In His Heart Live Dragons
Deathrealm 25
This is the original short story, written and rewritten early in my career, published in Deathrealm Magazine, and then reprinted in my collection Ennui & Other States of Madness. I thought it would give readers an idea what they were in for in the upcoming novel Heart of a Dragon if they could read the original influencing story. Enjoy.
In His Heart Live Dragons
By David Niall Wilson
Salvatore made the final stroke of green across the nose of the dragon, watching with satisfaction as the paint dried onto the leather, creating exactly the shade, tint, and effect that he’d seen. He always saw his pictures before he painted them. Old Martinez, The Messiah they called him, had told him that it was his gift.
“Perhaps,” he’d answered in soon regretted anger, “but a poor gift for all the good it does me. Nobody cares for my work but me, you, and when it suits them, The Dragons.”
Martinez had peered at him through squinted eyes, gnarled hands twisting among the many beads, feathers, and talismans hanging about his neck, and cackled thinly. “A gift, boy, is a gift. The use of the gift is the responsibility of he who wields it.”
The finished dragon glared evilly off of the black leather, seeming to stare back at him. Had the dragon, he wondered, seen him as well? Perhaps, Salvatore mused, all of his pictures saw him first — chose him — looking in through some otherworld window. It was an interesting thought, something of which to speak with Martinez.
He waited until he was certain that the paint had dried before he slung the jacket over his thin shoulder and started off. If the paint did not dry completely, the picture would fade — or smear. This had happened once, and the Dragon to whom the coat had belonged had been very displeased. He had not seen the shattered beauty of the work — only Salvatore and his guilt. For Salvatore, it had been a tragic moment, the destruction of beauty that he himself had brought into the world. The Dragons, he knew, had believed that he cried from fear. They seldom understood his emotions. He had re-painted the jacket, identical in every detail to the original design, but he’d known that this second dragon was not really one of his. It was only a duplicate. The original, the part of himself that had gone to the picture, was dead. The pain remained.
The Lair, an abandoned building where The Dragons hung out, was crowded when Salvatore arrived. There seemed to be many shiny cars and motorcycles — some that he did not recognize. It was an impressive display. The barrio seldom drew such a crowd. Salvatore was about to turn away — surely now would be a bad time to interrupt — when a huge, callused hand settled itself lightly on his thin shoulder.
“Hey, Sal,” boomed a gruff voice from just behind him, ringing in his ear, “how’s it hangin’?”
Salvatore smiled, showing the uneven, yellowed line of his teeth, and answered. “It is hanging as always, compadre.” He did not understand much of what The Dragons said, but he played along as best he could. He did not like to think that they were laughing at him, but inside he knew that they were. Ace, for that was the big man’s name, whacked him soundly on the back, almost knocking him from his feet. Ace was friendly, Salvatore thought, but he’d sooner greet a bear! His back ached now, and his cheeks flamed; he hated himself for nearly tripping.
“What brings you our way, Sal?” Ace asked. “Got another dragon for us?”
“For Jake,” he answered, halting momentarily to unfold the jacket for inspection. Pride in his work gave back the courage that Ace’s slap had taken away. The dragon, green and gold in color, glistened in the sunlight, eyes like glittering jewels, scales flashing brightly.
“Awesome,” Ace said, gazing at the jacket. It was, if not eloquent, at least correct, Salvatore decided. This was the most magnificent jacket yet, and that was a very important thing. Jake was the Vice Presidente of The Dragons, and he was much, to Salvatore’s mind, like a peacock. Jake could strut well with such a dragon, it was a glorious day.
“Jake’ll want to see this right away, sure as shit,” Ace crowed. “And wait until he does! Boy, this is great!”
Ace, who had been the first Dragon to wear one of
Salvatore’s creations, was invariably amazed when he saw a new one. They just seemed to get better. And there was another thing. Each dragon was created for a particular club member — each seemed to fit its wearer, and no other.
