Read The Dragon Griaule for Free Online Page B

‘Intimate, you know. I was very afraid of the place, of the sounds and shadows. But I loved you so much, it didn’t matter. We made love all night, and I was surprised because I thought that kind of passion was just in stories, something people had invented to make up for how ordinary it really was. And in the morning even that dreadful place had become beautiful, with the wing tips glowing red and the waterfall echoing . . .’ She lowered her eyes. ‘Ever since I had that memory, I’ve been a little in love with you.’
    ‘Lise,’ he said, feeling helpless before her.
    ‘Was that her name?’
    He nodded and put a hand to his brow, trying to pinch back the emotions that flooded him.
    ‘I’m sorry.’ Her lips grazed his cheek, and just that slight touch seemed to weaken him further. ‘I wanted to tell you how she felt in case she hadn’t told you herself. She was very troubled by something, and I wasn’t sure she had.’
    She shifted away from him, made uncomfortable by the intensity of his reaction, and they sat without speaking. Meric became lost in watching how the sun glazed the scales to reddish gold, how the light was channeled along the ridges in molten streams that paled as the day wound down. He was startled when the girl jumped to her feet and backed toward the hoist.
    ‘He’s dead,’ she said wonderingly.
    Meric looked at her, uncomprehending.
    ‘See?’ She pointed at the sun, which showed a crimson silver above the hill. ‘He’s dead,’ she repeated, and the expression on her face flowed between fear and exultation.
    The idea of Griaule’s death was too large for Meric’s mind to encompass, and he turned to the eye to find a counterproof – no glints of color flickered beneath the membrane. He heardthe hoist creak as the girl headed down, but he continued to wait. Perhaps only the dragon’s vision had failed. No. It was likely not a coincidence that work had been officially terminated today. Stunned, he sat staring at the lifeless membrane until the sun sank below the hills; then he stood and went over to the hoist. Before he could throw the switch, the cables thrummed – somebody heading up. Of course. The girl would have spread the news, and all the Major Hauks and their underlings would be hurrying to test Griaule’s reflexes. He did not want to be there when they arrived, to watch them pose with their trophy like successful fishermen.
    It was hard work climbing up to the fronto-parietal plate. The ladder swayed, the wind buffeted him, and by the time he clambered onto the plate he was giddy, his chest full of twinges. He hobbled forward and leaned against the rust-caked side of a boiling vat. Shadowy in the twilight, the great furnaces and vats towered around him, and it seemed this system of fiery devices reeking of cooked flesh and minerals was the actual machinery of Griaule’s thought materialized above his skull. Energyless, abandoned. They had been replaced by more efficient equipment down below, and it had been – what was it? – almost five years since they were last used. Cobwebs veiled a pyramid of firewood; the stairs leading to the rims of the vats were crumbling. The plate itself was scarred and coated with sludge.
    ‘Cattanay!’
    Someone shouted from below, and the top of the ladder trembled. God, they were coming after him! Bubbling over with congratulations and plans for testimonial dinners, memorial plaques, specially struck medals. They would have him draped in bunting and bronzed and covered with pigeon shit before they were done. All these years he had been among them, both their slave and their master, yet he had never felt at home. Leaning heavily on his cane, he made his way past the frontal spike – blackened by years of oily smoke – and down between the wings to Hangtown. It was a ghost town, now.
    Weeds overgrowing the collapsed shanties; the lake a stinking pit, drained after some children had drowned in the summer of ’91. Where Jarcke’s home