Of its own volition, his elbow sticks out. She takes it. Jeryon spends the next ten minutes wondering how he can get it back.
They drink from the stream. They stop at the shega meadow to look over the ocean toward home, and the wyrmling lands and nuzzles between them to wonder what is so interesting. Everlyn rubs the wyrmling’s neck.
“Not even big enough for a child to ride yet,” the poth says.
“Perhaps she’ll grow quickly,” he says. “No one sees wyrmlings.”
“It’ll be another year, I think. Maybe two.” She takes her hand off the wyrmling.
The wyrmling wonders what she’s done wrong. She looks at the poth and Jeryon, but they won’t stop staring at the ocean. She drags her head into the brush to look for beetles.
There are no beetles in the brush.
A few moments later Jeryon whistles twice, and they head out again.
They stop at the frog pond, where Jeryon takes another spear from his cache there. The population of black frogs has suffered as much as that of the white crabs. It’s quiet. They see no frogs at all, in fact.
Jeryon repeats their plan: He’ll lead the blue crabs here, yelling when he’s close. When the crabs scatter to chase the frogs, they’ll release Gray to attack one, the smallest if possible. They’ll follow behind in case she gets in trouble. The woods are dense, so her maneuverability will be hampered, which will make for a better test.
The poth draws her sword in agreement. The wyrmling flicks her tongue and flaps her wings. The sword usually means food. Or bamboo. Food often enough.
They toast with sword and spear, and the wyrmling watches Jeryon leave. She follows. The poth whistles her back. The wyrmling turns her head as if to say, Why aren’t you coming? The poth whistles again more insistently. The wyrmling’s neck droops and she crawls to the poth’s side. She puts away her sword.
The mighty vulture is having no fun.
As he walks to the hollow, Jeryon plans the cabin he wants to build: square, three rooms, a common one in front and two bedrooms behind it, big windows to let in air with shutters to keep out bugs, a peaked roof thatched with palm fronds, maybe a porch. For interior doors they could use dragon-skin drapes. He’d like to elevate the cabin on stilts for better circulation and storage below.
When his father couldn’t find fish or he lost his boat or position, he would rent Jeryon to various makers and tradesmen for the coin it could bring in. He most enjoyed building. There was something about transforming lumber into homes and boats that he found fascinating. His only engineering lore, though, came from actually putting things together and asking why they went that way. He sometimes wishes he’d stayed with building.
He’ll put the house on the other side of the path to make sure the pond stays pristine and just in case it floods. They could also use the old camp for planting. The poth has been gathering seeds and experimenting with what she can grow in the wicker pots she’s woven. He’ll have to build a place for those on the porch so she can check on them more easily.
He wonders what it will be like to live in a house of his own. His family never did. They moved from room to room. One year they slept in tents at a dog farm beyond Hanoshi Town. His father let him to the owner, who taught him how to train dogs for the pits—and how to butcher those who failed. Another time, they lived above a stable, where he learned to ride and break horses. The best year they slept on his father’s boat, a real fishing boat for once, not just a dory. Then came the Trust, and it was berth to berth for him. He still had everything he owned in one bag, but he no longer had to worry about where he would sleep. It’ll be a shame leaving the cabin, even after a couple years.
The thought surprises him, missing something that doesn’t exist yet.