Author: srh

This follows Branson Gulch Blues, Part V, Part IV, Part III, Part II, and Part I…

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Grandpa’s body had already been reduced to ash by the time Rory and his parents arrived to Branson Gulch three days later. What was left of him now sat in a decorative vase, surrounded by pictures of his life, artifacts of his career, and flowers that Rory thought looked both expensive and exotic.

He kept his head bowed in the chapel, unsure of where to look. The soft crying among the crowd was uncomfortable, because it made him feel like he was uncertain of how he should feel. He loved Grandpa. So much. Grandpa was awesome. So… why wasn’t Rory crying himself?

What was wrong with him? He shook his head lightly and kept his eyes downward, hearing the soft sobs of his mom to his right.  His dad was next to her, his arm draped over her shoulders like a shawl, squeezing her occasionally. He glanced to his left at Nana, and she was sitting stoically, her face was like an imitation of her real face. She was a marble bust dressed in black, staring miles into the distance, perhaps over an entire lifetime, through the wood and stone of the chapel, perhaps the very earth beyond. And yet, she was beautiful in her profound sadness, as if it could not touch her. Not the way that it touched Rory’s mom, or the others arranged haphazardly in the pews behind.

Rory reached over and put his hand on Nana’s folded hands, she did not move her face or her eyes, but her hand shifted over to squeeze his own.

Pastor Clemens waited for the music to stop, a Simon and Garfunkel song that Grandpa had loved but Rory did not know the name of. He knew who it was, but that was about it. The last note trailed away amongst the soft murmuration of the crowd.

“How can one measure grief? The progress of it? The movement and shift and sway of it?” Pastor Clemens said, folding his bible closed, and touching the podium thoughtfully. “The way that grief overwhelms in a single breath when it had been on lock down just moments before… there was that sense of assurance it was so far away, like knowing that rain is somewhere out in the world, but you needn’t see it or acknowledge it to know that it existed. Then, as if by invocation, it rains! Torrential, end times sort of downpour that breaks the levees, drowns the weak and infirm, and sends wildlife scurrying for parts unknown. That grief that threatens to overwhelm, the real shock of it is the terror that accompanies it… will I feel this forever? Will I ever be free? Will the sorrow eat at me until I am nothing?”

Pastor Clemens took a step back from the podium and shook his head. “Time heals all wounds. But we should never consider ourselves free of it. Grief is part of us, and we have to make it our own… internalize it and take solace in the knowledge that grief is just proof of how much we loved him. He was a good father, a loving husband, a reliable friend, and a great ecologist. At this time, if anyone would like to come up to the microphone and say a few words, you are more than welcome.”

He sat down in the front pew, among the people, and the chapel was silent but for the rustling of clothing, an occasional cough, and the sniffles as people dabbed at their leaking eyes and noses.

An older gentleman limped up to the lecturn, swinging behind the wood podium carefully as if he was about to topple over. Rory realized the man was probably drunk, his nose was the color of dozen roses, and his cheeks matched, but above them, his eyes were sunken and surrounded by dark pits where his bright blue eyes sat, red and watering. His face was heavily lined, his hair was long but kempt, brushed and slicked back. A few silver streaks started at his temples and wove their way backward. He appeared to be barely keeping it together.

“Morning all. My name is Hugh Tobias. I knew Robert there as Bobby and he called me Toby. And Bobby was a spitfire the moment he blew into my life at Evarist Academy. He had that nickname ready to go in his back pocket, not even two seconds into the introduction. It was a declaration that my identity was wrong, and he was correcting it. When I met him, I was all of eighteen? And I thought I knew so much about the world, the way things were, and the way things should be. I was so certain! And Bobby… it was his nature to set things as he saw them, eh? He set my life on fire. Both figuratively and literally. Bobby was my roommate, and a bit of a wild one, wasn’t he?” Tobias laughed lightly, and a few in the crowd joined in. “My favorite memory of Bobby was when we were on assignment, field work for Botany. Many of you know how hard Dr. Tell was.”

Another smattering of laughter.

“So Bobby grabs me in the middle of the night and informs me that he found some Leckerweed. Now most people would know that young people do stupid things when they smoke the Leck, and I assure you that is what I would have done. But not Bobby! No. No. No. Bobby thought it would be a great time to light up that Leckerweed and pump it into Dr. Tell’s tent instead.”

“No…” Someone exhaled loudly from rear of the chapel.

“Oh, sorry Dr. Tell, I didn’t know you were here.” Tobias squinted out into the crowd. “Man… you were sooooooo high. Dr. Tell is a great sport, but I have never seen such a hard-assed straight laced professor that… uh wild, man. He woke everyone in the camp up, dancing around a fire he had turned into a bonfire claiming he was communing with his ancestors through the flames. Half naked too.”

“I knew it was him!” Dr. Tell shouted defensively. “I knew it!”

Rory glanced back at the a withered old man in a simple green flatcap, round spectacles on his large hawkish nose. He appeared to be smiling widely at the recollection.

Dr. Tell added proudly, “One of the best nights of my life! The hangover on the other hand… and I was so hungry after.”

A few more laughs ran through the crowd.

Tobias nodded with a smirk. He continued, “He was the life of the party, wasn’t he? One of those people that just make the best of those around him? He made me so uncertain about the world. He made me ask different questions, look at things in a new way. He helped me see possibilities where I did not see them before. He helped me find my partner, Charles. Bobby was my best man at our wedding. And he always found the fun in things, even when he struggled. He was a good friend and I will miss him terribly.”

Tobias wiped at his nose with the back of his hand and walked back to his seat, shuffling his leg as if it didn’t quite work the way it should. What was it with Grandpa and his friends? That they all seemed to have injuries even though they looked not much older than his own dad? Rory wondered about it. Even Nana did not seem as old as she actually was. Rory appraised her profile again, and then to his own mom. They could have been close sisters if Rory did not know any better.

A middle aged woman with bright red hair draped over angry looking burn marks on her neck nimbly strode up to the lectern and blew a kiss at the oversized portrait of Grandpa. She moved like a dancer, nimble and fast.

