Waking up Poor

All the treasures this land offers lie below the burning sands, hoarded by yellow dragons. In Sakasanda, it is the enormity of the bareness that is awesome—that poverty can be so abundant. 

It is not even sunup and Scor comes running into my room.

“Momma, momma, are you going to market?” Scor asks.

“What do you want?” I say, turning back over and pulling the sheets over my head.

“Fig jam, dragon’s blood pudding, and sweet sausage. And funnel cakes,” she says, pulling up a corner and whispering her list under the top sheet. Her red hair and ruddy, freckled cheeks shine in the first rays. 

“Oh, is that all.” 

She stomps and clenches her fists and smacks them into her thighs. “Momma, I’m hungry.”

“I know mutt, but remember, we write the bad times in the sand—”

“—and the good times in stone,” she says, “I know, momma, I know.”

You know it is bad when you dream of food. With the drought, and no husband, we’ve been having a rough time. But so has everyone else. What kind of mother can’t feed her own daughter? And what kind of farming village can’t bring life to a single sprout?

There hasn’t been any rain in Sakasanda since the last of the green dragons migrated north to the Indrian Sea. Just my luck that as soon as I arrive, the place dries up and dies. I fled Litica and the Indrian Sea after Oz went away, to escape my creditors. Really, I’d hoped to make good on my debts and fantasized about my return. But every morning since I woke up poor.

I throw Scor the last handful of hard, crusty peasant bread as I grab my sword belt, my robe, and my staff and head into town.

“Momma—momma,” Scor says.

“Yes, scooter?” I say.

“Don’t take any dragon assignments,” she says, looking at my blackened left arm, from which I got my name.

“Eat your bread,” I say, slamming the door.

* * *

If the litmus test for a society is how they treat their unemployed, then Sakasanda has gone completely to the dogs.

“Next. Char,” Huck, the labor secretary grunts, getting my name right for once.

“Present. What are the assignments?” I ask.

“I hope you’ve got some sand in you,” Huck says.

“You know I do. What are the assignments?”

“Red dragons exterminator—short-term hire—pays well. Or pigsty maintenance. Permanent. Low wages. Which will it be?”

“Red dragons it is,” I tell Huck and hand him my token.

“Very well. Go to the back to receive your assignment and any gear,” he says, “next.”

Foreclosures, evictions, and assigned work all take place in the postal building. It is one of the largest buildings in town and is almost like a bazaar or marketplace.

Tatsu greets me with a hug. Tatsu has a round, wizened face and wears a red head wrap. Her skin is caramel, and her eyes blaze yellow as the midday sun, with flecks of white calcite shooting from her pupils like shocks of lightning. I have disturbed her from conning some local shoppers with three-card monte and taking “donations” in her role as a Temple volunteer. Tatsu is a raconteur and a wolf after the coin. But she also has more knowledge of dragons than anyone else in Sakasanda. Some say she herself is a shapeshifting yellow dragon—a ruler of nature itself.

“You’ll be needing a bamboo crook encased in clay and a few bags of retardant,” Tatsu says, handing me my supplies. “Will you go through with it this time?”

“It’s sad that they punish me, because of what he did,” I say.

“We do live in a land of dragons. It’s just what work is on offer. No?” Tatsu asks.

“Or it is my penance because Oz refused to kill the yellow dragon—a life sentence—where I will spend the rest of my life paying back his commission—which we haven’t seen a penny of, while he rots in a jail cell in Litia.”

“It’s only been a year, Char Char. And you know better than to think he could actually kill a yellow dragon,” she says.

“It has been a year. A year of waking up poor,” I say.

“You know, Oz is one of only maybe five people living on this earth that have ever seen a yellow dragon and lived to talk about it,” Tatsu says.

“How many rolls of peasant bread is that going to buy me at the market,” I say.

“Still writing your blessings in the sand and your sorrows in marble, I see,” Tatsu says.

“We are starving,” I tell her.

“The dragons are starving too,” Tatsu says, “And you are starting to sound like Oz, now get going.”

* * *

In the brown fields of Tara Nook, the red dragons slink into the fold, licking their black lips with forked tongues. There are about eight of them. These tiny assassins are a little bigger than mountain lions, but they sure pack a punch. And they have a taste for sheep. They’ll go through a herd of sheep in a weekend if left unchecked. 

A few of the sheep bleat and grunt, and one toward the perimeter screams like a human.

I hold out my hooked shepherd's crook, unsheathe my sword, and begin to walk the perimeter, keeping the sheep behind me. 

A nasty little bugger with black circles around his eyes hisses at me and bares its teeth. In my satchel, I have my secret weapon. The one thing that red dragons can’t stand.

