SEAN ROBIN HUGHES

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

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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…

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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.”

This follows Branson Gulch Blues, Part I…

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Rory burst into the kitchen, leaving the mud room door to the garage wide open.

“Hey hey, there mister… shut that door. We don’t want Bixby getting out!” Nana admonished from the sink, elbow deep in pie making adjacent mixing bowls.

Meanwhile, and notably not moving a single muscle, Bixby laid on her customary memory foam mattress near the sliding patio door and barked once loudly as if discounting the whole idea of any escape.

Rory turned on his heel and in a smooth spin slammed the door shut and faced Nana in a panic. He held his hands out as if he was about to stop the room itself from spinning.

“A DRAGON? SERIOUSLY. NANA!?” Rory was yelling. His eyes were wild, and his hair stood at strange angles from yanking off the bike helmet so roughly. A small line of spittle was dripping from his lip, dangling precariously.

If Grandpa had been within earshot, he probably would have smacked Rory for yelling at Nana. Rory did not care. There was a capital G, capital D dragon in the capital, underlined, heavily emphasized F-ing neighborhood. And to be clear, while a raised voice felt appropriate at the moment, using actual swears would definitely be the wrong choice.

“Its barely a dragon,” Nana laughed dismissively. “You have a little something hanging from your lip, dear.”

“Yeah I puked,” Rory wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She looked over her shoulder again, her eyebrow raised. “You puked?”

“Don’t worry about that! Nana! The draaaaaagon!?” Rory felt like he was the only sane one. What would his mom and dad think? “What would my mom and dad think?”

Nana shook her head. “Well considering your mom was raised in this house, she would probably think that her son puking is a bit of a concern, silly. Your dad did think it odd, but I think he had the hots for your mom, so it didn’t really matter.”

“Oh my god, I must be crazy. Why am I the only one that thinks this is crazy?” Rory was walking in circles in the kitchen, pacing without even realizing it. “Does the military know?”

“Out of all things that are crazy in this world, young man, having some neighborhood wildlife is the least of all of them.” Nana said, ignoring his other questions as she shifted rinsed bowls to the drying rack. “Where did you puke?”

“In Grandpa’s trashcan,” Rory looked over his shoulder as if looking towards where he did the deed. “Its fine. Its just… Nana! Its not a flock of turkeys.”

“I know, she is definitely not a turkey. She eats the turkeys.” Nana rinsed off a platter, moving it to the rack. She wiped her hands on a towel at her waist and turned to face her grandson. “You will need to hose it out.”

“What?”

“The trashcan.”

“Oh my god, Nana. Can you please forget about my puke. I’ll clean it up. But. What. About. The dragon!?” Rory tried again, he felt flustered that there was not a bigger commotion about this.

“A cockatrice, Rory love, and her name is Wella. She is mostly harmless.” Nana shrugged.

“Mostly harmless? Doesn’t she eat kids?” Rory felt his voice rising again.

“Oh that was decades ago, she has plenty to eat.”

“Nana!” Rory stomped his foot. Angrily.

Nana tried to suppress her grin, tucking her lips between her teeth and clamping down.

“ITS NOT FUNNY.” Rory exclaimed, his fists shaking at his sides.

“From where I am standing, love, I would say otherwise. This is a show.” Nana teased. Her tone shifted to something more authoritative. “Go clean out the trashcan and then come back when you are calm. I will be glad to tell you everything you want to know. I have some cookies that Grandpa doesn’t know about. Good ones.”

“Nana!”

“Rory!” Nana imitated him and she did not budge. Her hands were on her hips, which meant she was all business.

“Dammit.” Rory groused.

“Trashcan.” Nana raised a singular finger and with it waved him out of the house.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He trudged out the door and let it close behind him. He went about cleaning out the puke like he was washing a dog against his will. He threw the hose down, he threw the trashcan down, he threw the nozzle to grass, and the universe allowed him to throw his little fit without interrupting.

He could see the trees that were standing over in the other lake bed over the top of Nana’s house, and they seemed to move in the wind. Or did they? Was that actually wind? Was it the dragon moving around? What if it got hungry? He was out here all by himself, hosing out a trashcan into the runoff drain, a tasty little snack in a jacket and jeans, just ready to be stripped clean. They would find a running hose, an empty, mostly clean trash can, and maybe a singular sneaker, just lying there alone in the browning grass. Accusingly.

