I remain somewhat quiet on here but, as is tradition, I am briefly checking in to mark another trip round the sun. As I said last year, I have finished publishing Ziggy’s stories and letters here now as this anniversary becomes more visible to the ones you can see, but – as I suspected – I have continued with the writing.

If you know me in the real and, as some have indicated, you do want to read them, please reach out to me and I will provide a digital copy, This is, I am afraid, only open to those I know in real life for reasons that will be obvious if you think about them for a moment.

This year has been harder than expected for a range of reasons. I hope you are all keeping well.

PS. There will be a new book soon. A structural redraft is near completion.

The post Eleven appeared first on Neil Beynon.

 “You’re getting so tall.” 

“I know, but I remember when you were so little I could hold you with one arm.”

“A picture? Oh, it’s been so long since you asked to see one of those.”

“Huh? Sorry, son, I was thinking…never mind. I’m afraid I don’t have a picture of that, these here are the only ones I have. Why are you out here so late?”

“I know the stars are out, but it’s April, and it is freezing.”

“Ah, the firepit? I guess we could light it for a while.”

“There, heat enough for us not to need the doctor next week.”

“That star? It’s called Gamma Draconis, son. 154 light years away, which means the light you’re  seeing started its journey in 1869 when Dickens was still alive.”

“That’s right, it does mark where you were born, but more than that, it’s part of Draco, see.”

“A story? Oh. Gosh. I wasn’t really expecting that this year. Let’s have a think.”

“What’s that? The star furthest from us? Ah, I think that’s probably Earendel. He is 28 billion light years away and visible to us long after he faded away. Separated from us by more years than there are grains of sand on the beach.”

“You can? Well. I guess if you cover your eyes and listen carefully, you might hear the sea. It’s not that far away from where we are.”

“Waves? Oh, yeah, I can hear it now. Count? OK. One. Two. Three…”

“Ah yes, I remember, a long time ago, long ago, so long ago that Earendel was still physically in our universe…”

“…four, five, six…”

“…in a world beyond our visible universe but closer than the particles flying through us as we sit here…”

“…seven…eight…nine…”

“Counting? The ninth is the gate, silly. Now listen:”

#

The waves lapped over the man as he lay on the sand. His clothes were soaked through, him having washed up on the shore after many days at sea, along with a collection of driftwood and seaweed. The man’s clothing was torn, his feet bare, his long wild brown hair matted and caked with dried salt from the sea. His beard strewn through with sand.

The sun rose in the sky.

Slowly, the man moved. He groaned and lifted himself up like a crab waking. He moaned louder. He looked around. The glare of the sun blinded him to what was around him. The man shielded his eyes with his hands.

Nothing.

Nothing was around him, just a beach that seemed to go on forever in both directions. Up the beach, landwards, were rolling green fields and beyond, faceless mountains that he had never seen before.

He looked around the scattered debris around him for anything he could use for shoes. Nothing. Perhaps he could use the wood as sandals, but the seaweed was not strong enough to use as binding. He remembered rivers lead to the sea. He remembered if he could find fresh water, he would be in better shape. He remembered rivers meant settlements and settlements meant shoes.

He just couldn’t remember his name.

There was the notion the hills were a little closer on one side of the beach than the other. And so that’s the direction he set off in. Barefoot and alone. Because to stay there and wait for something to happen was to invite death.

The man walked on through the day. And through the night. And through the day. Until. He came to a river. He risked walking up the waterway, clambering over rock and stone, despite his bare feet, until the water tasted fresh. It was almost sweet. He had never tasted the like.

He drank deep.

Sated, he sat on a rock and let the sun warm his aching limbs. He fell asleep.

When he woke, there was a tiger. It sat on its own rock, fifteen feet from him, staring at him as if waiting for him to feed him.

No.

Waiting as if wanting him to move before the tiger would drink from the river. Our traveler felt he was in the tiger’s spot. The tiger carried on staring at the man. Our traveler stared at the tiger. He could not help but notice how orange the tiger’s stripes were, how ebony the dark fur was, how white his muzzle and red his maw. The tiger had a distinctive fleck in one iris.

The tiger and the man stayed like that for the longest time. The man nearly missed the old worn boots lying between the rocks. Almost.

When he decided the tiger would not eat him. And, equally, that he no longer cared if it did or not, he crept to the boots. He pulled them on. They were tight, but beggars could not be choosers.

Where had he heard that before?

He set off up the river again. In a wary and careful manner, he circled the tiger, breaking into a run once he felt he had enough distance for it to make a difference. He ran as fast as he could, as long as he could in tight footwear. His hair kept obscuring his vision and so, when he deemed himself safe enough, he stopped, tore a strip from his raggedy shirt, and tied his hair back in a simple ponytail.

He looked back at the way he had come and the sea in the distance, shining like polished glass. All was silent. He could no longer hear the waves. As the sun dove for the horizon in robes of pink and gold, darkness on its way like an old friend, the tiger padded into view once more.

The man no longer felt afraid. Oddly, he was calm, as if he were in good company. He nodded. He turned and carried on as the stars rose in the sky.

He woke the next morning on a cold patch of grass where he had half lay down and half fell when his energy had left him. He blinked in the silver light of dawn and sat up, trying to ignore the way his bones clicked.

A wolf howled.

The man froze. He looked round in the howl’s direction and saw the wolf. A she-wolf stood on the nearby hill, her fur a shining silver and white that was so clear against the blue sky she could have been a painting. She howled once more and looked straight over at the man.

The man turned to look at the tiger. Perhaps the tiger and the wolf would fight each other, and he could run away. He found, though, that he did not want to. The man got up. He still did not know his name. He could think of no other course of action but to carry on.

Our traveler walked through the day. He walked through the night. He walked through the day again.

And the tiger went with him.

And the wolf, too.

Our traveller followed the river as it wound into the hills. The weather grew colder. The traveller found the tiger and the wolf both drawing closer to him and were he a nervous man, he would have felt caught in a closing pincer.

They walked on.

In the end, the three: the man, the tiger, and the wolf, all walked together until they saw the light. Somewhere in the night, someone was burning a fire.

The man rested one hand on the wolf and one on the tiger. Fear had long since gone. These were his companions now.

“I must go on alone.”

He said out loud. It was the first time he had heard his own voice in a long time and it startled him, but not the tiger and not the wolf.

The tiger lay down in the shelter of a boulder. The wolf lay down in the tiger’s shelter.

“I will whistle when and if it is safe.”

The man set off for the fire. He did not have to walk for long.

The fire was halfway up a hill. It was of reasonable size to warm a small party of people, but there was only one person sitting at the fire, wrapped in a tatty grey cloak, a worn hood, and a wild beard. He looked as old as the sun. His hair was a dirty white and his cheek scarred, though our traveler could not say from what.

“Hello friend,” said the old man, standing. “What brings you here?”

The younger man, our traveler, did not know what to say. In the end, he was too tired to lie.

“I am lost,” he said. “Where am I?”

The old man sat down again, eyeing our traveler carefully. He poked the fire with a stick before pulling out a pipe and proceeding to knock out the contents of the bowl on a rock.

“Where are any of us?”

“Do you always speak in riddles?”

“Do you always travel with a tiger and a wolf for company?”

Our traveler felt a flash of anger. “You’ve been watching us?”

“Hard not to from here,” the old man gestured. Our traveler followed the man’s gesture, looking back along the way he had come. In the firelight, he saw his entire route had been visible from here and, clearly, the tiger and the wolf watching him from a safe distance.

“Hungry?” The old man gestured at the meat he was cooking on a makeshift spit over the fire. The younger man suddenly realised he could smell the meat, and it was as if paradise had split open and was spilling its bounty on him. His mouth was salivating at the thought of food. When had he eaten last?

He sat down.

The old man lifted the meat off the fire, cut it into pieces with a large knife and passed some over on a makeshift plate that was a smooth, flat rock. The younger man ate with a relish until he was full. He gladly took the wine skin when offered by the old man, drinking the wine with gusto. The wine was sweet and heady.

Our traveler could scarce believe his luck as he lent back, belly full and the fire warming his bones.

“You could swear you hadn’t eaten in weeks,” said the old man.

“I haven’t,” said our traveler. “Where did you find the meat? I’ve not seen anything but my companions since I got here.”

“I didn’t.”

“Huh?”

The old man took a long pull of his pipe and blew a smoke ring into the sky. “The dragon did.”

“The what now?”

“The dragon,” said the old man, pointing to the hill.

The hill moved. It stood up. It unfurled, wings stretching wide like a range suddenly formed on the horizon and big golden eyes appear in the dark.

The man nearly lost his wine.

“Hello there,” said the dragon. “Do not be alarmed.”

“I…” said our traveler. “I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s a common reaction,” said the old man. “I said something similar.”

The old man seemed to find this very funny, though our traveler could not say why. Besides, there was the dragon to contend with and so it didn’t really matter. Did it?

“What is your name?” asked our traveler to the dragon.

“Draco.”

“Oh,” said the younger man. “And why are you here?”

“I’m here for you.”

The man felt cold despite the fire. “You will not eat me, will you?”

“No, I prefer lamb.”

The man stared at the dragon.

“That was a joke,” said the dragon. “I mean you are safe. And I do prefer lamb. But. Look. The point is I’m here to help you. Both of you.”

Our traveler looked at the older man.

“Don’t look at me kid,” said the older. “Lizard’s been talking like this since I got here.”

“When was that?”

“No idea,” he replied cheerily.

The old man was annoying our traveler. He raised his finger to say something, but a new arrival interrupted him. They ran to the fire, grabbed a burning piece of wood, and brandished it in front of him.

The third man had a streak of grey in his beard. His hair was shorter but completely wild. He was wearing a mix of boiled leather armour and chain mail and carried a sword, chipped and worn, hanging from his belt.

“Get away from them, worm!” yelled the intruder.

“Ah, we’ve been expecting you,” said the old man. “Please calm down.”

“Quiet, deceiver!” yelled the man.

“Really?” said the old man. “We’re fine. Rest your  bones, friend, and eat.”

The wild-eyed man stared at them. He looked back at the dragon. He carefully dropped the burning stick back on the fire.

“What sorcery is this? You a wizard?” asked the wild-eyed man.

The old man laughed. “No, I am no wizard. This is Draco’s show.”

“That’s me,” said the dragon. “This is great. We can get started with the three of you. The others can be summoned.”

“What are you talking about?” asked our traveler. He of the tight shoes and the tiger and the wolf.

“Dawn,” said the old man, emptying his pipe and standing. “Shall we?” he asked Draco.

“Yes,” said the dragon, kneeling. “You should all climb on my back. We need to fly to be there in time.”

“What?” asked the wild-eyed man.

