The Cherophobe

Chapter 1 - The Lily

Arthur the Purple and Amber was a dragon in a rut.

In the mornings he sat in his cave breakfasting on brown nettles. He gave no thought to his surroundings. He swept the floor with a tumbleweed broom, captured any insects that scurried away and stored them for lunch. While morning was still early he walked out along the cliff's edge, following a path that required no navigational attention. He stretched his wings as he stepped, as prescribed for sedentary dragons. This was to prevent his fins from adhering to each other. He trudged up the steep rocky steps to an ice patch where he blew short bursts of his fiery breath, melting a tiny river down to the natural basin formed by the stony landscape. Occasionally he spied other dragons, young and flying high, giddy in the mountain air and the adventure of the hunt. He had no truck with them. Flying only served to remind him how small his world was, and he had lost his taste for meat.

One day, he returned home to see something he had never seen before. A light green shoot was poking through a crack in the basin. The color was different from the range of browns and reds he knew. Perhaps it was a trick of the imagination? He considered eating it. How different it would be from the scrub brush and nettles that stuck in his teeth and pierced his tongue and cheeks. But as he looked upon the little plant with its hopeful color and utter vulnerability in the stony ground, he felt such overpowering tenderness for it he had to grit his teeth. He decided rather than eating it he would protect it from the harsh environment. He found some stones and created a shelter around it.

For the next few days, he awoke eager to check each stage of the plant’s growth. When a tiny bloom appeared he nearly set it on fire in his exclamation of excitement. This bloom became over time an exquisite lily, its petals a white so bright he could see it in the moonlight when he peeked at it from his cave at night. He was loathe to leave it for his daily work, but knew he and the lily needed water to survive.

One morning Arthur arrived to see an astonishing transformation. A delicate face was pressing out of the lily. He blew gently, and the flower face bobbed in the tropical breeze he made. She slowly opened her eyes and he felt his heart squeeze as he recognized the color of the spring shoot in her irises. The rest of her body materialized top to bottom until she was twice the height she had been as a lily and the width and shape of a maiden. Her flower petals transformed into a child-sized human head. Two leaves that had grown at the base of the long stock curled into fiddleheads and became feet. Two more fronds became long, green arms. She was no longer rooted to the stone. Her hair retained the white luminescence of the lily petals, and her skin was a cool forest green.

As she focused her bright green eyes on him, Arthur became uncomfortably aware of his body and its imperfections. He stepped back, feeling the heat rise under his arms. The scales on his back begin to itch. He reached a claw back and discretely scratched.

She opened her mouth, startling him with a wordless tune. He sat back on his haunches, mesmerized, unsure where to look.

She stepped forward on her shaky new legs. She was just tall enough to reach the top of his head while he was seated. She placed her hand on his head, gently pressing it to indicate he should lower himself onto his front claws. He did and she slid onto his back and squeezed him with her heels. He started, uncertain if this was affection, and if so, how to return the sign.

Again, she squeezed, leaning forward, and he realized she was urging him to take flight.

Together they soared off the cliff face, eyes closed in the brilliance of the sun. He swooped low, then ascended at exhilarating speed to the top of the mountain. As they approached the summit, she resumed singing her strange song. Though he still did not recognize any words, he began to sense she was communicating with him. He felt her song like a violinist drawing a bow across his heart. The crescendo rose and peaked as they topped the mountain. Before them spread the magnificent sky and valley.

She uttered stuttering, guttural sounds and he knew she was moved by their smallness in the vast space. He wanted to tell her he saw it too -- the immensity of the world and the beauty of life. He perceived the colors, deep blue sky, rich red rock, the green of the valley. It all came to him in a shock. They hovered in the air and he realized he could show her his joy. He swooped down and looped around.

She responded with a new tune that again resonated across his heart. Yes.

They flew for hours. He showed her his ice patch, riding close to the ground so their feet and legs felt the cool air while the sun shone dry and hot on their heads. She sang a twittering birdlike song that bubbled in his ears. He responded by playfully bucking and she held tightly to his neck, changing to a low, chastising note. He banked hard to the west to glide past the other dragons and display his beautiful strange lily. They stopped midair to gawk at him and he pretended to ignore them while a proud smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. She did not speak, and he was comfortable with the silence. He showed her his birthplace and the hillside where he had first practiced flying as an adolescent. The companionable squeeze of her heels in response was a balm to his heretofore singular existence. He was certain she understood his feelings and he loved her for it. She sang a soft melody. He glided, gently rocking side to side, matching her swinging rhythm.

After hours of this unaccustomed activity he could no longer flap his wings. He brought her to her basin and she descended, kissing his neck tenderly before dropping to sleep in the stony pool. He gathered some strands of her hair that had fallen and went to bed holding them like a bouquet, reliving the day and plotting out new places to show her.

