When Dragons Came

Water slapped at the side of the boat, lulling me into a stupor—almost a sleep—that I didn’t rouse from for minutes? Hours?

All I know is that after a significant time of letting the current carry me where it would, sliding through a thick world of silvery water and silvery fog, voices broke the stillness. They sounded nearly atop me, though I knew they must be over on the pier by the village church.

“Did you hear that?” a man said.

“Hear what?”

“The slap of waves on wood?”

“We’re standing on a pier.”

“Not here. In the water. Someone’s out there in a boat.”

“A boat? In this fog? Not likely.”

“It’s perfect weather for sneaking past us. We should get out there and check. You now what Sir Drake said he’d do to our company if we let even a single villager get out of this Creator-forsaken hole.”

“You’re not from around here, are you? I’m not risking my neck searching for a nonexistent fool on this river on a foggy night. Nobody’s crazy enough to be out in this muck, and even if somebody were, the rapids south of the village would take care of them far more efficiently than you or I could.”

“Rapids? But…”

The voices faded away as I drifted past, but I wasn’t worried about them, not now that I’d been reminded of the rapids.

I’d never run them myself, of course. Only boys were fool enough to try it—and then only in full daylight, with people nearby to fish them out when disaster struck.

I’d only traveled on the safe parts of the river—and even then, nobody handed me a paddle or anything. I knew the basic theory, of course, but had never paddled on my own.

Frantically, I tried to remember everything I’d ever overheard the village boys say about the rapids. Kneel low in the boat. Get going fast as you approach. The best path is right, far right, center, left, center.

Well, the best path was to avoid them completely by carrying your boat past on the riverside path. I might be able to do that. Maybe.

At least I felt a bit better after my rest.

As quietly as I could, I found the rope from my bag and lashed myself, my pack, and the boat’s gear to rings inside the craft, just in case I missed the place to get off the river.

Then I knelt on the floor of the boat, gripped the paddle with both hands, my right in its center and my left on the end, as I’d seen the boys do, and tried dipping it in the water on the right side of the boat.

Very little happened.

I tried a firm stroke.

This had me skipping forward, and veering to the left. I tried my next stroke on the left, and that turned me back to the right.

This would take some practice. Fortunately, I had a couple of miles before the rapids started in earnest, I thought. In that space, I should be able to figure out how to steer well enough to get to the pier north of the rapids. Hopefully.

The sound of rushing water came on me faster than I thought it would, but I thought I would be all right. Then, as I pulled frantically toward the northern rapid pier, I heard soldiers laughing.

Of course, Sir Drake had guarded the pier. There was no way to get out of the water anywhere near here without being noticed.

That left my only route through the rapids.

Lord, help me, I thought, not wanting to say anything aloud just then.

I wondered if he was tired of helping me, today. Who was I to warrant such attention?

“He loves you,” the wind seemed to whisper as it slipped past my cheeks, and parted the fog ahead of me. A small path, hardly wider than my boat, twinkled in clear moonlight instead, but as I gawped, it started to fill in with mist.

Grabbing my paddle, I rushed to stay in the clear. I might well be rushing toward a watery grave, but at least I’d see it.

Was that better?

I had no time to consider. To stay in the patch of clear water, I had to paddle with all my might, crossing back to the western half of the river.

Then I was in it. Water churned around me, some splashing up into my face. I shook it off and steered the boat close to the bank, following the only clear route.

The boat rocked, but I stayed upright. Even when the boat lurched downward and then back up, I managed to stay kneeling and keep hold of my paddle.

Then I was frantically paddling back toward the center of the river.

Once again, the boat lurched and water sprayed. My stomach complained, and I was glad I hadn’t eaten in many hours.

Again and again, I turned, lurched, and managed to hang onto myself and my paddle, barely.

Would this never end?

Then it was over. Almost as suddenly as it came on, the water calmed. Soon it looked almost placid, and my boat drifted on the current once again.

The little spot of clear water ahead of me filled completely in with fog.

Panting, I returned my paddle to its paddle keeper and shifted back up to the boat’s seat.

I had just run the Riverside Village Rapids in the fog—at night.

Even if I made it back from this trip in one piece, nobody would ever believe it.