“We need to fly,” said Draco, impatience in his voice. “Climb on. We need to get to the cave first.”

“The cave?” asked our traveler.

“Do you want to know who you are?” asked Draco.

“Yes,” said all three men.

“Then climb on.”

The men clambered onto the dragon’s back. Now the sun was rising. Our traveler could see Draco was red like fine wine and his belly was golden like the richest crowns. He was a good size, which meant he could carry all of them with ease. The dragon’s wings beat powerful slow strokes that felt like the dragon was pulling them into the air with the wing’s claws. They gathered momentum as the dragon leaned forward. They shot through the air like a fish through water.

Our traveler had felt nothing like this and whooped and yelled with joy. The dragon laughed with the delight of the wind.

They climbed far into the mountains until they came to a steep ledge on a slate grey rock. The shadows at the edge of the ledge actually led into a core that was as black as an ogre’s mouth. The shelf of rock was big enough for the dragon to land.

The men slid off the back of the dragon and onto the ledge. Our traveler was confused. What was the purpose of this?

“Why are we here?” asked the wild-eyed man.

“For answers,” said the old man.

It startled our traveler. The old man sounded like he had aged on the flight and was leaning on his stick as if he might fall over at any point.

A gust of wind blew through and out of the cave, carrying with it a sharp smell that our traveler recognised. He didn’t know why. It was not a pleasant smell. Somewhere, deep in the mountain, someone screamed.

“I…” he said. “I don’t want to.”

“I know,” said the dragon.

“But you must,” said a woman, emerging from the cave. She had hair the colour of night and eyes the colour of the sea.

“Hello, son,” she said to the dragon.

“Hello mother,” said Draco. “This is Caerwen. She has prepared the way for us.”

“Why?” asked the wild-eyed man, brandishing his sword. “Why should we go in there?”

Caerwen frowned. She looked at the wild-eyed man with genuine concern.

“This one has done well to find us. He is closer to the future. He remembers more.”

“You must,” said the Draco, stepping forward towards the wild man. “Please trust me. Everything depends on it. Well. For you.”

“I do not understand,” said our traveler. “You must give us more time than this.”

Draco sighed.

“Very well.”

The dragon closed his eyes. The dragon seemed to grow smaller, his colours faded, the scales grew small, until the dragon rose on his hind legs and his wings became arms. A man with dark hair almost the colour of night, his eyes as brown as pools of chocolate and still the transformation was not done. The man grew younger, grew shorter. He became a boy. Dressed in blue trousers and a black short-sleeved t-shirt.

“I will go with you.”

“This is dangerous,” said Caerwen to Draco.

“It is necessary,” said the boy, Draco.

The boy came over and took our traveler’s hand in one and the old man’s in the other. He nodded at the wild-eyed man. “Let’s go.”

“I don’t know what witchcraft this is,” said the man. “But I’ll not walk meekly to my death.”

He raised his sword. And charged into the cave with his blade held high.

“Well,” said the old man. “That’s an approach.”

“Come on,” said the boy. “He’ll be fine. But the magic only lasts a little while”

#

They walked into the dark.

Down.

Into what felt like the centre of the earth. As if they had walked for years, for centuries, into the burning heart of our planet. They could feel the sweat dripping from themselves like rain in a storm. Until.

They weren’t.

They emerged into a chamber that reached high above them and which was lit by phosphor that ran like veins through the rock. In places, crystals as big as doors poked through the granite.

The wild-eyed man was there and someone else too. Someone worse. They both had swords and they were trying very hard to kill each other. The wild-eyed man’s opponent was a touch taller, but he had no beard and looked like he had not slept in a month. Scars covered his pasty skin, and he was thin — nothing more than skin and bone. He carried a curved sword that was polished like a mirror and had a hilt made of bone.

“I chased you across the desert,” hissed the wild-eyed man. “Trickster.”

“You’re pathetic,” said the bone-sword wielder. “I will eat your heart.”

The boy sighed, letting go of the other two men’s hands. He stepped into the duel.

“Stop.”

Our traveler went to pull the boy out of danger, but to his surprise, the two fighters stopped.

“Move, kid,” hissed the bone-sword wielder.

“No.”

“So be it,” said the man, lunging before our traveler could react.

The bone-sword shattered.

The man looked down at the sword.

“You cannot kill a dragon with a blade,” said the boy, almost with pity. Then, harder: “And I am still a dragon, this is just a shape.”

“You have to show them,” said the old man, leaning hard on his staff.

Draco nodded.

Our traveler looked round at the men in the cave. His skin was itching. There was something in the air, something oppressive, and the humidity had returned. Another scream. Where it came from, he could not say.

“What was that?”

“Pain,” said the boy. “Echoes.”

“Should we help?” asked our traveler.

“He is helping,” said the old man.

“Look around you,” said the boy. “Really look.”

Our traveler frowned. Looked up at the walls and saw the crystals were giving off light. There were figures trapped in the crystal. The tiger stared back at him from one, like a fly in amber. In another, the wolf stood in perpetual howl.

“What is this?” asked our traveler, frightened.

“Keep looking.”

The man continued to gaze around the cave and he saw a woman frozen in another crystal. She was holding something. He felt cold. His stomach felt like it had turned into a tiny dragon—an angry and violent dragon. He moved to the next crystal. It looked like him. The man appeared confused and was holding some kind of square package as if searching for something or someone to pass it to, as if – should he hold it too long – it might explode. He moved on to the next crystal, a simple bear, a toy such as a child might have. In the next crystal, a cherry tree bloomed, forever spring. He was so confused.

He found he could not balance. He dropped to his knees. The chamber was spinning.

“What is this?” he demanded.

“What is your name?” asked Draco, the boy, coming over to him.

“I don’t remember.”

“You do,” said the boy. “You just don’t want to think about it. Who are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes,” said the old man. “You do. You’re me.”

Our traveler shook his head. “No.”

“You can’t keep doing this,” said the boy, taking his hand once more. “Look around you. You’re not killing them off, you’re just creating fractures, shades, and soon—if you’re as careless as you have been — there will be nothing else left.”

“I don’t want to!” shouted our traveler.

“Why?” asked the boy.

“Because you’ll leave!”

The boy dropped our traveler’  hand. Our traveler wanted more than anything for the dragon to reach out once more.

“Oh, fy nhad,” said the boy. “I’ll never do that.”

“You can’t know that,” said the man.

Another scream from the depths.

“I know,” said the boy. “This will end badly if we don’t fix this.”

One crystal cracked. The mountain rumbled.

“What is happening?” asked our traveler.

“Everything here,” said the boy. “In this reality, is breaking down. Someone sliced the foundations too thin to support it.”

“And the wolf? And the tiger?”

“Everything,” said the boy. “Is at risk.”

“What must we do?” asked our traveler, wiping his eyes.

The boy smiled. “There you are.”

The old man put his arm around our traveler.

“You must be in contact,” said the boy.

“Come on,” said the traveler. “What do you have to lose?”

The wild-eyed man looked down at his sword. He looked up at the others.

“You know the sword is heavy and nearly blunt,” said the boy. “Let it go.”

The wild-eyed man dropped the blade. He walked over to our traveler’s free side and put his arm around him.

“And what of you?” asked the boy to the bone-sword wielder.

“I…”

“We’ll kill each other after all this,” said the wild-eyed man. “If it doesn’t work. There’s always tomorrow.”

“Until there isn’t,” whispered the oldest of them.

The bone-sword wielder staggered over and threw his arm around the old man.

“Now what?” asked our traveler.

“We must call the others,” said the boy.

“Others?” asked the old man.

The boy wasn’t listening anymore. He was whistling, a strange lilting tune and yet it was familiar to our traveler. It echoed around the chamber as if made to fill the space. The other men emerged from the tunnel, from the walls, from all around. Some were old, some were young, some were in between. The huddle grew ever larger.

It was claustrophobic. Our traveler felt panic rising deep inside. He wanted out. Draco, the boy was gone. The dragon Draco stood in his place, away from the crowd.

“Now what?!” he called out.

“We must reforge what was broken,” said the dragon.

“How?”

“With fire,” said the dragon.

Draco roared before our traveler could react, and the flames billowed out like a blooming cherry tree. The heat engulfed them. All was light. All was heat.

There was no pain.

The second dragon unfurled his ancient wings. He filled the chamber with his presence and stretched his long neck. He was as red as Draco, but his belly was silver and his whiskers hung low.

It had been such a long time since he had felt his wings stretch or his belly full of fire. He lifted his head. He belched fire into the top of the roof, detonating the top of the mountain.

The night sky beckoned. The plough shining bright alongside the crescent moon as the two dragons took flight. They went high into the sky in a dance of joy. We have not seen the like of which in this realm. They flew until the dawn was rising once more and their wings grew weary.

They came to rest on the broken mountain near the wolf and the tiger. The two animals had been watching since the mountain shattered.

The older dragon found the shape of the man once more, but it did not feel quite the same. He felt for his ponytail, it was gone, the hair sheared closer. He could feel the pull of fresh scars on his face.

“Who am I?” he asked.

“That is up to you,” said the boy. “They were all you.”

The man looked at his son.

“But I cannot stay.”

The boy shook his head.

“I don’t want to leave you.”

“And that is where we started,” said the boy.

The sun rose. Golden light that brought warmth and bathed everything in honey. Draco changed back into a dragon again.

“I’m everywhere and anywhere,” said Draco. “In every blade of grass, every sunrise, every sunset. You can hear me on every breath of wind or ring of laughter. And if you want to talk to me, you just need to find the stars and look to the plough.”

“It’s the only magic I know…” whispered the older dragon.

“And I know it is not enough,” said Draco.

“But it helps a little…” said the older dragon.

He looked for the wolf and the tiger, but there were two dragons there instead—one silver and one with orange and black stripes that seemed to shift colour in the sunrise.

“Ready?” asked Draco.

“Where will you go?” asked the older dragon.

“Wherever I can,” said Draco. “It’s a big universe. Wherever I am needed.”

The older dragon nodded. “Caru ti, fy nhariad, cysgu dda.”

“Cari ti, fy nhad,” replied Draco.

The three dragons took flight as Draco looked on. They faded as the sunrise became day and Draco looked to the skies for a while longer after they had faded. Then he went to find Caerwen. After all. There were more lands to explore, more adventures to be had, and more folks in need of a friendly dragon.

THE END

Author’s note: I think this is the last Dragonstar/Tale of Draco The Dragon. I can’t promise I won’t write more for sure or create other stories for Ziggy, but – for now at least – if I do, they will be just for me. For a while. This story is not subtle—the blender is on low—but Draco has kept me sane for the last decade, taught me things I had not appreciated at the time I was writing the stories and that I only saw after in rereads. A not dissimilar journey to parenthood in all honesty. Anyway, I hope this offers a suitable diversion to whoever may need it. Thanks for walking the path with me for a little while.

