Dragonfruit, page 10
Sam said, after a moment, “Don’t tell me that, Hanalei. Not after all this. My mother . . .” He trailed off, distracted by the purple seadragon. He looked at the dragon, at Hanalei. He went back and forth. “She’s watching you.”
“I noticed.”
“She usually ignores the humans.” Sam’s frown deepened. “Does she . . . She knows who you are.”
“I think so, yes.” The purple dragon slipped into the water and swam toward them, lingering beneath their platform, eyes on Hanalei. The other dragons made room for her.
Sam’s breath caught as the purple dragon began to sing. “She’s never sung before,” he murmured. “None of them have.”
It was the saddest song Hanalei had ever heard. She brought the soundcatcher to her lips and breathed in, not out, capturing every mournful note. Her eyes filled with tears. When the dragon fell silent, Hanalei lowered the soundcatcher and said, “Sam. There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Prince Samahti.” Liko strode up to them. A young boy was with her, about eight years old, wearing the green uniform of a royal messenger. He was wide-eyed with excitement, nearly bouncing off his feet. “One of the tower guards spotted a dragon by the lagoon. Near Asan Rock. They’re bringing it in now.”
“Alive?” Sam asked.
At the same time, Hanalei said, “What color is it?” They looked at her. “Blue or green? Do you know? Is it alive?” Please don’t say you’ve killed a green seadragon. Please.
The boy piped up. “It’s a green seadragon, miss. There’s a big stick in its neck. Someone’s killed it.”
13
THE BIG STICK WAS A HARPOON. SAM PULLED HIS kandayo up sharply and swung off, landing directly in front of his grandmother. Before them was the lagoon—in the daylight the water so clear one could see white sand drifting along the seabed. Steep, tree-covered cliffs surrounded it, except for a narrow passage that led to the Nominomi. And lying partially on dry land, partially submerged in the shallows, was a seadragon. Its scales were the bright green of a fern. Its eyes were shut, jaws wide open, teeth like knives. A dragoner’s harpoon jutted horribly from its neck.
The sight had drawn the curious in large numbers. They gathered around the corpse—villagers, guards, guests of his grandmother’s. The men in tapa capes. The women in colorful dresses, parasols held high to shield them from the sun. Uncle Isko was there. So was his cousin Jejomar, along with friends, their fishing poles lying forgotten on the sand.
His grandmother stood well away from the seadragon beneath the shade of coconut trees. She wore a red dress and a white plumeria lei. Her gold crown was similar to his, thin and hammered. She watched Sam dismount, then said, drily, “We won’t be sailing this morning after all. No one wishes to go out on the water.”
Those with her laughed. It was an illustrious gathering of elders, the mothers and fathers of those down by the shore. Among them the kings and queens of Salamasina and Kalama. The viceroy of Sumay, a territory of faraway Langland. The ambassador of Raka, now a territory of Esperanza. His name was Lord Martin, and he was new to both his ambassadorship and the Nominomi. Sam could tell because he wore heavy black velvet and looked hot and miserable.
Sam bowed, trying not to let his anger show. A dead seadragon was a waste. His grandmother’s words had been lightly spoken, but the hard light in her eyes showed Sam his feelings were shared. “I’m sorry to hear it. Grandmother, I’ll take care of this,” meaning the seadragon.
“There’s no need. Others will see to it.” His grandmother smiled at the man beside her. King Nakoro of Salamasina was a big man with a neat gray beard. Ti leaves crowned a bald head. He wore pale blue robes and sandals decorated with gray pearls. The king had two sons and one beloved niece, Rosamie, who was over by the seadragon. “His Grace has expressed an interest in visiting the ruins at Piti,” she continued. “I’ve said you will accompany him, Samahtitamah. And anyone else who wishes, of course.”
“It’s been twenty years since I last saw those ruins,” King Nakoro said. “Remember, Samahti? What a ride we had. It feels like a good day to be in the mountains, and away from the sea.”
His grandmother looked at her friend with a slight frown. Sam had not been born twenty years ago. The king must have meant Sam’s father, who shared the same name. A simple mistake. “It will be my pleasure, Your Grace.”
