Eternal Spring A Young Adult Short Story Collection (37 page)

Jerrod’s car is a black BMW. I think of Mom’s beaten up,
aging Civic and figure his family must be well off. He opens the door for me
and sticks our books in the back seat. I inhale fragrant cedar incense. I don’t
know what I’d expect a guy’s car to smell like, but not that.

He’s so mysterious. I’d once heard some girls in gym class saying
he lived alone in some big house near the river. “Um, how come your parents
moved to Philadelphia? What do they do?”

Instead of answering, Jerrod says, “Ms. Cresley told me your
father had been an ancient languages professor at Penn.”

I nod, but now I worry that he might know I’m a foundling.
Except that he seems so nice I’m guessing he wouldn’t look down on me for it.

 
I peek at his
profile and can hardly believe how handsome he is. Or that I’m sitting this
close to him. I watch his hands on the steering wheel and mine curls in my lap
as I remember the feel of his touch.

Out of the blue he says, “So you like that little mushrushu
dragon. The one you were looking at yesterday.”

“When I got so dizzy I thought I’d fall over.”

“I would’ve caught you.” He glances at me and I practically
melt.

“Actually, Jerrod, I wanted to ask you about them. I haven’t
been able to find out much.”

 
“They’re
protectors, guardians. Not just of treasure or kings, but the earth.”

“Seems like most dragons are. At least that’s what I’ve
read. Then of course there’s Hollywood.”

“Hollywood?”

“Dragons in movies.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” He focuses on the street ahead. “Except
I’m talking about real dragons.”

“Get out.” I laugh. “You aren’t serious.”

“Sure. And they’re all related, you know. In every culture.”
He grins. “One big dragon family.”

I shook my head. “Love those dragon families. Papa Dragon
and Mama Dragon. And all the baby dragons playing around on the floor. And then
there’s Auntie Millie and Uncle Harry Dragon. And—”

“You don’t believe me.” His sober tone surprises me.
Suddenly I feel I’ve somehow disappointed him, and I hate the feeling.

He parks in a lot across from the museum and I say, “Wait’ll
you see this.” I pull out the lapis lazuli seal and show him.

That radiant smile returns and it’s like the sun just came
out again. “This is super. Where’d you get it?”

The inevitable question. “Oh it’s something my father had.”

“You should wear it.”

“I don’t want to lose it.”

“You won’t.” He leans toward me with the chain and slides
his hands beneath my hair to the back of my neck.

I’m in such heaven there’s no way I’m going to object. His
touch is so sensitive, his hands warm. I can feel his minty breath on my cheek
and wonder what it would be like to kiss him.

“Looks beautiful, Terry.”

My cheeks go red. We head out to the museum, the cool lapis
resting at the hollow of my throat. I run a finger across its carved ridges,
thinking,
This
little hunk of lapis lazuli is the only thing I’ve got from the parent
who abandoned me.

As we climb the marble stairs to the second floor I start
getting that woozy feeling again. When I reach the landing I notice an odd kind
of buzz in my head. I chalk it up to some kind of barometric thing. Until I
hear deep, cello-like minor chords. But the only musical instrument around is
the reconstructed bull lyre standing in the gallery on my right.

Tell me the chords I’m hearing aren’t coming from this
instrument that’s seven hundred years older than the Great Pyramids. Especially
since nobody’s playing it.

I walk toward the lyre. The gold bull’s head on the front
turns luminous. The lapis, silver and abalone set into its wooden body go all
sci-fi shimmery. And, whoa, I’m suddenly listening to it play a melody I’ve
never heard before. The sound multiplies. Gets louder and louder. And crazier.
Discordant. Wild.

I hear Jerrod say something, but his words are like a
distant echo. Lightheaded and panicky, I concentrate on putting one foot in front
of the other, telling myself I’m not the kind of person who freaks out over
these things. But the screaming vibration envelops me, cutting through me,
penetrating my chest as if it’s going to shatter me.

My legs give way. I feel myself falling. And falling. The
museum lights go dim.

Then everything goes black.

The museum is gone. Vanished.
I’m
surrounded by thorny shrubs
and tall grasses that make my skin itch. I
don’t hear the moans of the ancient bull lyre. I’d say I’m relieved it’s gone
except now I hear shouts and weeping and frenzied screams. And the crackle of
fire. Do I smell smoke?