The post The Parting Of The Ways appeared first on Neil Beynon.

Dear Ziggy,

Now you are 10. A decade. I find myself experiencing a particularly curious sensation of being able to distinctly recall exactly where I was at this point ten years ago, almost down to the minute. It is like standing on the top of a mountain and looking back at the lands below, through which you have just travelled, to find them covered in mist, but on the far side, is another mountain, the one you have come from, and you can see yourself gazing back.

The damned valley keeps getting broader. Deeper. The mist thicker.

Still, I imagine you are on that other mountain with me, looking at the now. There are no pictures of us together – a particularly brutal lesson in regret – and so I have to paint them in my mind. At least the lighting is always good.

One can overdo metaphors.

Your brother is going to be nine in short order following your birthday. You’d love him. He’s so funny. He’s becoming quite the artist and loves sketching and drawing and painting with his paint pens. Skateboarding – just started when last we spoke – has become something of an obsession for him. He’s so determined. He always gets back up again. He thinks of you.

Your sister also loves to draw and paint and has her own style already. Can you guess where they are getting that from? She is a storyteller too. She loves to make up stories with me when we go walking, when we get the chance to do so and her own stories feature a unicorn we created together. She is endlessly curious and fearlessly brave. She is a spark.

I mentioned the strong love of the paint that both your siblings have. I’d be remiss not to mention your mum whose own work has gone from strength, with sales of originals and fresh shows. She’s working on a new series now that revolves around the moon. She misses you deeply.

We all do.

The world has limped on in this strange state of flux. War is being fought to the east. The virus is more under control than it has been in previous years but, again, it feels strange to think how recently there were restrictions. Something of a fever dream. The promise of AI, the threat or opportunity of the singularity, has broken into the public awareness with the next big leap in capability and everything feels very uncertain. Interesting times.

I wish you could see them.

As I wrote last year, I have decided to take this correspondence private from this year. I think it is better for all of us. I may share the next ten years when I stand on the next mountain, hopefully, with your brother and sister next to me. I enclose your story, the last tale of Draco I think I have in me, as is our tradition and hope you like it.

Mammy and Daddy, and your brother and your sister, love you very much.

Penblwydd hapus, fy machgen hardd. Colli ti. Cysgu dda.

Caru ti, cariad.

Dad
xxx

The post Ten appeared first on Neil Beynon.

Jen broke onto the scene in 2014 with a fairly unusual route to market. As with a lot of us, Jen had been writing for a number of years and had plenty of material in the drawer when she decided to put out a novella that went onto become the opening of her first series (The Copper Promise Series). It got attention (because it is excellent) and the series was picked up. Since then, Jen has written The Winnowing Flame series, broken into writing thrillers (Dog Rose Dirt / A Dark and Secret Place) and has a new fantasy duology due out later this year (Talonsister). Jen’s a fantastic writer and good people.

The Winnowing Flame series is a particular favourite of mine because it is such a lovely example of what for a time we were calling slipstream . That is a fantasy that blurs the edges between science fiction and fantasy. In the world of Sarn, the Eborans have fought the Jure’lia blessed by the “rains” of the great tree Ygseril from the boughs of which were birthed great war beasts. After the eighth  “rain” the Jure’lia vanished and the sap of Ygseril stopped prolonging the lives of the Eborans. The land is at peace but the Eborans have been decimated by disease, the scars of the war lie all about, and in this wreckage parasite spirits lurk, waiting to attack.

After witnessing a parasite spirit attack in the wild, Lady Vincenza “Vintage” de Grazon, embarks on a journey to study and understand the spirits. She is joined by Tormalin The Oathless (an Eboran in disgrace) and a renegade fell witch called Noon. In Ebora, Tormalin’s sister Hestillion is working to unlock the presence she feels in the boughs of the seemingly dead Ygseril and has no limits to the lengths she will go to.

For me, The Winnowing Flame is a masterclass in world-building through story (as opposed to information dumping). Vintage; Tormalin and Noon are all well-drawn characters that resolutely refuse to follow any kind of predictable beats; leaving you cursing them for some of their choices – a sure sign of good characterisation. There are familiar fantasy tropes but just ever so slightly turned to one side. Sometimes those changes are slight, like sipping a glass of wine with a cheeky kick and, other times, more akin to being introduced to a new spirit – bold and fiery. I reread them every so often to remind me of just what excellent fantasy looks like these days.

The series comprises three volumes – The Ninth Rain – The Bitter Twins – The Poison Song. They weren’t easily available in the US originally but were released out there last year. Go read.

The post Current Classics That Inspire: The Winnowing Flame Trilogy appeared first on Neil Beynon.

As far as we know, there’s no actual law requiring any fantasy writer to read The Lord of The Rings but, equally, there is no law against it. Tolkien’s finest piece of work has achieved a level of cultural awareness belying the fact that, when first released, few if any people were creating stuff like that. Lord Dunsany isn’t a straight predecessor to his work. Nor is it the case that The Hobbit begat The Lord of The Rings which has its routes in world-building and earlier stories, published later but written much earlier than either text. Middle-earth started decades earlier, in the trenches of World War One and the hospital beds from which Tolkien transited back and forth during that horrific conflict.

All of this was before I was born.

I came into contact with Tolkien’s work sometime after he had passed away. In Harrow, in a bookshop (Dillon’s, I think), where the fiftieth-anniversary edition of The Hobbit had just come out, it was 1987, and this was the first book my father bought me. It was among the first I read on my own. I adored it.

Bilbo was small, scared, and lost in a big world where eventually he found the courage to do what needed to be done. That it resonated with a kid who moved every few years during the 80s, similarly smaller than many of his peers and scared by just about everything, shouldn’t be a huge surprise. The book has travelled with me ever since and that copy still sits on my shelf to this day. That was the entry drug. The main hit was coming.

Christmas, 1990. I was eleven. Amongst the gifts under the tree was a massive book-shaped object that, on unwrapping, was the biggest book I had ever seen in my life (at that age). An omnibus edition of The Lord of The Rings from my Great Uncle Keith. I started it that day, retiring to my room, and emerging several days later having devoured it. During that epic binge read – I munched through all my Christmas chocolate and raided the cupboards for supplies, imagining that I was on the road with the fellowship as I read. I was blown away.

When I finished, I read it again. Right away.

For the longest time, right into my thirties, I would read the book once a year or so and travel the road once more. I stopped in 2013. I have picked it up again in recent weeks and the pull of the story is no less. People ask me why I reread it but, truthfully, I have always reread books I like and, often, I take something new from the stories. In the case of The Lord of The Rings, with such a rich tapestry, there is so much there that this is particularly true.

When I was younger, I used to think of the story as a ripping yarn, but as I came to know more about Tolkien, I saw it more as an intellectual experiment from a gifted language enthusiast. Now? Well, now I see it as a love letter to a slice of Britain, from a particular period in time, that I doubt very much ever really existed outside of the emerging middle class. Does that lessen it? No. The dangers of mechanization and war run through the story like a dark ribbon of coal through rock and for a man who fought in WWI and saw his children fight in WWII this is not surprising. Underneath though is the subversion of class in Sam who on one level can be perceived throughout as being subservient to Frodo but, if you dig deeper, can be seen as the actual hero of the book. It is Sam who carries Frodo through, Sam who transcends his station and takes on Bag End when Frodo travels west, and it is Sam who carries the ring without succumbing as Bilbo and Frodo did. Indeed, this view was what drove Elijah Wood and Sean Astin’s performances in the film adaption.

The book is full of contradictions much like Tolkien himself. On the one hand, women are often portrayed as mysterious and somewhat lacking in agency and on the other hand you have Eowyn, a fierce warrior, holding an unrequited torch for Aragorn, who is destined to kill the most physical manifestation of Sauron’s power. This conceit is entirely at odds with Tolkien’s background and period. It’s progressive and subversive. Yet women are entirely absent from The Hobbit and somewhat indistinctly drawn and on the periphery of The Lord of The Rings. Tolkien’s own attitudes to women were decidedly mixed and patriarchal.

The world of Middle-earth eschews true allegory, Tolkien loathed it, but there is at once the author who stood up to Hitler and fascism in a clear and brilliant letter to a would-be German publisher and the fact that race does determine character in Middle Earth. Yet. It is not as clear cut as that because you have the European-drawn men behaving with ill intent from Saruman to the Nazgul, dwarves such as Gimli that reach beyond the deeply problematic tropes Tolkien gave them and so on. The Lord of The Rings is complicated. Frodo ultimately fails. Aragorn is a reluctant king who nearly forgoes his destiny. Gandalf and Galadriel wrestle with temptation throughout. Even Sauron did not start as evil in that universe. Middle Earth is complicated much like the real world and that is perhaps where its enduring charm lies.

Equally, the relationship between the male characters, who show a deep affection for each other, openly and without any sense of English stiff upper lip. This truth that on the face of it runs so counter to the perceived behaviour of the period that some will disagree with my perspective and argue it is Tolkien reflecting an earlier chivalrous ideal. Personally, I think this is a by-product of an orphan for whom his school friendships – most of whom died in the fields of France – were surrogate brothers that kept him sane through boarding school. Again and again, echoes of the world through which Tolkien moved creep into the text, and perhaps the most clearly wrought observation can be taken from the quote I refer back to with more and more regularity:

‘I wish it need not have happened in my time,’ said Frodo.
‘So do I,’ said Gandalf, ‘and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.’
The Fellowship of The Ring, J.R.R.Tolkien.

The impact of the book on me was sudden and complete. I had known I wanted to be a writer since I first saw an interview with Roald Dahl, where it became apparent to me that writers were not some obscure name, long since dead, and that you could do it too. I didn’t know what type of writer I wanted to be. Once I read The Lord of The Rings, like many writers before and after me, I knew I wanted to write fantasy. Indeed, for a while there, I was going to become a professor too. Common sense prevailed – I really would look like a hobbit if I wore tweed.

As I said, it’s unlikely you’ve not read TLOTR  but if you haven’t then it’s likely much of the language and concepts have entered your awareness. The film adaptions – now hard to imagine not here – were considered somewhat impossible to film for the longest time and still hold up pretty well today. Unlike the criminal adaption of The Hobbit, TLOTR  was unabashedly popular bringing the story to the masses much like Star Wars had with science fiction decades before. However, even before that, Tolkien had influenced rock musicians, other writers and 60s counter-culture. Something he arguably regretted.

