As I cleaned up, I checked periodically on the big rock in the kiln, which appeared to have melted off its outer layer, leaving behind a smooth black sphere that kind of reminded me of an egg. Unusual.
We had some fresh-caught fish for dinner, pan fried in butter with seared pineapple and rice. After, I spent the evening reading in the lanai as Tutu attended his weekly poker night with his boys—a bunch of grumpy old men who spent most of the game talking about the good ‘ol days.
The next morning, I entered the workshop and headed for the kiln. Surely by now the hunk had melted.
I peeked in and frowned. The large lump of obsidian had finally melted, but it turned out to not be pure. Whatever element it contained left behind gray, white, and orange swirls.
The liquid glass could still be used, just not with the new client’s tables. He’d chosen to not add any elements and requested only some frothing in a spiraling design. A bit more work, but I’d wager Tutu increased the price, which would explain his smile when he told me. What would irritate my grandfather? The delay in completing the project until a batch of obsidian arrived. Couldn’t be helped, given the colorful mess in the kiln—which wouldn’t go to waste.
Luckily, I had a few molds, my go-to when I had a contaminated batch of liquid glass. I chose a bowl popular with tourists that would likely sell quick.
When the glass had cooled enough for me to move it off the mold, I attached a metal punty and gently removed it, then placed it carefully into the cooling portion of the furnace. Not as hot as the area with the crucible, but hot enough it would allow the obsidian to come to room temperature without developing stress fractures from uneven cooling. As I shut the kiln, a noise overhead had me craning. Despite the shadows, I caught a glimpse of something moving along one of the ceiling cross beams that we used to hang fans and lights from. Don’t tell me another mongoose had gotten inside. Pesky buggers had been introduced to Hawaii to control the rats, only they ended up multiplying due to a lack of true predators. While harmless, I didn’t need one dropping poop or walking across a drying surface.
“I’d suggest you vacate,” I muttered as I left to fetch a trap.
Chapter Two
Consciousness began to pulse as heat penetrated my shell. Awareness had me stirring within the tight confines of my egg. Soon the layer encasing me would become brittle enough to shatter, and I would be unleashed upon the world!
My impatience had me growling as I waited for my moment. It didn’t help that my belly rumbled, too. When the shell thinned enough, I pummeled my way out, only to blink in surprise, for I found myself in an oven of some sort rather than a magma stream or volcano. Black liquid bubbled all around, but its boiling temperature didn’t bother me. Dragons could only be born in the fiercest of heats, although some of my kind did lose their protection against it as they aged.
A window in the side of the sturdy vat let me peek into a strange place. A workshop, by the looks of it. I noticed a workbench with tools and furniture. The door to the oven remained firmly sealed despite my shoves against it. Most likely locked. Whoever placed my egg in here didn’t want me to escape, but they’d not counted on the fact that, even freshly hatched, I could be wily. A glance overhead showed an opening for ventilation, narrow, but I’d fit. For now. Once I got a few meals into me, I’d begin my growth.
My soft claws lacked pricking grip, but luckily, the sides of the oven had pitted from use, the grooves and rough texture allowing me to climb into the chimney. I wiggled my way up the long spout and emerged on a roof. A roof much too high from the ground, however, prying up a section of the metal roof brought me back inside the building and within leaping distance of a metal beam. A glance showed several of them crisscrossing, bolted into walls of the same material as the roof. A whole building comprised of metal. What a waste. Refined ores were usually put to better use.
I’d only barely begun to explore—in search of something for my ravenous belly—when a female human arrived. Being a smart hatchling who didn’t want its skull crushed less than a day after emerging from the shell, I observed her. Saw when her lips pinched in annoyance as she noticed I’d escaped her oven. Wretched human must have been the one to place my egg within. She’d pay for the indignity of it. A dragon should be born in the molten heat of magma, not in someone’s kiln.
To my surprise, she didn’t seek me out but rather poured the remains of my melted shell into a bowl-shaped form. She must be an artisan. Not an ideal servant for a dragon. Maybe she could cook? I had my doubts, given her mannish attire that included a long-sleeve button shirt and trousers better suited to a male. She’d scraped her hair into a bun and stuffed it under a hideous hat with a brim projecting from the front. At least she wasn’t ugly. Smooth features and plump cheeks that seemed to indicate she was well fed. Perhaps she’d brought a snack?