“I’d like to come too.” This came from Lord William, Lord Martin’s younger brother. He was close to Sam in age. His hair was straight, fine, and gold. A vicious sunburn peeled the skin from his nose, which held up a pair of spectacles. He was skinny as a broom. Like his brother, his clothing was heavy and dark. But William at least seemed in good spirits. “I have a list of things I’d like to see.” William fished around in his vest and pulled out a crumpled bit of parchment. “Though I’m not sure I’ll have time for it all. It’s quite a long list.”
“We’ll take a look and see how far we make it,” Sam told him. “If we fall short, you’re always welcome to return.”
William beamed and thanked him. Even his brother’s severe expression softened. Sam’s grandmother gave him a look of approval before saying, “And you, Ambassador. Will you be joining them?”
Lord Martin had been invited to Tamarind because he was distantly related to the Esperanzan king. And he had a sister who was young, lovely, and unmarried. She was over by the seadragon. “I thought I might visit one of your pepper farms, Your Grace,” he said. “I’ve heard a great deal about them.”
“Certainly.” The queen’s smile was pleasant, but her eyes were shrewd. Ambassadors always wished to visit the spice farms, and to ask probing questions about production and trade routes. Things they did not need to know. Diplomacy often meant striking a delicate balance, she often told Sam. It meant being welcoming while also giving away nothing. “I will show you there myself . . .” The sound of hooves had her looking beyond Sam. Her smile faded away to nothing.
Hanalei reined in her kandayo, spraying sand everywhere, and jumped down. Sam had told her he would return. He had not expected her to follow. Liko and Bayani had come too, along with the boy messenger and half a dozen animal keepers, including Catamara.
It was the first time in ten years Hanalei had found herself in the presence of Queen Maga’lahi. But she was not looking at the queen. Or kissing her hand. Or saying any of the things that needed to be said in such company. His grandmother’s eyes flickered. A warning.
“Hanalei,” Sam said under his breath.
Hanalei pointed at the dragon. “She isn’t dead.”
“What?” Sam spun around. He saw ladies inspecting dragonscale, elders examining claws, children peering inside a wide, gaping mouth. A little girl, no older than four, sat on a man’s shoulders. She clutched the seadragon’s eyelashes with both hands, trying to lift an eyelid. Sam watched the lid rise, long enough to reveal a milky white orb, before it fell back into place.
His grandmother’s voice was sharp. “It looks quite dead, Hanaleiarihi. You are frightening my guests.”
“Your Grace, please. Look at her frill. A dragon’s frill turns black when it dies. Always. And the change happens instantaneously. Those people . . . we have to get them away from there.”
Sam saw his grandmother’s doubt and her companions’ growing alarm. The dragon’s frill was green.
Uneasy, King Nakoro said, “Young lady, what do you know about seadragons?”
Hanalei held out her hands, scars on full display. From his grandmother came the smallest indrawn breath.
Hanalei answered, “Plenty, I promise you. That dragon is alive.”
Sam had never seen a dead seadragon. He believed her. He turned on his heel and ran. “Get back,” he shouted, waving his arms over his head. “Get away from there!”
And saw that he was too late. The crowd turned his way, puzzled by the shouting. Uncle Isko spread his arms wide—What’s wrong with you?—even as the seadragon’s eyes slowly opened on their own.
For the rest of his life, Sam would relive this nightmare. The way the seadragon’s jaw came down on three children, swallowing them whole. Three child-shaped lumps moved swiftly along its throat, even as a red tongue snaked out. The man with the small girl on his shoulders attempted to flee, but the seadragon’s tongue caught the child around the shoulders, dragging her back. She disappeared, wailing, into its mouth. Stunned, the man fell to his knees. Rosamie, also, was gone. Uncle Isko shoved her companions out of the way just as the dragon turned on him. With its tongue, it scooped the lord protector into the air, rolled him tight like a rug, and gulped him down.
“Uncle!” Sam yelled. There were cries behind him and cries before him. Shrieking everywhere. A guard’s machete lay abandoned on the sand. Without stopping, Sam scooped it up.
“No!” Hanalei cried out. She was running too, not far behind him. “Don’t kill her!”
“Stay back, Hanalei!” Sam snapped.
“Sam, please. Please don’t kill her.”