Recently, a Dragon named Carlos had been killed, stabbed in the gut by one of the Escorpiones, a Puerto-Rican club much feared in the barrio. He had worn one of Salvatore’s Dragons, a golden yellow one, ringed with fire. Ace remembered how Carlos’ brother, Santini, had grabbed the jacket, thinking to wear it in memory of Carlos. From the moment he’d put it on, the coat had looked out of place. Then Santini had begun to complain of strange pains in his side, directly beneath the hole in the leather where his brother had been stabbed. The jacket now hung on the wall in the lair. Nobody in the club, not even Snake, the president, would touch it. There seemed to be something special in the bonding of the two, man and jacket — or the three, man, jacket and dragon. Ace never left his home without the bright blue dragon on his own back.
Several tough looking men that Salvatore had never met were loitering about in the front of the building –more could be seen just inside the door. He would have liked very much to have known what was going on, but he dared not ask. The business of The Dragons, he knew, was theirs alone. Enough that his art won him their protection. The barrio would have been a sorry place to live without that.
Jake was inside, clutching a cold can of beer, and speaking loudly with Snake, the presidente, and a slick, handsome man that Salvatore did not know. He would have waited until they were finished, but Ace dragged him forward and interrupted, casting Salvatore into the spotlight of attention. They did not, at first, appear pleased with his outburst. Even Ace looked nervous as they fixed him with an annoyed glare.
“What is it Ace?” Snake asked. “This is business — no interruptions.”
“I — I’m sorry, Snake,” Ace quavered, looking a bit pale. “It’s just that Sal here finished Jake’s dragon, is all — thought he’d want to see it.”
Inside, Salvatore was quaking. These were not men to trifle with. He feared them, and, to his shame, they knew it. He was relieved when Jake finally spoke.
“Well, let’s see it, Sally.” Salvatore hated to be called Sally, but he would never have told Jake so. “Been almost a week, man. A week without leather is a long time — I hope it was worth it.”
Finding that his tongue was ignoring his request that it speak, Salvatore merely presented the back of the leather jacket. All of them gazed at it in silence, but Jake’s eyes fastened on the dragon’s as though recognizing an old friend. His smile widened slowly, and he reached out a hand, running it over the ridged surface of the paint. Snake and the others watched solemnly as Jake took the jacket and, as if he were reluctant to let the dragon from his sight, finally swung it around and slipped it on. He was grinning widely.
“Hey, man,” he said to Salvatore, ignoring everything around him, “thanks, thanks a lot. This is great, man, really great.” Salvatore found, somewhere, the ability to smile without allowing a tremble to disgrace his lip. For him, this was a special moment — a part of him was now to be with Jake, no matter if the other did not realize it, or could not see. When Jake extended his huge, meaty hand, Salvatore took it, knowing that he was risking a serious bruise by doing so. Jake’s grip, for once, was firm, but painless.
Snake, who had seen the light flaring in Jake’s eyes as he checked out the dragon, was thinking hard. These damned jackets were almost religious with his men now — powerful. The greaser next to him, Valentino, was from the top, a direct representative of the number one chapter of the club, The 5th Street Dragons. This visit was not for the exchanging of pleasantries — not at all. The fact was that it was bad, very bad. The Escorpiones were pushing, putting the pressure on Patch and his boys. Patch was the president — he wanted help.
Snake knew these Escorpiones — everyone did. They had carved a reputation in blood. Much of that blood had once belonged to Dragons — too much. He had to find a way to make The Dragons proud again, to make their blood run hot. If they did not have their hearts in the coming battle, it would be bad; bad for Snake, bad for The Dragons. An idea was beginning to form.
“Jake, Valentino, Ace,” he said, “leave me and my buddy Sal here alone for a while, all right?”
The others looked at him, a bit startled, though none more than Salvatore himself. Jake began to grin, suspecting a joke, but when he looked into Snake’s eyes, there was no humor, only ice. They all backed away, leaving a very frightened Salvatore alone with Snake — conspicuously alone. The man put a heavily muscled arm, criss-crossed with strange tattoos, around
Salvatore’s shoulders, leading him to the back yard, where a glance from their president sent all those present plunging in various directions. In no time at all, Salvatore found that they were alone.