He shook his head, clearing the thought away. Nothing but the breeze spoke in the distance, and the call of far off birds was carried upon it.

Rory finished rinsing his crime down the storm drain. He tipped the trashcan on the rocks to dry out in the afternoon autumn sun of late November, and put everything away as he had found it, just like Grandpa told him time and time again. Rory trudged in, kicked of his wet shoes in the garage and sat at the kitchen table, where a plate of cookies and a glass of milk was sitting and ready.

Nana sat on the other end, drinking a cup of tea and reading her book. She took a heavy sip, marked her spot with a clipped coupon and set the book down. She watched Rory carefully as he sulked to his seat, huffed as he sat down, and ate a cookie in sullen silence. Not for the first time she was reminded that her grandson was a lot like his mom had been, but for some reason, even more adorable? The volume of personality contained within the child was nearly volatile.

“So you are obviously fine. Why did you vomit?” Nana asked with a smirk.

“I went too fast.” Rory grumbled around another bite of chocolate chip.

“Too fast?”

“Adrenaline? Got all excited? Scared? I don’t know. The trees moved… and Mrs. Givins spooked me, I guess.” Rory tried. “I pedaled home as fast as I could, and I must have… ah… overdid it.”

“Oh?”

“And Mrs. Givins says hi,” Rory added.

“Ah, well that is good.” Nana said. “But you didn’t see her? Wella?”

“No. I didn’t see her.”

“Ah. But you did see or hear something,” Nana ventured. Her face was making an odd expression.

“I heard it.”

“That will do it,” Nana smiled at some form of confirmation. “Have another cookie, love.”

“Have you seen her?” Rory looked up from his cookie.

“Of course. It is hard to miss a dragon, Rory. She sometimes flies over the house to get to the big lake.”

Rory’s eyes went wide. “How is this not national news? Isn’t a dragon… I don’t know… a bit of huge deal, Nana?”

“No, silly. Lots of things happen every day and never make it to the news. Too many news stories about fat old white men stealing power and money from other fat old white men… and then everyone gets all fired up about which political party is doing what when they never stop to think that all the parties are there to protect the fat old white guys on both sides. Who would ever care about a dragon? Especially a good girl like Wella? She minds her business, we mind ours, and everyone gets along fabulously.”

Rory leaned back and nibbled the edge of his cookie, thinking it over.

“Probably lots of dragons in the world, but everyone is too busy fighting over the silly things. They never look up to see it fly over their house.” Nana smiled graciously.

Rory frowned and nibbled another bite from his cookie. He felt famished all of sudden… the excitement was starting to wear off and it was turning against him.

“Is it a secret?” Rory’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Wella is a ‘she’ not an ‘it’, and no dear, she is not a secret. What your grandfather does is a secret, but Wella, she is no secret. How would one keep a Cockatrice a secret?”

“I suppose,” Rory thought it over. “Does she really eat kids?”

Nana laughed brightly, looking years younger than she should have been. “Only the naughty ones. She has good taste.”

“Wait.”

“What?” Nana raised an eyebrow.

“What does Grandpa do and why is it a secret? I thought he was a Forest Service Ranger? Isn’t that like the ones at the Grand Canyon and Yellowstone?”

“You have to keep this a secret.” Nana finished her tea and set it down on her place mat.

“I promise.”

“Your grandfather is a Ranger, yes, but he is not employed by the US Forest Service. He is a… different… sort of Ranger.”

“The park kind still?” Rory said.

“Oh yes, most definitely. Still the park kind. He is a… conservationist.” Nana smiled as if waiting for a reaction.

“That doesn’t sound like a secret.” Rory admonished is grandmother. He was disappointed.

Nana reached over and pulled a drawer open, she pulled out a stubby length of wood, something that almost looked like a burnt length of tinder.

“Do you know what this is?” Nana asked, handing it over to Rory.

Rory held it in his hand, feeling the texture of it, the weight as it rested between his fingers. It was strange. Like it was delicate in one moment, but unbelievably heavy the next. He had the impulse to drop it, but it was locked to his fingers like they were sticky. The length was nearly black, but he noticed a fine webbing of cracks all along its length, they flickered like they had gold nestled in its hidden folds.

“Is it a pencil of some sort?”