The next morning he arose excited with his plans. He could fly her down to the valley where there were flowers she'd probably like to see. He wondered if she had family, maybe siblings who would like a ride on a dragon! He hummed one the songs she had sung the day before and splashed some water on his face before he dashed out to see her.

But alas, in spite of her human form she had the lifespan of a cut flower. He stared in disbelief at her wilted form in the basin, covered in the cool water he had made for her. He returned to his lair in a numb stupor, lay down on his sleeping ledge and stared blankly at the empty cave. He remained there, drained of energy, his head too heavy to lift, until he fell into a dreamless sleep.

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Arthur rolled away from the light of the morning sun, He stared at the dark wall of the cave, dreading the idea of getting up. He didn’t want to pass the place where his beloved flower had bloomed. Even if he could, the prospect of spending the day melting ice was so horrible, he could not even touch it with his mind. It wasn’t just the loss of love he was suffering. He had now experienced joy, excitement, and a brief respite from loneliness. This left a stark contrast. He had been awakened. Even his routine was no longer his.

The sunlight crept along the floor of the cave, closer and closer to his ledge until by mid morning, a wide shaft of it was baking the spines down the middle of his back and tail. He was never there at this hour and hadn’t realized the cave received so much sunlight during the day. It was quiet. He became aware of the sound of water dripping. He tried counting the drops, to see if it would make him sleepy, but this only served to make him anxious; the drops seemed relentless.

Enough!

For the second time in two days, and in many years, he did something unexpected. He rolled off his ledge, rummaged in his cubby, and pulled out a sturdy burlap cloth. On this he laid what remained of his stock of thistles and a wineskin which he filled from his water supply. Binding up the cloth, he slung it over his back and lumbered down the path along the edge of the cliff. Behind him, his cave gaped. The great rocky wall where he had toiled for so many years with neither happiness, sorrow nor friendship, shone in the bright sunlight. He did not turn around.

His wings were sore from the long flight the day before, and he unfurled them gingerly as he plodded along. He was careful not to spread them out completely, since he wanted no reminders of yesterday’s joyful soaring. Yet the small pulses comforted him, even while they hurt his aching muscles. He welcomed the discomfort.

Around mid-day, he came to a tall thistle. He stopped to collect the seed pods, eating a few before adding them to the collection in his sack. He took out the wineskin and eased himself to the ground for a short drink of water and a break. Looking down, he saw the yellow head of a small dandelion that he had almost sat upon. Although his acquaintance with flowers was limited (he’d met just the one), he still felt this was an inferior breed. He picked the entire plant, roots and all, and gave the leaves a nibble. They were soft and bitter, but tasty. The flower head was odd, and then suddenly painful. He spat it out, along with a small bee that had only moments before been passing a pleasant afternoon within the petals of the dandelion. His eyes welled up, and he felt something he had been holding inside crack open. He let out a mighty roar. Flames and smoke billowed out of his mouth as he howled and rocked on his haunches. 

2 - Morty’s pants

Morty despised walking. He’d had plenty of experience marching behind a hundred other men in the battalion and did not want to add to it now that he was alone. Unfortunately, he had a long way to go, and only one way to get there. He kept his eye on the path as it veered close to the steep drop of the cliff edge. Why anyone would make this path so close to the cliff was beyond him. Perhaps they liked the view, or a break in the monotony. He imagined small rodents racing along single file, an unlucky one tripping and flying out into space while the others stopped to watch in horror, and in guilty relief from boredom.

Deep in his thoughts as he was, the scent came to his attention slowly, subtly evoking the campfires of the campaigns. His mind unwittingly responded by drifting to reminisce about his comrades. Then the scent became more pronounced and his conscious mind gave him a poke. Hello there he said to himself, what have we here?

Down the hill ahead of him arose a waft of smoke. Warily, he stepped into the brush away from the cliff edge, circling around the unseen origin of the increasing plumes. The gorse was full of prickers that caught on his clothing, but his attention was on the fire. After about fifty paces, he’d gotten far enough down the hill to hear keening through the scrub. A long howl startled him, and he crouched down as it turned into entreaty.

“Why? Why?” it called, devolving into sobs.

Morty had a bad feeling about this. His gut, his training and his fear told him to get out of there, and fast. Another howl erupted and he crouched, prepared to bolt. But his cursed curiosity stayed his feet. Whatever was making this racket, weeping with abandon, it was large. He crept a few paces closer until through the grass and scrub he saw the amber scales of a mature dragon, shuddering with its head between its front claws. Every great cry was accompanied by flames. The brush was ablaze.