“You know, Sal,” Snake began, “when you first came around — gave Ace that dragon, I thought you were a little shithead. The Dragons already had a patch, colors. I was against your fancy dragons.”
Salvatore’s knees quivered, but he did not lower his gaze. He did not want this man to know how truly frightened he was. “Then,” Snake went on, almost as if he were talking to himself, “I saw how your dragons affected mine — how they helped me. Your pictures, they make dragons into dreams, powerful, magnificent dreams. Somehow they capture a part of the man who wears them, mirror him. You have seen this?”
Still uncertain of what Snake was getting at, Salvatore nodded. It was known to him that his dragons matched those who wore them; that is how they came in the visions.
“We have a battle coming soon,” Snake continued, turning his gaze to hold Salvatore’s. “These are brave men, but we face The Escorpiones, and in this battle they will not wish to fight. In my dragons, the fire is dying. I want you to help me.”
Salvatore’s curiosity overcame his fear, giving him the courage to speak. “You wish me to fight?” He asked. “I am no fighter, seZor Snake, only a poor artist.”
“No.” Snake said quietly, and with conviction. “You are not poor; you are a genius. I want you to paint my dragon.”
Salvatore’s heart leaped. Again he was without speech. Such an honor! Almost instantly the dragon began to form in his mind.
“But your jacket,” he blurted out, “it has upon it the colors of The Presidente! Where shall I paint the dragon?” Snake looked at him, a warmth Salvatore had never seen in his eyes. “I don’t want it on my jacket, Sal,” he said. “These colors have ridden there far too long. I want a banner, a standard — a flag of honor. And when we go to fight these Escorpiones, you will carry this flag into the battle at my side.”
Now Salvatore’s heart took wings! This was beyond belief. He stuttered several times before the words finally broke free of his tongue — Snake did not seem to notice. “Such a dragon I will paint for you that it will seem a thing alive!” He cried. “Beyond my hopes have you honored me. I, Salvatore Domingo Sanchez, will make you proud!”
“I know that, Sal,” Snake smiled. “You’ve got to do this fast, though. It is my men to whom you must bring the life, not my dragon. The battle will happen in three days.”
“”Then I must go and start — I will be ready!” Salvatore said.
Without another word, the young artist rushed off, bouncing off of walls and people alike in his haste and his excitement. Surely this was the greatest of all of the days of his life. He never looked back at the gathered Dragons, who watched his hasty departure with curiosity of their own. What was Snake up to this time?
Snake was still in the back, staring moodily into the fading light of the setting sun, when Jake and Valentino found him. “Tell Patch,” he said, not turning to acknowledge their presence, “that we will come. Let the damned Escorpiones feel the flame of The Dragons.”
Jake blinked rapidly, a look of concern crossing his face. He knew how the others were going to react to this, but what else could Snake do? The decision of the president was final, unless of course someone was ready to attempt a challenge for the post – - that was the law. Nobody was likely to try Snake — certainly not Jake. He said nothing, but on his back, where the newly painted dragon seemed to ripple, green and gold scales flashed in the waning rays of the sun.
* * *
Slowing to a walk, though it did not affect the racing of his heart, Salvatore came to a decision. such a dragon required much. More, perhaps, than even his own gift could provide. He needed a talisman — something of power. It was best, he knew, to take such matters to Martinez before beginning. Besides, he was bursting with his news — he wanted to see how the old one would react. Turning aside from the way to his home, he ducked into the alley leading to the rooms of The Messiah.
He found Martinez seated, as was his custom, on an old sheet that covered the front doorway to his apartment. His eyes were closed; his hands gripped the objects of power he wore at his neck. Before Salvatore could speak, the old man’s eyes snapped open. “So,” he said drily, “the sparrow would fly to war with The Dragons, eh?”