“The technical name is a caduceus. In make believe books, it is called a wand. We most often refer to it as a rod.”

“Like a magic wand?” Rory’s eyes went wide.

“Sort of. Wands give the wrong impression. This is not used to wave around and cast silly spells with funny words. No, this rod is a conduit for energies. The energy is prevalent all over, but in some places it is stronger. It collects. It attracts certain types of creatures, plants, and… people to it.”

“Like a Cockatrice.” Rory made the connection.

“Yes. And…” Nana’s voice trailed off.

“Like you and grandpa.”

“Yes.” Nana appeared to be very proud of something all of a sudden.

“And grandpa protects those places… doesn’t he?” Rory asked. But he knew the answer. It was like a light turning on in his head. “He is a Ranger for creatures like Wella.”

“We both are. In our own way. Especially Mrs. Givins… And most other folks around here.”

“That’s why.” Rory sunk back in his seat. The world returned to a sudden level of normalcy in nothing but a mere moment for him and he felt a sense of peace about it, still holding the rod in his hand.

“What’s why?” Nana asked.

“That’s why you are all acting so normal about it. Because it is normal.”

“Yes. Yes it is.”

“Is it normal for my mom? Or my dad?”

Nana shrugged. “I love your mom and your dad, but sometimes, modern life snatches our family away from us. Your parents don’t see things the way we see them, Rory. Which is fine, it just makes us a little bit different.”

“Like what do you mean?” Rory’s brow furrowed.

“Like that caduceus you are holding.” Nana waved her hand. “Your mom can’t see it. Or your dad. But you see it. You are even holding it correctly. Over the centuries, they have been called all sorts of things. Divining rods, dowsing rods, holy staffs…”

“Ca-de-se-us?” Rory tried the word, it felt strange on his tongue.

“That’s right.”

Rory waved the strange rod around in his hand, feeling the weight change as he moved it. It was like it was attached to something at one end. He yanked on it a little, and Nana’s hair fluttered around her head.

“Huh.” Rory grunted. He felt a set of senses that overlaid his own like he was seeing, smelling, hearing, and touching with a new set of limbs and sensory organs he had never used before. He felt duplicated in place, like there were two Rory’s occupying the same seat. At first, he felt a sense of panic rush over him, but the next there was a sense of peace, as if it was supposed to be this way and somehow he had just forgotten that fact somewhere along the way.

He felt ageless. Like he had always been here. But at the same time he knew that he was nine years old.

Nana watched on quietly, her lips pressed together in the semblance of both pride and happiness. She looked fit to burst.

The ancient at the hearth watched on passively. He wanted to say something, but it would break the bounds of his altar, which would decouple him from his vessel. So he watched as well, carefully taking in the scene so he could give his opinion later on. Aron wasn’t surprised that Vera’s grandson had the Touch, but it was odd that it had taken this long to manifest. The Touch was usually present from birth, not something that came on later. That was exceptionally rare. Aron knew that if the boy pointed the rod at the hearth, the boy would inadvertently satisfy the conditions of the altar and Aron could finally say something aloud. His voice bubbled in his head like a geyser needing to fount.  

Nana sensed Aron watching and turned her head towards him as Rory played with the rod, sensing the currents in the room. She shook her head softly as if telling him to relax. Aron would have curled a lip if he had a lip, but he was just a skull in an ornate box.

She held her hand out to Rory and took the rod back, she made a strange movement and the rod was gone from sight. “Tell me what you felt?”

Rory’s head felt like it was spinning again. The cookies and the milk sat forgotten, and he was staring at his palm in wonder.

“Nana, I could see you. But not with my eyes. It was like I could see…” Rory tried, but he found he didn’t have the words to explain it. “When can I get one of those?”

Nana laughed again, her joy was sparkling at the corner of her eyes, something that Rory had never seen before. Nana wasn’t just happy, she was jumping out of her skin happy.

“You have to make your own.”

“Like a lightsaber?” Rory’s eyes went wide. “Wait. Are you and grandpa like Jedi?”

“I suppose we are. I have never thought of it like that, though. Because what we are is far easier to understand. We are ecologists.”

“Is that like a tree hugger? Dad is always saying that the tree huggers are ruining this country.”

Nana rolled her eyes. “Yes, I would expect that, I suppose.” She paused. “Tell me what you saw.”

