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“That’s too far!” Tim called to Armaneeta. He looked for another stepping-stone, but there was none. If he wanted to reach the next tussock, he
would have to leap onto the rock first. And she was beckoning.
Maybe I can make it, he thought. Certainly she thinks I can; why else would she beckon me on?
There was no space on his current tussock to back up and get a running start, so Tim flexed his knees and broad-jumped, putting every ounce of
his strength into it. He flew over the water, saw he wasn’t going to make the rock—almost, but not quite—and stretched out his arms. He landed on
his chest and chin, the latter connecting hard enough to send bright dots flocking in front of eyes already dazzled by fairy-glow. There was a moment
to realize it wasn’t a rock he was clutching—not unless rocks breathed—and then there was a vast and filthy grunt from behind him. This was
followed by a great splash that spattered Tim’s back and neck with warm, bug-infested water.
He scrambled up on the rock that was not a rock, aware that he had lost the Widow’s lamp but still had the bag. Had he not knotted the neck of it
tightly around one wrist, he would have lost that, too. The cotton was damp but not actually soaked. At least not yet.
Then, just as he sensed the thing behind him closing in, the “rock” began to rise. He was standing on the head of some creature that had been
taking its ease in the mud and silt. Now it was fully awake and not happy. It let out a roar, and green-orange fire belched from its mouth, sizzling the
reeds poking up from the water just ahead.
Not as big as a house, no, probably not, but it’s a dragon, all right, and oh, gods, I’m standing on its head!
The creature’s exhalation lit this part of the Fagonard brightly. Tim saw the reeds bending this way and that as the critters that had been following
him made away from the dragon’s fire as fast as they could. Tim also saw one more tussock. It was a little bigger than the ones he had
hopscotched across to arrive at his current—and very perilous—location.
There was no time to worry about being eaten by an oversize cannibal fish if he landed short, or being turned into a charcoal boy by the dragon’s
next breath if he actually reached the tussock. With an inarticulate cry, Tim leaped. It was by far his longest jump, and almost too long. He had to
grab at handfuls of sawgrass to keep from tumbling off the other side and into the water. The grass was sharp, cutting into his fingers. Some
bunches were also hot and smoking from the irritated dragon’s broadside, but Tim held on. He didn’t want to think about what might be waiting for
him if he tumbled off this tiny island.
Not that his position here was safe. He rose onto his knees and looked back the way he had come. The dragon—’twas a bitch, for he could see
the pink maiden’s-comb on her head—had risen from the water, standing on her back legs. Not the size of a house, but bigger than Blackie, the
Covenant Man’s stallion. She fanned her wings twice, sending droplets in every direction and creating a breeze that blew Tim’s sweat-clotted hair
off his forehead. The sound was like his mother’s sheets on the clothesline, snapping in a brisk wind.
She was looking at him from beady, red-veined eyes. Ropes of burning saliva dropped from her jaws and hissed out when they struck the water.
Tim could see the gill high up between her plated breasts fluttering as she pulled in air to stoke the furnace in her guts. He had time to think how
strange it was—also a bit funny—that what his steppa had lied about would now become the truth. Only Tim would be the one cooked alive.
The gods must be laughing, Tim thought. And if they weren’t, the Covenant Man probably was.
With no rational consideration, Tim fell to his knees and held his hands out to the dragon, the cotton sack still swinging from his right wrist.
“Please, my lady!” he cried. “Please don’t burn me, for I was led astray and cry your pardon!”
For several moments the dragon continued to regard him, and her gill continued to pulse; her fiery spittle went on dripping and hissing. Then,
slowly—to Tim it seemed like inches at a time—she began to submerge again. Finally there was nothing left but the top of her head . . . and those
awful, staring eyes. They seemed to promise that she would not be merciful, should he choose to disturb her repose a second time. Then they were
gone, too, and once more all that Tim could see was something that might have been a rock.
“Armaneeta?” He turned around, looking for her greenglow, knowing he would not see it. She had led him deep into the Fagonard, to a place
where there were no more tussocks ahead and a dragon behind. Her job was done.
“Nothing but lies,” Tim whispered.
The Widow Smack had been right all along.
He sat down on the hummock, thinking he would cry, but there were no tears. That was fine with Tim. What good would crying do? He had
been made a fool of, and that was an end to it. He promised himself he would know better next time . . . if there was a next time. Sitting here alone in
the gloom, with the hidden moon casting an ashy glow through the overgrowth, that didn’t seem likely. The submerged things that had fled were
back. They avoided the dragon’s watery boudoir, but that still left them plenty of room to maneuver, and there could be no doubt that the sole object
of their interest was the tiny island where Tim sat. He could only hope they were fish of some kind, unable to leave the water without dying. He knew,
however, that large creatures living in water this thick and shallow were very likely air-breathers as well as water-breathers.
He watched them circle and thought, They’re getting up their courage to attack.
He was looking at death and knew it, but he was still eleven, and hungry in spite of everything. He took out the loaf, saw that only one end was
damp, and had a few bites. Then he set it aside to examine the four-shot as well as he could by the chancy moonlight and the faint phosphorescent
glow of the swampwater. It looked and felt dry enough. So did the extra shells, and Tim thought he knew a way to make sure they stayed that way.
He tore a hole in the dry half of the loaf, poked the spare bullets deep inside, plugged the cache, and put the loaf beside the bag. He hoped the bag
would dry, but he didn’t know. The air was very damp, and—
And here they came, two of them, arrowing straight for Tim’s island. He jumped to his feet and shouted the first thing to come into his head. “You
better not! You better not, cullies! There’s a gunslinger here, a true son of Gilead and the Eld, so you better not!”
He doubted if such beasts with their pea brains had the slightest idea what he was shouting—or would care if they did—but the sound of his
voice startled them, and they sheared off.
’Ware you don’t wake yon fire-maiden, Tim thought. She’s apt to rise up and crisp you just to stop the noise.
But what choice did he have?
The next time those living underwater boats came charging at him, the boy clapped his hands as well as shouted. He would have pounded on a
hollow log if he’d had a log to pound on, and Na’ar take the dragon. Tim thought that, should it come to the push, her burning death would be more
merciful than what he would suffer in the jaws of the swimming things. Certainly it would be quicker.
He wondered if the Covenant Man was somewhere close, watching this and enjoying it. Tim decided that was half-right. Watching, yes, but the
Covenant Man wouldn’t dirty his boots in this stinking swamp. He was somewhere dry and pleasant, watching the show in his silver basin with
Armaneeta circling close. Perhaps even sitting on his shoulder, her chin propped on her tiny hands.
By the time a dirty dawnlight began to creep through the overhanging trees (gnarled, moss-hung monstrosities of a sort Tim had never
seen before), his tussock was surrounded by two dozen of the circling shapes. The shortest looked to be about ten feet in length, but most were far
longer. Shouting and clapping no longer drove them away. They were going to come for him.