Meghanology – book 1 of girldragongizzard

Rhoda has gotten herself a chair, and is sitting in it to poke around in my tablet’s settings, trying to see if she can figure out why the battery insists on reporting that it’s at 100% even though I haven’t charged it since Kimberly gave it to me.

Or, at least, I think that’s what she’s doing. I can’t see the screen from where I’m sitting.

Cerce is watching her curiously.

While she works, Rhoda almost absently starts talking about something else, “Meghan, there’s something you need to be aware of, if you haven’t checked the local news today. You don’t need to do anything about it besides probably behave yourself as best you can.”

I compose myself carefully to show her that I’m listening. But she’s not looking at me.

“That squabble last night. I think it was Loreena and Poink? Apt names, if I’m right,” she says.

“Yes,” I affirm.

“The two of them, with ample help from the police – but that’s not going to factor into this of course – destroyed half of the Southside Fred Meyer,” she says. “Both City Council and County Council are holding emergency sessions tonight because of it. I’m planning on being at one of those meetings to speak on behalf of you and your kind, if I can. If they let me.”

Oh.

I can only say “yes”, “no”, and “stop”, or make expressions that she’s not looking at, because she has my tablet, but that’s OK. I think she’s going to keep talking anyway until she’s informed me and Cerce of all that’s going on.

“The funny thing is, if you can call it funny, Loreena and Poink were shopping,” she says. “They met in the meat department, of course. Which is right between their two territories, and why they had the dispute.” She pokes at my tablet some more. “But, I’m pretty certain we’re going to have some new laws, policies, and ordinances regarding dragons by next week or so. And the police are going to be empowered to act on them. Or animal control. Or both.”

She squints at the screen, and I bow my head.

“That’s going to put you in a really tight spot, and maybe a lot of danger,” she says. “The sheriff's department has a tank they bought in 2008. It can’t get up to the roof you sleep on, but – oh, this is very interesting.”

“What is it?” Cerce asks.

Rhoda puts the tablet down on the table so we can all see. She’s opened the file browser and navigated to the system folder. And she points at an icon on the screen.

“That’s not a standard file,” she says.

“How do you know that?” Cerce asks.

“I make it a point to know a little bit of everything,” Rhoda replies. “A habit I picked up from my late son.”

“What kind of file is it?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t know if it’s related to the battery, but it’s really weird,” Rhoda says. “That icon is a sigil or rune. Not like those antisemitic new age rip offs, either.”

“What? You’re shitting me. You understand that?”

“No and no,” Rhoda admits. “I just know what it looks like and what it’s not.”

Cerce narrows her eyes and studies Rhoda. “It sounds like you know something most people don’t.”

“That’s probably true.”

I’m back to thinking maybe Rhoda is a witch.

I see movement behind Cerce in the corner of my eye and look to catch Chapman approaching us glumly.

Is it lunch time already?

Sie is wearing an R2D2 themed skater dress and moon boots, with a purse the same color as hir hair. Sie must spend all of hir disposable income on outfits, but I honestly can’t fault hir for doing so.

Chapman notices Rhoda poking at my new hand-me-down tablet and stops and purses hir lips. Then decides it’s important to stay the course and approach us.

Cerce and Rhoda notice where my attention is paid, and look themselves.

“Hey, Chapman,” Cerce says.

“Cerce,” Chapman says in their maple syrup croon. “Rhoda. Hey, Meg. I’ve come to apologize, but now I see I may need to explain even more.”

“What do you mean?” Rhoda asks. But I see she’s not tensing up. She’s just curious. Not even confused.

“That file you're thinking of opening is something I added to the tablet myself,” Chapman says. “I knew Meg would need it.”

“How?” Cerce blinks.

“I’m a bit of an artist,” Chapman replies. Sie doesn’t elaborate and just stands there waiting for the next question.

“Can you explain that?” Cerce asks.

Chapman looks around to see if anyone else is in earshot, then wanders around the table to go get another chair to bring over and sit down. 

Rhoda scoots over to make room.

Then Chapman leans forward, elbows on the table, hands clenched, and looks at each of us conspiratorially. And then waits for us to lean forward.

When we’ve tightened the circle of ears, sie says, “Dragons aren’t the only ones to have awaked recently.” Then sie leans back and again falls silent, seemingly content with having said that little.

I tilt my head to the side.

Rhoda sighs, looks over, and says, “You’re going to have to elaborate, I think.”

“I’m sorry,” Chapman says. “I’ve sworn to secrecy. But the vow is very specifically worded. So, I’m waffling. Do I violate the spirit of the vow by upholding only the letter of it? Or do I keep my mouth shut? In any case, I slipped up with Meghan, and I ‘m sorry for doing that.”