Without Tolkien, there’s no Wheel of Time; no Fionavar Tapestry; no Thomas Covenant; no Rhincewind, and probably no Discworld, certainly no Dark Tower series – you could make a case IT would not exist too – and the list goes on. Led Zeppelin sounds very different in a non-Tolkien reality. The other Neil, of the second generation to grow up with the books, can be seen talking about this influence elsewhere (discovered after the early draft of this post was done). The reason I highlight this is even with fantasy writers who arguably draw their influences more obviously from the likes of Peake, Dunsany, and Mirrlees – Tolkien is there in the background.

There are often not that many books in a lifetime that leave an indelible mark on you. For me, TLOTR was one.

What were yours?

The post Books That Made Me: The Lord of The Rings appeared first on Neil Beynon.

There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. What are you doing out here?

Ah, yes, of course: the stars. There’s Orion with his sword. Have I told you about Orion? Ah, yes, I did. I’ve told you so many now that I lose track and of course you’re getting to an age now where you don’t want to listen to silly old me wittering on.

What’s that constellation?

Oh, that’s the plough, kid. You remember the magic, don’t you?

Above the plough… 

Ah, well, that’s a trick now, isn’t it? You know that’s Draco. Do I take it you would like to hear more about our scaly friend? Well. Of course. I’ll just get this fire going.

There. Warmth enough for stories.

Stars are magic. You already know that, but did you know that everything we are, everything that has ever been, everything that ever will be has come from stars. We are all stardust someone once said…

What?

Yes, I know it was Carl Sagan, but I’m impressed you do and that he actually said star stuff. Stardust is more poetic.

Anyway, as I was saying, stars are also guides. They can help a wanderer navigate the desert or the mountains or the sky or the sea. Imagine, the vastness of the oceans that cover more of this planet than any other surface and that you can never really be entirely lost while you have a star to steer by. You can see them?

Good.

Now picture a boat.

No little rowboat, a sailing warship with her prow in the carved shaped of a large purple- scaled dragon, and her small crew working the ship against the wine dark sea. No other ships nearby. Only the stars of the night sky above them for company. Smell the brine and the faint scent of rum. The gentle waves slapping against the hull.

You listen. You count the waves.

1,2, 3…

…somewhere there is a sound like a broadsword being swung in big looping arcs, repeating over and over again… 4, 5, 6…

…somewhere there is a sound like the roaring of storm tide, a flash of light in the distance. 7, 8, 9…

…the call goes out from the crow’s nest… 

#

“Dragon!”

The ship’s sailors paused at the call. Several of the men, all archers by the look of them, stepped back from the cohort on the deck. Silently, they moved to the deck master who handed them their bows and arrows. The dragon’s flames lit up the sky, revealing flashes of red and gold on his hide. Behind him, darting in and out of view was a woman on a broomstick.

Yaasa wasn’t sure that what he was seeing was real. He had commanded this ship, Cadwaldr, for five years but he had been sailing since he was a boy and seen many strange things – some terrifying, some wonderful. Mermaids off the coast of Nirvana. Giant octopi in the jade sea far to the west, and herds of winged horses on the cliffs of Swarg.

No dragons.

“Light the lanterns,” ordered Yaasa.

“Captain,” replied Blake, the first mate. “Are you sure that is wise?”

Yaasa clenched his jaw for a moment. Blake was a relatively new addition to the crew, his previous first mate having been given a ship of her own by the king Poseidon. He had been pleased for her at the time but the easy-going partnership Yassa had once enjoyed had been replaced with constant questioning.

“How do you expect our archers to defend against a dragon without light?”

Blake frowned. “They may not need to if it flies on by.”

“Light the lanterns,” said Yaasa, fixing his eyes on Blake.

“As you wish.”

The lanterns spilled light onto the dark water, casting it in glass.

Yaasa watched the archers. They tracked the dragon’s plume of fire with their bows, he was pleased he didn’t have to order everyone. The dragon banked. The creature, nothing more than a shadow most of the time, clearly changed direction back towards the Cadwaldr.

Blake took in an audible breath. It wasn’t quite “I told you so” but not far off.

“Creature was clearly hunting,” said Yaasa, irked with himself. “It would have found us one way or another.”

“Archers draw,” called out Blake.

“Hold,” said Yaasa.

Blake stared at him as if he had gone mad.

“I thought the whole point of lighting the lanterns was…”

“He’s not attacking.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because he is clearly a breather,” said Yaasa, keeping the dragon in the view of his glass.

“And yet he has made no attempt to flame us. We’d go up like a candle if he did.”

Blake stared at him.

“Look for yourself.”

Blake took the spyglass and raised it to his eye.

“I like to know what a creature’s intentions are before trying to kill it,” said Yaasa.

“There’s something else up there,” said Blake.

“Aye,” said Yaasa. “Don’t say it, the crew will be disturbed.”

Blake nodded. “Aye, captain.

“Hold,” shouted Yaasa to the crew.

The dragon drew closer though the witch could not now be seen. Yaasa noted Blake moving closer to the door leading to Yassa’s quarters where there would be a modicum of shelter. Trust was a wonderful thing.

The beat of the dragon’s wings seemed like a loud, slow heartbeat that might belong to some sleeping giant far below the sea, like the titan from whom the king was said to have been born. Yaasa raised his hand in readiness to give the order to loose the bows lest he be wrong about the worm’s intentions. The order would be easy. Safe. Yet he kept his nerve, just as he had been taught as a boy: think, observe, react.

The dragon slowed to a hover, its wings beating only to keep it in the air some distance from the boat. It seemed amused at the sight of the archers in the rigging.

“Well met, Cadwaldr,” said the dragon in a voice that Yaasa could feel in the base of his spine. “What brings you this far out?”

“What business of yours is that?” responded Yaasa, raising his voice to make sure he was heard.

The dragon turned its head to look Yaasa in the eyes. The captain wasn’t sure what he had been expecting – coldness, hunger, evil – but not the warm intelligence he saw looking back at him. He could have been looking another man in the eye.

“Captain, I presume?”

Yaasa inclined his head.

“Are you dragon hunting?”

Yaasa laughed. “No, we have no quarrel with you worm, be on your way and we will be on ours.”

The dragon looked less happy at this. “I am no worm, sir. I am a dragon.”

“From where?”

The dragon looked away to the horizon. “Far enough that if you sailed for a year and day, through night and day, you would never get there, but close enough that if you look up at those stars and dream you would find my homeland.”

“Ah, riddles,” said Yaasa. “Are you proposing to play a game for the ship?”

The dragon laughed.

“I like you,” said the dragon. “You’re funny. Why would I want your ship? I can’t fit on it and human meat is poisonous contrary to what you might have been told.”

Yaasa winced. “How do you know such a thing?”

The dragon laughed. “What happens to dragons who have eaten people? Your kind hunt them and kill them. If that isn’t poison, I know not what is.”

“That’s not the reassurance I was looking for.”

“If I wanted to attack I could have done so.”

“Stand down, archers,” said Yaasa, irked.

Blake made a step forward but Yassa stopped him with a glare.

Yassa turned back to the dragon. “Are you going to ask the other one to come closer?”

The dragon frowned. “You saw her?”

Yaasa nodded. “Do I need to order the archers back into the rigging?”

The dragon shook his head. He called to the other side of the boat. “You can come out mother.”

Yaasa heard footsteps on the deck behind him. Captain and first mate spun as one, swords drawn and pointed at the woman on the deck. She was dressed in a black dress that looked slick like pitch, her hair was the colour of night and her eyes the colour of the ocean on a summer’s day. She held her hands up.

“No harm,” she said.

“It is customary to wait to be invited aboard a ship,” said Yaasa, not lowering his weapon.

“I thought it might be better for your crew if they did not see me land.”

“Captain?” asked Blake, edging closer to the woman.

“How do I know you are safe?” asked Yassa.

The woman smiled. “You don’t but if I meant you harm would I really be standing unarmed on your deck?”

Yaasa lowered his sword. Blake did not.

“Blake,” snapped Yaasa.

The first mate glared but sheathed his sword.

“Why are you out this far?” asked the witch. “The sea of tears is not a place people traverse lightly.”

Yaasa folded his arms. “I cannot say.”

The witch nodded. “The king sent you then.”

Yaasa flushed. He hated being read by people. It was a rare occurrence these days and he could not understand how the witch did it with such ease.

“Captain Yassa,” said the witch. “You should turn back, you are in danger.”

Yaasa raised his eyebrow. His head felt strange, itchy almost. “You have me at a disadvantage, lady.”

“Where are my manners?” said the witch. She bowed low. “I am Caerwen. The dragon is my adopted son, Draco.”

Yaasa frowned. “Draco?”

The witch straightened and smiled. “An educated man I see. Draco’s true name is a secret known only to a few, but I suspect you know that even if you have never seen a dragon before.”

That was where he had felt the sensation in his head before. At court, when he went to receive his commission, he had been forced to meet the royal mage and assessed for his suitability for command. The man had rifled through his thoughts as easily as he might his underwear drawer.

“You are skimming my mind,” said Yass, his voice low. “Please stop.”

Caerwen held her hands up again. “Forgive me. Old habits.”

There was a gentle splash alongside the boat, the men drew back from the port side of the boat. Yaasa turned to see the dragon in the water. Draco rolled onto his back and floated in the murk alongside the boat, an occasional flick of his tail keeping him in line with the boat.

“He’s tired,” said Caerwen. “We have been in the air a long time.”

“Why don’t you tell me what you two are doing out this far?”

Caerwen nodded. “We are seeking the ivory gate.”

“That’s a myth,” said Yaasa. “A dangerous one. Why seek a dream gate?”

Caerwen looked at the dragon. Sadness passed over her face and suddenly Yaasa wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“We have travelled for so long,” said Caerwen, turning away. “Seen and done so much, left so many behind in our endless adventure but sometimes he wants to go back, and the old magic is not enough.”

“Pretty words,” snapped Blake. “Talk plainly.”

The witch blinked. The shadow passed and she smiled once more. “We seek to perform a ritual that might allow the dragon to look in on those he misses.”

“What danger in that?” asked Yaasa.

“There have been stories,” said Caerwen, scratching her head. “They talk of a vortex. That appears to be why no one ventures this far across the Sea of Tears.”

Yaasa swore.

A vortex was not what he wanted to hear when the ship was running in a starlit sea on a fool’s chase. Was the king trying to get rid of us? The target of the ship’s hunt was so fantastical, so ludicrous, that it couldn’t be anything but a fisherman’s tale and an excuse for losing catches.

“What about you?”

Yaasa was about to repeat his order not to speak of their task when there was a shout from the crow’s nest.

“Seawolf!”

Yaasa leapt to the railing. “Where?”