“Can I hold it again?” Rory asked instead.

“No. You won’t be able to. The test was passed, and that caduceus was not meant for you. You will have to make your own to hold one again.”

Rory growled. “That seems like a stupid rule.”

“A rule? Not a rule, just a fact.” Nana waved an arm like she was shaking a bug off, and held out her hand. “Take it.”

Rory looked at Nana’s open, empty hand and then to Nana’s face. She was serious. “There is nothing in your hand.”

“My caduceus is right here, Rory. In my hand.” Nana nodded to emphasize she was telling the truth. “You will see it again someday, when you make your own.”

“But I saw it once!”

Nana nodded patiently as she waved her hand away again. “You did.”

“I want to see it again.” Rory argued.

“You will.”

“Why not right now? I don’t understand.”

“Do you understand the rising of the sun or the position of the moon?” Nana’s face was serious again. “Do you know the tides? The shift of the mantle beneath you? Do you feel the forces that act on your body, right now, as you sit there, Rory Masters? Do you know the gravity that pulls at your mass? Do you approve of the magnetic orientation suffusing your cells? Do you allow the bouncing of light waves in this room? Or agree to my voice reaching your ears through pressure changes in the air?”

“Huh? Uh? No?” Rory tried again. He felt unsettled. Nana’s eyes were fierce all of a sudden, far different than the joy and happiness she was radiating a moment ago. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, love.” Nana softened. “It is just important for you to learn these things in order. There is a reason that most people can’t see or feel or understand the whole of reality as it is. It would cause madness. The human mind is structured to survive… while the human soul is designed to connect. It takes time to build the understanding that allows one to bridge wholly to the other, and to do so in right way. That is why some things are as they are. It is the glimmer that we see on the edge of our vision… the sensation that something is just on the edge of our understanding, but then we ignore it and go about our day.”

“I… I…” Rory paused. “Does mom know?”

“No.” Nana’s voice was soft and brittle. “She does not have the Touch.”

“But I do.” Rory finished.

Nana looked up. “What?”

“I do. And that is good, Nana. You don’t need to be sad about it anymore.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly as if she was evaluating her grandson for the first time. “No, I guess I don’t. Your grandfather should be home any moment. Go wash up for dinner. You can help me and cut the lettuce. Hurry up. I need my sous chef.”

“Yes, Nana.” Rory pushed away from the table and ran past her towards the half bath to wash his hands.

Vera picked up the plate of cookies, took one in her hand and thoughtfully took a bite. “I know it is killing you stay quiet, but I think for the time being, you should keep your mouth shut, Aron.”

The box on the mantel rattled once, but it stayed mute.

Rory had just turned nine when he first visited Nana’s house in Everdeen. His mom told him time and time again that he had visited many times before, but for some reason, Rory could never remember those earlier visits. It was as if trying to remember the earliest memories was a competition with himself, seeing how far back he could remember, where the memories became fuzzy and tumbled over themselves into a confusion of sensations and feelings. Those weren’t real memories, they were something else pretending to be memories. He knew that he had been here before, the house was familiar, but the years in between visits made it feel like eternity had passed in the intervening time.

He definitely would remember this birthday because of the new bike. Nana had given him fair warning before he set out for his first ride.

She grabbed him by the shoulder and looked him over carefully, her brown hair and barely lined face made her look like she was only but the older sister of Mom, something that Mom always grumbled about saying that Nana just had great jeans. Rory had no idea why blue jeans made Nana seem a lot younger than Rory’s friend’s grandmothers.

“Wear your helmet and mind my neighbors’ cars.”

“Yes Nana,” Rory replied dutifully.

“Ring your bell if you pass anyone, even if they see you ahead of time.”

“Yes Nana,” Rory repeated. He just wanted to go ride his new bike. Dad had set it up for him before they left for their mom-n-dad holiday. Lots of hugging and giggling involved, Rory had rolled his eyes every time they said it.

“And whatever else you do, remember to stay on the path around the Gulch.” Nana tugged on his shoulder sleeve to get his attention. It was straying like a kitten. “What did I just say, young man?”

“Stay on the path at the Gulch. Is that the first one or the second one?” Rory always got the ponds confused. They were called lakes, even though they were just ponds, but they all had different names, even though they were nearly the same. It didn’t make any sense.

