The Birthday Dragon Page 2

  “Oh, isn’t he cute when he blushes?” Of course, I blushed more. They giggled and offered me a glass of wine. We talked, they said they weren’t locals. Not knowing their ages, I pretended to sixteen when asked, a man of the world. I’d never even kissed a girl. Well, only once and very quickly.

  “What do you think, Polo,” said Emma, “of letting the lady finish first?” I wasn’t at all sure but could tell from her tone what the answer should be. I was definitely in favour. She gave me a saucy look.

  “Would you like to learn how?”

  “Yes please,” I said honestly, having heard there was a way to make a woman go off, thinking it was some sort of secret place one touched once and there she went. I discovered that was wrong but the reality was quite simply amazing. The afternoon became a sensual adventure. I tried to follow their instructions and worked hard, though I also enjoyed it, more than I thought possible.

  Once we had our fun that day, ladies first, they suggested we could have even more fun the next day if I brought another polite young man for them to play with. That was tricky. In the end I confided in one of the younger soldiers at the garrison, swearing him to secrecy about my age before dragging him off.

  Emma said he’d do. The anticipation building, we all sat down on blankets. and smoked some mindweed liberated from Mother’s stash. Emma handed us both condoms. The soldier smiled and put a handful more on the blanket. The lasses showed some of the style that had made me fall off my horse. Then they stopped.

  “We girls will do each other,” said Emma, her eyes bright with lust, “first though, you two boys have to do each other.” The soldier and I looked at each other, raised our eyebrows, and then didn’t hesitate. We did a show, were rewarded as promised, then we all had as much fun as four willing young people, with few inhibitions and a good supply of condoms, can manage.

  Yes, I kissed him. At first we didn’t, though there was some biting going on, but the girls asked us to. Kissing him was different from kissing Emma or Florence, the other lass. Men are harder and often less inhibited. The girls liked us boys kissing each other a lot and it got them very hot. Though happy to have sex with men, I still preferred kissing girls. After all, when one was in an orgy, flesh was flesh, you couldn’t keep ignoring each other or apologising if you touched. Well, you could, but Emma and Florence both swore they’d put their clothes back on if any man did that.

  Some people are terribly damaged by early sexual experiences. I wasn’t one of them. Not saying I was a well-balanced lad, but I was used to being an adult. Someone in the family had to be and sex was just part of being grown up.

  That I was only thirteen didn’t bother me or my lovers, though I confess to lying about my age if I could, but most of the time I couldn’t. Emma and Florence were tourists staying with their cousins, whereas everyone else for about ten miles around knew me, my family and my age. However, from then on matters sexual certainly filled my spare time. It’s not only in the cities that young people have sex, there’s not much else to do in the country.

  Like any teenager, I ignored my parents as much as possible, though I did my chores and helped out on the farm. Otherwise I was training at the garrison, reading, and plotting sexual escapades. Those required plotting as Lower Beech was a small place. A limited number of single girls to tumble meant broadening my scope. Fortunately for my sexual appetites there were a number of frustrated married women more than happy to entertain me when husband and children were out or asleep. Offering to do chores around the place got one all kinds of payment, and I learned several things, especially that the maxim ‘all women are different’ is certainly true. In addition, it taught me to schedule time and be completely discreet.

  Though not a believer I was a student of religion, and wondered about the morality of bedding my neighbours’ wives. I decided it was their sin not mine. I wasn’t cheating on someone I professed to love. Married people always said, “I still love my spouse,” just before they took their clothes off.

  There was a new use for pocket money, or the coin Grandmama usually gave with gifts, because I was scrupulous about using condoms, not wanting to be tied to a girl I didn’t love, trapped in a village I already longed to escape.

  ****

  Aside from sexual explorations, my everyday life was very narrow in focus. It narrowed further at fourteen, after our horse broke a leg in a panic during an electrical storm and was put down. Mother held the purse strings and decided we had been spoilt having our own horse. From now on, she said, we would do as the peasants did. Walk, and hire or borrow a mount as required.