“Starboard, coming in fas…”

The ship shook as something collided with enough forced to cause it to list over to port. Yassa felt himself lurch forward. He was airbourn, missing the last safety of the railing as he fell onto the main deck. He managed to get his shoulders under him but he hit the planks hard. All the air was driven from his lungs. For a moment, all he could see were sparks of light as if the heavens had descended to witness his final moments. The dragon rose into the air.

Plenty were hurt by the collision. Yassa could hear that and knew how they felt. He did not feel like dying today, he forced himself to his feet. It was critical the crew knew he was not hurt in any significant way, even if that might be a lie. He stood. The pain nearly stole his voice.

“Report!” he demanded.

Blake called down from the quarterdeck, his shirt held to his bleeding head. “Masts still up.”

“We’re taking on water!” called the deck master from the hatch on the main deck.

“How bad?” asked Yassa, sounding calm.

“We can handle it,” said the deck master.

“Make it so,” said Yassa. “Get us dry.”

Yaasa forced himself to look up at the crow’s nest, even though it hurt like hell to do so.

“Where is it?”

“Heading west at speed,” came the call. “Reckon you can see it with the glass.”

Yassa climbed into the rigging and pulled his glass to his eye. All he could see was darkness at first, the occasional smudge of light from the stars, one of which seemed to be moving…no…that was it…a streak of silver moving near the surface of the water with impossible speed.

“May I…”

Caerwen was up in the ropes next to him, close enough that she could reach out and touch his arm. Yassa nearly let go of the rigging. He had not heard her approach. He looked at her outstretched hand and passed her the glass. There was nothing to lose. Two impossible things in one night, a record he supposed might not stand for long and she might be able to help.

The witch took the glass. She looked for what felt like an eternity before she lowered it and passed the device back to Yassa.

“How long has Poseidon being receiving reports of the sea wolf?” She asked.

“Some six months before we were tasked with finding it.”

“And you have been at sea how long?”

“Twelve weeks.”

The witch climbed down.

Yassa was irked. He dropped down to the deck, ignoring the pain.

“Hey,” he said grabbing her arm. “Don’t just run off. What did I say?”

Caerwen looked down at his hand.

He let go. “I’m sorry.”

“No, captain,” said Caerwen. She sounded sad once more. He would do anything to prevent her from sounding that way though he couldn’t say why. “It is I who should apologise. I fear I placed your crew in terrible danger.”

Yaasa felt cold. He loathed magic, preferring the good old fashioned craftmanship of a sailing ship or a blacksmith’s forge rather than the easy compromise of reality. Perhaps he ought to throw the witch overboard?

Caerwen looked up at Draco circling in the air above. “I brought the creature here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just wanted to ease the burden.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I performed a calling ritual,” said Caerwen. “It’s old magic. Dark magic. I was seeking the Chonyi Bardo but there is no trace of it that we could find and so that’s why we seek the ivory gate.”

“But to what end?”

“Why else seek a dream gate? We wished to create a dream. He seldom dreams. Endless silent nights will become too much, there is only ever so much light from stars alone.”

Yaasa shook his head. “Why would a summoning call a seawolf?”

Caerwen shrugged and looked away. “I do not know.”

“It does not matter,” Yaasa said. “We failed. The sea wolf is too fast.”

Caerwen smiled.

“Oh no,” she said. “I would not let that happen. Draco!”

The dragon spiralled down through the air until he was just above the rigging. He acknowledged the captain with a dip of his head before staring at his mother.

“We must follow the creature,” she said carefully.

“The seawolf?” asked Draco, confused.

“The creature,” said Caerwen, repeating her words. She pointed west. “You can see it, yes?”

Draco looked west. Smoke emerged from his nostrils.

“Fire and boats do not mix,” said Yaasa.

“I see the creature,” said Draco, holding his flames in. He sounded curious to Yaasa.

“Throw a line to Draco, captain,” said Caerwen.

Yassa shouted the order. Ropes were thrown and soon Draco was secured to the ship by a makeshift harness.

“Lower the sails,” said Yaasa.

“I don’t like this,” said Blake.

Yassa rounded on the first officer. “You can stay here if you prefer.”

Blake flushed. “Lower all sails, aye!”

“Onwards, Draco,” said Caerwen. “You know what to do.”

The dragon beat its wings. The boat lurched forwards. Draco’s pace increased, the boats prow lifted and the whole ship started to bounce as the vessel cut through the water at an ever-increasing pace. Blake and Yassa looked at each other as they steadied themselves against the main mast.

“Speed?” asked Blake.

They both watched one of the crew drop the log over the side and count the knots.

“Twenty knots,” came the cry.

“The ship will fly apart,” said Blake.

Yaasa shook his head.

“Oh no, Blake,” he said. “Old Cadwaldr will keep the faith. I suggest you do too.”

Draco kept the pace all through the night until the sun rose the next morning. As dawn rose, Yaasa looked to the western horizon for what he hoped would be a flash of silver in the water and saw what he feared most instead.

Fog.

A wall of fog stretched across the horizon as far as he could see. Worse, the bank was rolling towards them, he believed they would be engulfed faster than they could slow and turn even with the dragon. He glanced over at Caerwen.

“How can he see through that?”

“He’s not going by sight any longer,” said Caerwen. “He’s been tracking by smell for some time.”

Yassa looked again at the fog bank.

“About that vortex…”

“I’m well aware captain,” said Caerwen. “But I don’t see we have a choice. Do you?”

Yaasa looked at Blake. The first mate shook his head in agreement with the witch, much to the captain’s surprise. A long time ago, when he had just been a deck hand, he remembered his captain telling him that sometimes you had less power as captain than most might think. He had since come to know the bitter truth of that. He didn’t have to like it any more than he did back when he was young and the idea the captain was not as god was terrifying in the face of the vast ocean.

“Anchor crew at the ready…” he called out.

Blake nodded. He was glad they could agree on somethings.

The fog engulfed them. They could barely see further than a few feet along the deck. The rope that attached them to the dragon remained taut and the ship continued to move. Occassionally, they could see the soft orange glow above them of Draco expelling flames into the air.

“Why the flames?” asked Yaasa.

“To let me know where he is,” said Caerwen.

“And the sea wolf?”

Caerwen sighed. “I do not know where the creature is, but I can sense it on the edge of my feelings.”

“What does it feel like?” asked Blake.

Caerwen turned to the first mate. “Wild, uncertain, lost…”

They fell silent. The passing of the watch and the tolling of the ship’s bell occurred before the mist began to thin and the dragon more visible. As the mist receded, and daylight spilled onto the deck, the dragon strained high above to keep the boat moving in one direction. Suddenly, the dragon banked hard to starboard, pulling away in a new direction faster than the pilot could keep his hands on the wheel to turn and causing the boat to list over.

“What in Golgotha?!” yelled Yaasa, clinging to the railing for his life.

“Vortex!” screamed the crow’s nest.

Yaasa felt ice on his neck as he stood. He glanced back in the direction they had been headed and saw the thing he was most terrified of in the world: a spinning well of certain destruction in the sea ahead. Looking over the edge of the boat, he could see the ocean was being pulled in a whirling current inexorably towards the vortex.

This is how you die.

The thought came with a tremendous sense of calm defiance. He was not concerned for himself, but he would be damned if his crew would suffer his fate.

“Where is that sea wolf?” demanded Blake.

Yaasa caught a flash of silver between them and the vortex. “There!”

“That’s no sea wolf.” said Caerwen.

“What do you mean?” asked Yaasa.

“It’s another dragon,” said Caerwen.

As if the creature heard her, the dragon burst from the ocean. Its scales a gleaming silver that flashed in the sunlight and snout flared as a wolf might on the hunt. The beast unfurled climbing high into the sky.

Yassa was too stunned to move.

Draco twisted in his hover, trying to keep the boat from the vortex, all while looking at another dragon whose intentions were unclear and could easily attack him.

“Can he talk to it?” Asked Yaasa.

“Potentially,” replied the witch. “But our experiences with other dragons has not been good.”

The silver dragon climbed high up into the air, seemingly oblivious to both boat and Draco, and at the height of its near vertical climb above the vortex, it folded its wings. As if a bird of prey descending on its victim, the silver dragon plunged into the centre of the vortex.

Drago let rip a jet of flame.

“He’s angry at losing the dragon,” said Caerwen.

“Do I need to worry?” asked Yassa.

“That question is beneath you, captain,” said Caerwen.

“I had to ask.”

“Just be ready with that anchor,” said Caerwen. “Draco will put you beyond the pull of the vortex but then he’ll go after the dragon.”

“Why?”

“Because you’d get pulled in otherwise.”

“No, why pursue the dragon?”

Caerwen looked down at the deck. “Because he has not met many of his own kin and he won’t be able to resist.”

The ship heaved with such force that Yaasa thought he heard the main beam crack. The ship lurched away from the vortex as the dragon tried valiantly to drag them to safety but the current was strong. Draco beat his wings high above and made no progress.

“Anchors, captain,” said Caerwen, fear edging her voice.

“He might succeed yet,” said Blake.

Caerwen clenched her fists.

“You’ll kill him if we all tumble down there.”

“But you said he would follow anyway.”

“There’s a difference between controlled flight and falling, sailor,” said Caerwen.

The ship lurched backwards.

Yaasa saw Draco curl his wings around himself to protect them as he was pulled backwards with the vessel. The dragon fell into the sea, drenching the ship. Yaasa strode across the deck, grabbing an axe as he went, cutting the harness with one enormous swing.

The ship lurched back towards the vortex at speed.

“You bloody fool!” yelled Blake.

“Anchors away,” yelled Yassa.

The anchor crew dropped the anchors and the ship’s progress arrested.

Yassa enjoyed a brief moment of hope.

The moment was snatched away as the ship continued its inexorable voyage towards the vortex, slipping into a slow circling orbit of the vortex, the centre an inky maw that seemed to consume all the light. All captains faced a difficult choice eventually. Yaasa regretted he had gotten this final duty so terribly wrong.

Draco emerged from the edge of the vortex.

Free of the harness, the dragon climbed high into the sky. Yassa felt the edge of the ship go over into the void. No dive from the dragon could possibly save them now. The dragon gleamed in the light. Yaasa consoled himself that he had at least saved one soul that day. He glanced at Caerwen. She had her eyes closed. He wondered that she had not gone for her broom and saved herself. The stern dipped into the dark.

All was freefall.

#

Draco saw the ship plunge into the vortex.

Caerwen looked up at him with apology. He felt the familiar lurching feeling in his chest when she did something foolish. He hoped to see her emerging from the deck on the broom. He knew she would not. Caerwen wouldn’t escape a fate she felt she had bestowed on others.

He looked down at the centre of the vortex. There was no sign of the other dragon. No light. Nothing. The centre was a void. A starless night. Draco couldn’t bear such evenings. In those darkest of nights he felt unmoored, rootless, and apart from all those that had made him, that he had encountered, that he had spent time and blood with. It was what he imagined death felt like in his lowest moments.

