Creeden, Pauline - The Clockwork Dragon Read online

  The Clockwork Dragon

  Stories by

  Lynn Donovan, J. L. Mbewe and Pauline Creeden

  Cover Art © 2012 by Marcy Rachel

  Copyright © 2012 AltWit Press

  (an imprint of Topline Tack)

  All Rights Reserved.

  Yorktown, Virginia

  Table of Contents

  Here and Now ~ Pauline Creeden

  The Precious Hour ~ Lynn Donovan

  Lost at Sea ~ J. L. Mbewe

  Aborted Plans ~ Lynn Donovan

  The Vow ~ Lynn Donovan

  Death Without Shoes ~ Lynn Donovan

  Bloody Fairy ~ Lynn Donovan & J. L. Mbewe

  A Mermaid’s Desire ~ J. L. Mbewe

  Chinatown ~ Pauline Creeden

  About the Authors

  Introduction

  The darkness consumes. We are Legion.

  Locked in our golden prison.

  Waiting. Seeking. Tempting.

  Are you strong enough to resist?

  Or will you allow us to escape?

  Here and Now ~ Pauline Creeden

  Janice picked at the black fingernail polish on her thumb. She hated when it started to peel, and she couldn’t help but mess with the imperfection. It irked her that once the polish was gone, she would begin to chew the offending nail. It was out of her control.

  She wished she had her iPod. Instead, music from her mother’s childhood filled the Prius. Easy listening. Yuck. Her mother sang along and even danced in her seat on occasion. Seriously. Janice rolled her eyes. “Where are we going?”

  Her mother turned down the radio. “We’re going to the Asian store on Warwick Boulevard; I need some of that spicy bean paste.”

  Janice crinkled her nose and slouched in the passenger seat. Great. Why did her mother insist on trying to “expand their culinary palate?” And why couldn’t they order take-out instead? It would be nice to do something normal for once.

  A tendril of black and purple hair fell into her face, and Janice put it behind her ear. Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She smiled at the text from Melody. “Where r u?”

  “I thought I said to leave that at home.” Her mom put a hand out in silent demand.

  “Whatever, Mom, it’s just Melody.”

  Her mom shoved her hand in front of Janice’s face. “Now.”

  “But Mom, can’t I just text her back? It’s not like I’ve been texting the whole time.”

  “Watch your tone, Janice. I don’t like the effect your friends have on you. Give me the phone, now.”

  With an exasperated growl, Janice set her phone in her mother’s hand and crossed her arms over her black t-shirt. She clenched her jaw. At nearly fourteen, didn’t she have the right to choose her own friends? Her parents spent a grand total of three waking hours in the same house with her each day. What say should they really have in her life, anyway? It’s not like they really cared. They acted as though they wanted power over her every thought, every choice. She wished they’d leave her alone.

  Her mom pulled into the parking lot and shut off the engine. “Come on, let’s go.”

  “Can’t I just wait in the car?”

  “No.” Her mother shut the driver’s door before Janice could argue.

  The cool air in the car dissipated, sucked out by the hot June day. In protest, Janice waited a full ten seconds before opening the car door. Her mother never turned around. As she stepped out, hot air rose from the blacktop and prickled against Janice’s cold, white legs, and beads of sweat formed on her nose almost instantly.

  She headed for the air conditioned shop. Spicy, foreign smells filled the store, not quite the same as the odor from the Indian grocery they shopped at last Saturday. She crinkled her nose at the memory of the chunky, green, paste-covered rice she’d been forced to eat.

  Rotating buns in a glass case caught her attention. The glass felt warm to the touch and smelled kind of sweet. Her mother gripped her purse as if she were afraid of being mugged. She leaned forward and spoke overly loud in an attempt to explain what kind of bean paste she wanted to the Asian man behind the counter. The man smiled impossibly wide as he nodded, obviously void of understanding.

  Janice shook her head and turned to the rest of the shop. She ran her hands over the rough burlap rice bags. Lush-looking, furry blankets sat upon the shelves zipped in heavy plastic. Her eyes drank in the colors while she ran her hands over ivory, jade, and glass knick-knacks. She put her hands in barrels of beans. Poetry, music, and colors swirled inside her head as inspiration struck cords in the back of her mind.

  A faint tinkle drew her interest as she turned the corner to go up the next aisle. Brown and black beads hung in the threshold of the back storage room instead of a door, and the musical clinking continued beyond the stringed barrier. The sound reminded her of both a wind chime and a music box, but Janice could almost make out words under the melody.

  She glanced up the aisle. Her mother remained in a deep, one-sided conversation with the Asian man. Janice backed through the beads. They parted as she pressed herself into the shadows. The beads rolled against her shoulders, falling closed in front of her with wooden clicks and clacks.