  Thanks to Father’s drinking he lost his job at the lawyers’ office so was no longer commuting. His new post as a forest ranger included a horse that wasn’t kept at our farm. The horses were kept at the Royal Forest Depot, a new building since our arrival in the village and an easy walk away.

  For all the work our horse used to do Mother hired a carthorse from a farmer neighbour, which wasn’t cost-effective and tended to leave us with heavy jobs piling up then all having to be done in one day before we took the horse back. Instead of being happy to pay for livery hire as she said, she expected me to walk everywhere, though if going to see Grandmama Daeva in Beech Wood, I was allowed a livery.

  Later that year, quite suddenly, Grandmama moved away. With her gone and no horse, I was trapped in Lower Beech and hated Mother for it. Not that she noticed, too busy fighting with Father, who was drinking harder than ever.

  To get away from them, and by happy coincidence to a decent library, I took over marketing the farm’s extra produce, trusted to hire a livery then ride alone to the Beech Wood markets on Sundays. I could visit the library and dream of a world wider than our little farm. Maybe find a tumble while I was there. I did seem to find lovers easily.

  I was apparently handsome, though not pretty, so an admirer told me. Enough masculinity coming out of my pores to make women feel susceptible and men get a case of hero worship or want to hit me, sometimes both. I laughed at those words but judging by everyone’s reactions, the summation was exactly right.

  Adults of both sexes would instantly disapprove of me, often while they tried to get my breeches down. I was mystified over what people saw in me. I looked in the mirror and could see I wasn’t ugly, though with my blonde hair and bright green and copper eyes, it was easy to see I wasn’t a dark-haired, dark-eyed peasant. My nose was still straight despite being broken a couple of times. My lips were full and chiselled, something women responded to and mentioned often. By the time I was fifteen I could pass for about twenty.

  People treated me as I looked, and I was suddenly exploring a previously untapped source of sex, married couples wanting a threesome to bring some excitement. I was only a few years younger than many of them. Too often they were still children, acting at being grownups. It was educational, watching their tribulations after having married young. Mostly, you saw it in their eyes, the regret that they settled so soon. My own parents, by then in their mid-thirties, seemed to be suffering from the same kind of emotional immaturity.

  I was a normal teenager, my world revolved around my whims. I was better at sex than most, which I couldn't take credit for, being well-taught. If a woman’s pleasure came first, then a man’s could follow, on and on. I had offers thanks to my looks. Couldn’t take credit for those, either.

  Along with that aura of masculinity, I had good shoulders, which Grandmama Daeva told me, marked a man.

  “Stand up straight, Polo, people think more of you. And always be polite.”

  I had no real idea what I was doing, stood up straight, and always let the women finish first, because that was polite. The few local Blood women liked me as a bit of rough, me being half-peasant and thus a little dangerous. Women do like a bad boy. Then there were the peasant girls, to whom I was an exotic creature they felt they should try at least once. I had more offers than even a teenage boy could handle.

  It was how it was, and I dealt with it. Mostly, I enjoyed mysel
f.

  ****

  One Sunday in the Beech Wood library, I went around a corner in the warren of the Ancient History section, and bumped into someone coming the other way. Neither of us was paying attention and we both apologised. I looked into his eyes. He looked into mine. I was thinking, Blood, here? I never saw any Blood my own age. His hair was jet black, and even I knew his eyes, with crystalline markings of shining stars on a dark blue iris, were called Westwych blue. We whispered, standing very close.

  “Hello,” he said, looking friendly.

  “Hello,” I said and smiled.

  “Fancy meeting another of the Blood in here,” he said.

  “I was just thinking that,” I said. “You’re a Westwych? I’m Polo Shawcross. My mother’s a Casterton.” It meant we were cousins, of some kind. He grinned.

  “Aye,” he said, “I’m A-Al, Al Westwych. Hello cousin.” We shook hands. Having a little of Mother’s mindweed, I offered him a smoke.