Draco didn’t want to go into that emptiness but down there the other dragon had gone. Down there the ship he had tried to save had gone. Down there his mother had gone. Somewhere in the night. There wasn’t really another way.

He dove.

Darkness. Void. The dragon felt like he fell forever. The membrane was a shock. A thin veil that pushed gently back on him for the barest of moments before he passed through. The smell of brine vanished. There was light. There was a faint spice in the air.

Draco was in another place.

Below, a rocky landscape came into view, lit by crimson rays of a dying sun Draco had never seen before, casting everything in bloody hues. The Cadwaldr lay somewhat broken on the ground but nothing like as smashed as should have been the case. His mother knelt on the deck, hair as silver as starsteel with the price of the magic she had cast to save the ship. The crew were getting to their feet.

Draco unfurled his wings, slowing his fall. He landed softly on the ground. The rocks he had initially thought scattered randomly were arranged in a clear pattern though he could not recognise the symbol. Many were cracked, worn, and leaning or outright on their sides. Others still gleamed like polished marble. There was no other dragon.

He went over to the ship.

“Draco!” called Caerwen from the deck.

Draco looked up at Caerwen. “Is anyone hurt?”

“No,” said Yassa, leaning over the railing next to Caerwen. “Thanks to your mother. I am in your debt, witch.”

“Thank me when we are all safe,” said Caerwen, distracted by the world they found themselves in.

“I can’t sense the dragon,” said Draco. “Can you?”

Caerwen closed her eyes. “I can’t…wait…there’s something else…”

The witch opened her eyes and pointed.

Draco turned.

The world was flat as far as the eye could see, save for the odd pit in the ground that looked as it had been peppered with meteor strikes. In the distance, the horizon gave way to a haze and mist beyond which it was hard to make anything out. The place was barren save for a lone figure, too small to be in such a place alone, sat on the dusty ground, hunched over something.

“I do not like this,” said Caerwen, softly. “Something is amiss.”

“I cannot just leave them,” said Draco.

“No, you cannot.”

Draco made his way across to where the small figure sat, cross-legged. As he drew closer, he saw the person was a girl, young, with wild hair and wrapped in a ragged dusty cloak. She was holding something that glowed with its own light though he could not make it out clearly. She did not appear aware of his approach.

Draco had once been to a world where he could walk as a human did, with their form and dearly wished he could do so again. He feared the girl would run when she saw him. Still. Eleutheria had been a long time ago, and he had lived that life and moved on. He cleared his throat.

“Do not be alarmed,” he said. “I mean no harm.”

The girl turned.

Draco raised his claws to show peaceful intent. He was surprised to see his own human hands as they had once looked. Had he returned? Was that where he was? He looked down. He was relieved to see he was dressed in his old leather riding trousers, boots and his pale tunic.

“Who are you?” asked the girl.

Her cheeks were as tear stained as they were dusty. Her eyes were big and brown and looked like she might start sobbing again at any moment.

“I am Draco,” he said, gently. “Why are you crying?”

“I can’t find him.”

“Who?”

The girl burst into sobs again. Draco sat down next to her, crossing his own legs, and put his arm around her. She let herself be folded into his chest. He could feel her tears soaking his tunic. When she stopped crying she wiped her nose on her sleeve.

“Who have you lost?” he asked.

“My brother,” said the girl, frowning as if just saying it hurt her deep down.

“Well,” said Draco, trying to sound confident. “He must be around somewhere. I will help you find him.”

The girl wiped her eyes. She was trying to look brave. Draco noted she spirited whatever she had been holding into the folds of her cloak but he ignored that for now.

“Where did you see him last?”

She shrugged. “Here. I think.”

“And what happened?”

“We had a fight!” she wailed. “And I ran off.”

“I see.”

The girl looked defiant. “But I had to you see. I had to go find it. They keep saying that its important and so I went and got it.”

Draco smiled. “Did he not want you to?”

“He said I was too little,” she said. “But I got it. So he was wrong.”

“What did you get?”

The girl looked round. Satisfied no one else was near, she lifted her left hand out from her cloak and held out a jewel unlike any he had ever seen. He would almost have said it was a dragon’s egg save the shape was all wrong. Still, its colours shifted and changed in a never ending miasma that was reminiscent of a dragon’s egg. He still did not understand.

“What is that?”

The girl looked at him as if he were stupid. “It’s a secret silly. Have you never seen one?”

“A secret?”

The girl nodded. “Yes. They promised to give it to me when I was old enough, but I couldn’t wait any longer and so I went and found it myself.”

“Is that why you argued?”

She nodded. “And I said some mean things I didn’t mean and now I can’t find him!”

The girl buried her head in his chest again and cried.

Draco did not know what to do. He looked over at his mother but she was still watching from the deck of the ship for some inexplicable reason. She was so much better at this than he.

“Well,” he said. “What does your brother look like?”

The girl looked up. “He has hair like tarnished gold. He’s younger than you. But he has sparkling eyes and he’s paler than me.”

“He sounds quite striking.”

“Yes, he is,” said the girl. She looked like she might cry again.

Draco stood. “Come on, we won’t find him sat here,” he said. He waved back at the ship.

Caerwen looked at him confused, almost as if she couldn’t see him. He didn’t want to drag the girl back to the ship and so he waved once more and hoped she would understand. The girl stood up. She placed her right hand in his left without any further comment. Together they started walking towards the next crop of rocks.

“How do you know this is the way?” asked the girl.

“I do not,” said Draco. The girl looked worried. “But if I were looking for my sister, I would check each of these rocks.”

They walked on.

At the crop of rocks they found nothing but a solitary red cactus. Draco squeezed her hand reassuringly. “Onwards.”

They walked on.

At the next rock, they found nothing at all. Draco looked round at the confusing pattern of outcrops and fallen stones and realised he was going to be here a while. He smiled at the girl but she did not smile back.

They walked on.

At the next outcrop they did not see any catci but there was a single foot print in the dust. Draco knelt down to look. The person was unbooted as the girl was. “Could this be his footprint?”

The girl bit her lip.

“Maybe? I don’t know.”

She burst into tears.

Draco gave her a hug. “Hey, it’s alright, I got you.”

“Oy!”

Draco turned. He saw a boy, older than the girl but not that old, running towards him with a look of fury on his face and a large stick in his hands.

“Get away from my sister!”

Draco let go of the girl and stepped back with his hands raised. “We were looking for you!”

The girl let out a yelp of delight. She threw herself at the boy. She clung onto him as if frightened he would vanish like a wraith. The boy dropped his stick and hugged her back.

“Don’t ever run off like that again,” he said.

“I won’t,” she said. “I promise.”

“Let’s find mother and go home.”

“Mum is here?”

The boy looked serious now. “Yes, you didn’t think I could get away with not telling her, did you?”

The girl let go of him. She stood staring at him as if disappointed.

“No, I suppose not.”

“All this chasing after secrets,” he said. “No need for it. Let us go.”

“But she found it,” said Draco.

He suspected the boy had forgotten he was there but now reminded the boy raised an eyebrow. “You did?”

The girl nodded. She took the stone out once more.

“I’ll be damned,” said the boy. “You really are fearless, Spark.”

The girl smiled.

Draco couldn’t help but grin himself. The boy was clearly feeling the same as he too grinned.

The girl laughed.

They were all laughing. Draco had not felt like this in a very long time. He wasn’t sure he had ever felt like it but, perhaps, briefly during his time in Eleutheria. What a moment to share with strangers?

“Where is mother?” asked the girl.

The boy looked round. “I am not sure.” He was trying to sound calm, Draco thought.

“Come back to the ship,” he said. “I’m sure she will pass by it if she is looking for you. Who expects to see a ship in the middle of a desert?”

The children looked at him as if he were mad. “Ship?”

Draco turned and pointed back to the wreck of the Cadwaldr. The boy let out an exhale of air as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing and then he said, for no reason Draco could determine.

“What did you do, Spark?”

“Not me,” said the girl.

“Indeed not,” said Draco, amused. “She would be a powerful witch indeed to cast a vortex.”

“You are strange,” said the boy, looking at Draco. “But I like you. We’ll come to the ship.”

They walked back to the ship.

“So what is the secret?” asked Draco, as much to break the silence.

“It wouldn’t be a secret if I told you,” said the boy. “Nor would it mean much to you.”

Draco sighed with irritation.

“See,” said the girl. “Annoying, isn’t it? I don’t really know what to do with it now.”

“Does he…” Draco turned to the boy. “I’m sorry, what is your name?”

“Oh he has lots of names!” said the girl giggling as she skipped ahead. “Don’t you.”

“Very funny,” said the boy.

“But the one that annoys him most is Button.”

The boy flushed. “You don’t go about telling people our names! It’s dangerous.”

“Quite right,” said Draco, who knew names had power, you could trap a dragon, for example. “But I think ‘Button’ would be safe.”

The boy stared at him.

Draco winked. The boy laughed. “What’s yours?”

“Draco,” he replied.

The boy looked puzzled. “Strange name for a man.”

Draco thought about explaining. He waved at his mother as he drew close to the ship, amused as she climbed down the rigging rather than use magic. Perhaps his returned shifting ability was not the only difference in this world. His mother walked over to them. He could see a look of deep, deep, concern on her face. She stopped a few feet from them.

“Who have you found?” she asked.

“This is Spark and Button,” said Draco. “Who know the dangers of throwing their real names around and have found a ‘secret’.”

Caerwen folded her arms. “Show me?”

Draco did not know how she knew the secret was an object. He had given up trying to find the limits of her knowledge and so he just went with the flow these days as the girl looked up at him as if to check. He nodded.

“This is my mother, Caerwen.” He added. “She is a witch.”

The girl smiled. “Ah, then you can help.” She held out the stone. “How do I open it?”

“Spark!” yelled the boy.

Caerwen took the stone. Draco had never seen his mother look so stunned as she examined the jewel from every angel before handing it back to the girl.

She looked at Draco.

“What is it?”

Caerwen replied. “I am sorry, Draco.”

“For what?”

“I did a spell,” she said. “I was trying to help.”

“And?”

“Well,” she said, carefully. “This is the gate. The ivory one.” She gestured at the rocks.

“Oh,” said Draco. “Is that why I can look like this?”

Caerwen nodded. “But it also…”

The girl walked up to Caerwen and tugged her sleeve. “If you are a witch, can you help find our mum?”

The witch looked down astonished.

“Your mother…?” said Caerwen. Was that fear in her voice? “Is here?”

“Somewhere,” said the boy, cheerfully. “Spark’s right thought, we need to get back to her and you might well be quicker than waiting.”