Brushing powdery dirt from my palms, I stand on unsteady
legs. I peer through the bushes at what looks like a campsite. Huge tents. Not
the kind you get from L.L. Bean. These are dark and hairy, like they’re made of
animal skins. And some of them are burning. And . . .
ohmigosh.
I glimpse bodies on the
ground. Twisted and bloody.

This can’t be real. Must be some horrible nightmare. I slap
my face and try to think myself awake. Nothing changes. And if this is a dream,
how come I’m still wearing the same jersey dress I put on this morning? And
carrying my leather shoulder bag. I open the flap on my bag, pull out my phone.
Totally dead.

Panic rising, I turn around myself. Where the heck am I? And
how did I get here?

I hear male voices nearby and see two men jogging toward the
thicket I’m in. They’re wearing capes and short kilts. Like Roman soldiers. No,
the leather helmets that strap under their chins look more like the ones used
in ancient Sumer. Not taking any chances, I sink into a crouch, knees at my
shoulders, tucking myself behind the scrubby foliage. The two men pause so
close to me I could reach out my arm and touch their legs.

I listen to them talk. Their language sounds like the
Sumerian-Akkadian words my father worked with. And what’s really weird is I
understand
what they’re saying.

They’re definitely soldiers. Talking about the battle going
on here with the Guti tribe. I recognize the name. I read about the Guti.
Rugged nomads living in the mountains near ancient Sumer.

A few thousand years ago.

Am I in some kind of time warp? Is this all because of that
cylinder seal? Will I wake up in the museum if I just tear it off?

I’m about to reach my hand up to break the chain and toss
the thing away from me, but I freeze when I hear orders barked out to the
soldiers: round up prisoners worth taking, kill the rest — and search the
border areas for stragglers hiding in the brush.

My mouth goes dry. No way could I pass for one of the
soldiers. And I doubt they’d believe I came here from the future, since I
hardly believe it myself. I wonder if I might be invisible, like Scrooge when
he travels with the ghost in
Christmas Carol
. But I don’t dare move. Being wrong could be fatal.

So I wait here, shaking inside, but not moving a hair. By
the time my arms are totally bug bitten and my legs go numb, some unexpected
company arrives. The four-legged kind.

The dog’s keen nose brings a group of soldiers right to my
hiding place. I’m a really fast runner, but the needles and pins in my feet
turn my attempt to bolt into a hopeless lurch.

The men surround me in seconds. I’m no fighter. If I can’t
even face down Cheryl Quigley, how am I supposed to handle five big soldiers?
But I scream and punch and kick. When a footswipe sends me to the ground on my
back, the horror of what’s coming sinks in.
No, this can’t be happening!

 
I hear a
strange growl and see one of the soldiers go flying. The others turn toward a
guy who can’t be more than my age from the looks of him. But he’s moving with
the speed and ferocity of a wildcat. He’s obviously one of the Guti. Dressed in
only a Tarzan-style kilt. Red and black tattoos all over his incredibly
powerful torso and arms. Beads and what look like animal teeth braided into his
wild, chestnut-colored hair.

I roll to my feet, brain-straining to figure out how I can
help this guy. He’s already managed to dispatch the five soldiers. But we both
hear the sound of more coming. A lot more.

He grabs my arm and says, “Hurry. This way.”

I snatch up my shoulder bag, kick off my cork sandals, and
take off barefoot. The mountain terrain is rough. Rocks and roots bruise my
feet, branches slap my face, but I move faster than I’d ever run before. I
refuse
to die
here in this strange place.

My Guti friend seems to have a plan. After several dodges
and sprints, we finally duck into a shallow cave and drop onto our butts, both
of us panting and breathless.

“Rest now,” he says. “This is a sacred place. They won’t
find us here.”

His voice is deep, entrancing. And the crazy thing is that I
realize his language is different from what the soldiers spoke. But apparently
I’m a walking Berlitz program lately, because I have no trouble understanding
him —or speaking it myself.

I cut my eyes sideways for a peek at this guy who probably
just saved my life, and I can’t help noticing he is truly hot. “I can’t thank
you enough, um . . . what is your name?”