I undo the drawstring and pour the contents of my satchel into the field. Two dozen Jerboah long-eared hopping mice tumble out and begin chirping and hopping on two legs like kangaroos, zigzagging in all directions. 

The dragons shriek in disgust and head for the hills. Red dragons are deathly afraid of Jerboah. Some think it is because of their dull eyesight. Others think it is because they carry deadly pathogens that can infect the lizards.

The shepherd runs out from his hovel.

“Be gone you accurs-ed de-mons! That’ll teach you bastards to run off with my sheep,” he says.

“My wages for the day,” I say, holding out my charred left hand.

“Ay, there you are,” he says handing me a purse full of coins, which if I stretch it can score us food and supplies for a week. “Now, what is the plan for the extermination?” He asks.

“I’m still working that out.”

“Come now, I didn’t put out this commission to scare the buggers off—I need the infestation dealt with once and for all,” he says.

“Do you know how many red dragons are back in that nest?” I ask.

“I don’t know, ten or twelve?” he asks.

“Try, three or four dozen,” I say. “I’ll see you back here tomorrow,” I say, “keep the torches lit and make sure the night’s watchman doesn’t doze off. Here is a bag of Jerboah in case of emergency.”

* * *

Scor comes running down the aisle and latches herself onto my leg. “Dragons, mom? I thought you said no dragons.”

“I’m sorry scooter,” I say.

“Dragon’s blood pudding?” Tatsu asks.

We all sit down at a bench outside of the Dragon’s Beard Tavern and Tatsu orders three bowls of dragon’s blood pudding. 

“So, what’s the plan for tomorrow?” Tatsu asks.

“I need to find a way to catch those red dragons and lead them away from Tara Nook,” I say.

“There’s only one thing that has power over red dragons,” she says, eating a spoonful of dragon’s blood pudding.

“I would need to trade a yellow dragon’s egg. I would need to pass the test of the Golden Warrior” I say.

“You can’t momma, you can’t, you can’t,” Scor starts crying.

“Don’t be coy with me,” Tatsu says, her eyes crackling with sparks of lightning, “You already have an egg. Now, you just need to find a lair to return it to. And that’s where I come in.”

I look into Scor’s eyes. I would never risk leaving her. But she needs food, and she needs a father. And I am a trained warrior. If anyone can pass the challenge of the Golden Warrior, if anyone can measure up, surely I must be among their number.

* * *

Back at home, I retrieve the golden egg from a locked chest and stow it in my satchel.

Scor looks at me bug-eyed and says, “I don’t understand why you are doing this, momma.”

“Oh, sweety. Do you remember when the boy had fallen into the well? After the drought had begun? What did you do?”

“I tied a rope and went down in after him,” she says.

“Exactly,” I tell her. “Because you were small enough. Because no one else could bring him back,” I say.

“But momma—there weren’t any dragons in the well,” she says.

“The hell there weren’t,” I say. “It’s just like that scooter, we are all stuck in the well now—all of us—and I’m the only one that is small enough to go down in there,” I say.

“I don’t understand, mama? You’re not small, you’re big,” Scor says.

“You know that the yellow dragon spoke to papa in the cave? You know that papa passed the test, right,” I say.

“But you could die,” Scor says.

“Or I could set everything right,” I tell her.

“But I don’t want you to go—you could die,” she says.

“I know, little one—but, if I can set everything right—isn’t that worth dying for?” I ask.

She runs back to her room. I hear rustling and then she comes running back out and brings me out a small harp in a case.

“What is this, scooter?” I ask.

“Dad said to give you this if you ever went dragon hunting,” Scor says.

“What else did he tell you?” I ask.

* * *

Tatsu and I head out into the dark of night. We have to use all of the money I earned to rent camels from a Bedouin named Sekko whom Tatsu knows from the bazaar. He leads us out to the cave by Tara Nook. 

All the while, Tatsu is saying to him, “Sekko, you must tell no one what we are doing,” and all the while he is promising, saying, “no need to raise sand—your money is enough to guarantee my silence.”

Our camels wet their lips and mew their jaws as if they could drink the dust. They crow and grunt and break the night into a symphony of otherworldly movements. 

Night flows over the sands like a river of deep purple lapping at the edge of a pier. At the horizon line, a thin haze of sand and dust paints a shoreline of deep oranges. Thin smoky clouds float above the dim alpenglow like flotsam in the currents. The moon stands over the desert and casts night shadows. Those deep pools of blackwater collect in the beds of the dunes. The Milky Way runs across the sky like a great bouquet of glistening jewels adorning a wedding arbor that towers above the heavens themselves. And row after row of twinkling stars look on like wedding guests seated in pews whose wet eyes sparkle with tears pulled down by the image of the bride in all her glory.