Caerwen stared at the secret in the girl’s hands.

“What is it?” asked Draco. “You’re always saying we must help.”

Caerwen looked up at him. She was crying. She cleared her throat. “You’re quite right.”

She looked back at the girl. “You have what you need right there. The secret will bring her here as night brings day.”

“I don’t understand,” said the girl.

“I do,” said the boy, putting his hand over the girl’s. “It’s time.”

Caerwen nodded. “Kept it until she was ready, did you?”

The boy nodded.

“What are you all talking about?” demanded Draco.

“Magic,” said Caerwen, smiling sadly. “And secrets.”

The stone was glowing now.

“If they are kept too long,” said Caerwen. “Secrets grow heavier and heavier and eventually…if you are not careful…they explode.”

“Is that why it’s so bloody heavy?” asked the girl.

Caerwen nodded. “You must open it.”

“How?!” demanded the girl, exasperated.

Caerwen bent over and whispered in her ear. The girl looked shocked. She turned to her brother.

“Really?”

He nodded.

“In front of you all?” she asked, nervous.

The boy nodded.

The girl looked down at the stone. She looked at each of them. “Promise not to laugh?”

“We do,” said Caerwen.

The girl closed her eyes. And began to sing. Slowly, faltering at first but with growing confidence, she sang in a language that Draco did not understand. The secret did. The stone’s colours began to pulse and change, faster and faster. The boy began to sing too, wrapping his hand around the girl’s free hand, and weaving his own tune around hers. The stone’s colours quickened further.

“And you, Draco,” said Caerwen, softly. “It must be all three.”

Draco blinked. He felt afraid now. “Why?”

Caerwen sighed. “The magic requires it.”

Draco did not know what he was singing but he took their words and added his own voice to them. He took his voice into a minor key that made his teeth itch but seemed to work with theirs. Caerwen was crying. The stone bled magic, curls of energy crackled and leaped at them before the secret opened like the petals of a flower.

Cries rang out around the landscape. Faint voices spoke out in words he did not understand, strange metallic noises he did not understand and there through it all was anguish and pain. A pulse of light detonated.

Draco’s vision returned. The girl was holding nothing but pieces of glass.

“Did it work?” asked the boy.

Caerwen was not looking at them anymore. She was staring out at something…no someone else.

Draco turned.

A woman stood a little way from them. She had dark hair save for two silver streaks, warm kind eyes, and a stern look on her face or the best approximation she could make for she also seemed relieved. She was wearing a dark purple dress without adornment. Her gaze was fixated on the children.

“Where have you two been?” she asked.

The girl threw herself at the woman and into her arms. The woman laughed. She held the girl and looked deep into her eyes. “Do not do that again.”

“I promise,” said the girl.

“You found her then?” she asked of the boy who was hanging back as if ashamed.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m really sorry for letting her run off.”

“Not your fault, Button,” she said. “When has anyone been able to stop your sister doing anything?”

“I found the secret!” said Spark. “And I opened it.”

The woman smiled sadly. “So you know?”

“The witch showed me.”

The woman looked at Caerwen. Her eyes narrowed. She looked up at the ship in surprise.

“You should not be here,” said Caerwen. “This is further than I intended the magic to go.”

The woman looked at Caerwen. “What did you do?”

Caerwen dropped to her knee.

Draco was in shock. Why would she do that?

The woman put the girl down and stepped towards the front of the ship, reaching up to touch the base of the purple dragon. She seemed lost in her own thoughts.

“Such echoes in dreams,” said the woman. “Who knew they could hurt so much?”

“I am sorry,” repeated Caerwen.

The woman turned to her and lifted her back to her feet. “No need. Not from you.”

“I…”

The woman’s eyes fell on Draco. “Oh.”

Draco had never seen such an expression on someone. The woman’s eyes were sad and happy at the same time as she stepped towards him.

“You’re here.”

Draco felt confused. The woman touched his face and he saw dragons. Three of them, standing around his mother as if standing guard. One was silver like she had been cast from molten starsteel, one was orange like the flaming sun save for the sleek black stripes on his side, and one was purple like the ship’s prow. He blinked.

The woman smiled at him.

“Did you hear the secret too?” she asked, and then she said his true name.

The boy looked up startled. “What did you call him?”

Draco looked over at Caerwen. She nodded. “It is a dream gate after all.”

Draco touched the woman’s hand. It was warm. “Stay.”

“I wish I could,” she said.

Even in that moment the three of them were fading. The gate itself was fading. The ship too.

“What is happening?” demanded Draco, a dragon once more.

“All dreams fade,” said the woman. “And we all must wake.”

“I don’t want to,” said Draco.

“I know,” she said. “But we must.”

Draco woke in the sea, waves dark like blood. The Cadwaldr bobbed alongside him, the crew looking over at him with concern in the starlit sky and Caerwen in the water alongside him. She was young once more.

“You are safe,” she said.

“Am I?” asked Draco. He supposed the good thing about the sea was that no one could see the tear that rolled from his eye.

Whatever time had passed in the dream, the moon now hung big and bright in the night sky surrounded by stars.  As they lit the lanterns, the Cadwaldr became as a fallen star on the water. Draco, floating on his back, could see the old familiar crooked saucepan of stars that was the plough in the distance as a shower of meteors whizzed passed in a rush of colours: red, purple, orange and silver.

Draco glanced at her. “I have never dreamed as I have this night.”

“I am sorry I couldn’t hold the spell,” said Caerwen.

“No apologies,” whispered Draco.

“I nearly broke the world,” said Caerwen. “Do you not feel it.”

Draco did. He could not feel bad.

“No regrets,” he replied. And he said her own words back to her. “We do not look back. That’s the only magic I really know.”

“Onwards,” whispered Caerwen.

“Onwards.” Agreed Draco.

#

There you go. You’re falling asleep now and the fire is getting low. Did you enjoy the story?

Well, Draco’s adventures never stop, son, because the dragon never stops travelling, and that’s really the point. Even in dreams.

Oh, that. Well, Shakespeare didn’t know everything. I suppose all things do pass but then stories aren’t really like that because we can pass them on and so I tell you stories about Draco and so you may tell your friends or even your own children one day and so you may eventually make up your own and Draco’s tales would or will continue on.

Forever?

Perhaps. That’s a nice idea. Nos da, Cariad. Until next time.

The post Secret appeared first on Neil Beynon.

Dear Ziggy,

Today you are nine. Should be nine. Would have been nine. Tenses are hard. Another year has passed by like a gust of wind and the world seemingly spins further into chaos as the pandemic sputters on, while war creeps across the continent. If someone had told me that this would be the state of things even three years ago, I would have laughed at them but, then again, if someone had told me in 2012 how 2013 was going to go…well. Hindsight, eh?

Some years your birthday is easy, some years it is hard. Almost as if you were still here. This year there have been plenty of echoes, reminders, and outright callbacks to what happened. The realisation that much of what we felt at the time was not our imagination has not been as comforting as one might think. I don’t really feel angry any longer just sad.

And guilty.

Anyway, your sister remains a force of nature with a confidence she seems to have pulled down from the sky herself and bent to her own amusement. I hope she never loses it. As your brother does, she loves words and rhyme and paint, and her imagination burns very bright. She makes us laugh a lot.

Your brother is a skateboarder now! He has taken to his board like a duck to water and, though it takes a touch more courage on my part, the grin on his face as he rolls along is a joy to see. He continues to game as much as he can. He is a kind and gentle boy who dotes on his little sister. As for his drawing? Well, he’s very good and recently managed to sell me his first painting.

Your mother did her first exhibition last summer. We are all very proud of her. She has recently finished her latest series and is now hard at work on her next show pieces for this summer. She misses you. We all do.

There’s an almost normal feel to everyday life now and, at times, it can sometimes feel like the previous two years have been a fever dream. Once again, seeing the world experience a sensation you feel like you have been living with for the best part of a decade is…unsettling.

That’s without the strange passing of time.

I’ve been doing this, publicly, for nine years now, and sharing your stories for the same. I think after your tenth birthday, we should take this conversation private, do you agree?

Either way, that’s in the future, this year is your ninth birthday and here is your story. I hope you like it.

Happy birthday my beautiful boy, miss you.

Mammy and Daddy, and your brother and your sister, love you very much.

Penblwydd hapus, cariad. Taith ddiogel.

Love you, cariad,
Dad
xxx

The post Nine appeared first on Neil Beynon.

“Hello, it’s been a while.”

“Gone? Oh, no son, I’m never gone. Sometimes, when the journey is long and hard, we don’t need to talk, it’s enough for us to know we are with you.”

“A story? I was worried you were reaching an age where you wouldn’t want a tale anymore. I know: silly.”

“Sit here, next to me. What happened to Draco next? Well, that’s funny you should ask because I was just thinking about it. That’s why I’m out here, in the dark, looking out at the universe.”

“No one knows how big the universe is really, we know how much we can see, right now. We know how many of its rules work in the part where we live and the time we have seen here. We don’t know if there are regions where those rules break down or a time when they did not apply. We do not know a lot. The multiverse? We know even less. There may be universes where time runs backward or where gravity is a storm or those that are smaller in size than you. You can wander reality for eternity and not reach the end. Out here though, if you listen carefully, you can just hear the sound of reality, like waves crashing on a beach. Count them – 1, 2, 3… they will guide you… 4, 5, 6 …you can always find them with your breath… 7, 8, 9… they will stop you getting…

#

Lost. The dragon flew high over the clear crisp snow, his shadow perfectly cast on its shining surface. The ruby red dragon was lost and no matter which direction he kept the sun in, he could not find the end of the snow or his mother. The dragon rolled over, letting the sun warm his golden belly against the cold. He could not recall how he came to be here, caught between the blue and the white. He knew his name was Draco. He knew his mother was Caerwen. He knew his life thus far. He knew the worlds he had lost – the one he barely knew and the one he had lived a lifetime in. He just did not know where this was or how he had found himself here.

He knew he was lost.

Draco threw out his wings, drifting down to the cold powder of the ground, his claws marking the virgin snow. All was flat. All was silent. The dragon felt his anger growing in his belly, hot and violent, like a summer storm. He let the pressure build until he thought he would burst. Then he roared. Flame burst from his jaws, scorching the snow, beating it back: deeper and deeper the snow parted, until the dragon found he had no fire left.

Draco stared at the valley that he had made in the snow. The wood was deep enough for the dragon to jump into and be hidden from view entirely. There was no snow at the bottom, only rock, blackened and scorched with nothing to distinguish it from anything else.

Draco felt cold. Draco felt alone.

This was no place for a dragon. No place for anyone. He knew if he stayed. The cold would slow his brain, and his blood, and he’d want to lie down, and he might never leave again. His wings already ached from flying and so he resolved to walk. He walked until the sunset in the west and rose again in the east. When he could walk no further, he flew once more. The sunset in the west and rose in the east once more.