His full, sensual lips widen into a truly sexy grin. “I am
Rigmai, son of Yarlagan, panther warrior of the Guti.”

I’m about to tell him my name when his expression changes.
His brows knit. He leans forward studying my face. “It’s you, Tiriqan. The gods
have finally brought us together.”

What?
“Did you just say Terry Conn? You know my name?”

“I am Yarlagan’s fourth son,” he says, as if that explains
everything. “When did you come out of hiding? I’ve been waiting for you.”

Whoa. Not every day a girl has a looker like this say he’s
been waiting for her. But . . . “But how can you possibly know me. I’m
not—”

“Your face is exactly like hers.”

“My face? But—”

Rigmai gently wraps his hand around my ankle, lifting my
foot. And, yeah, it sends a wave of heat through me. But then I see he’s
looking at the ugly blue birthmark on my left ankle.

“The Divine Lady’s mark. I’m right. It
is
you, Tiriqan.”

“Are you saying Tee-ree-con?”

“The name your father gave you.”

My breath catches. Of course my last name is his, but how
would this guy know my father was the one who chose to name me Terry. Not
Teresa or anything. Just Terry.

I ease my foot away. “Look, if you’re some kind of shaman,
will you please help me go back.”

“I don’t know where you were hiding, Tiriqan. And why would
I send you back? Your parents made me swear to watch over you.”

“Say what?”
My parents? Will he believe it if I tell him I was born in Philadelphia
a few thousand years from now?

“I’m sworn to protect you. And I’ll be a good mate to you.”

“Mate?” My voice rose an octave. “As in . . . marriage?”
What
is going
on?

“I know you’re different, Tiriqan. I know that women of your
family line often choose not to marry. I would never attempt to force you to be
my wife.”

Well, at least we got past that one. Not that I’m afraid of
Rigmai. I feel totally safe with this dude. I can tell he’s one of those
principled warrior code types.

“Even though you were promised to me.” That winsome smile
again.

Definitely time to leave. Loser life or not, it’s my life,
and I want it back. I unhook the chain, tuck the seal into a zipper pocket of
my shoulder bag, and wait to see if that will do the trick.

Nothing happens.

The reality—if that word can even apply here—of
the situation hits me hard. I’m stuck. Trapped. And have no clue how this
happened or how to change it. I drop my face into my hands, and burst into
tears.

Rigmai scoots close to me and wraps me on his arms. I’m
grateful he doesn’t ask me to explain. Or offer stupid feel good phrases. When
my crying jag subsides, he lifts my chin, wipes my tears, and places the softest
brush of a kiss on my lips.

He looks even better up close. And the earthy scent of his
warm skin makes me think of the community garden along the river in
Philadelphia.

I wonder if I’ll ever see it again.

I follow Rigmai out of the cave. The sun is going down and
casts a purplish hue over the mountains. He stands a moment, obviously
listening to things I can’t hear. With a decisive nod, he leads me down a trail
through the forested mountains. Some parts go through barren cliffs where
raptors circle above canyons.

At one point Rigmai snaps his gaze to the sky. “No.” He
takes my hand and breaks into a jog. But we barely make two yards before an
enormous winged creature appears in the sky above us. It looks like an asag
dragon. With huge brown wings, a snake’s tale, eagle’s feet and a lion-like
head. I think about the conversation I had with Jerrod. Is this proving him
right?

Rigmai curses himself for having no weapon on hand. He
throws rocks, which bounce off the mammoth creature like pebbles. The asag swoops
in and catches the back of my dress in its claws, lifting me into the sky. I
scream and try desperately to wiggle out of its clutch. But I only go higher
and higher, traveling across the mountains, campsites and villages like dots on
a map.

The distress of running from the soldiers is nothing
compared to this. Asags are
not
nice dragons. They have demon blood. A part of me wonders if it
would be better to fall to my death rather than be mutilated or eaten by an
asag.

We cross a river and the image below strikes me like a blow.
Just like my vision yesterday during my dizzy spell, here I am soaring above a
city of dun colored buildings tightly packed along meandering streets.
Especially since I feel the flight slowing. We’re descending. For what? For the
asag to make a dinner of me?