Salvatore deflated like a broken balloon. How had the old man known? No matter, though, he still must have a talisman. “Old one,” he began respectfully, “The king — the
presidente of The Dragons — he wishes me to paint a flag. He wishes that my poor gift give fire to his Dragons. What shall I do?”
“As I have said,” Martinez sighed, “a gift is a gift, the holder bears the responsibility for its use. I have many things of power. These, like your pictures, are a gift. I am old. For me, these things have no further use.” As he spoke, he opened the small leather bag that hung at his waist. Salvatore held his breath. Martinez’s medicine bag! Truly this was a day of great happenings.
“Take these,” the man held out two dried and almost crumbled leaves. “Mix them –crushed — with the reddest of your paint. Add this to your dragon, and trouble me no more. This new Dragon King, Snake, I suppose that he will be around to see me soon. They all come, eventually. I must prepare for him. One thing — this battle of yours, you will not find in it the glory you believe in. Better you paint your pictures in peace.” The words could not penetrate the bubble of Salvatore’s excitement, as Martinez had known they could not. He took the proffered leaves from the bony fingers that held them, clasping them tightly. Almost reverently. He rose immediately. The anticipation was too great to allow delay, and he was now afraid of crushing and losing the leaves before he ever reached his home. Such would, he knew, be an unredeemable act, and he did not trust his clumsy feet with the task.
The closer he got to his destination, the more terrified he became. Many men, most of The Dragons included, thought Martinez to be just a crazy old man. He was half Indian, and senile, they said. Salvatore knew the truth, just as he knew the truth of his own work. Martinez was a man of great vision and power. Let them scoff. He had what he needed.
He placed the leaves carefully on his palette. Preparing a damp cloth, he squeezed an ample supply of red paint from one of the tubes that Ace and The Dragons had brought him from the city. It was marked Ruby Red. It was one of Salvatore’s favorite colors. He carefully mixed in the leaves, after crushing them with a spoon, and folded the cloth over the paint. This he placed into the cellophane from an old cigarette pack, then set it aside. It was time to begin.
The evening melted to night, blending the cities colors to shadow as Salvatore worked steadily. At midnight, when he felt himself begin to tire, he stopped. The initial sketch, a great, serpentine dragon with fully spread wings and teeth like sabres was forming. He knew what it would be, how it would look — he had seen it. He slept. No need to let his weariness cause a mis-stroke. There was time. He would be done in three days. As he slept, he dreamed. In his dreams, he was a dragon — a true dragon — and he fought an endless horde of giant scorpions. They burned well in dragon fire.
The morning, and the sun, brought him back to the sheet, for that was what he painted on, the sheet from his bed, and he began anew. The colors came; the tints molded themselves into subtler hues; the vision rose to life. He could not decide if it was from reverence, or from technique, but he saved the red for last. He could see it no other way.
It was only three hours before he was to return to The Lair on the final day when he put the last few strokes of his brush to the dragon. As the paint dried, he took the old broom from the corner of his room and began to strip away the straw. A banner needed a pole. He secured the corners of the flag to the pole, wrapping the cloth carefully around it. He secured it with a piece of string at the top to prevent it from unrolling in the street, and took off to the lair of The Dragons.
There was no movement at the house — not a sign of any activity. For a moment, Salvatore feared that he was late, that they had gone on without him. His feet faltered. Then he saw the candles that burned in the windows. He approached the door uncertainly. There seemed, suddenly, to be shadows flitting all about him. A chill blew through his heart, yet there was no wind.
This was a strange night, one to be inside and warm.
Shivering, he moved forward the last few paces and entered the dim light of The Lair. He was surprised to see The Dragons spread around him in a huge semi-circle. Snake was at their front, leather-studded arm bands glistening in the flickering luminescence of the candles. Beside him, the biggest surprise of all, sat Martinez, an odd grin plastered across his face, sitting on the same old sheet he kept on his porch. Salvatore did not speak. Something told him that the time for questions, if ever there had been one, was long past. He stood at the doorway, all eyes upon him, and waited.