On the third day, Draco was walking again, his wings dragging in the snow as if made of lead, feeling he would need to give some thought to sleep, when he saw a plume of smoke ahead. For a moment, he feared he had just walked in a giant loop and was back to the valley he had made in the snow.

He remembered how long he had been walking, deciding this made that unlikely. Draco unfurled his wings, leaping into the air to get a better look at the source of the fire. Years had passed since he had seen another dragon, a nasty creature, and he knew the danger well. A few miles distant: a small hillock, nothing more than a collection of rocks and hardy shrubs, protruding from the ice and snow. A figure was huddled by a small fire, hooded and hard to see. Draco would have sworn none had been there the day before.

The dragon had no choice really. There was nothing else for miles and he could not keep walking forever. He went towards the smoke. He knew humans would be fearful of dragons, with good reason, and so he landed a short walk from the hillock. He waited.

Sure enough, a short while later, the figure could be seen pushing itself to its feet and turning to walk down out the snow. The human took longer than Draco would have supposed to reach him. Who rushes to meet a dragon? Thought Draco.

The human was a man. Draco was disappointed it wasn’t his mother.

“Hello there,” said the human, pushing back his hood. He revealed a weather-beaten face and a beard as full of as much grey as brown, his hair a tangle that had barely been tamed, his clothes stained as if from a long journey. He looked weary but not unkind.”

“Hello,” said the dragon.

“Where are you going?” asked man.

Draco thought. “I’m not sure.”

The man laughed: “Lost?”

Draco nodded.

“Me too,” said the man. “Join me by the fire, dragon, you must be cold.”

“Are you sure?” asked Draco. “Many fear me.”

“Do you plan to eat me?”

“No.”

“Good,” said the man. “Come with me.”

Draco followed the man up the hillock, thinking it seemed bigger now he was down on the ground. The fire was actually shielded from the tundra wind by a series of standing stones that looked ancient from their gnarled and pitted surfaces. Draco had not spotted them from the air.

“They’re pretty well embedded,” said the man. “You can rest against them.”

Draco settled himself down against them, enjoying the way they supported his aching back and the way they reflected the heat of the fire, warming him. The man sat cross-legged on the other side of the fire.

“Have we met before?” asked the man. As if seeing dragons was the most common thing in the world.

“I do not think so,” replied Draco.

It felt like so long since he had spoken to another creature that the sound of his own voice made him jump.

“Easy big fella,” said the man. “How did you come to be here?”

Draco thought. “I don’t remember.”

The man raised his eyebrows.

“I know that sounds foolish…” began Draco, flicking his tail.

“Not at all…” answered the man, poking the fire with a stick. “I don’t know how I got here either.”

Draco stared at the fire, sparks of light sparking off the burning wood.

“Magic,” said the dragon.

“Do you think so?” asked the man.

“Perhaps,” said Draco, looking at the setting sun. “It would explain much but usually I can scent a spell.”

The man said nothing. He seemed mesmerised by the fire.

“I wish my mother were here,” said the dragon. “She would know.”

“One dragon is enough for me.”

“My mother is not a dragon, she is a witch,” said Draco.

The man poked the fire again. “I would be worried if a witch were here, just in case she decided to turn me in to a frog.”

“You are a strange human.”

The man smiled. “I’d get over my fear if she were one of those pretty witches that like to dance around at midnight.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

The man laughed. He shook his head. “No, dragon. I am not. Just trying to cheer you up.”

“Hard to be cheerful when you are lost and have no idea where to go.”

The man folded his arms. He looked around the tundra as the sky fell to black. There was not a star in the sky and there had been nothing to navigate by for many nights. Draco could not recall when he saw them last.

“Where do you suppose the stars are?” asked the man.

“I don’t know,” answered Draco. “I was telling my mother only the other day that I had not seen them for ages…”

The man stared at the dragon. “Go on…”

“I remember something,” said Draco, excited. He tried to grab for the memory, but it danced away from his mind’s eye like a frightened bird.

“Where were you?”

“I…don’t recall.”

The man smiled. “Well, you are doing better than me, I cannot remember anything after the meteor shower.”

“Meteor shower?” asked Draco, feeling uneasy at the mention of this event though he could not say why.

The man nodded. “I woke here after that. I think.” He stood and threw another log on the fire. “I can’t complain. It’s a nice enough house.”

Draco looked over at the small wooden cottage at the base of the hill, nestled by snow, smoke billowed from a stone chimney. He felt itchy here. Something was pressing on him, some thought that flew into the edge of his mind’s eye and flew away again whenever he moved near to it.

“It’s late,” said the man, sounding tired.

“We should go in little one,” said the man.

Draco stood. He felt lighter, he looked behind him at the standing stones and could not see his wings. He looked down at the ground and saw two feet. Human feet.

“What is this?”

“I don’t know,” said the man. “We need to go and get some rest. We’ll figure it out in the morning.”

“No,” said Draco, looking up at the sky.

There was nothing, just void. He turned inwards, looking with his mind’s eye. The bird landed once more.

“I was looking at the sky, I couldn’t see the stars. I hadn’t seen them in such a long time: not the stars, not the ghosts. I felt…”

“Alone.”

Draco looked over at the man, but the human was not there. In his place stood a dragon: large and gnarly with age. His wine dark scales looked scarred and weather-beaten, his whiskers falling in soft silver strands.

“Lost,” said Draco. He felt his skin pricking as if the icy wind of the tundra was just for him.

“Me too,” said the larger dragon.

Draco walked towards him. He reached out with human hands he had never used in this world, and not at all since a time when he had been a king. He placed his hands on the scales of the dragon and let the warmth of the beast ease the bite of the icy wind.

“We have met before,” said the larger dragon. “I am sure of it.”

“Perhaps,” said Draco, feeling dizzy.

The fire cracked. A piece of wood smoking in the heart of it sent sparks into the sky. They looked like stars in the black. Briefly making a pattern that Draco knew like the back of his claws. He looked down. His hand was a red claw. He opened and folded his wings once more.

The man stepped next to him, placing his hand on the dragon’s shoulder.

He spoke: “This is like a…”

“…dream.” Finished Draco. He looked at the man. “I think it is a dream.”

The man held the dragon’s gaze.

“Are you sure?”

Draco nodded. The house had gone, the tundra remained. The dragon’s eyes stung but whether it was from the wind or something else, he could not say.

“We never met,” said Draco. “Though I wish it were otherwise.”

“Oh,” said the man.

Draco let himself change as he had once done in another world where he had lived a lifetime. They looked alike now enough now, the resemblance as pronounced as when they were dragons.

“The real question,” said Draco. “is am I dreaming of you, or you of me?”

“Does it matter?” asked the man.

“I suppose not,” said Draco, holding his hand.

The ground shifted. There was another crack, this loud enough for them to let go of each other and cover their ears.  When Draco looked up, he was a dragon once more though the man was now on the other side of a gulf in the ice.

“How do we find our way home?” asked the man.

Draco looked down into the gulf, old plants and shrubs lined the dead ground where the ice had been. He thought of his mother’s words and of the sparks in the fire and how dreams and magic are alike but different. He let all the fire in his belly build with all the anger in his chest at the unfair and uncaring multiverse and roared flame into the gulf in the ice. The fire rolled down the wound in the ice, igniting the plant matter on the rock underneath and sending flames high into the night. As the fire grew higher, flecks of sparks lifted into the black where they became stars. The stars became patterns in the sky, constellations and one shone brighter than the others. A constellation that looked like a wonky saucepan that pointed towards north.

“Follow the stars,” said Draco.

The man’s side of the ice was drifting away. In the distance, three lights were moving amongst the stars: silver, purple and one that was all the colours of reality.

“How will I find you again?” asked the man.

“You don’t need to,” said the dragon. “I’m not lost.”

Draco woke. The standing stones stretched out around him, like a stone house with no roof. Caerwen stirred next to him, lifting her head and pushing her dark hair out of her face so she could look at him with her sharp green eyes.

“Hey,” she said. “Did you see them?”

Draco nodded.

“See,” she said. “The stars are always there, even if you can’t see them.”

#

“Look at you asleep already. Never mind, cariad. I’ll carry you in. Plenty more stories about Draco to tell you, when you need them. Good night, son. Sleep well.

The post Lost appeared first on Neil Beynon.

Dear Ziggy,

Another trip around the sun, another year further away from you. You should be 8 today. I don’t have a picture of you in my mind anymore, I’ve tried, it simply won’t come and anything I picture feels badly drawn, a sketch on which I have spilled something – coffee, probably.

Last year, the world had gone mad, and we were all locked at home, hiding from a hidden threat. We were trying to keep your brother and sister safe from the collective anxiety that was gripping us all and unable to do much of what we would do at this time of year. The pandemic has continued for longer than most envisaged though we are currently in a period of easing of restrictions and so are able to get to the beach as is our tradition.

Your mum and I have been able to carve out a bit more time this year to pause which has helped. I had a bit of a time of it last year. So it goes. Your mum is still painting in between all the other things we have going on, still doing what she can in the garden and we’re all getting outside as much as we can.

Your brother misses you still, though he is a happy boy most of the time and turning into quite the gamer (more your mother’s influence than mine). He loves to play with words, making up stories and rhymes, and has discovered a flair for drawing that is nice to see, an unexpected gift of lockdown. Your sister remains a wild one that loves to paint and sing and run around with your brother, occasionally winding him up, but always going back for a hug. We haven’t told her about you yet, but we will. Soon.

In my time of it last year, there was a lot of work done to deal with the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune and, for good or ill, I find those moments where I felt you were near* that used to come so frequently are now much farther apart. I think about that a lot.

Happy birthday my beautiful boy, miss you. I have sent you a story as is my tradition and I hope you enjoy it.

Mammy and Daddy love you very much.

Penblwydd hapus, cariad. Taith ddiogel.

Love you, cariad,
Dad
xxx

*I realise this is in my own head. However. Still a feeling.

The post Eight appeared first on Neil Beynon.

Peace reigns. Thrace helped forge it. The cost runs deep amongst the Shaanti.

His granddaughter, Anya, wants to be the next legendary warrior. Mired in grief, Thrace is only interested in the next bottle. But when Anya’s friend is killed, Thrace is forced back into the saddle in a desperate hunt for the killers.

Faced with a war the Shaanti can’t win, tracking the trail of death will take Thrace deep into enemy territory, the machinations of the Kurah court and an ancient evil lurking in the ruined forest.

To keep Anya and his tribe safe he’ll need every trick he has. But how much is left of the old Alaunt?

Find out on the 18^th!

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