Where the Sky Ends



  Where the Sky Ends

  Gloria Piper

  Copyright 2010

  I am grounded. I haven't flown for a year. From dirt and gravel I gaze into the suns, as if I were a Watcher in the Forbidden Mountain. Do the wingless know what it's like to feel wind on the wing? Do they yearn for it like I do?

  There is something about a rising thermal that stirs a dragon's heart. Once I could soar for hours and even sleep on the wing. Now if I never touched ground again, I'd be content.

  Yes, the thermal was my home. And Tweekie, my groombug, shared it with me--until crushed by Clio.

  A whimper rises in my throat as I squint up at the feeding flock, turning red, blue, green and violet in the light. The suns cross rays, splitting them into color bands in the manna belt that spans the planet. In that belt the Shining Ones graze on a sustaining confection.

  I must content myself with dribbles that fall to the soil and turn rancid. Youngsters plunge into the belt, mouths agape, manna smearing faces and wings. The older ones, adolescents like me, can fan the globules into a windrow and suck it in, starting at one end, and never stain a whisker--unless you're carrying Clio. Then you get stickier than a two-year-old.

  Clio. My gut should boil at the thought of her, and for most of the year of my grounding, it has. However, as the elders say, time dulls the worst pain, so my inner furnace roils only a little now. Nevertheless I doubt I'll ever know full serenity as long as we share the same flock.

  Groom-bug sings while stroking the dander from between my crown scales. I suppose the furry little ball is trying to comfort me, even as it fills its belly on the debris from the spikes along my spine. It was once the groombug of an elder who died a couple years ago, about the time Clio sat on Tweekie who had been with me since near hatching.

  I don't have the patience to train a baby groombug, who would outlive me, so I reluctantly accepted the dead elder's companion. In the days I'd been without one, I'd lost my luster. This groombug has a sweeter voice than Tweekie. It more quickly anticipates my desire to have my back scratched, and it whispers encouragements. Nevertheless, I can't bring myself to call it anything but Groom-bug.

  Clio and I are fellow hatchlings. However that doesn't mean we're sisters. Different mothers will lay their eggs in one clutch, so you hatch, knowing only you belong to the flock.

  We were all normal, except for Clio. She started out looking normal, but her wings never developed properly. When she was small, everyone crooned over her cuteness, so she waddled about with stunted wings, wearing them like baubles, and never accomplished anything beyond making a nuisance of herself. She was worthless, I would have said. In fact I did say it a time or two under my breath when no one could hear.

  I've always believed that as long as you have the structure, you have the function. Certainly if an adult had worked with her when we were little, she could have flown with the best of us. Unfortunately no one wanted to be inconvenienced. Instead, they gave her all the rewards her peers struggled for, and she received her groombug in the Great Ceremony, along with the rest of us.

  So Clio grew up, and out, in all directions. She became a ball of fat. It made her wings look even smaller and more useless.

  Many times it fell to me to carry her about. My wings grew powerful from supporting Clio. I grumbled but I obeyed the duty roster, more or less, never questioning the expectancy of transporting her about all my life--until one day.

  That day as usual I labored through the air, after I managed to get off the ground, and as usual she squirmed, challenging my balance.

  "Sit still," I said.

  "I need to go."

  "By the Great Ancestors!"

  "I need to go."

  "Fine. We'll touch ground, and my turn's over."

  "No, it's not. You can't decide to carry me for mere seconds."

  "Then I won't land. Not if I have to force myself into the air with you two times in a row."

  She stuck her rear over my shoulder and wiggled. I shuddered, fearing she would miss and soil me. Tweekie hid near the back of my knee.

  "Why didn't you go before we went up?"

  "I didn't need to."

  Her toe jabbed my eye. I shied sideways and she slipped and grabbed my neck, nearly dislocating it, making me thrash to regain my balance. I almost barrel-rolled as I over corrected. Tweekie scrambled to keep aboard, and Clio shrieked in my ear until it rang.

