Redeeming the Dragon (Into the Enchanted)

Chapter 23

E vading my mother quickly became a chore. In fact, it became such a bother that I began to long for the dragon to reappear and hurry me home to the cave. When such notions invaded my mind, guilt perplexed me. How could I long for that lonely, silent, cool cave when I was home on my beautiful island with the people I loved most?

My feelings were complex and confused. Part of me missed the silent companionship of the man who shared my bed at night, holding my hand but otherwise not touching me. Simply sharing quiet conversations or merely sleeping. The Warkin aside, I told myself I truly wanted to go back because I was fearful of Mama eventually maneuvering me into being alone with her.

No matter where I went, she turned up. If I were doing the chores or sewing in the common room or walking along the sand, there she was. Initially, I evaded her by simply walking faster, working harder, or fleeing with the excuse that I heard my sisters calling me. Soon, it became apparent that I was avoiding her, to the point that on the third evening at home Mama rose after dinner saying, “Lorna, let us go for a walk. I need to speak with you.”

Obediently, I rose, but said, “Marisa and Neena, will you come too?”

“No.” Mama snapped the word before either of my sisters could reply. “I would speak with you alone, my girl. There are things a mother must know.”

Childlike deference to my parents warred with the anxiety twisting my guts, warning me not to disregard the dragon’s cautions.

“I—I am sorry, Mama,” I said. “I am exhausted. I’d rather go to bed now.”

“Lorna, it’s so early,” Neena spoke up, confused. “Still daylight out. Would you retire already? Our time together will likely be short.”

“Lorna, I insist you walk with me,” Mama said staunchly. “You will sleep better for the exercise.”

I have stood up to a dragon, I reminded myself. I can stand up to my mother.

Stiffening my spine, I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Mama. I don’t feel up to it.” Before she could protest, I darted around the table, dropping hasty kisses on the cheeks of both my sisters, then my father, then even my mother as I murmured, “Good night. Sleep well. Good night.” I rushed to my room and closed the door, leaning against it, feeling my heart pound within my chest.

What am I doing?

Always, I’d been a dutiful daughter who caused little trouble.

If that was the case once, it won’t be now, I thought, covering my face with a hand.

Why did I feel so torn? I hated resisting my mother, hated quarreling when our time together was so precious. And yet—what choice did I have ?

It’s either give in and have all my plans of a future escape be crushed, or continue to resist and hope to make it up one day, I told myself . Be strong, Lorna. You can do this.

I hoped I could continue to. Truthfully, I did not know how many more times I had it in me to withstand my mother.

I put out the main lights in my room, as if I truly were going to sleep. Outside, I could hear footsteps and the familiar creak of the floor and scrape of dishes as my family set about clearing off the table. Guilt swarmed me. Cruel guilt for not taking part in simple household tasks, but also guilt for telling myself,

They surrendered you to a dragon. To be eaten by a beast, for all they knew. They can clean the table without you. It is the least they can do.

Why am I thinking this way?

Instantly, I felt contrite.

I don’t wish to harbor bitterness or hold a grudge against my family. That is wrong! I volunteered. And they had no choice!

I’d told my mother that I was weary and wanted to sleep. That was a lie. More than anything, I longed to be outside, alone, strolling the shoreline, breathing in the evening air which would be ripe with the taint of salt and brine. I needed to clear my head. However, I feared if I went out the window that a family member would check on me, find me missing, and raise the alarm. Rather than assume the risk, I lit the smallest light, picked up the bag containing my sewing, stationed myself in the corner, and set to work on the pile of family mending.

My eyes strained to see well enough to push the needles in and out, in and out. Sewing the blue gown had given me something to keep from going mad in the dragon’s cave. Now, mending offered relief from my treacherous, tortuous thoughts. If I could do nothing else, I could sit and sew, which I did, feeling myself calm beneath the power of the repetitive rhythm of needle, fabric, and thread .

I stitched and sewed long into the night. Long enough that I lost track of time and the noises outside my room. Long enough that my eyelids drifted closed, and my head nodded gently. Leaning my head against the wall, placing the shirt I mended in my lap, I went to sleep.

“Lorna.”

Something shook me.

“Dragon, is that you?”

“What? Dragon? Lorna, it’s me. Your mother.”

“Mama?” My eyes flew open.

I’d been lost in dreams of the quiet cave, the mirror against the wall reflecting the hushed sounds of the ocean. Everything had been so peaceful. I’d dreamed I awakened to the dragon-man climbing into my bed, saying my name.

