I have to say I’d made unbelievable time. That sounds like bragging but it’s important for what happened. I got to Pine Tor and it was still afternoon. I stood there, panting, looking around, like I was looking for a Rangers’ mark, except I’d already found the one that was there. I wasn’t even very interested in the fact that Pine Tor itself looked just like Grace’s—Billy’s wife—drawing of it and so it was like I had seen it before. It was like I was waiting….
Waiting….
I knew what the smell was immediately, even though I’d never smelled it before. The wind was blowing away from me or I’d’ve smelled it a lot sooner. My head snapped around like a dog’s and I set off toward it, like it was pulling me, like it was a rope around my neck being yanked. No, first I stopped and took a very close look at where I was. Pine Tor is big, and I needed to be able to find not just it again, but the right side of it. I was about to set off cross country, away from the Rangers’ trail and the Rangers’ marks—the thing I was above all expressly forbidden to do—and I had to be able to find my way back. Which proves that at least some of my brain cells were working.
It wasn’t very far, and when I got there I was glad the wind was blowing away from me. The smell was overwhelming. But then everything about it was overwhelming. I can’t tell you…and I’m not going to try. It’ll be hard enough, even now, just telling a little.
It was a dead—or rather a dying—dragon. She lay there, bleeding, dying, nearly as big as Pine Tor. Stinking. And pathetic. And horrible. She wasn’t dying for any good reason. She was dying because somebody—some poacher—some poacher in Smokehill—had killed her. If everything else hadn’t been so overpowering that alone would have stopped me cold.
I was seeing my first dragon up close. And she was mutilated and dying.
She’d got him too, although it was too late for her. When I saw him—what was left of him—I threw up. It was completely automatic, like blinking or sneezing. He was way beyond horrible but he wasn’t pathetic. I was glad he was dead. I was just sorry I’d seen him. It.
There were a couple of thoughts trying to go through my head as I stood there, gasping and shaking. (I was shaking so hard I could barely stand up, and suddenly my knapsack weighed so much and hung on my back so clumsily it was going to make me fall down.) We don’t have poachers at Smokehill. The fence keeps most of them out; even little half-hearted attempts to breach it make a lot of alarms go off back at the Rangers’ headquarters and we’re allowed to call out a couple of National Guard helicopters if enough of those alarms go off in the same place. (Some other time I’ll tell you about getting helicopters through the gate.) It’s happened twice in my lifetime. No one has ever made it through or over the fence before a helicopter has got there—no one ever had. Occasionally someone manages to get through the gate, but the Rangers always find them before they do any damage—sometimes they’re glad to be found. Even big-game-hunter-type major assho—idiots sometimes find Smokehill a little too much. I’d never heard of anyone killing a dragon in Smokehill—ever—and this wasn’t the sort of thing Dad wouldn’t have told me, and it was the sort of thing I’d asked. Nor, of course, would he have let me do my solo if there was any even vague rumor of poachers or big-game idiots planning to have a try.
The other thing that was in my head was how I knew she was female: because of her color. One of the few things we know about dragon births is that Mom turns an all-over red-vermilion-maroon-with-orange-bits during the process, and dragons are green-gold-brown-black mostly, with sometimes a little red or blue or orange but not much. Even the zoos had noticed the color change. Old Pete had taken very careful notes about his mom dragons, and he thought it was something to do with getting the fire lit in the babies’ stomachs. It’s as good a guess as any.
But that was why the poacher’d been able to get close to her, maybe. Dragons—even dragons—are probably a little more vulnerable when they’re giving birth. Apparently this one hadn’t had anyone else around to help her. I didn’t know why. Old Pete thought a birthing mom always had a few midwives around.
You don’t go near a dying dragon. They can fry you after they’re dead. The reflex that makes chickens run around after their heads are cut off makes dragons cough fire. Quite a few people have died this way, including one zookeeper. I suppose I wasn’t thinking about that. I was thinking about the fact that she was dying, and that her babies were going to die because they had no mother, and that she’d know that. I boomeranged into thinking about my own mother again. They wanted to tell us, when they found her, that she must have died instantly. Seems to me, if she really did fall down that cliff, she’d’ve had time to think about it that Dad and I were going to be really miserable without her.
How do I know what a mother dragon thinks or doesn’t think? But it was just so sad. I couldn’t bear it. I went up to her. Went up to her head, which was like nearly as big as a Ranger’s cabin. She watched me coming. She watched me. I had to walk up most of the length of her body, so I had to walk past her babies, these little blobs that were baby dragons. They were born and everything. But they were already dead. So she was dying knowing her babies were already dead. I’d started to cry and I didn’t even know it.
When I was standing next to her head I didn’t know what to do. It was all way too unreal to want to like pet her—pet a dragon, what a not-good idea—and even though I’d sort of forgotten that she could still do to me what she’d done to the poacher, I didn’t try to touch her. I just stood there like a moron. I nearly touched her after all though because I was still shaking so hard I could hardly stay on my feet. Balance yourself by leaning against a dragon, right. I crossed my arms over my front and reached under the opposite elbows so I could grab my knapsack straps with my hands like I was holding myself together. Maybe I was.
The eye I could see had moved slowly, following me, and now it stared straight at me. Never mind the fire risk, being stared at by a dragon—by an eye the size of a wheel on a tour bus—is scary. The pupil goes on and on to the end of the universe and then around to the beginning too, and there are landscapes in the iris. Or cavescapes. Wild, dreamy, magical caves, full of curlicue mazes where you could get lost and never come out and not mind. And it’s hot. I was sweating. Maybe with fear (and with being sick), but with the heat of her staring too.