Morty was confounded. He’d seen dragons in the distance before, working at the glacier, and he’d been fascinated by their busy flight. He’d even watched, unable to look away as one of them swooped down on a young wolf on the mesa and carried it aloft to its mountainous lair. He had never considered these beings as having emotions, no more than he thought about the amorous intentions of the rocks that made up the cliff side. When he’d observed the dragons, he had entertained only one thought: Flight. What would it be like to perch high on the shoulders of one of these mammoth lizards, right at the top where the spines rounded off, and hold onto the thick neck as the beast pumped its great wings and dove into the air, blowing its fiery breath at anything it passed!

His fascination got the better of him, and he approached the dragon.

“Hey,” he began, then jumped back as the startled beast swung its head around with a blast of flames.

“Woah there, friend,” said Morty, “Dial it back, I like these pants.”

The dragon stared.

“I got these working on a cattle farm,” continued Morty. He was never at a loss for words. “They paid me in pelts. Took me forever to find a good tanner and I had to port the stinking things around with me all summer.”

The dragon choked out a sob.

“So, I was thinking, if you’re done setting the place on fire, maybe I could hitch a ride out. You know, before my pants and I start to crisp up…”

The dragon dropped his head at this. “Go away,” he said. “I want to be alone.”

“Right. That’s a great idea, and I would love to, but unfortunately I think we’re both going to be pork chops if you don’t fly us out of here,” Morty said, pointing to the rising flames.

“I don’t fly,” said the dragon.

Morty wasn’t the type to get worried, but he really did like these pants, and the flames were growing higher. The brush wasn’t too thick here, but it was dry and he could see the potential for this wildfire to spread. He considered the problem: No water and a useless, fairly skinny dragon with the exception of its hind quarters, which were really something. He supposed that it was too late to blow the flames out, and those wings would probably be more likely to feed the fire with air than kill it. His cheeks were getting hot and he felt a drip of sweat down his back. Then he realized, this dirt was fairly soft, and that dragon’s powerful-looking legs, maybe...

“Hey, Waterworks,” Morty said to the dragon, “Stop heaving, you’re going to torch the whole land. Can you dig with those hind claws?”

The dragon looked down at them dubiously. “I don’t usually,” he said.

“See if you can scoop some dirt onto these bushes here,” said Morty. “Turn your back on it and shovel whatever you can behind you.”

The dragon stood up, scraped the ground with his front claws and flung a bit of topsoil between his hind legs and onto the bush behind him.

“No, no, not like that!” said Morty, “Like this!”

He put his hands on the ground, and pawed with his right boot to kick the dirt behind him. The dragon gave it another try, and soon was kicking a wave of dirt onto the burning scrub brush.

“That’s it!” cried Morty, drumming his hands against his legs in agitation. The dragon showed some enthusiasm in spite of his heretofore lassitude, and dug deeper into the dry ground to kick even more dirt behind him. Soon the flames were gone, and the air was full of choking dust and smoke.

The dragon sat back with a heavy thump and Morty put his arm over his mouth to breathe.

“I guess the way is clear now,” said Morty, looking at the scorched path leading down the hill. The dragon heaved a sigh and nodded.

“So, shall we leg it together?” asked Morty. “I’m heading to Abergale,” he pointed to an unseen location in the valley. “Might as well keep each other company as not, if you’re heading that way,” he added. He was still holding out hope that this dragon would give him a ride, although it looked like it wasn’t used to vigorous exercise, based on the state it was in after all that kicking.

“I don’t know,” The dragon wheezed. “I’m not sure where I’m going yet. I just need to leave this place.” He took the sack from off his back, opened it, pulled out a painful looking stem of dried prickers and surprised Morty by popping them into his mouth.

He had a drink from the wineskin, then passed it to Morty, who thanked him and said, “I’m Morty. What do they call you?”

“Arthur, the Purple and Amber,” said Arthur.

“All right, Arthur,” said Morty, “come on.”

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This has been The Cherophobe

Fiction / Fantasy age range - 10  through adult

Word count 2971 (of 11,500 in part I. Part II is in progress).

Author: Lara Bujold Clouden

Synopsis: A depressed dragon experiences joy and that opens his eyes to the wonder of the world. But all too soon the object of his love is snatched from him. He  must learn to take chances and care about life again. Fortunately, he meets a cheerful friend who can't fathom why someone who could fly would choose to walk.

Target audience: Adults who love fairy tales.

Lara Bujold Clouden 

Bio: I live and work in San Mateo, California with my husband and two children. I like pens, hiking, commuting by bike and writing letters. I have time for one of the above.

I blog under the name elbycloud at wordpress.com

I have a B.A. in Political Science.  I began writing fiction in April 2017 and have published one article with Longshot Island.

I'm from Duluth, Minnesota originally.