Dragon Moon (2 page)

On each visit Henri asks me dozens of questions about his mother — all asked and answered more times than I care to remember.

“Yes,” I answer today, “she was pretty.... Of course, she loved you very much.... No, she didn't expect to die. ... Sure, one day I plan to find another wife.... No, I won't forget your mommy when I do. ...”

Something slaps the water in the harbor — just loud enough to catch our attention. Henri turns, as do I, both of us staring at the fresh concentric rings of ripples expanding across the small harbor's surface. A few moments later, a gray fluke rises from the water and slaps down again. The manatee it belongs to pokes its snout above the water and blows out air in a single huff.

Henri looks at me. “Can I, Papa?”

Just as glad not to explain any more this morning, I nod, smiling as my son runs toward the dock.

The manatee has visited us before but this is the first time I've allowed Henri to greet the beast by himself. I sit down next to the gumbo limbo tree, lean against its trunk, let the sun-dappled shade beneath its branches cool me as I watch my son begin to unravel the hose I keep coiled on the dock near where my boat is tied.

I have to will myself not to interfere as Henri grabs the top coil with both hands and yanks, barely budging more than a few coils. The hose curls into a spiral as he pulls, resisting his attempts to straighten it, but the boy jerks and yanks until enough is free to make it manageable.

Henri gives it a final tug, looks up at me and smiles, then turns his attention to the spigot. Holding the hose nozzle with one hand, he attempts to turn the valve with the other. It refuses to give. To my son's credit, he just bites on his lower lip and tries again, struggling with the stubborn valve until it too succumbs to his attentions and begins to rotate.

Water flows, then shoots from the nozzle, the hose becoming alive, twisting and flexing. Henri holds on to it with both hands, tries to point it — first splattering water on the dock — then wetting the bow, the cockpit, the outboard motors of the boat.

For a moment I wonder whether the hose or Henri is in control. I start to get up but, before I can, the boy manages to direct the stream toward the manatee, the water shooting up, forming a shallow arc, splashing into the surface of the calm harbor.

The beast swims toward the dock, putting its head directly into the flow. Henri smiles. Crouching by the edge of the dock, leaning over the water, he offers the hose end to the ugly thing. It nuzzles and slurps at the nozzle like it's nursing. Almost taking it into its mouth as it drinks the fresh water, the manatee accidentally nuzzles my son's hand too and he giggles loud enough for the sound to reach me.

I grin. Too bad, I think, that Elizabeth never had the opportunity to hear him laugh. I shake my head as I lament the short time she and I had together — the emptiness I feel without her.

Henri's a beautiful boy, a worthy subject for my devotion. Still, it's been almost four years since I've felt any female's touch, almost four years since I've ventured to the mainland.

Arturo nags me constantly to leave the island. I've never explained that Henri lacks the necessary self-control to be around ordinary people or to have anyone but me watch him — nor would I. The man's paid to run my business and to do my bidding, not to offer personal advice.

Still, just the other day, he said again, “I admire your dedication to the boy. But you need to get out some. You need to have some sort of life.... At least let's arrange to bring you a woman. ...”

I sighed into the phone. “Let's not. When Henri's four, he should be old enough for me to take from the island. I can wait till then.”

Not that the waiting has been easy. I long to fill the void that Elizabeth's death has left in my life. But, as Arturo so obviously can't understand, no ordinary woman will do. I want, I need, one of my own kind.

I know whom I plan to pursue. I know where to find her. And as time passes, I think about her more and more.

At first, I felt twinges of guilt when I allowed such thoughts to intrude on my mourning — so soon after my bride's death. Time has eased that burden. After all, Elizabeth would have understood my need for a new mate. She certainly would have approved of my quest for one. Whether she would have been pleased with my choice of her sister, Chloe, is another matter entirely.

Chloe was hardly past thirteen when I last saw her, in Jamaica, when I first met Elizabeth. I still carry an image of her in my mind — ayoung thin dark girl with sparkling emerald-green eyes and a mischievous smile. I know she'll look older now, but she can't be more than seventeen. That gives me plenty of time yet, I tell myself, to leave my island and to travel to hers. She won't reach her maturity until after her eighteenth birthday.