The last thing he wished to do was kill a seadragon. Another glance showed Hanalei had stopped, both hands clapped over her mouth. Far behind her, guards dragged what looked to be a massive net down the beach, but they were still some distance away. Sam cursed under his breath and shoved the machete’s handle into his belt. He whipped off his cape, waving it over his head and yelling at the top of his lungs. “Seadragon! Hey! Hey! Seadragon!”
The dragon swung toward him with a hiss. The first time Sam realized it had two front legs was when it came fully out of the water, onto the sand, and started toward him. Tentatively at first, before picking up speed. Sam’s jaw sagged. Legs? Since when?
He turned and ran. Away from the crowds and his grandmother. Away from Hanalei. Giving the guards time to cast their net. He could feel the dragon getting closer, the dreadful thump slither beneath his feet. He spotted William racing by with Liko, each clutching a small child. With consternation, he saw his cousin Jejomar running in the opposite direction, toward tree cover. And he felt the hideous, wet flap of a dragon’s tongue as it whipped him on the head and sent him flying onto the sand.
Spitting, coughing, Sam rolled over to see that the dragon had stopped mere feet away. It no longer paid any attention to him. Its head had swiveled around, frill flying. Farther along the beach came the sound of dragonsong, low-pitched and sad, a mother mourning her loss. But there was no other dragon to be seen. The song came from Hanalei, who blew into her soundcatcher. The green seadragon looked at her, head tilting to one side and then the other, puzzled. And it was then that Sam saw the tender flesh beneath its chin, unprotected by scales. Grabbing the machete, he leapt, slicing cleanly. A startled grunt followed, and a long sigh. The seadragon collapsed onto the sand, as dead as his uncle and the children, as dead as all the rest.
14
“HELP ME, SAM! THERE ISN’T MUCH TIME.”
Sam knelt on the sand by the seadragon, surrounded by a terrible human keening. The pitch raised every hair on his arms. Hanalei’s words were followed by a shove to his shoulder, hard enough to jolt him from his stupor. “Time for what?”
Tears tracked their way down Hanalei’s face. She placed a gentle hand on the seadragon’s frill. It had turned black, just as she had said. Instantaneously. “Some of them were swallowed whole, and sometimes—” She glanced at his grandmother, who appeared, stricken, by their side. “Your Grace, sometimes there’s enough air for them to breathe.”
Sam exchanged a shocked glance with his grandmother. He rolled to his feet. “What do you need?”
“Others to help. As many as possible.” Hanalei backed away, surveying the dragon from frill to tail. It lay parallel to the shore. A scaled underbelly was exposed, facing the trees. “We have to cut her open. We don’t have long.”
“You there!” his grandmother addressed guards and weeping relatives alike. “Come here now.”
No one thought to disobey her. Her words, so imperiously spoken, drew dozens closer. Even the father whose little girl had been swallowed stumbled over, helped along by Bayani. An ashen-faced King Nakoro came to stand beside his grandmother. Sam could barely look at him. His niece, Rosamie, was in this dragon. William and his brother stood on Sam’s left. William’s eyes were huge behind his spectacles. Their sister was in this dragon. Hanalei waited until they had formed a half circle around her before she called out, “There’s a chance we can save them. Some of them. We need to remove her scales before we can cut her open. This way is fastest.”
Her, Sam noted, never it. Somehow Hanalei knew this seadragon was a female. He watched as she demonstrated, standing along the seadragon’s underside. Each scale was green, about the size of a human hand. There were thousands of them, one overlapping the other. Hanalei reached for a scale that was as high as her shoulders. Gripping the curved bottom of the scale, she swung it to the right in a downward arc, and then to the left. Each move made a sound, like teeth snapping together. And then she plucked it free, revealing the pale gray flesh beneath. “You see?” she said. “Be careful. They’re sharp.”
“Spread out,” Sam instructed when it looked as though everyone would congregate in one spot. Along with Bayani, he herded the group so that they were more evenly spaced along the corpse. Some knelt as they plucked, and others removed scales at chest level. With a grunt, Catamara lowered himself to the sand. He pulled from the very bottom. Sam returned to Hanalei’s side.
