Maybe he should stick with his sleeping panel. A tarp would keep the rain off, and he wouldn’t have to stagger down a ladder in the middle of the night when the urge comes. Why would he need a whole cabin to put storage underneath? A few crates would be more useful, and he could move them around. They cook outside and eat outside, so why do they need a common room? How would they keep it lit safely? The poth has been trying to make candles, but he might as well set fire to the place before they do. As for her pots, everything will just go in the ground eventually. So why bother? He could spend his time more profitably by training Gray.
At the rise before the dragon hollow, he readies his spear and looks over the top of the rise. He doesn’t see any crabs, nor does he see the telltale bulges moving on the dragon’s skin. The bones are more pronounced now that the crabs have eaten away most of the muscle and fat. He flings a rock at the severed neck. There’s no response. He throws another, bigger rock at the dragon’s side. Nothing. He whistles. He clacks his spear against a tree. He throws a rock into the trees across from the rise to see if they’ve migrated. Nothing. Far less has motivated the crabs to chase him previously. Have they finally moved on? Jeryon doesn’t want to get any closer in case they’re lying in wait, so he works his way around and above the hollow.
Jeryon is walking to the frog pond when he hears branches shattering and the poth yelling. Gray bursts through the canopy, circles once, drops something wide and round, and dives, claws outstretched.
He sprints down the path. The crabs were at the pond the whole time. It was an ambush.
5
* * *
When he was ten, Jeryon’s father took him to a crab boil where a host of Hanoshi fishermen were joined by a fleet of Ynessi who’d worked their way up the coast. They didn’t fish the bay, more out of self-preservation than respect, but ill feelings resulted from the encroachment nonetheless, and the boil was called to relieve them. It was held on the wide beach of Ba Isle, whose name came either from the wild sheep that lived there before falling prey to fishermen or from the frequent comment of sailors when passing by it, “Bah, that’s hardly an isle.” It could accommodate many boats, making it convenient for the fishermen, and it was far from any guards who might have had a problem if a fight broke out, which many expected and some hoped for.
The Ynessi have a saying, “Every Ynessi has a thousand brothers”: fight one and you fight them all. Plenty of Hanoshi fishermen were willing to show them that the Hanoshi saying “You’re on your own” isn’t a weakness when a hundred men fight individually for the same thing at the same time, and that thing is their livelihoods.
There were no fights, though, besides the usual argument over whether crabs should be put in the pot or steamed over it. (Both sides agreed to not even broach the issue of spices.) And by midnight everyone was singing songs about their real enemy, those landlubbers up at Ayden. It was such a wonderful boil that ten times the number of people who attended later claimed to have been there. Jeryon remembers only one thing clearly: the enormous tower of cooked crabs that was served. His father stood him against it, having bet a penny that his boy was taller than the tower. He wasn’t. His father was furious, but Jeryon didn’t care. He’d never seen so much food in one place. And he could have as much as he wanted.
He recalls this when he gets to the frog pond, spear raised, and sees the stack of rent and ruined blue crabs the wyrmling is building. Many are still alive, clawless, legless, their eyes waggling in desperate attempts to orient themselves. Other crabs have been cleaved in two and three. A few lie shattered where the wyrmling dropped them. Two are stuck in trees. The poth is crab-splattered, glazed with sweat, and showing skin through rents in her smock.
She watches him walk over to one rocking on its back beside the pond. He gores it, picks it up with his spear, and adds it to the pile.
“There,” he says. “That should do it.”
Gray stands for a pat on the head, and Jeryon gives it to her, but he can’t stop looking at the poth. She’s serene.
Another force gathers around them: birds. When one darts at a crab, the wyrmling chases it off, which lets two more dart at the crabs. One gets an eyestalk. The mighty vulture hisses.
They can’t carry all the crabs to camp, so Everlyn suggests a picnic at the cliff with shega for dessert. Jeryon’s not sure he deserves shega, having done almost no work, but it’s a fine idea otherwise. He weaves a mat of branches that they pile high with the choicest crabs. Gray has no patience for this operation and licks empty half a dozen halves while glaring at the birds. They have to practically drag her away.
The crab meat is tough, but made more succulent by grilling it with pieces of wild cherry peppers the poth found nearby. Gray prefers the crab raw, and she would prefer even more to return to her pile. More birds gather to feast and call others to join them. “Hey, vulture, we’ve got your food, vulture,” they say. Each time she sneaks away, though, Jeryon whistles her back, and the crab in his hand is worth two in the bush.
Sitting atop the cliff, they watch the whitecaps and suck on shega jewels. The big moon watches them from above the Dawn Lands while the little moon tries to catch up.