True, if I could, I would have traveled to Jamaica long ago. But I've had to wait for Henri to be able to travel, for him to grow old enough to control his natural impulses.

For almost four years I've bided my time, taken care of my son and made my plans. For almost four years, I've thought of no women but Elizabeth and Chloe. The boy should be ready soon. As soon as I see he can behave, I plan to take him with me to Jamaica.

I'm sure there will be more waiting then. The moment must be right before I dare approach Chloe. If it is, I know she can't refuse me. Still, late at night, when I picture the girl in my mind, I worry that maybe, just maybe, I have waited too long.

Henri tires of the manatee — or the beast tires of him — and my son rejoins me just as I begin to weed the garden Elizabeth so lovingly restored. He studies me as I kneel and search the ground between the green stalks of the exotic herbs Elizabeth had planted, follows me as I look under the yellow-green flowers of the Dragon's Tear plants and the deep purple petals of the Death's Rose bush — seeking invading parasites, yanking them out, roots and all.

Finally, the boy pulls on a few green stalks of his own, slaughtering some innocent herbs and one deserving weed in the process. Henri holds them out for me to inspect.

“Good job,” I say, and take them from him.

Henri beams. But rather than return to weeding, he looks away, toward the island's ocean side. “Papa?” he says. “Can I go to the beach?”

I yank another weed, and mutter, “Damn!” when its stalk snaps, leaving its roots buried in the dirt.

“Papa!” Henri giggles. “You used a bad word.”

“You're right. I'm sorry,” I say, digging in the dirt for the roots, wondering if letting him watch movies off our satellite dish has been a good idea. The few PG-13 ones I've let him see have certainly led to endless discussions about which words are good or bad.

“Can I go, Papa?” Henri says.

There's no reason I can think of why the boy has to stay with me. If I could, I'd avoid weeding too. I pull out the last of the weed's roots and frown at the rank, thick aroma of the broken vegetation around me. Standing, I turn my back on the garden, study the clear, light blue sky above us, the powder-puff clouds, the bright sun, its heat surprisingly strong for May. I can understand why my son would rather play on a day like this than do chores.

“Go ahead.” I add, “Just be careful,” even though I doubt that anything on the island can inflict any injury he can't quickly heal.

“Yes, Papa.” He rushes off.

Brushing my hands on my jeans, I wait a few minutes, then follow the stone path from the garden to the wide, deep stone steps that lead to the oak-decked veranda encircling our three-story-tall coral house. Taking the steps two at a time, I get to the bay side of the deck just in time to check on Henri as he begins to scamper up one of the dunes across the island on the ocean side.

Barks and yelps break the morning quiet. As soon as Henri reaches the light brown slender stalks of the sea oats crowding the dune's top, better than a dozen of our dogs, all furry and thick framed, with overlarge heads and mouths, appear from the other side of the dune.

The younger ones and the puppies surround my young son, gambol about him and vie for his attention. I grin. As much as he's grown, the beasts still tower above him.

Only the few older dogs and the pack's leader, Scar, keep their distance. They know better than to trust our kind. The younger ones have no memories of the many times I've had to cull the pack. They have no understanding that I've been trying to let their numbers grow back to full strength from the few that were left after the attack that devastated their ranks four years ago.

Henri laughs as the dogs push against him. He pets some and allows others to lick him. When one of the larger pups jumps up and almost knocks him over, the boy just steps back and regains his balance. Ignoring the rambunctious beast, he resumes playing with the smaller pups.

The dog jumps on him again. This time my son glares at it and shoves it away — hard. The dog yelps, then slinks back. Ears flattened, hackles raised, it circles him.

To get closer, in case I'm needed, I walk to the ocean side of the veranda, stand by one of the open cannon ports placed every five yards along the waist-high coral parapet that rings the deck. But I've little doubt Henri can handle this challenge. The boy's been taught to cope with worse.