Snake crossed the floor, leading him by the arm to stand at the front of the room, between himself and Martinez. Among the gathered Dragons, though they sat closely together, Salvatore’s heightened senses detected no unity. No face smiled; many held fear; some were even resentful. There was nothing holding them together but the iron will of the man they called presidente, and, perhaps the presence of the crazy old man, The Messiah, at his side. When he was certain that he had their attention, Snake reached up and untied the string at the top of the banner, letting the sheet uncurl from the pole. Opening it carefully, concealing the design, he stood, tall and ominous, full of a power that Salvatore could feel, rippling in the air.
“Tonight,” he said, sneering at his assembled followers, “I fight The Escorpiones. Alone, or with you — I fight.” He swept the eyes about him, catching the few that started guiltily at his words, boring through them mercilessly. “Here stands Salvatore Domingo Sanchez. In his heart live dragons! There are many among you with whom he has shared their flame.”
Salvatore’s eyes whipped around to stare at Snake. Why would he say such things? What did it mean?
“The old one,” Snake gestured at Martinez, who still grinned his strange new grin, “assures me that he knows what is to come. The Escorpiones die tonight. They cease to exist. Who, among you, do you suppose will bring this about? The biggest? The strongest? No. It will be Sal, for he bears our power. In his hands beats the heart of The Dragons!”
Now a wave of nervous energy rippled through the room. What was Snake trying to pull with all of this shit? Talismans? “Heart of The Dragons?” This was supposed to be a rumble, not a voodoo ceremony. Nobody had quite the strength, or the courage, to voice these feelings. Snake was a dangerous man. If he was crazy now — well, then he would just be more dangerous. They waited for him to make sense, and for the call to leave, a call they all dreaded.
Reaching up, aware of the eerie mood he’d created, Snake whipped the flag open, almost yanking the pole from Salvatore’s hands, and the dragon, Snake’s dragon, floated into the air on its background of white. Its eyes, or so it would later be claimed, glowed. Nobody spoke — to a man they were struck dumb. It was magnificent. He was magnificent. The two images, man and dragon, seemed to melt together, then drift apart, until it was difficult to distinguish one from the other.
Salvatore clung to the pole for his life, caught up in the surge of energy, caught as were they all. Somehow, he would never remember how, he found himself outside. Snake was directly in front of him, leading the way. Martinez’s ancient cackling laughter followed as they went — echoing in his mind. Carefully rolling the flag, Snake pushed him into the car that would lead and jumped in beside him. Then they were gone. The night fell to silence as they passed.
* * *
It was Valentino who first noted their approach. A tense jumble of nerves unknotted itself from his shoulders. Despite Snake’s words, despite the bonds of brotherhood, he had not been certain that they would come. Silently, he tapped Patch on the shoulder, pointing to the cars and bikes approaching. “Snake,” was all he said. Patch gave him a thin smile, lines of worry creasing the corner of his one good eye. The other was covered by a patch, black with a white spider’s web emblazoned across it. He did not appear confident — Valentino felt a chill transit his spine. Patch was a man beyond fear, or as close as any living man, and even so, he was worried. Then The Escorpiones arrived, and it no longer mattered. Nothing mattered.
They came in silence. From the streets, from the shadows, even from the sewers. Black clad figures appeared as if from the air. The red stinger that was their mark rode on every breast, and there were many. Perhaps, Patch thought, too many, this time. Last time they had taken his right eye. Had they come back to claim the rest?
They were on The Dragons before Snake could screech to a halt, either unaware of his presence, or unconcerned by it. Repressing a shiver, he jumped from the car, dragging Salvatore and his flag behind. His Dragons formed swiftly behind him. Ahead, in the park, Dragons were falling — the night belonged to The Escorpiones. Snake’s hold, his power, had not waned during the ride. If anything it had grown. Salvatore could feel strength he’d never known rippling up and down his arms — through the dragon. The flag was quickly unfurled, and, as the huge red beast took flight once more, defiant and proud, Snake let out a scream, a scream of rage. He charged the field before him, never once looking back to see if the others followed. He knew, now, that they would be there. They hit the lines of The Escorpiones with a clash of metal studs and leather. The sound was deafening.
