In spending time with the wyverns and coming to know their intelligent, inquisitive spirit, I find myself seeking reason for it in their physical stature. It is peculiar that God has given such wild attributes to creatures who ponder the arts as deeply as any human, whose understanding of language is on an almost spiritual plane and whose traditions could bring order and peace to any civilisation or society.
Their wings are used, of course, for flying. Each day little Marguerite and I seek a sunny spot on the hillside to watch them soar through the air, accompanied by swarms of Grayling butterflies and trailing clouds like a stage magician might utilise smoke for a magic show. They have a strange command of the air, an ability to bring a water-soaked fog down upon us, or to clear an overcast morning with the sweep of a sun-kissed tail. Their tails are a tool used for balance and impressive speed, which must have put the Roman scourge to shame. I have also seen one sever the life from a fleeing sheep. Their huge eyes give them night vision, as many a ceremony takes place after dark in Canna’s cool, salty starlight.
But what is the purpose of the long index claw? Ihave watched them use it to dig in the dirt for materials – clay for sculpting, minerals for medicine. I have seen them use it to shear the wool from the sheep they hunt, ready to be wound on to the loom. But does that mean God intended for them to be creatures of artistic pursuit? And if that is the case, why did he not give humans pens in the place of fingers or the ability to paint landscapes with our eyes? Are we not the most artistic of all species, called to create like our creator?
It is a curious mystery.
June 1866
Government ships have been sighted. The wyverns are taking June and Marguerite to a hideout, but I await my accusers in a cave on the shore. It is my intention to argue with them, to defend my right to record the wyvern tongue and share it with the world. Britannia has already relegated Scottish Gaelic to the corners of the most tenacious Third Class homes, hoping that it will die out. And so it comes as no surprise to me that they do not wish to hear of its Draconic descendant, Cannair, which Abelio
ATLAS CLIMBS BACK ON TO THE horse, then reaches down to me. I take his hand, my limbs moving of their own accord despite the blind ricocheting of my mind between two images. Atlas, blood seeping through his blue Bletchley uniform. Atlas, galloping towards me, the sun like gold on his skin. Suddenly I’m on a horse, its body hot beneath me as it snorts in panic. My hand curls around its wiry mane. Atlas’s arms encircle me as he takes the reins. Thick smoke clouds the sky. I can’t see Marquis or Chumana, but when the horse barrels through the smog and up the cliffside, a voice screams from behind us.
‘Fuck!’
I turn to look over Atlas’s shoulder. Ralph is staring up at me from the beach, pointing his gun. Our horse gallops up the path, foaming at the mouth as bullets whir past. I lower my head, pressing my face into its neck, and inhale its musky smell. It’s the only thing tethering me to this moment,reminding me that I’m not in some sort of hallucination.
Dragonfire streaks past us and the horse rears, sending rocks skittering down on to the beach below. I hear Atlas’s voice soothing it, calling it by its name. I look up as we reach the top of the hill. Below, flames are eating their way through the tents again. A Bolgorith lies across the sand in a gush of blood. Then we’re streaking down the hill, the wind stealing my breath, and I see another horse galloping across the fields ahead, a tall, lanky figure on its back.
Since when does my cousin ride?
I close my eyes, clinging to the horse until finally we slow. It whinnies as we come to a stop outside a low flint wall. Behind it is a field of wheat, dotted with huts and backed by a huge forest.
‘About bloody time,’ says a voice.
The sound has me slipping from my horse and then I see him, holding the reins of a black mare and looking at me with a sheepish grin.
‘Marquis,’ I gasp.
We reach for each other and I hug him fiercely, my fingers grasping the back of his jacket. His hair is longer and he’s wearing an army uniform and combat boots. When we come apart I see a black armband on his bicep, decorated with the outline of a swallow. I linger on it, not daring to turn around. I hear the soft whip of reins, the clink of the bit in a horse’s mouth and then a thump as feet hit the ground. But still I can’t look at him.
‘He’s dead,’ I whisper to Marquis. ‘I saw him die.’
Marquis rests his hands on my shoulders.
‘He’s not,’ he says gently. ‘We only thought he was.’
The oyster-catchers continue their squeaking amid the rush of the wind in the trees. Buttercups sprout up around my boots and I stare at them as I concentrate on breathing in and out. I turn to face Atlas. He has one hand on the reins and the other is stroking his horse’s nose. His face is smeared with soot and his hair drenched in sweat. This is the first time I’ve seen him without his seminarian’s collar – he’s wearing the same clothes and armband as Marquis. And his eyes are searching mine, imploring me to . . . what? What do you do when the person you love dies and comes back to life?
He lets go of the horse and takes a step towards me. His hands are open, palms upturned, as if in prayer. I drink him in: the ruddy glow of his cheeks, the stubble on his chin, the bright hope in his eyes.
‘After I was shot—’
‘Get out of here!’
A voice interrupts Atlas and I turn to see a boy charging through the wheat field towards us. He’s tall and slim and shirtless, with wild brown hair and a long, freckled nose. He stares at me with a sour expression. ‘She can’t be here,’ he says. ‘I told you, Wyvernmire will come looking for her.’
‘All right, keep your hair on,’ Marquis says. ‘We weren’t going to bring her back to camp.’
‘You’re already too close,’ the boy says.
Several small children appear behind him, watching us from a distance.
‘Jasper,’ Atlas says, ‘surely you can let her rest for a while?’ He looks back over his shoulder. ‘There will be dragons outsearching for her, so let her hide here until nightfall. Then we’ll go. You have my word.’
Jasper shakes his head. ‘Sorry. Too dangerous.’
I jump as a hand slips into mine. ‘Are you Viv?’
