Jamrach's Menagerie - Carol Birch [76]
Dan Rymer, drunk to hell, grinning like old father Christmas, stood on a barrel with his arms outspread as if conducting a band, his cap awry and his dirty curls wet, shouting: “To me! To me! This way!”
I stuck by Comeragh. Comeragh was a good, sane man.
“That way, Jaf!” cried Comeragh.
I had no idea what I was doing. Comeragh’s long legs flashed along the opposite deck.
The dragon came fast my way and I nearly brained myself banging into Billy Stock, both of us trying to flee. I heard Tim’s voice calling plaintively, “Jaf! Jaf!” and Skip sobbing. I have no idea what really happened, we were all just running about shouting, and the clack-clack of sliding claws was everywhere. Next thing I knew I was running after Comeragh and there was the cage with the door wide open, and Skip’s sketchbook lying splayed, some of the pages bent. Comeragh said, “You stay here, Jaf, get on top ready to close the door when we get him in,” and I jumped on top of the cage. Everything suddenly came clear into focus. I couldn’t see past the windlass, I didn’t know what was going on, all the shouting and yelling and crashing. I was all a-shiver with my teeth rattling and there was a serious, small voice in my head saying, This is bad, this is all very, very bad and you’re not ready. And I was alone, miraculously. Then suddenly the dragon appeared in front of me, its muddy head raised up, dark holed with flat nostrils and ear holes and those beady, black eyes full of guile, pink ringed. There was something about them that brought my guts up to my throat. Its tongue flicked, then it opened its cavernous mouth and closed it again, got up on its hind legs and put its great clawed hands on top of the cage. It could reach me. Its arms were like thick old trees that had been growing for ever. Long, yellow flick of a tongue, and an immensely wrinkled throat as wide as a washboard. It looked deep into my eyes and it was not like meeting the eyes of a dog or a cat, or even a tiger. There was nothing there that I could fathom, no mercy, no malice. It was a cold soul I looked into. It would kill me, tear me with teeth. None of it would matter. I would matter no more than a green shoot that pushes through the earth and is cropped by a passing sheep.
Comeragh appeared, harpoon poised. The dragon was fast. It flicked round like a fish, the harpoon flew wide and clattered off the edge of the open door—then all so fast I don’t know how, Comeragh was down on the deck and it was running, snapping and slavering, he was pushing himself back, heels sliding, kicking at it, but all to no avail, for it opened its long, crocodile mouth wide and sank its teeth into his leg just below the knee and he let out one almighty scream that brought everyone running. It gave a shake of its head that snapped Mr. Comeragh’s head back on its stem, let go and charged through the yelling mob, which spun about as if stirred in a pot and gave chase. I jumped down, saw Abel Roper fall on one knee next to Comeragh, heard Comeragh cursing heartily and steadily through his teeth. I ran with the others. There was the horrible thing with its fat legs pumping and scrambling back along the larboard deck. And then the end came suddenly, as ends do, a flood of hatred, a bursting tide of it that drove the creature overboard. They poured from the hatches and down from their safe perches, a screaming, yelling tide which I joined in triumph. We were legion. We came from both sides and it had no chance. Someone loosed the bolts and opened up the ship so we could drive him over, and down he went, sprawl legged and ridiculous, a splayed fool walking on nothing, kicking at the void, then—an explosion, a hole in the black ocean receiving one more offering.
Gone.
A cheer went up. We gripped the rail, leaning forward and looking over. He must have sunk a fair way down