Dagger Key and Other Stories

The longer he contemplated the prospect of dying, the more eager to have done with life he became. What did he have to look forward to? A few uneventful years followed by the loss of his physical powers? Assaults by younger, stronger men who would rob him and leave him destitute? And that would not be the worst of it. Exhilaration turned to something approaching glee and he increased his pace. Twigs stabbed at him, abrading his skin, but he ignored the pain. He remembered another occasion on which he had felt a similar measure of…what? Enthusiasm? Vitality?

Delirium.

That was the word, he thought.

It was a feeling very like the one he had experienced at the harbormaster’s house in Port Chantay.

Sobered by an awareness of this connection, he slowed to a walk, mulling it over, wondering if what he felt, then and now, might be an indication of mental infirmity or some physical ailment. He was still considering this notion when he slapped aside a pine bough and stepped into a clearing where stood a slender woman with bronze skin, long black hair falling to the small of her back, and wearing not a stitch of clothing.

The woman was so startling a sight, Hota’s initial reaction was one of disbelief. He imagined her to be part of his delirium, or perhaps a further trick of Griaule’s. She was half-turned away, a hand to her cheek, as if she had been struck by a remembrance. A pattern of dark irregular lines covered her body. Like, he thought, a sketch of reptilian scales. He first believed the lines to be a tattoo, but then noticed they were growing fainter every second, and he recalled that the scales of the female dragon had been the exact shade of bronze as the woman’s skin. On hearing his choked outcry, she glanced at him over her shoulder, displaying no indication of fear such as might be expected of a naked woman alone when surprised by a man of his threatening appearance. She remained motionless, calmly regarding, and Hota, unable to accept what he was tempted to believe—that here stood the dragon he had sought, transformed somehow—was torn between the desire to flee and the need to know more about her. In a matter of seconds the lines on her skin faded utterly and, as if this signaled the completion of a process that had restrained her, she turned to face him and said in a dry, dusty voice, “Hota.”

The sound of his name on her lips, freighted with a touch of menace, or so he heard it, spurred him to flight. Unwilling to look away from her, he took a backward step, tried to run, but stumbled, and went sprawling onto his belly. He scrambled to one knee and found her standing above him.

“Are you afraid?” she asked, tipping her head to the side.

Her eyes were dark, the irises large, leaving room for scarcely any white and her face, with its sharp cheekbones and full lips and delicate nose, was too perfect, lifeless, as might be an uninspired artist’s rendering. She repeated her question and, like her face, her voice was empty of human temper. The question seemed pragmatic, as if she were unfamiliar with fear and was hoping to identify its symptoms. Though she looked to be a mature woman, not a girl, her breasts and hips and belly betrayed no marks of age or usage.

Hota sank back into a sitting position, dumbstruck.

“There’s no reason to fear. We have a road to travel, you and I.” A cloud passed across the sun; the woman looked up sharply, scanning the sky, and then said, “I’ll need some clothing.”

Somewhat reassured, Hota edged away from her and got to his feet. He gave thought again to running, but recalled being lost among the thickets and decided that running would probably do him no good.

“Did you hear?” she asked, and again her words conveyed no sense of impatience or anger. “I need clothing.”

Hota framed a question of his own, but was too daunted to speak.

“Your name is Hota, isn’t it?” the woman asked.

“Yes.” He licked his lips, tried to dredge up the courage to ask his question, failed, and succeeded only in making a confused noise.

“Magali,” said the woman, and touched the slope of a breast. “My name is Magali.”

He could detect nothing of her mood. It was as if she were hidden inside a beautiful shell, her true self muffled. She waited for him to speak and finally, when he kept silent she said, “You know me. Is that what’s troubling you?”

“I’ve never seen you before,” Hota said.

“But you know me. You saw me fly. You saw me while I was yet changing.”

This, though it was the answer to his unasked question, only confounded him further and he merely shook his head in response.

“How can you not believe it? You saw what you saw,” she said. “You have nothing to fear from me. I’m a woman now. My flesh is as yours.” She reached out and took his hand. Her palm was warm. “Do you understand?”

“No…I…” He shook his head vigorously. “No.”

“You will in time.” She released his hand. “Now can you bring me some clothing?”

“There are no shops that sell women’s clothes in Teocinte.”

“Borrow some…or bring me some of your own.”