The Origami Dragon And Other Tales

The
Origami Dragon And Other Tales

Smashwords
Edition

Copyright 2012 C. H. Aalberry

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Cover Art by Malice Bathory

Edited by Eve Proofreads

This book is
dedicated to Lill, my loving family and beagles everywhere.

Mr Sunshine

Noah’s Park

Rob Echosoul And the A.lice
I.nvestigation

Truth In
politics

The
Anomaly

The Origami
Dragon

Aventur And The
Griffin

Rob Echosoul And
Moon’s Children

Don’t Fear The
Reaper

Long Shot

Rob Echosoul And The
Clone Rebellion

Grendel

Jonah And The
Interdimensional Being Named Wail That Swallowed His Escape
Pod

And Now A Brief Word From
The Author

The rain pours
down, cascading off the gargoyle’s head, flowing past stone claws,
dropping in streams to resume its fall. A hand reaches up, grabs
the gargoyle confidently, holds tightly. The hand is protected by a
leather glove. It only has three long fingers.

A thin body
pulls itself upwards over the side of the roof, lies panting.

I’ve never met
a gargoyle I don’t love. It’s the passion that goes into
intentionally creating something ugly, I think. I can understand
that kind of passion.

The man rests
for a moment, looks over the side of the building at the engorged
river below. The gargoyle is over a hundred storeys above the
ground. It was a long climb; the intruder is tired. He doesn’t rest
for long. He pulls open a hatch in the roof, drops through,
disappears.

A little about
me? Locked doors are my friend, rain my accomplice, darkness my
ally.

The thin
intruder crawls through air vents too small for a man, making his
way quickly through the tight spaces like he was born to them. He
moves through grills that should be locked, opens grates meant to
be welded shut. It is a silent invasion, an impossible incursion
into the building’s secret places.

I like long
walks on the beach at dusk, old Gothic-style houses, art museums. I
don’t like chilli.

He opens a
panel beneath him, drops down into the room below. He looks like a
scarecrow’s ghost, impossibly slim, tall, ragged. The room is
alarmed in a hundred different ways; his entry goes unnoticed. He
walks in bursts of quick movement that are inelegant, cautious,
sudden. He sees a camera filming him, turns his back to it with
disdain. Security equipment worth millions of dollars watches
without issue as he opens the door they guard, slips through.

My picture
doesn’t resolve on camera. I don’t know why.

There are more
cameras, alarms, locked doors. They are nothing to him,
insubstantial as shadows.

My skills suit
unsavoury tasks. For the last two years I have worked for the
company. You may think you know who I am talking about. You are
wrong.

He is an
intruder here, a virus in the building’s soul. He walks down a long
corridor. As he does so a door opens, a security guard walks out.
The thin man pushes himself against a wall, watches the guard walk
past, close enough to touch. The guard is lucky in his
ignorance.

My favourite
artist is Michelangelo, my favourite colour: dark green.

The intruder
enters a room filled with computers. For a second the sight
overwhelms him. He spends a minute deciding which computer is his
target. He picks one near the centre of the room, walks over,
inserts a small chip into its side.

I hate
computers; my love is for marble, not silicon.

The computers
hum as they argue. He waits patiently for the electronic war to
end. The computer beeps twice; it is done. He pulls the chip out,
pockets it, makes for the door. As he turns the computer lights
flash red; malevolent eyes that watch his exit. He is let down by
his electronic ally; he doesn’t realise this straight away. The
alarms are silent, the guards waiting for him in the corridor. They
open fire without warning, the bullets falling towards him like a
cloudburst of steel droplets.

I am thin,
tall, athletic, pessimistic. I like greyhounds. My sister says I
look like one. I could be so lucky.

Somehow the
guards hit nothing except the walls behind their target. Then the
man is amongst them, his long arms flailing in wild strokes that
send even the bulkiest guard flying. The intruder pulls open a door
at random, enters into what must be a meeting room. There is a
large window overlooking the river. He eyes the flowing river below
him warily. The water is deep, black, fast.

More guards
burst into the room. This time some of the bullets find him,
driving him against the window as bullets explode through it. The
man slumps down, seemingly dead. There is no blood, no movement, no
resistance. The guards stop shooting. A man in a silver suit pushes
past them, swears loudly, pulls out a gun. This weapon is
different; there is real danger here. The scarecrow man moves his
head so quickly that the first bullet misses. Then he is up,
rising, ducking under the second, taking the third in his chest
with a sound of metal tearing through wood.

He reaches a
decision, throws himself at the damaged window, crashes through it.
This is not the exit he had hoped for. He falls with the glass
around him as bullets bite at his feet.

Some people
in my position can rely on gadgets to save them
.

The glass
brushes him as they fall together towards the water.

There may be
some who can fly, for whom falling holds no fears.

He is
weightless for an eternity, the darkness around him lit by his
reflections on the glass, the air whispering secrets in his
ears.

Some might
even have a team waiting in the wings to rescue them
.

The dark waters
fly towards him. He falls, face-first, towards them.

I am not
like these people. I am not blessed like they are
.