I reach across the table to bring the tablet over to me, and hit home and then the AAC app.

“I felt thing,” I say. “I felt a switch.”

It’s Chapman’s turn to tilt hir head.

“Is magic?” I ask.

“Wait,” Rhoda says, holding a hand tilted toward me to beg my patience, while looking at Chapman. “It’s only been since the 24th. How did you all organize so quickly you have a vow?”

Chapman bites hir lip, then says, “The dragons didn’t come first, or simultaneously. This all begins earlier than that. But also, not everyone took the vow. Not all learned about it. And I just thought it was a good idea.”

I angrily knuckle my tablet, “Did you make happen? Did you do change?”

“No,” Chapman says. “As far as I know, no one knows what triggered it. Only that we’re all out, now.”

I remember my 3.5 edition D&D, and decide to ask outright, “Are you warlock?”

“What? No. I’m also not saying, otherwise I’d break the vow of secrecy,” Chapman scowls. “I basically already have, though. Please don’t ask more questions like that.”

I look at Rhoda and then ask, “Are you witch?” Just to be fair.

She falls back in her chair cackling and shaking her head, “Heaven’s no! Though, I guess I admire the idea of being a wise woman.”

I look at Cerce and she just giggles.

“Are you student?” I ask.

It’s her turn to break out laughing, snorting and putting a hand to her nose, but she nods and says, “Yes! Yes, I am.”

I feel like this is the first time in my life I’ve actually cracked a joke. And it’s a subtle, deadpan joke. My way of talking is really made for deadpan delivery. It’s about all I can do, and it makes me feel sly. I love it.

I know I’ve made people laugh before, but I can’t remember if I’ve done it deliberately or not. I’ve always felt like my purposeful attempts all fell flat before.

Everyone seems to be enjoying the moment, too.

Then I feel that shift again, and Chapman, who’s been snickering too, sobers up and turns Rhoda.

“I’ll take the Council meeting you miss, tonight,” sie says. “I don’t think we can do anything there to alter the Path tonight, but we can at least remain as informed as possible.”

Rhoda nods, and no one comments.

After a moment, I insist on clarification, “What ‘Path’?”

Chapman looks at me, “History.”

Of course. “Yes,” I say.

“What can the rest of us do?” Cerce asks, sounding uncertain that she’s included.

Rhoda puts a hand on her arm and says, “You can come to one of the Council meetings too. Or, since the two of us have that covered, be yourself. You’re doing good already just being friends with the likes of us. There’ll be more work to come. I promise.”

“Do you think we should get my bosses in on this?”

“I believe Nathan is working on that angle,” Rhoda replies. “But definitely. Since the shop is the seat of Meghan’s territory, this concerns them intimately.”

“OK, I’ll back Nate up. But I think they’re already on our side, anyway. The bosses love Meg,” Cerce concludes.

Rhoda just nods.

Cerce squints at Chapman for a bit, then says, “I’m sorry. I’m going to ask you a leading question, but I really want to know. Can you teach me your art?”

“If you took the vow, I think I could try,” Chapman says. “But I don’t think it’d work. It would be unprecedented.”

Cerce sighs and nods.

Chapman folds hir arms and looks down at the table. “OK. Everyone. I’m going to phrase this in a very specific way. Please take it at face value and do not read into it.”

Sie looks around at each of us through hir magenta pompadour.

We each nod.

Sie nods, then suggests, “Let’s all pretend that I’m Gandalf.” Then sie points at me, and says, “You! I was not expecting you to be able to notice things. That’s new to everyone. Though, I don’t think any dragon has been this close to someone like me, yet. It’s only been a week. Less for most.”

I tilt my head.

“That’s all you’re getting today. Just think about it and put it to good use, Meg.”

I bow my head, “Yes.”

I have the weirdly new to me experience of realizing my social connections are falling into place and making themselves clear. And they’re doing so in a way that is at once both reassuring and helpful, but also a bit of a disappointment?

Chapman’s all business now, and Rhoda’s deeper into her business, gripping it with both hands and wearing it like a shawl. And both of them in dedication to me, for some reason. Maybe on Rhoda’s part because we’re friends and neighbors. On Chapman’s part, though, it seems to be pure business, not just autistic interest, but wrapped up in whatever sie has vowed to keep secret. And all of hir signals, signs of excitement, smugness, were probably just the thrill of opportunity falling into place.

But, at least, sie sounds like sie is on my side.

I’m more heartbroken about this than I expected, and I’m kind of confused by that.

What are dragon relationships with humans supposed to be like, anyway?