They’re sharp. Sam soon learned the truth of Hanalei’s words, wincing as a line of blood bloomed on his palm. It was not just him. Yelps and gasps erupted. His grandmother snatched her hand away from a scale long enough to glare at a bleeding thumb, then returned to her task. Hanalei’s hands were a blur as she moved down the length of the seadragon. By the time Sam tossed aside one scale, she had removed ten. And she had not cut herself once.
Suddenly, William cried, “It’s moving!”
Not the dragon itself; it was well and truly dead this time. Its belly was moving. Sam could see human forms within, writhing, twisting, knees and fists pushing against the seadragon’s flesh.
“Hurry!” Hanalei yanked two scales free. The panic in her voice, along with the sight of the desperate, kicking figures, had everyone working harder, in a frenzy.
The next minutes passed in an agonizing slowness, but the number of scales on the sand grew larger. Curses were uttered, followed by mumbled apologies to the queen, who plucked away with grim intensity. The sun blazed hot on their backs. The air was oppressive, a mingling of heat and damp and wilting plumeria. Sweat trickled down Sam’s neck. He paused long enough to toss his crown onto the sand, then shucked his tunic over his head and dropped it on top of the crown. Others followed his example; more tunics littered the sand. A heavily perspiring William removed his velvet cape. He reached over, tugged at the strings of his brother’s cape, and let it fall. Ambassador Martin did not stop plucking. His hair was plastered to his head, and his face was the red of a boiled crab shell.
Finally, Hanalei stopped. She turned to the queen and Sam, and said, quietly, “We should move them away.”
Sam knew why Hanalei wanted them gone. Blood and gore coated the seadragon’s mouth. Some may have been swallowed whole, but not all.
“I’m staying.” King Nakoro’s eyes were damp, and his hands bloodied. No one argued with him.
“Mai Mai, please.” Sam did not want her to see what happened next.
“I will go,” his grandmother stated, before raising her voice. “Everyone! Come!” She touched King Nakoro’s arm briefly, then marched away from the shore.
“My god, my god, how did this happen?” Ambassador Martin kept saying, and let his brother pull him away. Half the guards followed, herding the crowds toward a patch of shade beneath the flame trees.
“Hana, what can we do?” Sam asked.
Hanalei picked up the machete Sam had dropped on the sand. “When I cut her open, reach in. Pull out what you can.”
“How does she know all of this?” someone wondered.
Hanalei did not swing the machete. Instead she made a shallow incision several feet away from the writhing figures. She deepened the cut with quick sawing motions. What sounded like a great pent-up sigh escaped from the opening, followed by a stench that made Sam think of a thousand dead fish. He fell back a step. Several people vomited onto the sand.
“Grab the edges!” Hanalei continued to saw, sweat beading her forehead. “Pull them out!”
Sam breathed through his mouth and grabbed the top flap of skin. Bayani made a retching sound and grabbed the bottom. They pushed and pulled in opposite directions, straining. Out popped a foot. Bare, and coated in a thick purple substance that looked like ube.
Sam grabbed hold of the foot. It froze at his touch, then started to kick, desperately. Trying to avoid a blow to his face, Sam reached in with his other hand, feeling his way around dense innards, until he grasped what felt like another slippery foot. He yanked, falling backward onto the sand and pulling a body with him.
Sam rolled to his knees. It was Rosamie. Eyes wide open, drenched in purple, and coughing violently. Sam pounded her on the back.
“Rosa!” King Nakoro grabbed hold of his niece, knocking Sam out of the way.
Sam turned back to the dragon. Bayani had reached so far inside its guts that his cheek was smashed up against its skin. A second later he stumbled back, followed by a small girl. She was alive but silent, her cheeks bulging. Sam reached down and, with two fingers, cleared purple clumps from her mouth. Coughing followed, and a glad cry rose from the direction of the flame trees. The others still searched. Sam joined them, reaching in with both hands, feeling around. Sweat poured from him. Where was his uncle?
“Careful!” Hanalei warned suddenly.
The split in the dragon widened on its own, and in a sea of terrible smells and thick purple liquid came the rest of its victims, spewing onto the sand. The torrent sent Sam sprawling onto his side and landing hard on one shoulder. He staggered to his feet. Catamara pounded on backs and cleared throats and noses. Sam started to do the same, but a hand reached out of the mass and closed around his ankle. It belonged to someone trapped beneath two others. Someone who wore a thick gold band on a middle finger. The image of a shark was carved upon it. Seeing the ring, recognizing it, Sam grabbed the hand, then the arm, and pulled his uncle free.