“Hello. My name is Glory McMahon, and I had the privilege to work with Robert for thirty years?” She looked over at Nana, and Nana shrugged and nodded at the same time, in some form of hesitant affirmation. “Thanks Vera. Yes, about thirty years! Wow. Time flies. As you know our job is not the easiest or safest occupation. Being an ecologist takes bravery and strength, both of which Robert had in spades. I don’t have a single story, I have hundreds. I can’t share any of them up here because not a single one would do on its own. Just know that Robert was one of our best. I don’t know if we will be the same without him. I… uh…” Glory McMahon looked up at the ceiling of the chapel, blinking furiously. “Grief, huh? Just like the good father was talking about. I… guess I do have a story. But it is not about Robert. It is about the Clochan Green we have up at the Howards Conservatory? She is a beauty named Miss Fleck, and Robert is the one that saved her. They had a bond… as happens sometimes.”

Glory paused heavily, swallowing to regain her composure.

“Miss Fleck knew. I don’t know how she knew, but we found her sullen that morning. Like she was grieving a sibling or mate’s death.” She paused again, her eyes shifting downward as she reflected on some truth. “With all of our knowledge and all of our history… and we still don’t know these fundamental truths of the universe beyond the recognition that they exist. And above all that, the universe knew that Robert Ryanson Blue had left our world, and that Clochan Green? Well, our Miss Fleck grieved. That is something profound, isn’t it?”

She stepped down and hugged Nana in her seat before making her way back to her own. An ancient looking man got up and very slowly made his way to the front, using a long cane with a practiced ease. His foot came up with a shuffling step, then his cane, then his other foot would nearly make the same distance with a little stomp. It was a percussive beat as he made his way to the podium, shuffle-tap-stomp, shuffle-tap-stomp.

“Hello Vera,” the old man addressed Nana from the lectern, pulling the microphone closer to his gnarled face. The man looked older than time itself. “Hello all, I think I know most of you, but some of you may not know me. I was one of the teachers that falsely assumed that we had tamed Robert, but to my utter delight, I discovered that I did not tame him at all, I merely redirected his wildness to the wide world where it belonged. As many of you know, my own last name means ‘of the wild’, and to think that Robert deserved that name more than I did was a revelation of its own sort.”

Rory marveled at the man’s accent. It was either Irish or Scottish, but it was fierce, like it had to be its own thing, and neither of the two. You would think it would be hard to understand, but it wasn’t. It was clear and vibrant, completely mismatching his old, twisted form. There were thousand year old trees out in the world that looked younger.

“I met Robert when he was only an ornery toddler. His mother, another prior student of mine, had visited for tea, and she brought this absolute terror of a child along with her. I believe her thinking at the time was that a rabid boy like that needed to meet someone that could eventually temper him into a strong young man that he could become. Here was a promise of a man that he could be… if you will, but I assure all of you right now with God as my witness, that he accomplished all of that by himself and through his own choices. He was a force of nature, much like his wife, Vera here, and all I did was proudly marvel that the world continues to bear these young folks of such talent. In short, he was brilliant. I shall miss him as well. We thank you, Robert. For the good you did, at the time you did, acting for all of us when we couldn’t.”

Rory marveled that a man that old sounded as young as he did. It was if the voice and the temper did not match the frame it was contained within. He leaned over to Nana and whispered, “Who was that?”

“That is Professor Myrddin. My boss. And he taught your grandfather and I, years ago. Saying he was a brilliant man does not even begin to cover it.”

A familiar face took the podium next, and Rory could not place where he had seen her before. She was an older woman, stooped with age, but she had a caring face. A face… the recognition made him feel like his head rang like a bell. It was Mrs. Givins. How did he forget Mrs. Givins? She was here when he was a little kid. His bike… the… path?

Rory shook his head confusedly. He caught Nana looking at him strangely, and he tried a weak smile.

“Robert! I can speak volumes. He worked for my father you know… conservationist to his absolute core. An ecologist like none other! And, if I may say so, a wickedly talented dowser. I watched him scrub lines and create lines like they were putty in his hands. Sure, many of us can do it… sure, many of us are good at it even. But Robert? Every single one of you know that his talent was beyond compare! Robert was able to shift lines like he was out for a stroll? Any of you remember when the Department had to redirect the ley fault in Wyoming? The entire fault! A hundred years ago, that would have been a team of talented folks, and Robert flew in, made the changes like he was turning a knob and flew out the VERY next day! My father knew he was a talent. Absolute talent…” Mrs. Givins blotted at her eyes with a tissue. “I… uh… I wish that we… uh…. had the courage… the..”

Mrs. Givins stopped dead after trailing off, her eyes locked on the back of the chapel. Her face went through a wave of emotions, and Rory didn’t understand what he was witnessing. A pulse of something like fatigue washed over him for a split second, but then it was gone. It was like a suggestion of tiredness, but he knew he wasn’t actually tired, so he ignored it.

“You don’t belong here!” Mrs. Givins shouted, raising an incriminating finger at whomever just entered through the doors.

There was a slight commotion at the back of the room, and rough murmurs and isolated muttering emanating outwards like ripples in a pond. Rory went to lift himself out of his seat to look, but Nana pushed his leg down with a firm hand and shook her head warningly.

“Eyes front.” Nana whispered insistently. “Do not look.”

A genteel honeyed voice rose from the back of the room, “I came… to pay… my respects.”

It sounded like a man’s voice, deep and resonant, but the tone was strangely feminine, soft at the edges, with a lilt in intonation that did not feel natural.

Mrs. Givins face was turning red. “You turn around right now, Lumen. This very moment. Or so help me God, I will call on every power of earth and heaven to turn you into a pillar of salt where you stand.”

“So informal. In a chapel, Merry!? Holy ground!? Aren’t we all the same in His eyes?” The voice called out. His voice sounded reasonable… as if it made all the sense in the world. “You won’t. Coward. You are all cowards.”

Rory really wanted to turn his head to look at the source of the voice, but Nana’s eyes were locked on his profile. She was staring at him like her life depended on it, and for some reason he felt as if he didn’t dare move. His joints were like ice, his muscles had become steel.

Mrs. Givins made a face. Disgust. “Lumen, if you are a child of God, then you have, uh, pardon my French everyone… you have absolutely fucked it sideways. It is said not to judge others, but you are remiss to believe that you are beyond our collective judgement. You are quite literally the antithesis to everything that Robert stood for. And you… dare… to come here?”

There was a shuffling of noise behind and another familiar voice spoke with authority. Rory knew it was the older gentleman Nana had named Myrddin.

“Mr. Lumen, say what you need to say and then leave.”

