Читать книгу An Old Letter from the Future. A Journey Through the Inner Realm - - Страница 5

The next morning began in motion. The mistress of the castle was brimming with energy and mischief. Leaping from her bed as though she were late for something, she ran to the roof with a light smile, snatched up her dress, and – pulling it on without slowing – jumped from the rooftop, eyes squeezed shut against the bright sunrise.

The dragon’s back was, as always, in the right place at the right time. Gently absorbing her landing, he carried her leap into a downward sweep, dipping and rising again like a wave. With the same spirited momentum, he flew toward a blooming field near a river.

Jumping off her trusty carrier, the princess ran laughing through the tall grass and flowers, while the dragon flew just above her, tumbling and romping alongside, stirring whirlwinds in its wake. She cried out in delight, reaching her arms up to brush the great wings that dipped low with every beat as they passed.

Tired at last, she fell into the grass, breathing heavily, arms and legs spread wide, and with a smile kept gazing up at the sky – at the monster playing with the clouds – a creature that, from afar, looked like a nosy little bird.

Catching her breath, she rolled onto her side on the flattened grass, studying the flowers around her. Choosing the largest one – a vivid yellow – she pulled it closer without picking it, and plunged her face into its curled velvet petals. Drawing in its scent with a full breath, she closed her eyes and sank into the many-layered bouquet of ripe lemons, sun-warmed honey, youthful carelessness, fresh basil, and the resinous woodiness that bound it all together, crystallizing the fragrance into memory like amber.

The earth gave off pleasant dampness, its grasses pushing back the summer heat, and the long stalks bent over her in a fan, shading her drowsy bliss at being free.

Thirst disturbed her pleasant, shallow sleep. The dragon was lying beside her, curled into a ball like a motionless boulder afraid to wake the earth. The river was very close, and after brushing the pollen from her skin, she walked toward the sound of the water.

The turbulent current, an unnaturally bright shade of azure, carried the chill of the mountain peaks where it began as tiny streams, branching into the larger veins of an icy realm. Trees stood guard over the coolness, lining the riverbed: their high crowns converged into a green vault that shut out the daylight and held the roar of the water inside a damp, shaded cavern of freshness at the heart of the blooming meadow.

The oasis’s visitor crouched by the shore and scooped water into her palms. The cold bit at her skin, yet there was something pure in it, something calming. She lifted her hands to her lips and took a sip. The water tasted like liquid ice – clear, sharp, but astonishingly soft, as though it managed to melt only in the very moment it touched her.

After a few minutes the dragon returned, holding a heavy clay jug in his teeth. She filled it with water, hugged it to her chest with both arms, and settled onto the dragon as he bent down carefully before her. The flight home was calm, almost meditative: his powerful wings cut through the air with a quiet hum, and the land below drifted by slowly, like a watercolor washed into blur. The vessel in her arms swayed slightly, yet the dragon flew so steadily that not a single drop spilled – and the chill of the water reminded her of the river’s freshness she had just left behind. The wind caressed her face, carrying the scents of distant fields, and in that moment she felt herself a part of the sky, its very essence, with every beat of the wings resonating within her like an echo pulling her toward new horizons.

She stood on the rooftop, still feeling the sky within her, unwilling to leave that state. The noon heat began to press lightly against her skin, distracting her from the stolen shadows. The sun hung motionless at the zenith, contemplating the directions of the world, torn between going east in search of hope or west in search of rest – and in the end remaining where it was, leaving her waiting.

In the shimmering haze above the field, the horizon wavered, turning the flatlands into a flickering, elusive vision beneath the scorching sun – but a small dark speck disturbed the soft, undulating landscape. Sensing the intrusion, the dragon appeared beside the princess with a single leap, like a heavy rock falling from a cliff into soft snow – immense destructive force without sound or tremor, only a sharp gust of air that swept her hair upward.

After watching the horizon for a few moments, the princess clenched her fists and, slowly, with anger gritted through her teeth:

“Remove it.”

Even as she inhaled – before the words had fully left her lips – the dragon was already tearing through the air with his leap, leaving her to finish the sentence alone. Still holding her fists clenched, she went to her bedroom, feeling how hot she had become under the sun. Scooping some water from the jug into her hands, she splashed her face, pressed her fingers to her neck, and felt the strong pulse thudding in her temples. She lay down on the bed, battling the surge of fury that had overtaken her – whether from the heat or from yet another savior’s visit – feeling the blaze in her head melt into irritation.

Another knight… I wonder who sent him? A king? An oracle? Or his own imagination?… And there they come – shining, perfumed, with speeches prepared in advance. They don’t even trouble themselves with a simple question: why has not a single one of their predecessors returned triumphant?

She touched her temple with her fingertips, trying to steady the rhythm of her pulse.

Though, in their defense, I admit: logical thinking is not included in standard knightly training. Pathos, however – yes. That, apparently, is taught as an ancient science.

Her lips twitched – a tired, dry smirk.

I should hang a sign at the gate: “Heroes’ queue – that way.” “Complaints about the lack of a damsel-in-distress – this way.”

She turned onto her side, curling into the cool shadow cast by the canopy.

That’s why I keep the dragon close: he saves me time. A great deal of time.

The dragon… And then she suddenly remembered him. It was strange – to feel silence for so long; she sensed neither battle nor even his fury. But there was something else, some new sensation she couldn’t even name… It felt almost like… embarrassment?!

Bursting with fury, she jumped from the bed, rushed out of the room, and grabbed the sword kept within reach.

The dragon was standing right outside her doorway; he had returned but hadn’t dared let her know. She stopped short, pressed her forehead to his, her gaze locked with his, scorching him with the force of emotions and confusion. A moment later she stepped hard on his wing and vaulted onto his back. Though he was incapable of feeling pain, the mere intention of the princess to cause it made him experience physical torment.

In flight, she tried to shut herself off from the mental current emanating from the dragon; he was broadcasting some unprecedented nonsense: agitation, tenderness, embarrassment, and a scent… This knight smelled like “one of ours”, at that she wrinkled her nose with a smile of disgust.

Perfect. My dragon is broken.

Now, instead of grinding knights into dust, he apparently sniffs their collars and blushes. Next thing you know he’ll start reciting poetry to them – and then I can open a circus in the castle, she thought.