Salvatore, swept along at Snake’s heels, saw nothing but a blur. He fought his own battle with gravity, crashing bodies, and the sweat on his palms to keep the dragon flying high — never once did an Escorpione get within reach of him. Those near the standard fought like men possessed. They were winning, and Salvatore’s heart soared with the dragon. His eyes shone. Then, like the chill-quick kiss of lightning, it happened.
Snake, eyes to the sky, was screaming again, but this time his rage had faded to pain — to shock. From his heart protruded the bloody hilt of a bowie knife. Salvatore, barely aware of what he did, dropped the pole, letting the standard fall, and tried to catch the falling Dragon in his thin, bony arms. He barely managed to slow the big man’s descent. Snake fell heavily onto the banner that Salvatore had painted, blood from his heart pumping out to blend with the Ruby Red paint of the dragon. “No!” Salvatore screamed, pulling at his hair. “My gift! Damn you, Martinez, you gave me a talisman — you said that we would win!”
“I said,” a voice floated eerily over the field, “That you would destroy The Escorpiones. It is your gift.” The voice faded, and around him a great silence grew. Something was wrong — desperately wrong.
The night split — the air crackled — for the sound that screeched forth was one of unbelievable volume. It was a cry of rage, of triumph. It jelled the blood in the veins of all who heard it.
The dragon was magnificent. Red, scales shining, oddly brilliant in the half-light of the moon, bubbling saliva pouring from the corners of its mouth to sizzle on the ground, it reared its head high, wings beating mightily. The first Escorpione was in the grasp of its huge taloned claw before the numbness — the terror of its scream — had released the battle. Men ran in all directions. Flame followed, licking at their heels, engulfing them, searing their flesh — charring their bones. Though the talons seemed to flash randomly, no Dragon was touched. They ran. Only Salvatore, Snake, and the dragon remained.
A man’s face, his eyes, shot past Salvatore, beseeching him . . . but they were gone almost before he read their pain. Huge jaws gripped the body, ripping it, shredding it, and casting it aside, broken and useless. Another took its place. Somewhere, deep inside, Salvatore’s remaining sanity succumbed to his terror, and he dropped from consciousness. He fell across Snake’s rapidly chilling body, and the sheet, which had once held a dragon.
* * *
His mind drifted through darkness toward a light. The light glowed, burning his eyes. He blinked, trying to cover them. His arms moved sluggishly, feeling heavy and awkward. He glanced down at — wings!
The ground below was not the city. The stars above were not the stars of Salvatore’s sky. He soared, letting loose a cry that rose to a glorious scream of victory. Behind him the echo rang from fading streets, caromed off of approaching mountains. As all became a fuzzy blur, he soared to the clouds — free and powerful. The battle, The Escorpiones, all faded in and out, memories half-remembered, pain that pulsed with the beating of his heart. In the distance he could hear cries, proud,
resonating screams. His brothers. But these faded slowly as well. Voices twined with the primal roaring in a confused whisper, familiar voices.
The concrete was cold beneath his shoulders. His eyes opened and he saw Ace, a worried frown etched across his rough features, staring down at him. There was a flickering halo of blue scales and yellow, flaming eyes hovering about the man’s face, but it passed as Salvatore shoo his head and tried to rise.
Ace pushed him back down onto the sheet that had been the flag and motioned others over with obvious relief. As he was lifted and carried toward the cars, Salvatore had a short moment for reflection before darkness returned to re-claim him. The sheet bore no dragon. It was as white and bare as when he’d begun his sketch. Empty. The emptiness rode also in his soul. He did not dream.
* * *
The youngster answered his gaze with awe. This was
Salvatore Domingo Sanchez, The Dragon Master, famed artist — in the barrio, anyway. The boy’s eyes shone. Running off to draw more, he turned to wave. Salvatore, among all men, understood him. So what if he sat always on that old sheet and dreamed his lonely dreams, he was an artist!