“Ah. Myrddin! You deigned to show up here? For this sap? All the way from your foggy highlands? How absolutely wonderful. It is like a family reunion…” The honeyed voice dripped with sarcasm, and something underneath. It felt malicious. “Is that Robert in that jar over there? Excuse me, sir.”

The ‘sir‘ was said as an epithet. The insult was dripping with disgust.

The man’s feet could be heard on the carpet runner as he approached the front of the chapel. Each step was soft, but there was a weight of reverberation that could be felt through the floorboards. It was if he weighed a thousand pounds and every movement was a warning to world around him. It said, flee.

Rory felt as if he shouldn’t attract the man’s attention. He ventured a glance to his right and with a shock realized both of his parents were asleep. Dad’s head was straight back so he was looking upwards, snoring gently, and Mom had her head on Dad’s shoulder, a bit of drool at her bottom lip. Rory felt his eyes go wide and he turned to look at Nana, but her hand was still on his knee, and she squeezed firmly as if warning him.

Rory didn’t know what to do. The man in the aisle finally strolled past laconically, and the scent of vanilla and mesquite wafted over Rory. The man was very tall, towering at what had to have been seven feet tall, and was lithe as a kickboxer. His skin was as white as snow, with a long silver ponytail bound at the back of his head. The man approached the table, and raised a hand as if trying to get Grandpa’s attention. He had rings on many of his fingers, and number of woven bracelets around his wrist at the cuff of his silk jacket.

“Robert? I have come to pay my respects. And to gloat, of course. I am allowed, right? When one wins, they should be allowed to celebrate their hard earned victory?” There was more rustling and murmurs in the pews behind. “You were a worthy opponent. I still to this day am not sure how you managed that whole thing on Hokkaido? That was deft! Brilliant even. I cannot deny brilliance, even when it is not solely my own. And… I shall miss our little talks. The ones that measured each of us, although, in our last meeting, you were found wanting, eh? Never recovered? Such a shame. I know you are not here, Robert. I know that this jar is not you. I know that your pattern has retreated back to the waves above and below. But still, if a glimmer of your pattern remains, know this… you are a fucking loser.”

The man turned and faced the now absolutely silent audience. A dog barked outside lonely and stark, while somewhere in the distance a car horn sounded. Rory noted the man’s eyes were so dark brown they almost appeared to be black from iris to pupil. It was a stark contrast to the porcelain white skin and tightly bound silver hair. He was strikingly handsome, with a cut chin, sharp cheekbones, and a high brow. He looked like a royal elf from the Lord of the Rings movies, if an elf wore silk suits that David Bowie would have envied. And his smile was like an imitation of a smile. He didn’t look human. He looked like something that ate humans. What was that called? The uncanny valley? Not quite human enough to trick his animal mind in accepting that he was one. This was a monster. A real monster.

Rory felt a shudder run through him.

The man’s eyes wandered the audience, as if taking it all in for a delicious memory. He took a deep satisified breath and headed the way he came, and the chapel door slammed lightly as the piston closed it at his passing with a wheezy relieved cough. A couple human coughs followed, also in relief.

A monster, like a dragon. Dragon? Memories came roaring back, a flood of impressions were unlocked simultaneously. Rory sifted through his memories of what had actually happened with Mrs. Givins. The memories of his visit all those years ago had popped into his head as if they had been wrapped up and hidden away. The more he thought on it, the more things unvieled themselves. How did he forget? How could he forget? Wella! He had seen a dragon. A goddamned cockatrice! He had seen a dragon and her eggs. He had looked her right in the eye!

Nana shifted in her seat and leaned over hurriedly to whisper in Rory’s ear. “You are rippling, Rory. Calm down… I will explain later. Deep breaths! Now!”

Rory felt a whip of reluctance and then a quick glimmer of rebellion, but Nana’s firm hand was still on his leg, and her stare was made of fire. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, holding it, and then exhaling slowly. After a few rounds of breathing, Nana finally lifted her hand from his leg.

“Good. Now, act attentive. Your parents are waking up.” Nana observed.

“Oh god, did I fall asleep?” Mom said aghast, wiping at her mouth. “Mom, I am so sorry.”

“Hit your husband, dear, he is snoring.” Nana replied, facing front.

There was a light smack and the snoring cut off abruptly. A grunt of something, it could have been an apology, it may have been a protest.

It didn’t seem to matter. Rory could only focus inwardly. Her eye. In the clearing of the trees… Wella had looked at him and had known.

The dragon knew.

This follows Branson Gulch Blues, Part IV, Part III, Part II, and Part I…

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Rory woke up in a panic, strangling in his own sheets, mired in the octopus-like constriction of untucked sheets, blankets, somehow coupled to his own clothing. He angrily pulled the wrapped corner of his sheets from around his neck. It flickered away like a dismayed python.

Sweat beaded at this forehead and the back of his neck, and his heart rate was running a mile a minute.

The nightmares had gotten worse. He would wake up and then couldn’t remember what they were about. Just flashes of impressions that provided nothing more than a fleeting glimpse of something… wrong. Something that he could not fix no matter how hard he tried. He squeezed his eyes shut, fiercely attempting to pry something loose from his mind, some clue as to why he was on his second straight week of shit sleep.

He had his last final tomorrow. It did not matter nearly as much as his SAT had, but they were still important to close out the senior year of high school. Not getting the rest he needed was going to take its toll. Rory sat up, freeing more of his body from the wrath of the unintentional slumber knot that used to be his bed. He pulled his leg free and a sock stayed locked up in the sheets.

“Fuck it,” Rory mumbled, yanking the matching still attached sock off his other foot. He stood, lengthening his frame upwards, feeling the muscles stretch and hit their limit, their release flooding his nerves with some form of remotely felt satisfaction of their own. His heart finally had slowed, and the sweat was evaporating quickly. His well-tuned runner’s constitution at least made recovery fast.

The clock on his phone attested it was 2:17am on Thursday, May 14th, and Spotify had a new release from one his followed artists.

“Great. Thanks Spotify,” he mumbled.

There was a missed phone call too. His grandmother. Fifteen minutes ago?

Rory felt his stomach drop. He hadn’t been able to get his Mom or Dad to spring for a visit to see Nana and Grandpa. There was always an excuse. Some reason they couldn’t visit. Some other trip or vacation always took precedence. As a result, it had been literally years since he had seen his Nana and Grandpa. But Rory had made a habit to call them every week. Every Sunday, after dinner, religiously.

