XXXIII
678 Words
XXXIII
Moss cleaned up the front halls of the Museum of Natural History. He couldn’t sleep; he had been blessed with old age, but with it came the curse of insomnia. He had tried to become the rock wall overlooking the lobby, with a waterfall running down his face in a calm, soothing rhythm. That often worked.
But tonight, a thunderstorm kept him from sleeping. The thunder rumbled the museum’s slanted glass façade, and the rain pattered down it, making the headlights of the cars driving by look like spinning bokeh. The lights swelled and popped and prevented him from sleeping, even with his eyes closed.
He had rumbled up, becoming the great wall and the waterfall and the rain-beaten glass and every television screen in the lobby that spoke of ancient dragon times, and he projected himself from the wall, into his old Crafter form—gray and streaming. He circled the lobby, flying all the way up to the fourteenth floor to gaze at the moon.
What a torrential downpour tonight. It was the kind that washed away homes in the old world. The kind, when he was a younger dragon in the midst of courtship—for thinking. For drafting lines of dragonsong to give to his love.
Those were the days when dragons ruled the world.
Tonight, they still ruled, but he told himself that they should be sleeping in a storm like this. If only he could.
So he imagined buckets and mops marching to meet him as he descending the lobby to the first floor. And they were there to meet him. With an absent-minded wave of his tail, the buckets emptied cleaning solution on the floor and the mops began to mop them without hands until the place was awash with the smell of solvents and cleanser.
Two thousand years and one still must learn the act of chores.
The wall rippled as Meah entered. She circled him and crinkled her nose as she scoffed at the magical mops.
“Father, we have humans for that,” she said.
“My daughter, the world would be far better off if everyone learned how to be alone sometimes,” he said.
He glanced up at his daughter who was grinning at him mischievously.
“How was the concert?” he asked.
“It was glorious!” Meah said, circling a sculpture of herself. The statue was curved into an attack position. “I met one of your old friends. Why didn’t you tell us about him?”
Moss’s brow furrowed. “Old friend? Who? Fenroot?”
“He says it’s been too long since you’ve met,” Meah said.
“Who, Meah? Who?”
“He told me to give this to you,” she said, laughing.
He wished she’d just say the name already!
A white grimoire fluttered down into his hand. He inspected the front and back.
“It’s blank.”
Meah’s face went long. “He said it would reveal itself to you.”
The card glowed and a black dot appeared in the center. Moss watched with wonder as the dot began to move across the card. It traced itself into a long line, and then several other black dots appeared, inching across the grimoire until they formed a symbol.
A black dragon. Its head faced left, as if it were looking down at someone as they paid tribute. Its wings were outstretched, and its teeth were bared.
“He said his name was Alsatius,” Meah beamed.
The color drained from Moss’s face.
“Wh-wh-what did you say his name was again?” he whispered.
“Alsatius,” she said. “He wore a blindfold. Couldn’t see a thing.”
Moss stumbled backward. “But it can’t be—he’s dead. I watched him die. I burned him at the stake!”
Meah shrugged and picked up the grimoire. “He said—”
Her body extended to its full length and then coiled upon itself, and she writhed in pain.
“Meah!”
The grimoire turned purple and it channeled energy into her body.
Meah opened her mouth to speak but her lips turned purple.
“Poison!” Moss cried. “My daughter, let go of the card!”
But it was too late. Meah dropped to the floor, convulsing. After a long, bloody vomiting, her head turned to the side, and she was dead.
Moss’s heart raced.
He crawled over his daughter, crying.
Then he thought of Mynthia.
She was still at the stadium.
He had to find her.
- Writer