  “There’s a roof garden upstairs,” I said, “it’s sheltered, warmer than going outside.”

  Al had some excellent mindweed of his own, and we made each other laugh. All too soon, a big man with short-cropped black hair and grey eyes shot with gold came to collect my new friend. The big man didn’t really speak, just appeared on the roof and nodded to Al, who sighed.

  “I have to go, my uncle’s here.” Al smiled at me. “I really enjoyed meeting you, Polo.”

  “You too, Al.” We shook hands again.

  “I’ll come back next week,” he said, “we can go for coffee or something.” He glanced at the uncle, who didn’t nod but didn’t shake his head, and I said that would be good. Al bounced off next to the uncle, who was rolling his eyes as Al told some story. As I went to collect the hired horse for the ride home, there was a bounce in my step too.

  Every weekend for a month I haunted the library, even if Father was away or when I didn’t have anything to sell at market.

  It took a while, but eventually I gave up on Al.

  ****

  At the garrison-next-door I was like a mascot. The officers would forget my age, and even the ordinary soldiers treated me like one of the lads. I was allowed to exercise the horses too. Aside from Mother and me, the officers there were the only other Blood in the village locality.

  It was only a few days before my sixteenth birthday. Exams just finished, at the end of the third term out of four a year, so only one term then one year left of high school. Three reasons to celebrate right there, and in Lower Beech that was something. I went drinking in the village inn, ending up with officers from the garrison. I already felt very grown up, as if my birthday itself was simply an outward sign of my already-evident inward maturity. Also, at last I was a legal tumble.

  The officers were tossing back whiskeys so I had one, and another. Very pleasant. Then I lost count. Being Blood meant I could see better than most, but drink affected my eyes badly. Blood were also as stupid as anyone else when drunk. Or when sober for that matter. The genetic engineers hadn’t managed to make higher intellect or the ability to reason a feature of Dragon that stayed constant in the species.

  When one was high on mindweed, as I was in my few previous drinking experiments, the sensation of getting past slightly tipsy became an unpleasant one. I usually drank very moderately and stuck to lemonade or shandies. The latter was a mild mix of lemonade with ale. Though I saw alcohol’s extreme effects on others often enough, Blood and commoner, I hadn’t personally experienced drunkenness.

  That day, I hadn’t smoked anything at all. The officers competed to tell me funny tales of their wartime exploits, and I stayed out late, until midnight. I even had a polite drink with Father, which was a first. I went home, such a good boy, then sneaked back out to the inn.

  I wasn’t drinking by then but my night vision was already gone. The inn was closed and even Father had staggered home. I had no idea what came over me. I hadn’t looked seriously at the barmaid before but, as alcohol does, it clouded my reason and I wanted her, badly.

  Afterwards there were fractured images in my brain, of me falling into the barmaid’s cleavage, fumbling with a condom, frantic sex against the bare wall with the extra frisson of risk of discovery.

  That stopped being fun the very moment we heard her husband the innkeeper calling her name as he came down the stairs. I left the barmaid pretending to be having a late night smoke on the back stoop, and tried to be quiet, fleeing, squinting, into the night. I was thankful for the glow of the luminous highway surface and the solar lamps at the barracks. The soft light gave me something to aim for. Except for the quarter moon, which shed no useful light at all, the sky seemed to be pitch-dark.

  Our driveway entrance loomed into view, lit with a solar lamp so Father could find his way home. I tried to trot lightly up the track to the house, in a frantic tip-toe gait so as not to wake my parents. Sure I was about to be attacked from behind by the innkeeper, I kept stopping to listen. I might be stronger than a peasant, but an angry husband with a pickaxe handle would still crack my skull.

  Heart thumping and booze-blind, I sneaked into the farmhouse kitchen. Feeling my way around the furniture, wondering how Father coped seeing like this all the time, I nearly jumped out of my skin as Mother’s voice rang out in the silence. I did cry out. She was sober and could see me well.