Grandpa had some sort of injury at work a couple years back and had been forced to retire. He had been sick the last few weeks? Right? Not the flu. Not covid. Something else? Nana had been dismissive two weeks ago, and they had not answered their phone this past Sunday. Rory had thought it odd, but sometimes they missed each other. It happened. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Rory rubbed his eyes, cracked the door to his room to look for signs of activity in the house. Something that would assuage his gut feel or at least confirm it? Something? Anything? But the house was silent as a crypt. His parents were not pacing the house, Mom was not calling anyone, and Dad wasn’t sitting at his customary position at the end of the kitchen island furiously tapping on his laptop.

It was eerie, actually. Like time had stopped. Nothing moved, nothing made a sound. Not even the typical house noises of a fan running or the furnace cycling could be heard. Rory shook his head, attributing the weirdness to the nightmare. He closed his door slowly, letting the latch catch its home silently and then he paced back to his phone, unplugging it from its charger.

He flipped to Nana’s contact and hit dial. It did not even ring once.

“Rory? Is everything alright?” Her voice was far away. Tinny. Like she was in a tunnel of aluminum foil.

“I’m fine, Nana. It’s two in the morning? You called me.”

A sigh at the other end. A heavy sigh. Then silence.

“Nana?” Rory tried.

“Your, uh, Rory, your grandfather passed.” Her voice was solemn, but not a sound of emotion. Her voice was carved from granite.

Rory realized what that meant. Nana had cried every tear she could harbor at the moment. She was exhausted. This was the sound of his strong, powerful Nana exhausted. Something he had never heard or seen before.

“Did you call Mom?”

“I…” Silence again, like Nana was trying to think of how to say something that she knew had to be said. “Your mom. Yes. I will call her later.”

“You called me first?” Rory felt his heart pick up its pace again.

“I had to know. I mean, uh, I have to know. Did you… did you feel it? The tear?” Nana’s voice was low, like it was secret that would be made real if spoken to loudly. “The last two weeks?”

“What are you talking about?” Rory said. “Tear?”

Nana ignored his question. “Have you felt… off? Sick? Bad dreams?”

Rory felt a chill climb his arms and turn into a shiver that made him want to curl into a ball under his messy covers. “I… yes… I have been having nightmares. Bad ones. For about two weeks. I thought it was end of year crap. How did you know?”

“You have your finals tomorrow, right?” She asked tentatively, uncertain with her own words.

“Yes. Nana, are you ok?”

“Rory, dear. I have lost the love of my life and the father of my only child, so no, I am not ok.”

“Nana, you know what I mean.” Rory smiled over the phone as best he could.

“Yes, I am ok. There is just so much to do. I thought I would have him longer. …That we would have him longer. I needed him, I needed your Grandpa, Rory.” Still no tears. No hitch in her voice.

“How?” Rory asked the dreaded question. “I know he has been sick… but he sounded good a few weeks ago.”

“That is why I need you to come stay with me after your finals are done. I… uh… I will think of something to tell your Mom. When are your parents dropping you off at Drummond?”

Nana was asking about drop off at his chosen college in the Fall. “Mid-August, sometime?”

“And your heart is… nevermind. We can talk about that later. When you get here. Love you, Rory. I am going to call your mom tomorrow. Later in the morning. Try to sleep. Good luck on your finals, dear.”

“I will try.” Rory did not sound confident.

A pause, no goodbye. “Take a deep breath,” Nana said instead.

“What?”

“Take a deep breath. Hold it. Do it. Now.”

Rory inhaled loudly and held it.

“Close your eyes. Imagine the dark around you is holding its breath too. Every corner of your room is collectively holding it, waiting for you to breathe. You are going to release your breath, slowly, counting to five. When you release it, imagine your breath filling the room and the ripples returning to you, reinforcing you.” Nana paused. “Now breathe out.”

Rory exhaled slowly, again loudly so Nana would hear it.

“Good. Now. When you lay down in bed, I want you to repeat that, think of nothing else. Understood?”

“Yes, Nana.”

“Promise.” She ordered.

“I promise.”

“Sleep fast, dear.”

“‘Night.” The call ended with a click in his hand. It was strange that his Nana did not have a smart phone. She had an old land line, and it clicked so loudly when she hung up. It always sounded so final.

He tried to not think about Grandpa. The final click had happened two weeks ago and Rory hadn’t known it at the time. He fixed his sheets and his blankets, tucking them at the corners like his Grandpa had shown him when he helped with chores all those years ago. He folded them tight, making sure the crease followed the angle it should. He could almost see Grandpa smiling in the dark.

Rory laid down, breathed in slowly, imagined what he was told to imagine, paused and exhaled slowly. He did this a few times and awoke suddenly to his alarm going off, its cascading volume getting louder with each pulsing tone.

He got up, got dressed, skipped his customary breakfast, instead grabbing some bars from the pantry, and immediately headed to school before his mom got the phone call that he knew was coming. He did not want to be in the house when that phone call came. His mom was an ugly crier. It was uncomfortable. His dad made it worse. He just hovered around mom like an uncertain pet, not knowing whether to run in for comfort or flee in terror.

As instructed, Rory left his phone in his locker with the ringer off and tried his hardest to focus on the last few official steps of high school. He went through it in a daze, as if he was on autopilot. He did what he was supposed to, took his final, then sat down with his counselor, signed off his paperwork, was made promises about transcripts and the graduation ceremony… and he knew he didn’t care. He knew that he wasn’t going to graduation, but he signed all the forms anyway.

Mr. Nunez shook his hand and made a comment. Rory smiled and replied, knowing that the real trial was about to start and not entirely sure his response matched what Mr. Nunez had said. It didn’t matter. His phone was sitting in his locker, waiting for him. The future was sitting in his locker, resting calmly on a shelf of bent metal, painted gray, with the small carved figures of someone’s initials nearby. Walking down the hallway towards his locker happened in slow motion, even his on-again, off-again ex-girlfriend Casey, in her short cheerleader shorts and her tight ribbed tank top, did not distract him. She probably didn’t even notice his lack of usual attention… hence the reason they weren’t together anymore. She was a bit of a bitch. Unintentionally, it was just who she was. Rory thought there was a chance she would grow out of it.