He readies
himself for the flood of pain, the cold in and around his body, the
burn of water in his lungs.

All I can do
is jump, hoping to hit the water.

The river
steals him from the sky with barely a splash, swallowing his body
and its glass escorts in a second. The river will be searched. Not
even the glass will be found.

* *

Rain fell in
heavy waves, drenching the hard ground until it became a marsh, a
swamp, a river. A small hill rises out of the marsh. On it stands
the only structure in this forgotten corner of the Earth: a
ramshackle dome made from corrugated iron, dead trees, old
tarpaulins. There is light inside, spilling through the many cracks
into the wet night. This is a dark place, a dangerous place, a
forgotten place. It is also a place of creation.

I never know
what my work will be before I see the stone. Like Michelangelo
said, you see an angel in the stone, carve to set it free. This
next stone is my largest ever
.

A figure stands
alone inside the rickety dome shell, staring at the large stone
before him. The stone is marble, his favourite. It towers over him.
Large lanterns hang from the roof, casting light on to the marble.
The tall sculptor holds a chisel in one hand, a hammer in the
other. He stands so still that he might be rock himself. For hours
he simply watches the stone, hardly breathing.

The stone is
good. I can see the shape of its soul. I can see the shape of my
first strokes. I can see what the stone will look like after a day,
a week, a month
.

The sculptor
walks forward clumsily, his tall frame awkward. The chisel is set
to stone, the hammer falls. The first piece of marble to fall is
small, significant, soon lost amongst its brothers. The sculptor is
dressed in dark rags. He is thin. His hammer falls quickly,
confidently. His strength defies his slender arms, his technique
contrasts to his clumsy walk.

I like it
here, in the wild. It is peaceful here, quiet. Even the radio waves
shun this place.

The sounds of
rain are interrupted by the irregular bite of steel on stone. There
are no other sounds; he works in perfect seclusion. His small
family know how he works, his few friends accept that isolation is
necessary for his art. His employers might try to contact him, in
an emergency. He hasn’t made it easy for them.

He works
relentlessly, untiring. After twelve hours of carving he sits, eats
a small meal. Rain creeps through the cracks in his shelter,
dripping down to visit. He is pleased by this, for the rain is his
muse. It forms puddles around his feet. He uses it to draw mud
pictures in the dirt floor.

When I was
young, my foster parents introduced me to a hundred different arts,
crafts, hobbies. They were worried about me; they wanted me to be
normal. I picked up my first chisel when I was six years old, five
foot tall.

His work sells
for millions, if he lets it. His best work decorates his home town,
which has become famous. He lends his elegance to places he loved
best, such as his parents’ garden. His local library received
beautiful statues; his old school did not. Occasionally his works
are stolen temporarily. The company makes sure that the thieves
feel the full extent of his displeasure.

He is rich,
brilliant, lonely.

Creation is a
mysterious thing, even to me. Inspiration comes -or doesn’t- at its
own speed. Stone sings to me, canvas is silent, paper mute. I take
stone’s gift with gratitude, respect.

The stone
begins to take shape as he works, its form flowing for him. He can
see the shapes in the stone, works to reveal them. The rain beats a
pattern on the roof. He stops at midnight, eats a small dinner,
returns to work. He rests for an hour at dawn, dreams of past
sculptures. He wakes, eats, works until midnight, rises before
dawn.

This continues
for days; his arms begin to ache. The stone sings to him as he
works. His creation begins to take shape. The carving slows; he
cannot afford to make any mistakes. He uses a smaller chisel.

He works until
dawn on the seventh day, then stops. He is exhausted; the shape in
the stone is finally revealed. There will be more work to do soon,
much more. He will add the details later, polish the stone. For now
it is enough; he must rest.

It may take a
year to finish this work. It may take longer. My other skills are
in high demand, despite my wishing otherwise.

The rains beat
a new rhythm, uneven, unhappy. The sculptor hears the roar of an
engine in the distance. A kilometre away, a dark four-by-four
struggles through thick mud. The sculptor waits patiently for his
visitor.

My handlers
come calling. There will be no rest for me tonight; I am not
pleased. My stone will wait unfinished for me.

The car battles
valiantly towards the dome. The driver is desperate; it must be an
emergency. A young man exits the car, bangs on the dome’s door. It
opens on the third blow.

He isn’t
someone I know. This is interesting, suspicious, worrying. I hope
the company hasn’t decided to let me go. They don’t say goodbye
nicely
.

“I’m from the
company,” he says, answering the unasked question.

He has the
company’s mark. Not a field agent, perhaps a technician. The agent
looks awkward, as well he should. He knows he is playing in a
dangerous league.

“Your sister
sent me. One of the company’s people has disappeared.”

The sculptor
stares down at the agent as if wondering what soul he could carve
free from the man’s body. It is unnerving, overpowering,
comforting. The young man knows that this is the terror he will be
relying on.

He doesn’t
even have a gun. All company men carry guns. Perhaps he knows that
his bullets are wasted on me? Most men would carry one for the
false comfort it gives them.

The man shows
the sculptor two ID books. The first is his own, showing him to be
a medium level analyst.