Nana smiled kindly. “The big one across the street is Reservoir Three, that’s called Prince Lake, the dried out one behind the neighborhood is Reservoir Two, that’s Branson’s Gulch, that has the paved path around the big wooded area.”

“Where is Reservoir One then?” Rory shook his head. Another reason why it was confusing.

“There is no Reservoir One. Only two and three.” Nana stood up straight and adjusted her apron. She was baking a bunch of pies for Thanksgiving. “Stay on the path.”

Rory’s mom and dad were coming back from their holiday for Thanksgiving, and eventually, trudge back to the city to return to normal life. And that meant he had to go back to school. School was ok, but not going to school was way better.

“Yeah, yeah, I will stay on the path, Nana.” Rory wrinkled his nose and made one of his classic faces.

Nana grinned and lovingly patted his head. “I will know if you don’t. Grandmothers are given special powers when their grandbabies are born. We see everything.”

Rory was already running to the garage by the time she finished her declaration of grandmotherly super powers. He snapped the helmet around his chin, pushed the kickstand up, and tore out of the open garage and down the long driveway. Wind whistled through his handlebars and he turned towards the first lake. That was actually the third lake. Prince Lake. The other one wasn’t a lake because it was dried out, but it was still called a lake, but also Branson’s Gulch.

Rory shook his head. Adults could be silly with such things. They said odd things that just did not make any sense.

He turned down the street, and looked both ways for traffic (even though there were rarely any cars on the street), and pedaled his way towards the gravel path around the lake. He could see the other side, so it was not a like an actual lake that he was used to, the kind that disappeared at the edges as it carried onwards, blending into a fuzzy horizon. This lake was too wide to throw a rock across, but big enough that riding around it took a good twenty minutes or so. Prince Lake was also a wildlife sanctuary so there was no fishing allowed, no boats allowed, and there were birds everywhere. Little tiny birds all the way to owls, hawks, and storks… but the most of it was stupid geese and those mismatched ducks where the girl is an ugly brown and the boys have all the bright colors.

He biked all the away around the lake on the wide rolling gravel path, and turned between neighborhoods to follow a pavement path to the other reservoir that was not a reservoir, but still had a number, but was not a lake at all, just a wide forested area. It was about the same size as the actual lake though. If Rory squinted, he could imagine it filled with water.

Strange thing was this empty lake that was called the Gulch had hardly any birds. Just grasshoppers, crickets, and those invisible bugs that buzz buzz way up in the tree tops. The path was mostly paved on one side, with houses on the far side, and long empty creek bed that blocked off another side. It was nestled in between things, like it was a forgotten place. That is why Rory liked riding around it… it was ignored by all the moms with strollers and the fat joggers and the old ladies with their tiny white dogs that barked too much. It was just Rory, the stands of elm and cotton trees, and the thick tangled brush that kind of looked like a tree and a bush had babies all over the place. It looked like a place to have an adventure.

There could be treasure out there! Something like a long lost castle crumbling above with a kingly sum hidden deep in the earth somewhere in it’s courtyard. There could be a secret encampment of thieves in that brush, hiding away while they plan their next big job!

Rory pulled off the path onto a small overlook and pushed the kickstand with his toe. The overlook has a statue of what looked like angry chicken. He walked up to it, and laid a hand against one up raised claw, letting his hand rest on the burnished bronze. He glanced out among the brush and the trees, listening to the murmur of a breeze moving among the convoluted twisting maze of intertwined branches.

“The statue is a local legend…”

The voice came out of nowhere and Rory jumped nearly out of his skin. He spun in a quick half circle to find an old woman reading a book on a secluded bench peering at him with sly smile on her face.

“Sorry to startle you, young man. You must be Dennis and Leanne’s grandson? Rory is it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Rory finally managed. “I-I am.”

“You like the statue? My father made it.” She peered curiously at Rory over her half-moon spectacles.

“It is a nice statue. But why is that mad chicken a local legend?” Rory dropped his hand guiltily from the raised talon as if suddenly remembering it was there.

The old woman laughed brightly. “That’s not a chicken, its a dragon.”

Rory glanced back to the statue and studied closely. He had not noticed before, but the chicken was longer than it should have been and it looked like it had a long tail with a clump of feathers at the tip. Those details were hidden in the base if you weren’t looking for it. At first glance, yeah, just an angry chicken. Beak open, claw extended, and one wing raised in the air as if it was warning a rattlesnake off. The wing had talons too… that was odd.