Rory’s fingers alighted on the dial to his locker. He turned it once, twice, then reversed it, and reversed that until the combo was in. He lifted the latch and paused.

This was the end of his high school life. This moment. It wasn’t walking out the doors. It wasn’t saying goodbye to friends or making empty promises to meet up at some point over the summer. It wasn’t getting in his car and driving off the senior lot for the last time. It was right here. When he pulled this door open, and picked up his phone, the next step would arrive like a specter on the wind. Blown in furiously into his life, ready to pick him up and carry him back to Branson Gulch. Back to the Blue’s house at the end of Fairview Lane, where Mr. Robert Ryanson Blue had lived, slept, had a happy marriage, raised a daughter together, and had passed away last night.

Rory knew him as just Grandpa. He felt the heat on his cheeks, the flush, the brimming of unbidden tears at the edges of his eyelids. He tilted his head down and let the silent drips fall. He pulled the latch, swung the door open, and grabbed his things for the last time.

He flipped his phone over and the screen had a myriad of notifications, but only one mattered.

It was from his mom. ‘Nana told me you know. Hope your test went well. Packing now. Love you.’

He typed a response, ‘omw home.’ Hit send, and the little icon for being unread stayed there, forlorn. She was busy as usual.

Rory turned on his heel, dumped the last of his papers in the trashcan and headed to his car.

High school was over.

This follows Branson Gulch Blues, Part III, Part II, and Part I…

---

There came well known sounds that required no investigation. The garage opening. A truck pulling in slowly, a rough idle turning to silence. The muffled whump of a door closing. The garage closing, its terminus leaning into a resounding echoey thump.

Grandpa walked in from the garage looking exhausted. He glanced at Nana, then to the table set for dinner, and sighed contentedly. Yet, he shook his head sadly, patted Rory on the head, and headed upstairs without saying a word. His boots lightly thumped up the stairs, and each foot fall sounded like he carried a weight that he wanted to put down, but simply couldn’t.

“What’s wrong with Grandpa?” Rory asked.

Nana looked concerned for a fleeting moment, but smiled brightly in spite of whatever she was thinking about. “He had a long day… I am sure he just needs to shower and have a nice long sleep and he will be his normal self in the morning. And tomorrow is Thanksgiving! Aren’t you excited to see your parents?”

Rory fiddled with his napkin.

“Rory?” Nana pressed. “Aren’t you excited to see your Mom? Your Dad?”

Rory came to a sudden conclusion as if his mind was being driven by someone else. “No.”

“No?” Nana grinned as she put the finishing touches on the salad at the kitchen counter. “Why do you say that?”

“I can’t leave. I don’t want to leave? I…” Rory furrowed his brow, and his napkin tore. “I am confused. Mad. Thats it. I’m mad.”

Nana put the salad on the table, next to the bread, and squatted next to Rory. She pulled him into a hug. Rory hadn’t realized he was crying, feeling the wet tracks smear against his cheek was a surprise.

“Hey, hey, hey, no crying in Nana’s house,” Nana whispered and held him tightly. “You have to go home with your parents, love. It is ok to miss Grandpa and I. We will see each other again.”

“But what about the… the…” Rory waved his hands around.

“Oh is that what you are worried about? The Touch? Think of it as a present, Rory. You are at the start of an amazing journey… but, for right now, you are only a kiddo. Enjoy it. Be a kid! We can worry about the other stuff down the road.” Nana pulled away but kept her hands on him. She looked in him over carefully. “In a few days, it won’t feel as strange. And in a few months you will barely remember why it felt weird in the first place.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Nana patted his head. “Let’s eat! Then maybe play… a game?”

Rory’s eyes lit up. “Sorry?”

“Sure. We can play Sorry. I am just glad you didn’t pick Monopoly.”

“Monopoly?” Rory amended with a grin, wiping at his eyes absentmindedly.

“Hey mister. You said Sorry first. Sorry it is.” Nana teased.

After a light dinner and a game (Rory won, of course), Rory got ready for bed. He said his good nights, falling asleep quickly. And like magic, he rolled over and discovered it was four in the morning. He laid in bed, unable to find the blanket of drowsiness again after waking up to a very early morning yet to find the sun. The wind outside was insistent upon itself, informing the neighborhood that a front was moving in. The uncharacteristically warm weather was about to turn and the chilly nights were only going to get colder.

It was not the wind that kept Rory up. It wasn’t the creaking of the house, nor the scrape of the tree branches, nor the shifting call of the wind blowing through the eaves, measured from a fierce howl to a muted muttering.  It was the unseen Cockatrice deep in her fortress of tree stands.

Rory felt it through and through. He had to see the cockatrice. He felt it deep in his bones as if it was calling to him. Her. Wella. Wella had to be calling to him on the wind. Rory thought it over. Turning it over and over in his mind. If he was super slow, super sneaky, and stayed upwind… he would be safe. Mrs. Givins had mentioned that Wella was lethargic. But once the weather changed, that would opportunity would be gone. Because she would have to warm up to keep her eggs protected.

First thing in the morning, he could sneak into the stand of trees. He could make sure everything that had happened in the last few days was… real. It didn’t feel real. It felt strange, like he was having a fever and just hadn’t woken up yet. Rory wasn’t sure, but that sinking feeling that it was all his overactive imagination made his stomach flip over. He wanted it so badly to be real. Any of it. All of it.

Rory slunk out of bed and changed his clothes in the dark. He had to take his pants off and put them back on when he realized the pockets were on his butt. His jacket was in the mud room, and then he could sneak his bike out of the side garage door. The door was quiet enough. He tied his sneakers and tip toed towards the kitchen, the mud room, and the promise of escape through the mud room door.

He slid down the hallway, and the shadows were familiar, safe. The walls held their secrets and the pictures hung kept their vigilance in the early morning silence. Only the roof made any protest, and it was a complaint to the winds of the sky, not the house beneath. Rory turned into the kitchen to find Nana sitting in a chair in the dark, dressed and ready to go outside.

“About time,” Nana whispered. “Did you put your pants on backwards the first time?”

He had, but he didn’t want to admit it. All he said instead was, “Nana?”

“If you want to see Wella, you must listen to me. And you obey me. If I tell you to stand still, you stand absolutely still. If I tell you to run in front of me, you run in front of me. If I tell you to fall to the ground and play dead, you play dead. Understood?”