Quickly, I saw my mistake. My mother stood over me, clad in a white nightdress, her auburn hair spilling about her shoulders. Deep concern creased her features. Shadows from the tiny stump of a candle, pressed into the brass candleholder in her hand, played over her face.

“Lorna, I wake you in the middle of the night, and you call for the dragon. What is going on, child?”

“N—nothing, Mama. Nothing, really,” I stammered. Shoving the shirt and the sewing instruments onto the shelf in front of me, I blew out what remained of my candle and stood. “I fell asleep sewing and dreamed. It means nothing. Good night, Mama.”

When I attempted to edge around her, making for my bed, she seized my arm. Her firm grasp told me this was it—she would not let me go.

“You called for a dragon before you knew your own mother’s voice,” she accused. “Lorna, tell me. Does this dragon—this man—does he visit your bed? Does he? ”

“Mama, he—”

The lie was on my lips. The pain, the severity, in her eyes forced the truth from me instead.

“Yes, Mama, he does,” I whispered, dropping my gaze. “But not in the way you think!” Just as quickly, my gaze flashed back up.

I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of. Neither has he.

“Not in the way I think?” Mama cried in smothered anguish. “Daughter, if he has touched you at all…”

“He hasn’t!” I would not wilt. “He comes to my room at night, just as I said,” I explained. “He does…he does come into my bed. But only to hold my hand. I swear to the Powers of Good, that is all. He has not assaulted me, Mama. In fact, truthfully, he’s been quite kind.”

“Quite kind? Daughter, do you hear yourself?” Mama insisted. “Have you seen him—seen his face or form? Or did you lie about that too?”

“I didn’t lie!” I insisted, wrenching back on my arm. “I didn’t. I simply didn’t tell you the whole, entire truth.”

“Then what is the truth?” Mama threw her free hand in the air. “What is the truth, Lorna?”

Don’t be alone with your mother.

Here it came. The inevitable turning point of which the dragon had warned me. Did I heed the advice of my mysterious captor? Or trust my own mother?

Resistance collapsed within me like a feather falling to the ground. I had no more strength with which to fight.

“Sit down,” I said, gesturing to the edge of the bed. “I’ll explain everything.”

Mama placed her candle stump on the nearest table and took a seat beside me. Against my better judgment, I opened up, telling her absolutely everything…including how the man who shared my bed would hold my hand. Talk to me. And had gifted me the mirror .

“But you’ve never seen him,” Mama pressed at the end of this recital. “You truly have not seen his human form.”

Again, I shook my head, denying it. “No, Mama, why do you keep asking? The magic of the cave cloaks my room in total darkness. It will not allow me to see him.”

Determination firmed her features. “This will not do,” she declared. “Lorna, you don’t know if you lie next to a man or a monster. Suppose—suppose he is a troll? Or a Cistweigh—one of the living dead? Or—or even a Simathe, one of the dread immortals? There are any number of horrible creatures who assume human form. You do not know what shares your bed at night.”

“A Cistweigh? A Simathe?” I almost laughed. Cistweigh were creatures of myth, so far as I knew. Living corpses imbued with a sort of life from the Dark Powers. As for the legendary Simathe, they were immortal warriors of the most secretive order. “Why would a Cistweigh or a Simathe hold me in a cave?” I questioned. “That makes little sense. No, I believe he is Warkin, just as he claims.”

“But you don’t know .”

My mother had something in her mind. She would not let this go.

“I suppose not. What matters it, really?”

“It matters because you should be aware,” Mama insisted. “Furthermore, if your father is to find information to break the dragon’s hold over you, does he not need to know what manner of magic he faces? What sort of creature holds his daughter captive? We need facts, Lorna.”

I shook my head. “I cannot fathom my captor being anything except what he claims. There is the dragon by day. The man by night. Who else except a Warkin…”

“Someone who has tamed a dragon, that’s who,” Mama cut in bluntly. “Which means someone with magic. Little enough do I know of the Warkin, but, prior to this, I have never heard of a Warkin morphing into one of their beasts, have you?”

I had not.

“Then what makes us so certain this is the case? No, Lorna, we need more information. If you are to be safe, if your father is to help, we must know who—or what—visits your room. Clearly, whether this person is Warkin or not, they possess strange magic.”

“How am I to find out?” I asked. “I already told you the cave is deeply dark when he visits.”

“There is a solution for that,” Mama said firmly. “I can assure you. We will outwit this dragon, or whatever it is, at his own game. We will redeem you from his power, Lorna. I promise.”

I should have drawn great comfort from her assurances. I did not. Instead, I felt vexed and troubled.