Beautiful Blood

It was such a simple answer that he was tempted to reject it on the grounds of simplicity, assuming that a solution so obvious must have flaws—but his only question was whether or not a small dose would produce the same effects created by the massive dose he had absorbed. When he could detect none other, he addressed the ethical considerations. Setting the plan in motion would be an abrogation of his medical oath, malfeasance of the highest order…yet was adherence to an oath more ethically persuasive than funding his research? Toward dawn, the effects of the dragon’s blood ebbing, Rosacher experienced irritability, a symptom such as might attach to a withdrawal; yet this soon vanished, though his feeling of contentment and well-being remained. He wondered if whether the irritability might be due to the size of the dose with which he had been injected. If the blood were not physically addictive, that might be an impediment to his plan. But then he realized that a psychological addiction would be more than sufficient for the purposes. The populace of Morningshade, powerless and possessed of no legitimate prospects, would pay dearly to see their hovels transformed into palaces, their lovers into sexual ideals, and they had no will—none he had noticed, at any rate—to resist temptation, whatever toll it might extract.

3

The town of Teocinte spread from the dragon’s side to sprawl across a substantial portion of the Carbonales Valley, flowing over a lumpy hill (known as Haver’s Roost, referring to an inn once situated there) that bulged up from the valley floor, atop which stood the white buildings of government and a church under construction—from this point continued to spread in all directions for a mile and more, giving out into clusters of ramshackle structures no less derelict than those of Morningshade; yet while Griaule’s paralysis was a condition of apparent permanence, no one had yet chosen to build upon the ground close by his head, doubtless unsettled by the prospect of walking out their door and seeing the dragon’s gaping mouth the first thing each morning. Thus the area remained overgrown by stands of palmettos interspersed with shrimp plants and wild hibiscus, acacias, banana and thorn trees.

Standing amid the brush at dusk three days after the encounter with Myrie and Arthur, Rosacher came to appreciate that Myrie might have underestimated the worth of his labors. Viewed from a hundred feet away, Griaule’s head, lowered to the ground, towered above all, looking in its grotesque conformation to be the fantastic conceit of a master builder, an improbable construction that transformed the entrance to a palace into an immense bestial image. The golden scales below the sagittal crest gleamed dully, holding the last of the sun, and one eye, visible beneath the bulge of the orbital ridge, showed black, as if the socket were empty. Framed by the upraised snout and twisted fangs, each as tall as a sabal palm and so festooned with moss that they had the appearance of scrimshaw, the cavern of Griaule’s throat might have been a gateway into the nether regions.

It was cold, as cold as ever it got in the valley, and Rosacher’s breath steamed. As the light faded he began to hear noises issuing from the mouth, perhaps from even deeper within the dragon’s body, belonging to the creatures that wintered there: the ululations of frogs, bats shrilling, and hoarse, strangely exultant cries that he was unable to identify. The shadows merged into true night and insects announced its onset with a whining sizzle. His mind ached with fear, yet he forced himself to move toward Griaule, having to throw his legs forward, his pack bumping against his shoulders like a second, slower heart.