“Really?” Rory whispered.

“Yes. Really. Promise me.”

“I promise.” Rory nodded once as if he was signing in blood.

“Good. Grab your coat. Here are some of Grandpa’s old gloves and hat. Bundle up.”

Rory did as he was told and Nana pulled the weird twisted walking stick from the hall closet.

“Out the side door,” Nana waved him forward. “Let’s try not to disturb your grandfather.”

They walked out the gate and towards the sidewalk. Nana laid a hand on his shoulder.

“What?”

“Grab here,” Nana lifted his hand to grip the walking stick.

“Uh, ok?” Rory clutched the walking stick below his Nana’s hand. He wasn’t sure why or even how two people could operate a walking stick at the same time.

“Alright. When I tell you step forward, step in time with me. I will count. Three, two, one… step.”

Rory lifted his foot and when he put it down he stumbled forward as if he had been pushed. He was dizzy.

“Take a deep breath. Let me know when you are caught up.” Nana laughed lightly.

Rory looked around and realized they were not one step down the sidewalk, but at the end of the street. “What? How?”

“Turn toward the Gulch. This way. Ready? Three, two, one… step.”

Rory lifted his foot forward and stumbled again, trying not to let go of the stick and instead using it to balance. Now they were no longer at the end of Nana’s street but a mile and half down the path to where it branched towards the Gulch.

“Better. See? You are a natural,” Nana winked proudly.

“How?” Rory reiterated.

“Energy is prevalent. It abounds. We can harness energy to do all sorts of neat things. Like farwalking.”

“But its not speeding us up?”

“More like tricking the world that this step and our next are in the same stride. Like folding a piece of paper, we fold the way forward. It snaps back and we alight over the hump.”

“That is why it feels like I am falling in the direction we are facing.” Rory thought it made sense. It was consistent to how it felt, the stumble as his foot touched the ground, like running too fast down a hill.

“Good observation. Let’s see here,” Nana licked her finger and lifted it into the air. “Breeze is coming in front the north today. The prevailing is typically west-by-northeast. So we will need to go into the stand from that side of the Gulch. Ready? Three, two, one… step.”

Rory stumbled forward, but was able to maintain his balance better than before. “You far can you walk like that?”

“The longest step is about five kilometers. Past that will lead to… injuries.”

“Five kilometers?” Rory raised an eyebrow.

“About 3 miles.” Nana continued. “You could walk a very long way in a single day, but most of the time, taking a plane or a car is easier. Now. Stay close, stay quiet. Try to step where I step.”

“Ok.” Rory nodded once again, but this time if felt as if he was about to march into battle.

The sun was an hour or two from cresting the horizon, but the moon was full and reflecting its light brightly through the trees.

Nana stepped down into the gulch, the wet dead leaves allowed her to gracefully slide down the side of the hill in relative silence. Rory copied her and discovered that is was easier than he had thought. As he slid, the smell of old leaves and rotting wood assaulted his nose heavily as if it was mist sulking against the ground, upset it had been launched towards the open sky. A pressure slid over his ears and he felt a faint ringing as if he had heard a firework go off days ago.

“Nana?” Rory whispered and pointed to his ears with confusion on his face.

“I will explain later. Keep moving. Stay close.” Nana started creeping between the trees, waving her hand near her knees.

Rory realized she must have had her cadaceus, doing something to the ground at her feet. From here, it looked like she was waving off invisible mosquitos from attacking her kneecaps. Rory stayed a step behind, putting his feet in her wet footprints. The ground was not frozen, but it could have been in places, the leaves were firm underfoot as if they were carved from wood.

Nana walked for what felt like fifteen minutes, pausing occassionally, holding an open palm out towards Rory’s chest as if she was preventing his movements. He realized that he only thought that he was stopping of his own accord, he tried to lift his hand, but it was like it was tied at his side. Nana side-eyed him as she shook her head and he did not dare to try again.

He heard Wella before he saw her. It was like a humming noise, deep and resonant amongst the trees. He could almost feel it more than he could hear it, as if a part of him was also her, vibrating in time. Nana knelt at a tree and slowly Rory crept up next to her to look.

There was a nest. It was set into the ground as if it had been dug out, and the edges of the nest were formed by woven branches and sticks. Each looked like it had been sharpened to points, but Rory realized they had been chewed, like how a beaver takes down a tree. Each stick had been carved away from the tree it belonged to. In the nest, curled in a tight circle, a feathered form laid in a tight circle, a brightly plumed head tucked under one wing. The plumage was brown and white, with streaks of red feathers forming a pattern of lines radiating from her shoulders.

“She is beautiful, isn’t she?” Nana whispered lightly at Rory’s ear.

Rory nodded and realized his mouth was hanging open. He closed it slowly, and a branch moved along the edge of the nest, and a clump of feathers followed. It was her tail. It settled around her in the nest, like a soft sigh. The skin was not the snake skin he had imagined. It was supple and brown, more like the skin of a cow, with small bristles… but Rory noticed they were larger at the clump. They were feathers. Tiny little feathers. Her breathing was so slow, and that was what the vibration in the air was. She was purring like a kitten. He grinned.

Nana smiled and leaned over again. “She hasn’t thermoregulated yet. She is going to be very sleepy… nestled in like that. I think we are can get a little closer. You want to take a peek at her clutch?”

“Is it safe?”

“No.” Nana shook her head solemnly, but her eyes were bright and shining in the early morning twilight. The sky above was shifting to a dark blue, and somewhere to the east, a glimmer of sun was near cresting. “But you will never get a chance like this again.”

Rory thought it over but found himself nodded enthusiastically regardless of what his brain concluded. He discarded it before a decision even formed.

Nana stood cautiously, and waved her hand at her knees again. She stepped very carefully, but her steps were completely silent. Not even her clothes made noise. Rory stepped were she stepped and they crept up nearer to the nest.

Wella was not some small snake crossed with a chicken. She was much larger than she had appeared from the trees behind them. Her side went up slowly, and Rory realized it was like a car door raising into the air and then falling back down for a long stretched pause before rising again. Wella was larger than any dog he had ever seen. Her legs looked powerful, and the end of her foot, a long bone white dagger from the middle toe, cocked upward. From here it looked like it could slice through anything. Her wings were draped around her like a cloak, hiding most of her form, but with each step he realized that anything that Wella wanted to eat probably did not stand a chance.