“I noticed.”
“She usually ignores the humans.” Sam’s frown deepened. “Does she . . . She knows who you are.”
“I think so, yes.” The purple dragon slipped into the water and swam toward them, lingering beneath their platform, eyes on Hanalei. The other dragons made room for her.
Sam’s breath caught as the purple dragon began to sing. “She’s never sung before,” he murmured. “None of them have.”
It was the saddest song Hanalei had ever heard. She brought the soundcatcher to her lips and breathed in, not out, capturing every mournful note. Her eyes filled with tears. When the dragon fell silent, Hanalei lowered the soundcatcher and said, “Sam. There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Prince Samahti.” Liko strode up to them. A young boy was with her, about eight years old, wearing the green uniform of a royal messenger. He was wide-eyed with excitement, nearly bouncing off his feet. “One of the tower guards spotted a dragon by the lagoon. Near Asan Rock. They’re bringing it in now.”
“Alive?” Sam asked.
At the same time, Hanalei said, “What color is it?” They looked at her. “Blue or green? Do you know? Is it alive?” Please don’t say you’ve killed a green seadragon. Please.
The boy piped up. “It’s a green seadragon, miss. There’s a big stick in its neck. Someone’s killed it.”
13
THE BIG STICK WAS A HARPOON. SAM PULLED HIS kandayo up sharply and swung off, landing directly in front of his grandmother. Before them was the lagoon—in the daylight the water so clear one could see white sand drifting along the seabed. Steep, tree-covered cliffs surrounded it, except for a narrow passage that led to the Nominomi. And lying partially on dry land, partially submerged in the shallows, was a seadragon. Its scales were the bright green of a fern. Its eyes were shut, jaws wide open, teeth like knives. A dragoner’s harpoon jutted horribly from its neck.
The sight had drawn the curious in large numbers. They gathered around the corpse—villagers, guards, guests of his grandmother’s. The men in tapa capes. The women in colorful dresses, parasols held high to shield them from the sun. Uncle Isko was there. So was his cousin Jejomar, along with friends, their fishing poles lying forgotten on the sand.
His grandmother stood well away from the seadragon beneath the shade of coconut trees. She wore a red dress and a white plumeria lei. Her gold crown was similar to his, thin and hammered. She watched Sam dismount, then said, drily, “We won’t be sailing this morning after all. No one wishes to go out on the water.”
Those with her laughed. It was an illustrious gathering of elders, the mothers and fathers of those down by the shore. Among them the kings and queens of Salamasina and Kalama. The viceroy of Sumay, a territory of faraway Langland. The ambassador of Raka, now a territory of Esperanza. His name was Lord Martin, and he was new to both his ambassadorship and the Nominomi. Sam could tell because he wore heavy black velvet and looked hot and miserable.
Sam bowed, trying not to let his anger show. A dead seadragon was a waste. His grandmother’s words had been lightly spoken, but the hard light in her eyes showed Sam his feelings were shared. “I’m sorry to hear it. Grandmother, I’ll take care of this,” meaning the seadragon.
“There’s no need. Others will see to it.” His grandmother smiled at the man beside her. King Nakoro of Salamasina was a big man with a neat gray beard. Ti leaves crowned a bald head. He wore pale blue robes and sandals decorated with gray pearls. The king had two sons and one beloved niece, Rosamie, who was over by the seadragon. “His Grace has expressed an interest in visiting the ruins at Piti,” she continued. “I’ve said you will accompany him, Samahtitamah. And anyone else who wishes, of course.”
“It’s been twenty years since I last saw those ruins,” King Nakoro said. “Remember, Samahti? What a ride we had. It feels like a good day to be in the mountains, and away from the sea.”
His grandmother looked at her friend with a slight frown. Sam had not been born twenty years ago. The king must have meant Sam’s father, who shared the same name. A simple mistake. “It will be my pleasure, Your Grace.”
