Another month passes. The wyrmling is nearly two feet long now, and it’s getting perceptibly longer and broader each day. They have to start a new measuring culm to keep track of its growth, and they’re at risk of running out of white crabs to fuel it. Only a handful are left on the beach and flats where the poth washed up, while those at the base of cliffs elsewhere are largely inaccessible. Jeryon’s worried that if they kill any more the population in those areas won’t recover, so he says they need to attack the blue crabs. He and the poth can only kill a few a day, given the effort it takes, and that’d be barely enough to feed them. The wyrmling will have to hold up her end.
Also, it’s getting cooler. Winter, however mild, is coming, and the rainy season after that. They need the dead dragon’s renderings to make it through. The wyrmling’s molt has proven a terrible cloth, even for patches, and Jeryon’s attempts at making a net out of the poth’s thread were failures. The skin will serve for coats and tarps, and Jeryon can make fishhooks out of the bone. He can also make adzes, axes, and knives. The poth’s sword is becoming blunt from its use as a universal blade, and they’re concerned it will break.
More importantly, they need the distraction. They’ve built up their camp as much as they can. The poth has planted herbs and small vegetables. She surrounded it with so many replanted flowers of such variety and color that it looks like an island on the island, a wondrous and magical refuge. Their days have settled into a routine that he finds comfortable; every chore completed another galley brought into port, but which drives her crazy—as does his comfort in routine. Apparently there is a limit to how long she can study plants each day. She’s mapped the island and found no other signs of civilization—man, giant, or dwarf. She’s found many more blue crabs and black frogs. She would have tried to build a sundial if it weren’t for all the hour lines having to be labeled YOU ARE ON AN ISLAND. She’s been spending more time at the basin rock.
However well they’ve worked together, however curious that has been for him, the lack of novelty has led to her sniping at him and to him returning fire. It’s made the days unpleasant, the nights more so, and the wyrmling sullen.
So they’re looking forward to an adventure with Gray, whose wings have begun turning gray and who increasingly uses them instead of walking. There’s nothing worse than being dive-bombed by a wyrmling who thinks you’ve slept long enough.
The poth emerges from behind the bamboo screen he built between their sleeping areas after too many leaves fell. Her hair is wet and held in a loose bun by two bamboo spikes. Her skin is bright and tight from the lotion she made out of her soap, and she smells minty from the nepeta she put in it. Her smock, faded and worn thin in places, but deftly repaired in others, swishes from a fresh washing. She wears her sword on a shoulder belt made of cloth from the hem of her smock and reinforced with palm thread. She’s even put in some rudimentary embroidery.
Jeryon feels underdressed. There’s dirt between his toes.
She greets him with bright eyes. “Let’s go!” she says. “Where’s Gray?”
He points up. The dragon is sitting on a high branch, her elbows held up to arch her wings, her neck bent low. A black vulture found its way to the island recently. The wyrmling took to imitating its looming posture before they killed and ate it.
Jeryon whistles twice. The mighty vulture raises her snout and considers the call of carrion ripe on the forest floor. It opens its wings to declare to the world, The kill is mine. She steps off her mountain perch. Let the hawk dive. Let the larus plummet. The mighty vulture spirals lazily, the stench of rot and blood making her buoyant. She is surprised, though. The kill still walks and whistles. The mighty vulture flicks its tongue at it and thinks it needs a bath.
Jeryon says, “Put your tongue away.” The wyrmling sits and looks at him. He shakes his head. “I want you hungry.”
The mighty vulture lowers her gaze. She is displeased.
They set off for the dragon hollow. The path is well worn, the leaves and underbrush giving way to packed dirt. They walk side by side, with the dragon flying from tree to tree and sometimes disappearing above the canopy. Everlyn bumps Jeryon with her shoulder, he steps aside to avoid crowding her and she bumps him again. He looks at her, wondering why she can’t keep to her side of the path, and finds her smiling. She moves her head as if looking around, but keeps her eyes on him. He looks around. The sky is bright. The air is light. Yes, he thinks, it is a nice day for a walk.