The cave glows from within. It crackles with energy and flame. It calls me in with a pull that can only be described as love. I know that what I want lies within, and the answers that I need are just past the threshold.

Tatsu says, “The yellow dragons are guardians. They live thousands of years. Elusive hermits. They speak words that fork lightning—"

“—A mind that can penetrate your very thoughts—” I say.

“—Like the soul of the desert itself, they rule over all other dragons and all other creatures that make the sands their home. Like the soul of the desert itself, they can cover or hide any secret and command any toll,” Tatsu concludes.

“Then why did the green dragons leave?” Sekko asks.

“And why are the red dragons stealing everyone’s sheep and goats?” Tatsu asks.

“If the green dragons are responsible for rain, storms, and the harvest cycles, and if red dragons reap chaos, scavenge and plunder the land like an infestation or a punishment for sin, then what is the nature of these yellow dragons?” I ask.

“Ahh, my young warrior. What is the code?” Tatsu says.

“I am not a noble,” I say.

“And what is nobility?” Tatsu asks.

“The prime command—he is noble who is the protector of the vulnerable,” I say.

“The yellow dragon is also the golden dragon. And so, any warrior who faces the dragon must pass the test of the Golden Warrior,” Tatsu says.

“If Oz passed the test, I will pass it as well,” I tell her.

“Know what you will be facing. The Golden Warrior must survive three tests, as with all gold: Gold is scratched with a touchstone to see if it is solid all the way through. Gold is dunked in the cleansing water and weighed, to see if it is substantial. Finally, Gold is measured in the assaying fire. What burns away is impure. Any dross in the molten mixture is a disqualifying blemish,” Tatsu says.

“I am ready,” I say.

“You’ve got sand in you, alright,” Tatsu says, her eyes crackling with energy as if lightning will leap from her eyes.

I drop my sword belt, leave my shepherd’s crook, and head in to face the dragon in nothing but my robes. All I bring with me is Scor’s harp.

* * *

The cave is totally dark. I can hear the yellow dragon breathing. Moving. Approaching.

I walk forward toward the center of the cave and stand in the dark, waiting. I hear a shriek and an echo. “Charrr… Charrr… Charrr,” the voice echoes.

Through the blackness, a claw reaches out and cuts into my shoulder. I feel my blood leak through my white robe and drip down my arm, covering my fingers in a layer of sticky red glue, turning my blackened arm red in the process.

“Do you think you can stand before me on your own merits?” the creature asks.

“I stand here because my people are starving,” I say.

“Your people? The ones that have poisoned the soil, hunted the red dragons, and tyrannized their own kind through a system of voluntary enslavement?” the creature says.

“Those are not my people,” I say.

The creature’s talons wrap around my body and pull me forward into a great pool of water, it thrusts me into the murky blackness and holds me under, my arms akimbo. I can feel the flames of its breath stirring the surface. I wait to lose consciousness.

Then, I am pulled out and placed back on my feet.

“And if you cannot merit favor on the strength of your deeds and cannot count honor among your kind, then are you sure that you will be counted pure by the clarifying fire?” he says.

“I would not be here if my deeds were just or if my people were honorable. I am here for Scor and for Oz. And for all that are starving in these lands. If these are not pure reasons, then I don’t think any would be found to be so,” I say.

I hear the dragon draw its breath, but I say, “wait!”

“A change of heart?” he asks.

“Never,” I say, and produce Scor’s harp. I set it on the ground before me. Then, I say, “now!”

And with that the dragon’s breath engulfs me.

* * *

The sky breaks forth with a rumble. The rains flow in long steady torrents like a mother’s tears. An endless well of sadness. A cooling mist of grief. A longing of the earth that pulls all of the life-giving bounty into its womb.

The yellow dragon calls in the night—he calls the call of the red dragon.

As I emerge from the cave, holding my harp’s case to my side and basking in a golden light, I see Tatsu.

“You’ve done well, Char—my child,” she says.

We watch as the red dragons appear from the crags of the cliffs by Tara Nook and slink forth, returning back to the cave of their master.

“Every day I wake up poor,” I say to Tatsu.

“But tomorrow we will not be,” Tatsu says.

“And that is why tomorrow is the day we leave to get Oz. We will stop at Tara Nook, collect the commission—”

“—Wait, how will we collect without dragon’s blood?” Tatsu asks.

I open the case where the harp had been, revealing a golden urn.

“Dragon’s blood?” she asks. And I nod.

* * *

It only seems like moments before we are at my door.

Scor runs out and throws herself around my waist. “Momma, momma, you’re alright.”

“Scor, honey, get your things ready. At first light we are going to set your father free,” I say.

“But momma, we have nothing for the journey,” she says.

“Tomorrow, we wake up rich,” I say.