His gut dropped. He had been crazy to think he could do this on his own. He would never stray off the path ever. Never. Ever.

Nana pointed excitedly. At the edge of Wella’s neck, just under the wing, Rory could make out two oblong shapes. They were a dull red color, speckled with white dots. He glanced at the eggs, then up to Wella’s face, most of which was still buried under her wing.

The eye facing him was open. And staring right at him. It did not blink. It did not move. The eye looked like it was made of crystal, bright red of a stop sign, with a corona of blue at the edges. The colors were in a spoke pattern in her eye, each radiated outwards from the black iris. And it beheld Rory with careful scrutiny.

Rory snatched Nana’s hand and dared not to breathe.

Nana made eye contact with Wella, and squeezed Rory’s hand lightly. “Bow slowly. Look at the ground. Now.”

Rory immediately bowed, ducking his head slowly and holding his glance at the edge of his boots.

Nana squeezed his hand again. “You can look up but keep your face pointed down.”

Rory raised his eyes to come face to face with Wella. Her head was only feet away from his own. Her beak was the length of his arm, its edges scalloped like a carving knife. Wella’s head swung back and forth between the two of them, and Rory could feel her exhales over his neck. Wella was sniffing them. He was being measured and weighed by a dragon.

Finally, Wells made a soft chirp as if deciding something and put her head back under wing. She did not close her eye.

“Back up, slowly. Once we get to the trees we can turn and walk the way we came. No running.”

Nana pulled him along gently, and sequestered him behind the nearest tree. The cockatrice did not move.

“This way, Rory.” Nana walked slowly, retracing her steps. Rory did exactly what he had been told. He glanced back occasionally, but there was no movement from the nest hidden there.

The sunlight above finally shifted the sky to a purple and a flutter of pink upon some far off clouds. Rory’s heart felt like it had been going a million miles an hour, and yet his feet felt like he was walking on air.

Nana took his hand and put it on her gnarled, knuckled length of walking stick. “Three, two, one… step.”

Rory stumbled forward and found himself on the gravel path at the top of the embankment. Rory felt like he had just stepped off a roller coaster. “Nana?”

“Yes, dear?” Nana’s face was bright, and her eyes reflected the dawn.

Rory exhaled heavily. “Best. Thanksgiving. Ever.”

Nana laughed brightly as the birds in the trees seemingly agreed.

This follows Branson Gulch Blues, Part II, and Part I…

---

Rory sat on the edge of the overlook, his new shiny bike parked against the stout rock and mortar wall. His feet dangled out over the space of the grasses, shrubs, and occasional cotton tails that clumped together in the old lake bed. The cotton tail heads were bent, broken, and splayed, most of their dark brown fluff lost to the wind.

Mrs. Givins walked up slowly as not to startle the boy, her cane clumped and her orthotics crunched over the gravel path. She could move fast when she needed to, but she was feeling her one hundred and forty two years today. The air had the snap of autumn, the end of the harvest season was drawing to the close, and the elderly like Mrs. Givins often felt the coming of winter like death was standing near, looking on in empathy.

As it was, Old Cross was always in the corner of her vision now, his arms interwoven with each other across his chest, a soft sad smile on his face. He never waved, he never changed his expression, as if the image was a moment in time hidden within the waters of time, and her perception was just the same moment carried forward like a burst of light that never faded away from her vision.

Odd thought that.

That timelessness was nothing but a single moment to her as she was stuck within the flow of time. Old Cross would probably think it funny. He was a bastard. A kind bastard, no doubt, but still a force of nature as harsh as a storm and unrelenting as the tide. Mrs. Givins had spoken to him twice before. Once when her Gerald had passed, and again when her own son Michael had lost his battle. Both times Old Cross had sat there, or stood there, and allowed her to speak with him. She did not see her husband or her son behind him, but she knew. She knew they were there. And yet, she could only pierce the veil so far. There was a limit, even for the ones that Touched the fabrics of reality. Because human nature was both human and nature. An indelible connection that could not be broken… until it was. And Old Cross would be there to take your hand and lead you onwards.

She did not want Old Cross to get this boy. And Wella could give a shit less if the boy was innocent or not. Wella could be hungry, and an easy meal is an easy meal. The boy needed a reprimand, even the edge of the wall was not safe. He had to be on this side of the curtain that hung over the Gulch.

Mrs. Givins prepared her admonishment, opened her mouth to say something, and then stopped dead.

Rory was different today. His center field had shifted downwards, attuned and aligned to the earth. Mrs. Givins felt a smile spread across her face. Vera must be ecstatic! After all these years! Why did it take so long? The boy was nearly ready to hit puberty? And the Touch manifested now!? An oddity out of all the oddities in Branson Gulch to be certain.

She let her well formed criticism fade from her mind and instead tapped her cane against the bench to get his attention.

“Rory, child. Be a dear and get off the wall.” She smiled warmly as he turned and made eye contact. He was so young.

Was she ever that young?

Old Cross nodded once out of the corner of her eye. She had been, a long time ago. On a different continent, in a different country, looking on a field of green where a herd of sleeping Axaoras drowsily nibbled on the leftovers of their recent livestock kill. She loved watching the black dogs with the faces of hooked tentacles hunt in those early days of her life. With a pang of remorse, she remembered that they had been extinct by the time she had married Gerald. Such a shame. Beautiful creatures. Proud. Strong. But not survivors. The world had changed too fast.

Rory spun around, and yet stayed on the wall as if performing a level of defiance that was new to him. “Hey Merry. So… you are like my Nana.”

Mrs. Givins slowly lowered herself to her bench and exhaled heavily. The cold was quick to leave, but for a moment, her butt felt a chill like she had just sat on a block of ice.

“Yes, I am.”

Rory looked over his shoulder at the stands of trees that populated the old lake bed, covering it from end to end. “I keep looking for Wella, but I haven’t seen her.”

“She is in there, I assure you. Just quiet for a key reason… but near the solstice, her calls rattle the trees. Her species, Draconis Galliformae, have a unique adaptation for surviving both harsh winters and sweltering summers. Can you guess what that is?”

“Uh…” Rory thought through some guesses. “They hibernate?”

“Ah! Very close. It is very similar to hibernation, but instead of reducing their metabolic rate where they fall asleep for months, her species shifts their blood chemistry to a point of being either cold blooded or hot blooded. Cold blooded, or ectothermic, creatures like snakes, lizards, and the like rely on their environment to help regulate their metabolic rate. Endothermic creatures…”

“So warm blooded?” Rory added as if on cue.