  That did it! I swooped low, knocked her off by scraping through a close growth of trees, and launched myself high, making good my escape. I cooled off on the thermals.

  It had taken a good slam to dislodge Clio, which got me to thinking. Her fore-talons were strong. Since they were connected to the end of her wings, then her wings must be just as strong. By the Great Ancestresses, I could teach her to fly!

  The mere thought of freedom from Clio, of seeing her fly, brought bubbles of joy bursting up my throat and over my jaws in rings of steam.

  Exercise, that's what she needed. It would trim her down and develop those useless appendages. Ah, I'd found my life's mission. I would do the clan a great service, and everyone on the duty roster would thank me.

  Suddenly the prospect of toting her didn't seem so bad with the end of her helplessness in view. I almost looked forward to my next turn.

  When it came, I told her of my intent. If she insisted on riding my wings, her payment would be flying lessons.

  She grimaced and said nothing.

  I took her to a rock and made her jump from it and flap. She leaped like something glued to the ground and fluttered her wings as if they were a fly's eyelash.

  "Leap," I said.

  "I am."

  "No, you're not."

  I shoved, and she collapsed.

  "You'll have to be more enthusiastic than that if you're going to fly."

  She answered with a whimper from her seated position on the ground.

  I refused to give in. In the following lessons we tried wing circles. Eventually I developed a series of exercises and affirmations for her.

  Then she sat on Tweekie.

  I suppose the accident was inevitable. She'd stepped on my tail, my toes, even my snout. Tweekie had tried to dodge her bottom, but Clio had so much and Tweekie was so little that if Clio hadn't changed her mind at the last nanosecond about where to plant her rear, Tweekie's dodge would have found safety by my left shoulder. I've since been amazed that Clio never squashed her own groombug.

  After Tweekie's death I shunned Clio, and the elders respected my mourning. Once Groom-bug was broken in, however, my refusals to accommodate Clio no longer impressed them. I learned this when Clio waddled up.

  "It's your turn," she said.

  My gut tightened. I scrunched up my face and made to walk away, the thorny tip of my tail twitching. I would have spat flames, but Clio's breath is hotter than mine. The fatter the dragon, the hotter the breath.

  She spoke over my shoulder. "The elders said."

  That she could ride my wings. No one consulted me. I might have said, yes. On the other talon, I probably would have said, no. And she knew that. They all knew that. That's why they never consulted me.

  By what divine right must they force me to carry her about? She had her own wings.

  Now that I was back on the roster, I asked her, "Have you been practicing?" Perhaps I could still accomplish the grand mission, though my heart was ashes. After all, her successful ascent to the sky would make a proper atonement.

  She looked from beneath pouty eyes. "Can't."

  "Can," I said.

  "Can't."

  I struggled as usual into the air beneath her weight.

&
nbsp; "I'm hungry."

  The elders forced me to take her up, but no one could force me to visit the manna belt with her. Not after she'd sat on Tweekie.

  As we soared, the cool air dissipated the steam I'd worked up getting us aloft, and I cast about for some way to convince her into the air by her own power. I'd tried gentleness and it hadn't worked.

  Groom-bug whispered in my ear, "Take authority."

  Yes! That's what an elder would do.

  We flew farther than usual, and below rose the Forbidden Mountain. I noticed a glint of light. The Watchers were peering through their instruments from a dome midway down the peak.

  Clio squirmed, jabbing me with her knees. "We're not supposed to be here. What if the elders find out?"

  "They won't if you don't tell them."

  "They're gawking at us."

  "Gawking can't hurt."

  "What if they try to catch us?"

  "Do you really believe they would?"

  Clio answered with a mewl.

  The elders' sermons included the Forbidden Mountain Warning: Don't go near Forbidden Mountain. The Watchers live there. They capture Shining Ones and sell them to the tournaments in outer space, to be killed eventually by some knight who knows he