“I’d like to come too.” This came from Lord William, Lord Martin’s younger brother. He was close to Sam in age. His hair was straight, fine, and gold. A vicious sunburn peeled the skin from his nose, which held up a pair of spectacles. He was skinny as a broom. Like his brother, his clothing was heavy and dark. But William at least seemed in good spirits. “I have a list of things I’d like to see.” William fished around in his vest and pulled out a crumpled bit of parchment. “Though I’m not sure I’ll have time for it all. It’s quite a long list.”
“We’ll take a look and see how far we make it,” Sam told him. “If we fall short, you’re always welcome to return.”
William beamed and thanked him. Even his brother’s severe expression softened. Sam’s grandmother gave him a look of approval before saying, “And you, Ambassador. Will you be joining them?”
Lord Martin had been invited to Tamarind because he was distantly related to the Esperanzan king. And he had a sister who was young, lovely, and unmarried. She was over by the seadragon. “I thought I might visit one of your pepper farms, Your Grace,” he said. “I’ve heard a great deal about them.”
“Certainly.” The queen’s smile was pleasant, but her eyes were shrewd. Ambassadors always wished to visit the spice farms, and to ask probing questions about production and trade routes. Things they did not need to know. Diplomacy often meant striking a delicate balance, she often told Sam. It meant being welcoming while also giving away nothing. “I will show you there myself . . .” The sound of hooves had her looking beyond Sam. Her smile faded away to nothing.
Hanalei reined in her kandayo, spraying sand everywhere, and jumped down. Sam had told her he would return. He had not expected her to follow. Liko and Bayani had come too, along with the boy messenger and half a dozen animal keepers, including Catamara.
It was the first time in ten years Hanalei had found herself in the presence of Queen Maga’lahi. But she was not looking at the queen. Or kissing her hand. Or saying any of the things that needed to be said in such company. His grandmother’s eyes flickered. A warning.
“Hanalei,” Sam said under his breath.
Hanalei pointed at the dragon. “She isn’t dead.”
“What?” Sam spun around. He saw ladies inspecting dragonscale, elders examining claws, children peering inside a wide, gaping mouth. A little girl, no older than four, sat on a man’s shoulders. She clutched the seadragon’s eyelashes with both hands, trying to lift an eyelid. Sam watched the lid rise, long enough to reveal a milky white orb, before it fell back into place.
His grandmother’s voice was sharp. “It looks quite dead, Hanaleiarihi. You are frightening my guests.”
“Your Grace, please. Look at her frill. A dragon’s frill turns black when it dies. Always. And the change happens instantaneously. Those people . . . we have to get them away from there.”
Sam saw his grandmother’s doubt and her companions’ growing alarm. The dragon’s frill was green.
Uneasy, King Nakoro said, “Young lady, what do you know about seadragons?”
Hanalei held out her hands, scars on full display. From his grandmother came the smallest indrawn breath.
Hanalei answered, “Plenty, I promise you. That dragon is alive.”
Sam had never seen a dead seadragon. He believed her. He turned on his heel and ran. “Get back,” he shouted, waving his arms over his head. “Get away from there!”
And saw that he was too late. The crowd turned his way, puzzled by the shouting. Uncle Isko spread his arms wide—What’s wrong with you?—even as the seadragon’s eyes slowly opened on their own.
For the rest of his life, Sam would relive this nightmare. The way the seadragon’s jaw came down on three children, swallowing them whole. Three child-shaped lumps moved swiftly along its throat, even as a red tongue snaked out. The man with the small girl on his shoulders attempted to flee, but the seadragon’s tongue caught the child around the shoulders, dragging her back. She disappeared, wailing, into its mouth. Stunned, the man fell to his knees. Rosamie, also, was gone. Uncle Isko shoved her companions out of the way just as the dragon turned on him. With its tongue, it scooped the lord protector into the air, rolled him tight like a rug, and gulped him down.
“Uncle!” Sam yelled. There were cries behind him and cries before him. Shrieking everywhere. A guard’s machete lay abandoned on the sand. Without stopping, Sam scooped it up.
“No!” Hanalei cried out. She was running too, not far behind him. “Don’t kill her!”
“Stay back, Hanalei!” Sam snapped.
“Sam, please. Please don’t kill her.”
The last thing he wished to do was kill a seadragon. Another glance showed Hanalei had stopped, both hands clapped over her mouth. Far behind her, guards dragged what looked to be a massive net down the beach, but they were still some distance away. Sam cursed under his breath and shoved the machete’s handle into his belt. He whipped off his cape, waving it over his head and yelling at the top of his lungs. “Seadragon! Hey! Hey! Seadragon!”