I wonder what those infant dragons will grow up to be like, being treated as dragons right from the beginning. Are they being raised by other dragons, or humans? Or, are they more autonomous than human babies, and basically self sufficient little monsters with no socialization yet?

I take a moment to visualize maybe having a dragon whelp or four or eight or whatever of my own.

I’d love to lay an egg someday, if my body can do that. But raising even one child? I’m not sure.

Huh.

Would I even have to raise them? Or just protect them for a while? I like the sound of that latter option.

Double huh.

I’m starting to wish that there was an online forum for dragons, so I back out of the AAC program and fire up a browser and do a search while the others are talking about something.

And what I get is a little overwhelming for the moment I’m in currently. But, at a first, cursory glance, I’m not seeing anything labeled, “by dragons, for dragons.” And some of the stuff I am seeing makes me want to close the browser fast.

Between “r/dragon_fuckers”, “r/dragon_masters”, “r/dragonslayers”, and "r/dragonfuckingcar" I’m done.

But before I go back to the conversion in front of me, I can’t stop myself from knuckling open the search query question, “Will my dragon fuck me if I ask?”

The answer provokes a series of knocking noises to burst from my syrinx.

It reads, “If you are in the Northern hemisphere, it’s not mating season. If you are in the Southern hemisphere, maybe. The recommendation is, don’t try it.”

“What was that about?” Cerce asks.

“No,” I say. Then I push the tablet over to her so that she can read it.

Her laughter is gratifying.

Chapman looks and chuckles. And Rhoda just shakes her head.

But she looks at me thoughtfully afterward.

She does not elucidate and I have no idea what she might be thinking. But it hardly matters to me at the moment. I’m too amused to care. And then we’re interrupted.

We hear Kimberly say, “Uh, oh.”

And when we all look, we see her standing just outside the door of the shop, arms akimbo, and staring Eastward up the street.

I vaguely hear some people calling things out from up that way, and look, along with the others.

If I had hackles, they’d rise. If I had a dewlap, it’d be inflated.

Instead, my chin starts jerking up of its own accord, and my wings need to be stretched, even though I don’t have the room to do that where I’m sitting.

I see the shadow before they come into my view, but I knew what they were before that and I’m not sure how.

There are eight small pointy heads, with frilled jaws, on thin long necks, all doing that Ray Harryhausen dance as they pull themselves forward on two limbs like a walrus with a thick tail long enough to strangle an elephant.

When I say pointy heads, I mean they look just like baby crocodile heads, but with the frills.

I know the name I gave them before they make a single sound.

It’s Poink.

“Meghan,” Rhoda says, an edge of warning in her voice.

But I’m blocked in by her chair and the table behind me, and I find myself trying to climb the side of the building, despite that big red iron awning being right above me. Also, the fact that there’s a huge picture window right there doesn’t help. Not many clawholds.

I twist to my left, through the air, all the way around, to land with my foreclaws in the middle of the table, and hiss. Which I haven’t done yet. That’s interesting.

“Hey, everyone,” Chapman says. “Let’s all back off and let Meg handle this. Don’t get in the way.”

Thank you.

I manage to wait for my people to clear out and get behind me, and for Kimblerly to glance our way and then retreat into the doorway of the shop, before I move further. Then I scramble right over the table, upending it, without thinking much about my tablet.

Poink is moving pretty slow, and seems to be hurt, and is looking around warily. A couple of their heads have spotted me and are tracking my movements.

When I make it to the corner of the sidewalk, I stop.

My territory extends further than that, and Poink is already in it, but I find that my conscious curiosity about what they’re planning on doing manages to override my urge to press an attack.

Something about their movements and postures does not seem challenging, and they haven’t called out yet.

I can now see that there are big gashes on Poink's shoulders, made by three talons with every stroke. They look bigger than I could make. They’re not really bleeding now, but they must be painful.

Part of me thinks I could crush and eat them easily. And the rest of me is repulsed by that idea. And that inner conflict has me frozen as well.

I wait until they come to the edge of their sidewalk, kitty corner to me in the intersection, and then I say, “Stop.” I can’t make it sound urgent or stern, but I make it as loud as I can.

Their heads all do this fluid pulling back thing, one after another, that would make an animator fall over in delight. A hydra’s version of a taken aback.

I hear a single, quiet, “Poink.” And then they bow, lowering their shoulders and then their heads.

All the cars that have been coming up the streets have stopped, including a city bus. They all know better than to get between us at this point. And ideally, we want a demonstration of draconic diplomacy instead of a fight.

But at that “Poink”, I cannot stop myself from charging!

Bound! Bound! Jump, glide, skid, flap, flap, “GggrrrrrrrrrRREEEYAWK! NOKNOKNOKNOK!!!”