Henri knows to always keep his eyes on an attacker. He faces the beast, slowly revolves as it attempts to get behind him, allowing the dog no opportunity for surprise. Finally, it charges, knocking some of the smaller pups out of its way, snapping its jaws when it nears my son, then jumping back, lunging forward again.

“Back!” Henri yells. The dog freezes for an instant, then shoots forward, mouth open, fangs exposed. The boy steps back, puts up his left arm to guard his face just as the animal bites.

Its teeth sink into his forearm and Henri yowls once. Then the boy hisses — loud enough for me to hear from the veranda. The foolish beast ignores the warning, and refuses to let go.

Henri holds his right hand up and stares at it, his fingers narrowing and extending, his nails turning into sharp, curved claws in only a few moments. I nod, proud the boy could ignore the pain and the attack long enough to focus on what he must do to save himself. Like me, like his mother, like all of our kind, the boy is a shapechanger, a far more dangerous foe than the animal realizes.

Henri slashes out and this time the dog yelps. It howls as my son strikes again and again. The creature backs off, tail tucked in, blood flowing on the ground as it scurries into the underbrush.

“Good,” I mutter. It's best that all these beasts understand that we are masters of this island. And it's time my son learned they've been bred to be our watchdogs, not our cuddly pets.

Henri shoves the other dogs away from him, then turns and holds up his left arm so I can see the red teeth marks of the dog's bite, the blood running down his arm. From the expression on his face, I'm not sure whether he's showing me because he's proud or because he needs my sympathy.
“Poor you,”
I mindspeak to him.
“Do you want me to guide you, help you heal?”

My son shakes his head.
“No, Papa,”
he mindspeaks.
“I'm too big for that now. I'm almost four. Look, Papa!”

He keeps his arm up so I can watch. Henri stares at the red puncture wounds on his forearm, frowns, knits his eyebrows and I grin at the concentration evident on his face. One day he'll be able to heal an injury as minor as this with a moment's thought.

The bleeding stops. The wounds turn from red, to pink, to normal flesh color, and Henri smiles again.
“See?”
he mindspeaks.
“I told you I could.”

“You're growing up, son,”
I say, frowning at the concept. A year ago he would have taken refuge in my lap and moaned while I nudged his mind toward the thoughts that could ease his pain and heal his wound.

Ready to move on, Henri waves at me with a clenching and unclenching of his chubby right hand. I smile, wave and watch him go over the top of the dune to the beach on the other side. Then I turn and go back to my chores.

It makes me chuckle when I think how many people assume it's easy to live on an island. How idyllic they imagine such a life to be. But on an island such as ours, life is anything but simple.

Sandwiched between the Atlantic Ocean and Miami's Biscayne Bay, surrounded by salt water on all sides, our small island — Caya DelaSangre, as my family calls it, or Blood Key as it's named on the charts — is in a constant state of erosion and decay. Wind and tide attack the shores relentlessly. Salt air penetrates everything.

As I weed, I mentally catalog all my chores. Besides working in the garden, maintaining Elizabeth's grave and straightening out the cavernous interior of our coral house every day, I have to spend my time going from machine to machine. I lubricate and repair generators and motors, fight rust where it appears and recharge batteries. Other regular chores include painting, replacing rotted planks of wood, making sure the well pumps remain primed, keeping the reserve water in the cistern fresh and servicing the twin Yamaha outboards on the boat so they function as they should.

Keeping supplied presents its own difficulties. All materials have to be brought by boat from Miami, just over the horizon, to our west. Since I trust no one to visit but Arturo, I've taught only him the twists and turns of the narrow channel that leads to our harbor. He alone is responsible for bringing all of our supplies, including frozen meat, from the mainland.

Since Henri's far too young to help, fresh food is entirely my responsibility. Our kind prefers fresh meat and whenever we feel the need for it, I have to go off on a hunt. Not that hunting is ever a hardship. It's what my people do.