The Flyness

A short story written by Kira Crow © (or here; not English sites)
translated by Snoodle ©
and corrected by Wagerwitch © (thank you a lot!)

Can you hear the laugh?

Wafting through the market and enlacing by sweet scent as a snake, accompany the jingle of bells and nickels... So bright and clear that the surrounding bustle and people’s milling around seems to be just simple coulisse.

You like it? I see you raising your head and your glazed eyes sparkling with just a tiny touch of interest left. Can you understand yet?

It’s a laugh of group of children romping around the stalls belonging to their parents. They are offsprings of nomads. Wild human young ones.

Even you are the young one – torn from your mother’s arms, who gave her blood for your protection. Now you are their prisoner, stupid toy and an attraction for money... But you are so small you can’t understand.

No, I am not crying, just dust in my eyes that makes my tears.

The group of children runs around the market and have fun by the old game, but I know it won’t last for long and they will come here, eventually to you.

„Hey, uncle, show us the monster! “They yell and the face of the disgusting fat old geezer screwed up with a cheeky smile. „Oh you little scoundrels, I will show you the ugliest monster who has been torturing our nation, who used to hunt us on our journeys and has been steeling exactly little brats like you! “

The old stupid superstition has been told in gypsy camps for years. Who knows its origin? But I know it’s only poisoned slander, which only human have dared to spit into dragon’s face.

„But you do have money don’t you? “And nippers start to please, urge, implore, and threaten. „I will tell my dad! “ „We will tell on you to the old witch and your tooth ache won’t help you anymore“ At the end they resign and draw a couple of copper coins from their dirty pockets. The old man graciously leads them into the tent, to your cage.

Don’t jerk so much, I know it hurts. The hits by sharpened stones and pokes have made, in your still soft and weak skin, terrible scars which won’t heal. Your scales are dying out or becoming overgrown in the wrong direction, your little paws with small claws filed off so you can’t even walk. I am trying, Gods know, trying so hard to delude your pain by herbs and old medicine... But what can I do against the crowd? I can hardly treat you and the cuts start to heal, other spectators will come and hurt you again.

„Monster! Brute!“ scornful laughter full of malevolence, purple gloss of hate and sadism in all eyes around, even people who you can call decent and polite in normal life, here in Panopticum lose their barriers.

I know this is different laugh. Its full of joy and children’s carefreeness, but the moment it comes closer to you, it changes into laugh that brings pain.

Dont be scared, I didnt mean to terrify you. I wont let this happen again, little boy.
I cant let you fly to the wilds, you are so disabled you woudlnt survive for more than three days, I cant hide you. You have become destroyed shaking hillock, just a bundle of scars, sores and broken wings. I wish I was there when you were stolen from your mother, when you still had hope...

The strong chain has pressed its rusted pattern into your neck... Slowly loosening it not to hurt you.
I admit, I am crying.

You are so weak you are not defending yourself, when I hold you in my arms, you are just looking at me by your azure sad eyes. I rub you on your little nose for a while without thinking, listening to music from the market. I must be brave.

Taking the leather wee bag from my pocket, the one Ellen gave me long time ago. Ellen, the little druid and great healer. I can remember very well what she was telling me: „Only not much of diseases exist, which the magic can’t fix, Cora. But at the place, where even the magic fails, where the herbs cannot repair the damage... It isn’t a crime to use this. It’s a duty. “

Truthfully the herbs are locally referred to as Blower, but fortunately it doesn’t work the way the name suggest. At least not for the dragons. The water in the kettle is boiling already, I’m putting the little young white rootlets into it and slowly stirring. We still have time.

I want you to know that if I could help you by different way, I wouldn’t wait for a second. I swear to Gods, I will just help you away from the sorrows.

You would be such a beautiful dragon. Slim body, strong paws with dragon’s talons, green and yellow skin encrusted by shiny scales and bloody-red thorns, a tail closed by one strong spike. You would rise your head proudly to the sky and guard the woods, freedom would be your second name. Once you would hear the people’s laugh, you would never recognise the markets music. You wouldn’t experience more suffering than other wild creatures.

A bubbling water disturbs me from my fantasy, the concoction is finished.
Breathing deeply when pouring the medicine into the cornet made from birchen bark, my hands are shaking. You are lying in my lap and uncomprehendingly you follow my acting. If only you knew...

„The sun is gone, the stars are shining.
The Elves and others sadly whining. “

You’re listening to me with interest, I feel your frightened heart-beat calming down.

„Feys and Fairies dancing on meadows.
Welcoming Flyness, healer of sorrows. “

I carefully cut the top of the vial and slowly put it in your little maw. You are swallowing the bitter colourless liquid and listen to the song. You seem so calmed and content...

„Where the dragons fly, when the star of the dragon fades?
Where the fairies dance, when no one’s on the glades?
Everyone knows and wishes them to stay“

One, two hitches in sudden cramp, you closed your eyes and breathed out. At last. No more suffering, no more pain. I don’t care what they will do to me, when they find out!
Pressing the cooling small body and stifling sobs when singing:

„With Flyness the dragon, they pass away“