint, gazing at it thoughtfully.

"This is something more," he said at last. "This is a very special hue, a color named for one of the elements. They call it the Rojo Fuego."

"Fire red," Jake said softly. "That means Fire Red."

Martinez nodded. "Exactly." He turned to Snake. "We should leave him now. There isn't much time left.

Salvatore was about to protest, to tell them that he had plenty of time, and that he didn't mind them being there, but he couldn't quite drag his mind out of that other, darker place. He heard a sound, like the steady beating of great wings. He thought, maybe, that Snake had said something more, or possibly Jake…but he could make out none of the words.

He turned back to the canvas, and a moment later he had a piece of charcoal in his hand. He made the first stroke of dark black outline on the pristine white, maybe the second, and then it faded. The walls stretched up before him, endless and unbroken, and the tide rushed in at his back. There were no stars.