“Right. Endothermic creatures self regulate their metabolic rate, so they maintain a level of a steady body temperature, like you and I. Wella is in a near ectothermic state with the change of seasons, so she is feeling lethargic.”

“Lethargic?” Rory jumped off the wall and walked to the bench to sit next to Mrs. Givins.

“Sleepy. She is going to shift from ectothermic to endothermic, typically once the nights get cold enough that her two eggs are at risk. Any day now.”

“Then she won’t be slow and sleepy.”

Mrs. Givins nodded at the boy. He was intelligent. “That’s right. She will actively hunt, and populations of other creatures in the area will drop until they can replenish their numbers in the spring. Hibernation, for them at least, is a survival benefit. Hibernating creatures won’t fall prey to a hungry cockatrice.”

“Does she hunt… us?” Rory asked timidly.

“You mean children, dear? Or just people in general?”

“People in general, I guess.”

Mrs. Givins shrugged, and out of the corner of her eye, Old Cross nodded enthusiastically. “Not so much. If she gets a person it is because that person did not follow the warnings.”

“Like staying on the path.” Rory’s voice dropped.

Mrs. Givins realized her admonishment was not needed after all. He understood intuitively. The flows were waking up within him. “That’s one of them. One should stay on the path. Wandering into that stand of trees would be a one way ticket.”

“Ooh, ooh! Does she breathe fire?” Rory’s eyebrows were high.

“Not her species. She lacks both the organs that can digest the fuel and create the gaseous or viscous flammable materials. She also lacks the tongue.”

“What does the tongue have to do with it?”

“The source of the flame is not from the dragon. They produce the flammable materials, depending on the species, but all of them have to create the spark. Can you imagine walking around with fire inside of you? Even for hardy creatures, maintaining any temperature above a certain point would be evolutionary suicide. Its all in the tongue.” Mrs. Givins flicked her hand out like she was snapping a towel. “The sides of the tongue lay down a crystalline lathanide over time. They flick their tongue against their rear teeth and that material flakes off and oxidizes very rapidly. Sparks! A heavy exhale, and fwoosh! Fire!”

“Wow,” Rory’s eyes were wide. “You know a lot about dragons, Merry.”

“I should. It is my life’s work.” Mrs. Givins smiled. “I have been studying and protecting them for a very long time.”

“An ecologist?” Rory said. “Like my grandpa?”

“Ah, yes. I am an ecologist. But no… your grandfather does something even more important. He is a Ranger. They go out and find the ones that need protecting. It is hard work. Dangerous work. What I do is simple in comparison. I am a scientist. Studying. Making notes. Observing. Your grandfather is out there doing a bit more than that. Most of us conservationists are very boring in comparison.”

“And this is the only dragon you study?”

“At the moment. She has a special place in my heart. My father helped raise her mom, Ember. She had been abandoned as an egg, and my father took it on himself to help her hatch. Crazy man. But somehow he was successful. And Wella out there is alive because my father decided to help a poor creature on a cold night. So I… guess… watching her connects me back to my own dad in a way.”

“You have studied others… not just Wella and her mom?”

“Oh, yes. I am a draconist by trade and I spent decades helping the conservation reserves get built and then populating them with complimentary species.”

Rory grinned. “That sounds cool.”

“Oh it was quite ‘cool’. Best job ever. But it was hard work, hence the limp.” Mrs. Givins tapped her cane against the bench again. “You have a lot of questions today. You rode off in such a hurry yesterday, I thought I had scared you off permanently.”

Rory laughed nervously. “I, uh, was a little scared.”

“A little?”

“Yes, just a little,” Rory said defensively. “I thought you were teasing me about Wella, and then hearing that noise, it made me jumpy.”

“I would say.” Mrs. Givins agreed. “She is a big girl.”

“How big is big?”

“Sixteen feet in wingspan, half that in length from beak to tail, and probably about four hundred or so pounds at this point in her brooding cycle. We can estimate her size well enough, but it is just an estimate. Her species is protected, meaning that we don’t get close to her unless absolutely necessary. We have protocols not just for our safety, but mostly hers.”

“I wish I could see her.”

“Oh you will. Most folks don’t. You will. It’s inevitable.” Mrs. Givins stated matter-of-factly. “You will see her because you are looking for her. On the other hand, we can direct behavior of these creatures and the ones that aren’t looking, but it takes time and effort. It takes patience and hard work to protect them from the plebians and vice versa.”

“Plebians? Is that another kind of dragon?”

Mrs. Givins laughed, a deep chuffing sound that was nearly a cough. “Oh my goodness, no Rory. Those are all the humans. The people. The terrible masses that cover the world.”

“But I am people?”

Mrs. Givins sighed. “We all are. The problem isn’t that we are human, Rory. The problem is that we aren’t one tribe. We all have different experiences that lead to different beliefs and opinions, and that is why the plebians do what they do… and ultimately that is why we do what we do.”

Rory silently sat in the sunlight, watching the stands of trees next to Mrs. Givins. Birds twittered in the distance, and the occasionally there was a buzz of an insect on the air.

“Do you have a caduceus?” Rory asked, breaking the easy silence.

“Of course I do. Its my cane, silly.”

“But… I can see your cane?” Rory observed.

Realization dawned on Mrs. Givins face. “Oh, the actual rod… that is inside the cane, dear.”

“So I really can’t see them? I thought Nana was pulling my leg.” Rory sighed.

“How much did your Nana explain? I don’t want to misstep here, Rory. Your grandmother is one of the best, you should listen to her.”

“One of the best? Best what?”

“We each have our roles to play, Rory. Some of us study and document. Others go out and preserve. And some of us… teach. Your grandmother has been teaching the Society’s talented for many decades.”

“I didn’t know she was a teacher. I guess I never thought about it. She is just my Nana.”

“Ah well… I suppose that is about to change, isn’t it?” Mrs. Givins nudged Rory. “Lots to learn now.”

“I guess? My mom and dad are on vacation, but they are coming to Thanksgiving and then I think we leave to head back home. Our flight is on Friday night I think. I don’t know how much she can teach me in three days.”

“You have the rest of life to learn, Rory. And…that could be a very long time indeed.”