Noah

I wrapped the teacakes carefully, tying them off with a neat bow and a strained smile. My customer of the moment, one Alchemist Weatherby, did not appear to notice as she dug a few more coins out of the pouch strapped around her middle. She had been here yesterday and the day before that, always at 1:25 sharp, always with brand-new commentary on the lives of her sprawling family and her unsuspecting neighbors (as overheard late last night through the thin connecting walls of their caves). I was beginning to think the only reason she bought her cakes from me and not from Baker Bella was to acquire a captive audience. Bella would never have put up with her. Unfortunately, I was too polite for my own good. “Our boy Longfeather saw that island again,” Weatherby was saying. I looked up guiltily from my musing, realizing I had absolutely no idea what the busybody Wildclaw was going on about. “I’m sorry,” I sighed. “Which island is this?” “The flying one. And you know what my sister says to him? She says—“ “I’m sorry,” I repeated. “A flying island?” For the first time, a trace of impatience began to creep into Weatherby’s face and she waved a hand irritably. “You know, the one with two kings? Blessed by the Windsinger?” Her eyes widened. “Oh! I’m sorry! I keep forgetting you’re not from around here. Anybody ever told you you’re a natural windy?” “No,” I said, immediately regretting the sharpness of my tone. “So, there’s a flying island?” “Sure,” Weatherby shrugged. “It’s kinda legendary, I guess. It flies around all over and it’s supposed to be almost impossible to find.” She set the gold down on my counter with a neat clink, suddenly all-business. “That should cover it.” “Thanks!” As I stowed the money, Weatherby ruffled her feathers impatiently. “Thanks for stopping by.” “Bye!” “Buh-bye!” I called after her, not sure whether to be relieved or worried by her abrupt departure. For someone who talked so much, Weatherby was hard to understand. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I’d asked around after work about the island, and everything I’d heard only piqued my interest further. “’s carved in the form of an enormous turtle,” Yarrowort had said, leaning over his drink. The old Snapper practically lived in the tavern, sharing snippets of his impressive memory in exchange for another round of ale, or a piping hot pot pie. “’s big as a mountain. Bigger! When it swoops low, it fills the sky from horizon to horizon.” “And the kings?” “Ah,” Yarrowort had nodded his big head slowly, knowingly. “King Kendall and King Nate. They say they rule the island and its clan with wisdom and justice. Now and then, a young dragon will run off to live in the sky with them. More often than not, Kendall and Nate sends ‘em back to their mamas.” I’d hesitated then, feeling a yearning in my heart that threatened to crack me in two. “Do they—do they ever let them stay?” At that, Yarrowort had pulled himself upright—or as upright as a Snapper could pull himself—and looked me in the eye. I had looked away first, ready to rescind my foolish question. “Now and then. Not often,” he’d said. “But . . . it’s not unheard of.” Not unheard of. That phrase kept echoing around in my head, and the next day it kept popping up in my conversations over and over again: not unheard of, no . . . but it’s not unheard of . . . not unheard of, you know . . . No one else knew anything much about the island, so when Alchemist Weatherby popped in at 1:25 sharp, I didn’t bother feigning interest in the exploits of her good-for-nothing son-in-law. “Where did your son, er, Longfeather, see the island?” Weatherby’s lime green eyes narrowed sharply. “Have you listened to anything I’ve said?” “I’m sorry,” I said, the words automatic and overtly insincere. “But this is important.” “You know, you’re just like my wife! Just the other day, Lenna—“ “I’m sorry,” I repeated. “Please, where did he see it? And when?” Weatherby’s mouth formed a long, thin line beneath her narrowed eyes, and for a breathless moment I worried she would refuse to tell me. Perhaps she sensed my urgency though, because her face softened. “He lives up in the Reedcleft Ascent, and the island came by a few days ago.” she said. “Why?” Gripping her teacakes to her chest, she leaned a little closer over the counter. “Don’t tell me you’re going to try to find the thing!” “No!” I clamped my jaw shut, suddenly preoccupied with properly counting and recounting and sorting and stowing the gold she’d given me. Weatherby was not to be deterred though—she had a nose for gossip, and mine was primo stuff. “I’m not, I just . . .” “You are, aren’t you!” she shouted gleefully. “You’re going to the island!” “I’m just curious, that’s all!” Spotting a single misplaced muffin, I began furiously rearranging the whole display case. “It’s nothing, really. Forget I said anything.” But I could already see her gears turning, busy anticipating how she would tell her wife all about their dream-ridden baker and his next big adventure. “You just tell Longfeather his mother sent you,” she said, waving a hand vaguely as she began making her way down the road. “Red-mom, not white-mom.” “Thanks for stopping by, but I’m not going to the Reedcleft Ascent!” I shouted after her—but she hardly seemed to notice. At least, until she stopped abruptly, half-turning to look back at me “You say that now! But people change their minds, y’know!” she yelled back. “It’s not unheard of!”