“A particularly clever dragon species at that,” the old woman touched the side of her nose. “A survivor! Most places have their local wildlife… racoons, coyotes, maybe a bear or a mountain lion. Here at Branson’s Gulch, we have ourselves a Cockatrice.”

“That sounds like a bad word,” Rory grinned.

“I suppose it does.” She nodded thoughtfully. “My name is Mrs. Givins. But you can call me Merry, I don’t mind at all.”

“Merry?” Rory’s eyebrow went up.

“Like Christmas. Are you staying for a while?”

“I am out riding my bike… Merry.” Rory replied hesitantly.

Mrs. Givins laughed again. “I meant for the holiday, not here at the overlook. You are welcome to stay here as long as you want though. You are not bothering me… feel free to ‘hang out.’ Is that what it is called still? It has been a long time since I have ‘hung out.'”

“Yeah. I hang out all the time,” Rory grinned.

“‘Cool’ still a word?” Mrs. Given winked. “It was when I used it in the sixties.”

“Yes.” Rory nodded appraisingly.

“Cool,” she nodded in return.

“Why is the Cocka… Cocker… Coker-” Rory tried.

“Cockatrice.” She finished for him.

“Cockatrice, right. Why is it a legend?”

Mrs. Givins folded her book carefully into her lap and set it aside. “In Kenya, if you can across a Giraffe… would that be weird?”

“No?”

“And if you were above the arctic circle and came across a polar bear?”

“Definitely not. That would be normal, right?” Rory shrugged.

“A long time ago, other creatures roamed the world, and those creatures would be right at home in a place like this. Humans learned very early on to leave them alone, just like a human would avoid a mountain lion or grizzly bear. Some creatures are not worth disturbing.”

“Dragons aren’t real.” Rory grinned.

“What about dinosaurs?”

“Those are real, but they are not around any more. They died out millions of years ago.”

“Some dinosaurs died out, but some just changed along the way,” Mrs. Givins smiled a secretive smile, one that implied she was letting something slip. “You think all those birds at the Lake are there because birds have been always been around? They are just miniature dinosaurs, millions of years removed from their ancestors. And some didn’t die out or change.”

“Like the Cockatrice,” Rory said.

“Yes. Exactly. A little imagination and wonder is good for everybody, Rory. Even us old folks. Imagining that there are bigger, scarier things in the world helps us remember our own pasts when there were those scary things beyond our hut. There is a reason the dark is a primordial fear for all human beings. Because we are wired to remember that there are bigger things out in the dark. Things with sharp teeth, sharp claws, and large stomachs.”

“But not any more.” Rory smiled hesitantly.

“Maybe. Did your grandmother tell you to stay on the path?”

Rory felt uncomfortable all of a sudden. “Yes?”

Mrs. Givins raised an eyebrow and made a humming sound. “Good advice for Branson’s Gulch, Rory.”

There was a soft rumble as if on queue from deep in the tree stands, something that sounded like the earth had resettled itself arbitrarily.

She smirked at Rory again.

“And that is Wella. Her mother,” Mrs. Givins pointed at the statue, “was called Ember. Dark red feathers, like crimson. Nearly. Wella has beautiful plumage, but not like her mother. Wella should be fairly active while you are here.”

“What.” Rory asked deadpan. He felt like Mrs. Givins was teasing him, but there was something in her voice that sounded like she was not teasing at all. Like a teacher sounded. Reliable. Truthful. It kind of made his stomach do a loop and then fall into his knees.

“She is brooding. Most likely there are two eggs in the clutch. They both hatch, the strongest one survives. Life goes on. Sometimes there are three and the strongest two make it, but it has been a lean cycle. Cockatrices are nothing but survivors, so three is very unlikely.”

“What.” Rory repeated. His stomach was now somewhere in his shins.

“She hasn’t eaten any kids for decades, but it could always happen. So stay on the path?”

Finally something broke in Rory and he jumped for his bike. It was mad. “Uh, bye, Mrs. Givins.”

“Say hello to your grandmother for me!” She called after him.

Rory rode like hell. His legs pumped until he screamed into the driveway, climbed off his bike in the garage, and puked into Grandpa’s garbage can.