Free A Sending of Dragons by Jane Yolen Page A

defeated dragon had screamed until Heart’s Blood began to shake in the tremors known as Fool’s Pride. Such trembling usually led a dragon to forget all training and fight to the death. But a death wish was not what Jakkin sensed from the cave dragon. He could read only total and overwhelming fear, so he willed himself to send calmly, though he could feel sweat running down his back with the effort. Forcing the image that had always worked for him before, he sent a faded, grayed-out picture of
the oasis where he and Heart’s Blood had trained, with its ribbon of blue river threading through the sandy landscape.
    But the dragon seemed unable to listen. Her own hot, bubbling fear images kept breaking into Jakkin’s sending, boiling the gray-blue stream and turning the sand dunes into vast gray storms. Her trembling continued unabated.
    â€œ
Man. Man. Man. Man.
” It was a kind of wail that ran through, around, under, and over the sending.
    â€œI can’t reach her,” Jakkin shouted to Akki, his voice bouncing off the walls. “Either that or she can’t hear.”
    â€œMaybe . . .” Akki’s voice was thinned out, “maybe the pictures you’re sending make no sense to her. Try something else.” She’d begun trembling herself with the effort of soothing the dragon.
    Jakkin moved toward the dragon’s neck and put his arms around her shaking head. He blew into her ears, trying to get her attention.
    â€œListen, little flamemouth,” he crooned, “I am not-man. I am part dragon. I had two mothers. Trust me. Trust me. Think of the
dark. Think of the quiet. Think of the notmen.” He forced cool, careful thoughts to her, stopping once to blow in her ears again, first the left, then the right. Then he started crooning again.
    â€œI think . . .” Akki began, “I think she’s trembling a little less.”
    He nodded, keeping up his croon. He babbled about caves and night and the moons and anything else that he could think of, but all the while he kept the sending as controlled as possible.
    â€œShe’s
definitely
trembling less,” Akki said.
    Even Jakkin could feel it now, running his hand down the long neck where the scales, though shifting with small tremors, were moving more slowly. He doubled his effort then, sure of success. “I will tell you a story now,” he said, his voice even, “about Fewmets Ferkkin, a fantastic fellow.” He proceeded to tell the dragon seven jokes in a row without ever changing the tone of his voice. The important thing was to keep the words flowing.
    Next to the dragon’s leg, Akki relaxed into a giggle. “Jakkin—you’re terrible,” she
said. But her mood, communicating directly with the dragon, helped even more.
    As Jakkin began the eighth joke he realized he couldn’t think of any more and finished lamely, “And that’s all we know about Fewmets Ferkkin . . .” but it was all right, for the dragon had stopped shaking.
    Jakkin sighed. “Now what is all this,” he said softly, “about not-man?”
    But the dragon, too, gave a tremendous sigh, lay down, and put her great head on her front legs and fell asleep.
    â€œWhen you deal with hysterical babies,” Akki said, “you’ll find a surprising phenomenon—they fall asleep the minute the crisis is over.”
    â€œSome baby,” Jakkin said.
    â€œ
Big
baby,” Akki added.
    They laughed, remembering their conversation only a day before.
    â€œSo now we have an enormous sleeping dragon on our hands,” Jakkin began.
    â€œAnd several enormous questions unanswered,” Akki finished for him.
    Jakkin was silent.
    â€œOne,” Akki said, “is what is the dif
ference between man and not-man and why did it scare her so much?”
    â€œTwo is—who is she and where did she come from?” Then, as if in afterthought, he added,