As it turned out, Longfeather took after white-mom. A quiet dragon with a long, morose face, he’d already heard all about my quest before I'd even arrived. He pointed me west and loaded me down with supplies: anything for a friend of his mothers’. It wasn’t hard to follow the island’s trail of excited hatchlings and blasé adults. Anyone old enough to fly referred to the island’s passage with about as much awe and amazement as they reserved for unseasonal weather patterns. Mostly, they complained about the shadow it cast. So my expectations had been judiciously lowered by the time I spotted the island on the horizon. It didn’t seem all that big—until you realized that bump next to it was a towering mountain and not a small foothill. Up-close, I had to keep reminding myself to breathe. The thing wasn’t just shaped like a turtle, it moved like a turtle, swimming serenely through the sky as if it were composed of cloudy flesh and not thousands of pounds of ancient stone. I alternated between fearing it would suddenly plummet out of the sky, and forgetting it wasn’t actually alive. As I swooped close, I began to make out structures and the glitter of dragon-scale among the scraps of cloud and scrawny, windswept forest that clung to its ornately carved shell. “Halt! Stay where you are!” Spreading my wings, I felt the jerk in my bones as the air filled the outstretched membrane with the sudden solidness of a punch to the gut. A Ridgeback the color of old blood and wings like old butter approached. He looked angry. “State your business, trespasser!” Another dragon, a brown and red Skydancer, was not far behind. “Um.” Somehow a confrontation with the guards hadn’t figured into my daydreams. “I’m seeking an audience with their Highnesses.” “Regarding?” the Skydancer asked, with sternness but no menace in his voice. “Making my home on this island,” I admitted, looking from impassive face to impassive face. “I brought cookies?” We hovered, the sound of our wings filling the air as the guards exchanged a stoic look. “He brought cookies, Dom.” “They’re chocolate chip,” I volunteered. “. . . They’re chocolate chip, Dom.” After a moment of uncertainty, I tried a winning smile. This proved too much even for the guards’ practiced stoicism: while Dom struggled to keep a straight face, the Skydancer burst out laughing. “You’d better come see their Highnesses then,” the Skdyancer chuckled. “Before those cookies get stale!” The waiting room they brought me to was carved of the same gray stone as the rest of the island, though on closer inspection I found thin veins of quartz and mica glittering throughout the walls and floors. As the minutes dragged on, I checked and double-checked the baked goods I’d brought as evidence of my skills: biscotti, short bread, gingersnaps, and my famous travel bread (capable of surviving anything but a healthy appetite). “Noah?” I looked up into the face of the Skydancer guard, Dylan. Once he’d stopped laughing, he hadn’t been able to return to his stoic mask, and we'd had a long, cheerful conversation about my journey, first to the Windswept Plateau, and then to Clan Rush, as I learned it was called. “They’re ready for you.” Hastily smoothing my feathered mane, I nodded wordlessly and followed him through an archway carved with clouds and tiny Faes inlaid with soft green and white jade. The throne room lay beyond, a long cavern that arched high overhead in a series of half-domes filled with glittering white crystal as fine as fairy floss. Huge windows lined the walls, refracting sunlight into thousands of rainbow glories that got caught in the ceiling, where they fractured into even smaller flecks of color. I forgot to breathe, so overwhelmed by the splendor of the hall that at first I didn’t even see the monarchs. “Ahem.” My head snapped around to behold the kings, two Skydancers perched side by side on twin thrones of alabaster marble and green jade. The kings themselves were as different as night and day: the one blue and orange and heavily muscled, the other red and brown, more slender but with longer wings and a slight smile on his face. “Your Highnesses!” I crouched low to the ground, spreading my wings along the cold floor as Dylan had suggested. “You have come a long way, young one,” the ruddy-colored king observed. My fingers went to my telltale eyes—his own were the deep red of the Plaguebringer. “I heard the Windsinger’s call many years ago,” I explained. “But I only recently heard of your marvelous island.” “I understand you wish to remain here with us,” the blue king interjected. “Why is this?” “I seek a home,” I said, speaking slowly as I felt my way through to the truth. “A place I feel I truly belong . . .” “As do we all,” the ruddy king finished, nodding. “But on this island, we all pull our weight. What skills do you bring us from below?” My hand went instinctively to the pack slung across my shoulders, filled to the brim with my wares. “I’m a baker by trade,” I said. “I brought something for you to taste, by way of proof.” The kings exchanged glances. Then the blue one nodded to Dom, who stood against the wall. He took the bag from me and brought it to his kings. After a brief murmured spell to check for poison, the ruddy king took a bite of biscotti. His red eyes widened. “Ken, seriously,” he murmured, murmur amplified by the huge room. “Here, you've got to taste this!” King Kendall took a tentative nibble while his partner tried one of my chocolate chip cookies. Soon they were completely distracted, delighting in the bag of treats I’d brought them. After a few minutes of this, I realized I had been forgotten. “Does this mean I get to stay?” I whispered, leaning close to Dom. The huge Ridgeback grinned at me openly. “Noah, I think this means you have to stay!” I gaped, then grinned, suppressing a wild yelp of excitement as I enveloped the stern guard in a bear hug. Bemused, he patted my back half-heartedly. "Noah?" My head whipped around so hard my neck hurt. King Kendall looked like he was trying not to laugh--his mate apparently had no such reservations, as the ruddy-colored king was chuckling openly at my exuberance and Dom's discomfort. "Welcome to the Rush Clan," Kendall said. "We hope your stay with us is long and happy."
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Bio by juncosongs based on my idea.