I leaned down to see if I could get a sniff, and a paw slipped. The noise and movement proved to be slight, yet it drew her attention. The female craned her head and almost saw me. I scurried for a pocket of shadow, not ready yet to reveal myself. I’d only just hatched, after all, and I remained at my most vulnerable. I’d also yet to ascertain her intentions. Why had she stolen my egg and hatched it in her kiln? What plans did she have for me?
The female left but returned shortly with a cage, which she set down on the floor. My gaze narrowed as she placed a banana inside as bait. I’d not been born dumb. I had the memories of my maternal progenitor, not the personal ones but practical. Everything my egg creator knew about humanity and the world had been passed on to me, and it indicated this cage was likely to trap an animal.
AKA me.
How rude, but not unexpected. While some humans worshipped dragons, many also feared us. They hunted my kind. Stole from our hoards. Hid their flocks to try and starve us! When I ruled the world, I’d teach them their place. Although that might be a little while, as I first needed to eat and grow to a more impressive size. I’d emerged from the shell scrawny, as if I’d not been properly fed while incubating. Blame the vat that hatched me. Lava provided essential nutrients to a hatchling preparing to emerge into the world. A world that appeared to have changed much since my maternal progenitor last flew its skies.
The female departed once again, and I crept down, ignoring the cage—despite the tempting fruit—and headed for the door, only I couldn’t open it. The knob holding it shut hovered much too far overhead. Stupid short legs.
I lay in wait. When next the portal opened, I scurried out, darting between the female’s legs, racing for freedom. Spotting a grove of trees, I climbed quick as I could, hampered slightly by my soft claws. Thankfully they wouldn’t take long to harden now that I’d been hatched. I’d need them, not only to get in and out of place while I waited for my wings, but also to protect myself. A hatchling was easy prey until we’d gone through a few moltings.
To my delight, the tree I chose had branches heavy with ripe mangoes. While not meat—with all its body-building protein—it would curb the rumble in my belly.
Or would have if an old man didn’t emerge, belly jiggling, yelling and shaking a broom at me. The nerve! But I had to wonder what he ate because he obviously didn’t lack for food. Was he a chef? It made sense that a cook would want to boast of their skill by eating their own rich offerings and showing off their corpulent body as a result.
Given his agitation, I fled the mango tree and leapt to another, which projected higher in the sky. The elevated boughs kept me out of reach of the violent human—who would pay when I got big for daring to threaten me, with a broom of all things. Talk about an insult.
Alas, my new tree lacked any fruit. Given the old man remained stalking around, occasionally poking the broom at the lower branches of the trees, I chose to settle in for a nap—and dreamt the fat man brought me a feast. Succulent roast boar. A basted, golden goose. Juicy red hunks of beef. I ate it all, and soon as I finished a course, another appeared. It was glorious and befitting of the world’s future leader.
Alas, it wasn’t real. I woke hungrier than ever, and no platter of deliciousness awaited. However, I did smell something tantalizing, and my taste buds watered. I followed my nose, and it led me to a shack squatting beside the strange metal structure I’d escaped. It still baffled they’d chosen the expense and extra work of building with refined ore rather than stone blocks. The blue hovel appeared constructed of wood, also baffling given its highly flammable nature. Then again, it provided an excellent way of cooking a meal. Sure, we enjoyed raw flesh, but my recollections indicated a fondness by my kind for crisped fat and crackling skin.
Would I be a fire-breathing dragon? I sure hoped so. It seemed much more useful, not to mention fun, than say, the ability to shoot lightning or ice. I just hoped I wasn’t the poison-spewing kind, the least exciting of them all. My special ability wouldn’t make an appearance until I’d gone through a few moltings, and for those to happen, I required food. Lots of it.
From the bush that hid me, I crept closer to the shack, the delicious scents increasing in strength as I neared an open window. A murmur of voices had me frowning, for I didn’t understand the language. Odd because I’d inherited the understanding of a few. I must have been dropped on a previously undiscovered continent. How exciting. Perhaps I’d be the first dragon the indigenous humans ever encountered. They’d likely be awed by my majesty. In return, I would be benevolent so long as they kept my belly full.
A peek over the window ledge showed the old man—minus his broom—sitting at a table, waving his hands and speaking loudly. The female, who’d set the trap, pulled a loaf from an oven and began slicing.
Fresh bread, still wafting steam. Crusty on the outside, soft within.