The dragon swung toward him with a hiss. The first time Sam realized it had two front legs was when it came fully out of the water, onto the sand, and started toward him. Tentatively at first, before picking up speed. Sam’s jaw sagged. Legs? Since when?
He turned and ran. Away from the crowds and his grandmother. Away from Hanalei. Giving the guards time to cast their net. He could feel the dragon getting closer, the dreadful thump slither beneath his feet. He spotted William racing by with Liko, each clutching a small child. With consternation, he saw his cousin Jejomar running in the opposite direction, toward tree cover. And he felt the hideous, wet flap of a dragon’s tongue as it whipped him on the head and sent him flying onto the sand.
Spitting, coughing, Sam rolled over to see that the dragon had stopped mere feet away. It no longer paid any attention to him. Its head had swiveled around, frill flying. Farther along the beach came the sound of dragonsong, low-pitched and sad, a mother mourning her loss. But there was no other dragon to be seen. The song came from Hanalei, who blew into her soundcatcher. The green seadragon looked at her, head tilting to one side and then the other, puzzled. And it was then that Sam saw the tender flesh beneath its chin, unprotected by scales. Grabbing the machete, he leapt, slicing cleanly. A startled grunt followed, and a long sigh. The seadragon collapsed onto the sand, as dead as his uncle and the children, as dead as all the rest.
14
“HELP ME, SAM! THERE ISN’T MUCH TIME.”
Sam knelt on the sand by the seadragon, surrounded by a terrible human keening. The pitch raised every hair on his arms. Hanalei’s words were followed by a shove to his shoulder, hard enough to jolt him from his stupor. “Time for what?”
Tears tracked their way down Hanalei’s face. She placed a gentle hand on the seadragon’s frill. It had turned black, just as she had said. Instantaneously. “Some of them were swallowed whole, and sometimes—” She glanced at his grandmother, who appeared, stricken, by their side. “Your Grace, sometimes there’s enough air for them to breathe.”
Sam exchanged a shocked glance with his grandmother. He rolled to his feet. “What do you need?”
“Others to help. As many as possible.” Hanalei backed away, surveying the dragon from frill to tail. It lay parallel to the shore. A scaled underbelly was exposed, facing the trees. “We have to cut her open. We don’t have long.”
“You there!” his grandmother addressed guards and weeping relatives alike. “Come here now.”
No one thought to disobey her. Her words, so imperiously spoken, drew dozens closer. Even the father whose little girl had been swallowed stumbled over, helped along by Bayani. An ashen-faced King Nakoro came to stand beside his grandmother. Sam could barely look at him. His niece, Rosamie, was in this dragon. William and his brother stood on Sam’s left. William’s eyes were huge behind his spectacles. Their sister was in this dragon. Hanalei waited until they had formed a half circle around her before she called out, “There’s a chance we can save them. Some of them. We need to remove her scales before we can cut her open. This way is fastest.”
Her, Sam noted, never it. Somehow Hanalei knew this seadragon was a female. He watched as she demonstrated, standing along the seadragon’s underside. Each scale was green, about the size of a human hand. There were thousands of them, one overlapping the other. Hanalei reached for a scale that was as high as her shoulders. Gripping the curved bottom of the scale, she swung it to the right in a downward arc, and then to the left. Each move made a sound, like teeth snapping together. And then she plucked it free, revealing the pale gray flesh beneath. “You see?” she said. “Be careful. They’re sharp.”
“Spread out,” Sam instructed when it looked as though everyone would congregate in one spot. Along with Bayani, he herded the group so that they were more evenly spaced along the corpse. Some knelt as they plucked, and others removed scales at chest level. With a grunt, Catamara lowered himself to the sand. He pulled from the very bottom. Sam returned to Hanalei’s side.
They’re sharp. Sam soon learned the truth of Hanalei’s words, wincing as a line of blood bloomed on his palm. It was not just him. Yelps and gasps erupted. His grandmother snatched her hand away from a scale long enough to glare at a bleeding thumb, then returned to her task. Hanalei’s hands were a blur as she moved down the length of the seadragon. By the time Sam tossed aside one scale, she had removed ten. And she had not cut herself once.