  “What in the name of Galaia are you doing, Polo?” she said. “If you piss in the pantry like your father did that time, I’ll kill you with my bare hands.” I hiccupped, buying time. My hands were shaking and I was semi-incoherent.

  “Drunk,” I said, “a bit. Sorry.” I hiccupped again. “Promise, won’t be like him.” I waved my hands around and nearly fell over. “Just a phase. Besides,” I slurred, “this is stupid. I can’t see. Why would anyone drink?” I resorted to flattery. “You’re a good mother, have I told you lately?” I groped for the sink and a glass of water, managed to get one down me.

  “Go to bed, you useless lump,” said Mother, which was much nicer than I was expecting her to be, so I did.

  ****

  Chapter 3 – Sheep and Consequences

  When I first drifted into consciousness my brain was beating itself to death on the inside of my skull, the pain so bad I wouldn’t have been surprised to find - due to some nasty and unremembered accident - my brain wasn’t actually in my skull any more.

  Was I hit last night? I sat up and almost threw up. What had happened? At first I didn’t remember much past that drink with Father. Then I remembered crawling in drunk and Mother being nice to me. I was in too much pain to wonder why. I remembered the barmaid, and groaned. One inn in the village and I was potentially barred from it, two years before I was even legal to drink.

  For some reason I was awake at the usual time, just before dawn and before Mother. Most of the booze had worn off and I could see again. Pulling on work clothes and socks, I tripped and nearly fell into the still-dark kitchen. In the pantry was some ground willow bark. I stirred a half a spoonful into water and managed to swallow, nearly dropping to my knees with the effort.

  Mother insisted on harvesting her own willow bark, or rather sent me to the willow tree to harvest switches, which we peeled. She would then dry then grind the bark, instead of buying it ready-powdered from the apothecary. She considered buying any of the apothecary’s powders, pills, and tinctures an occasionally necessary but overly-expensive evil.

  I wouldn’t have minded but she didn’t bother to powder and sift the homemade version properly. Trying to sieve it with my teeth, I coughed a bit while my head tried to explode. I drank more water to wash away the dried bark coating my throat, put the light on, and read Mother’s label. It said, Steep in hot water then strain. I sighed. It was that kind of day already.

  The willow bark would work eventually. I put the coffee on, drank more water and nicked some of Mother’s mindweed stash, which I smoked quickly while drinking my first coffee, standing outside the back door in my socks, hoping not to be caught but past ca
ring. She knew I stole mindweed, but I was good about not taking more than a few smokes. Besides, ‘for medicinal purposes’ was excusable. As she always told me, she didn’t smoke it just for pleasure, but for pain relief too.

  Father didn’t smoke mindweed much. Mother said it was because he was always too drunk to feel any pain. Father said Mother was in denial, and being high all the time was why she smoked. Some years before, worried for them both, I made the mistake of explaining carefully about Father’s addiction to alcohol and Mother’s role in helping him continue. Aside from my research at the libraries, the drink killed Grandpa Casterton, and there were books at Grandmama’s on the subject.

  As parents do, mine had used the information in their own ways, usually to score points.

  “Face it, Tess,” Father told her, “you like being out of it.” He mimed half-closed eyes and a smile. Mother snorted her disgust.

  “Married to you, it’s a wonder that’s all I ever take! You’ve caused me enough bloody pain to make me an addict to dreamdust!”

  As they’d fought on, I wondered whether dreamdust, a dangerous narcotic, would kill them without any pain. If I didn’t have sex for a month, could I afford enough for them both with only one month’s allowance?

  After some research I decided a poppy juice overdose would do the job. I fantasised about killing them or myself moderately often. More often, I dreamed about just running away.

  The war between my parents would rage on, but my headache was easing. Exhaled smoke hung over the cobbles and the morning light was soft and grey. The little farmyard was quiet, everyone else still asleep. With a second pipe, I sucked down more coffee, feeling at least half-human. So much so that I laughed at the joke. I was indeed half-human.