Suddenly, William cried, “It’s moving!”
Not the dragon itself; it was well and truly dead this time. Its belly was moving. Sam could see human forms within, writhing, twisting, knees and fists pushing against the seadragon’s flesh.
“Hurry!” Hanalei yanked two scales free. The panic in her voice, along with the sight of the desperate, kicking figures, had everyone working harder, in a frenzy.
The next minutes passed in an agonizing slowness, but the number of scales on the sand grew larger. Curses were uttered, followed by mumbled apologies to the queen, who plucked away with grim intensity. The sun blazed hot on their backs. The air was oppressive, a mingling of heat and damp and wilting plumeria. Sweat trickled down Sam’s neck. He paused long enough to toss his crown onto the sand, then shucked his tunic over his head and dropped it on top of the crown. Others followed his example; more tunics littered the sand. A heavily perspiring William removed his velvet cape. He reached over, tugged at the strings of his brother’s cape, and let it fall. Ambassador Martin did not stop plucking. His hair was plastered to his head, and his face was the red of a boiled crab shell.
Finally, Hanalei stopped. She turned to the queen and Sam, and said, quietly, “We should move them away.”
Sam knew why Hanalei wanted them gone. Blood and gore coated the seadragon’s mouth. Some may have been swallowed whole, but not all.
“I’m staying.” King Nakoro’s eyes were damp, and his hands bloodied. No one argued with him.
“Mai Mai, please.” Sam did not want her to see what happened next.
“I will go,” his grandmother stated, before raising her voice. “Everyone! Come!” She touched King Nakoro’s arm briefly, then marched away from the shore.
“My god, my god, how did this happen?” Ambassador Martin kept saying, and let his brother pull him away. Half the guards followed, herding the crowds toward a patch of shade beneath the flame trees.
“Hana, what can we do?” Sam asked.
Hanalei picked up the machete Sam had dropped on the sand. “When I cut her open, reach in. Pull out what you can.”
“How does she know all of this?” someone wondered.
Hanalei did not swing the machete. Instead she made a shallow incision several feet away from the writhing figures. She deepened the cut with quick sawing motions. What sounded like a great pent-up sigh escaped from the opening, followed by a stench that made Sam think of a thousand dead fish. He fell back a step. Several people vomited onto the sand.
“Grab the edges!” Hanalei continued to saw, sweat beading her forehead. “Pull them out!”
Sam breathed through his mouth and grabbed the top flap of skin. Bayani made a retching sound and grabbed the bottom. They pushed and pulled in opposite directions, straining. Out popped a foot. Bare, and coated in a thick purple substance that looked like ube.
Sam grabbed hold of the foot. It froze at his touch, then started to kick, desperately. Trying to avoid a blow to his face, Sam reached in with his other hand, feeling his way around dense innards, until he grasped what felt like another slippery foot. He yanked, falling backward onto the sand and pulling a body with him.
Sam rolled to his knees. It was Rosamie. Eyes wide open, drenched in purple, and coughing violently. Sam pounded her on the back.
“Rosa!” King Nakoro grabbed hold of his niece, knocking Sam out of the way.
Sam turned back to the dragon. Bayani had reached so far inside its guts that his cheek was smashed up against its skin. A second later he stumbled back, followed by a small girl. She was alive but silent, her cheeks bulging. Sam reached down and, with two fingers, cleared purple clumps from her mouth. Coughing followed, and a glad cry rose from the direction of the flame trees. The others still searched. Sam joined them, reaching in with both hands, feeling around. Sweat poured from him. Where was his uncle?
“Careful!” Hanalei warned suddenly.
The split in the dragon widened on its own, and in a sea of terrible smells and thick purple liquid came the rest of its victims, spewing onto the sand. The torrent sent Sam sprawling onto his side and landing hard on one shoulder. He staggered to his feet. Catamara pounded on backs and cleared throats and noses. Sam started to do the same, but a hand reached out of the mass and closed around his ankle. It belonged to someone trapped beneath two others. Someone who wore a thick gold band on a middle finger. The image of a shark was carved upon it. Seeing the ring, recognizing it, Sam grabbed the hand, then the arm, and pulled his uncle free.