  Sunlight filtered through the screen door at the back of the store room, and lit the boxes and bags that cluttered the space. A cinnamon and spicy smell magnified as she walked toward the light. Sitting on a table, two sticks of incense burned in a dish next to a wooden birdcage made from black lacquer-covered twigs. A gold statue sat in the center of the cage, the source of the chiming music.

  Janice leaned in closer and listened. The gold statue of a dragon seemed like the typical Chinese celebration type. Similar dragons of ivory and jade populated the shop, but this one seemed to breathe. The music caused each of its scales to glitter in the light from the door. The beautiful sound drew a smile on her lips as she ducked to see it from a different angle.

  The music stopped. Her smile fell, and she knit her brow. The dragon took on the look of a plain golden statue, no music, no glittering scales, no life. She stood and studied the cage. The key was tied to the brass lock by a red ribbon, obviously not meant to keep the dragon in.

  Janice wondered if the dragon might hide a knob to turn on its belly, like the music box she’d had when she was younger. She fingered the ribbon and put the key in the lock. The lock fell away easily, and she opened the front of the black stick cage. She reached in and lifted the dragon. It felt strangely warm to the touch. Janice wondered if the mechanisms inside caused the heat.

  She turned it over and smiled as she found the key at the bottom of the dragon. It was clockwork, as she hoped. She took the gold circle in her hand and began to wind. After several turns, she released the key, and the tinkling music began again. Janice closed her eyes as her mind filled with images and words in time with the music.

  The visions came with such force and vibrancy, her head swam. She clutched the statue in her hand and felt the scales cutting into her palm like fingernails. Behind her eyelids, the dragon grew to a terrible height, and she feared it would crush the ceiling of the store with its bulk. It pulled itself into the air with a swimming motion, undulating like a snake.

  “No,” she whispered, her voice cracking on the syllable.

  Rasping laughter, like rocks shaken in a soda can, caused the room to tremble. The dragon’s long whiskers touched the floor as it leaned toward her, and its red eyes met hers. “No one wants you. You are worthless. No one cares about you.”

  Tears streamed her face. The statue pulsed in her hand as though taking measured breaths. She shook her head in denial, but her heart dropped
to her stomach. The dragon voiced what she always feared.

  Hot breath, more consuming than the humid air outside the shop, blew on her from the dragon’s nostrils. “No one cares about your opinion, not even your parents. Wouldn’t you rather accept death than continue in a world where you are an outcast?”

  Her heart beat hollow in her chest; it pulled on her throat, and she swallowed against the tension. Was what the dragon said really true? Did no one care about her? The dragon’s red eyes swallowed her, and she felt like she was floating. The dark-wood bar door swung shut in silence between them, sealing her within the bird cage.

  “There’s no point in resisting. No one cares about you. Your life is worthless. Give it to me.” The dragon’s voice lost its gravel. It grew higher pitched and familiar as she succumbed to the feeling of drowning and her limbs grew stiff.

  No one cared about her. What was the point in resisting? She released her grip on herself, and felt the pain in her hands dissolve.

  Janice blinked and noticed the dragon’s eyes turned green. Its face contorted into a feminine form as it smiled and pulled a purple and black tendril of hair behind its ear. For a moment she thought she looked in a mirror. But when the image moved of its own accord and left her alone, she screamed.

  And the sound of wind chimes filled the birdcage.

  The Precious Hour ~ Lynn Donovan

  “Okay, honey.” Mary said, wiping moist eyes. “Kiss the new baby for me, and y’all get some rest.” She reached to click the disconnecting “X” on the Skype Video Conference program. The status bar indicated eighteen amazing hours had passed.

  “Sure, Mom,” Del said. His yawn gave evidence of the all-night vigil.

  Behind Del, Addie lay in the hospital bed and cuddled her newborn son. She waved, and a weak smile curled at the corners of her full lips.

  Del’s pale face filled the screen as he leaned closer to his cell phone. “Bye Mom, I’m so glad we could do this!”

  “Me too, baby!” Mary smiled, tears filled her eyes again. She cried so easily these days. “Bye, now.”

  “Bye.” Del and Addie called again as Mary’s desktop picture of her dream home in Colorado replaced the window into her son’s life. She sighed, staring at the log home. Another grandson. She smiled. Del’s first child. Though they lived eight hundred miles away, she saw the entire labor and delivery through her computer screen. She could hear it all clearly but the picture was pixilated and distorted. It was good enough, satisfying. She felt like she had been there.

  Another sigh escaped Mary’s lips. Her eyes rose to the picture of Pappy and her five-year-old self above the computer table. How she missed him, especially at times like these. “You have a new great-great grandchild,” she told the picture and imagined him smiling.

  Too excited to sleep, a list of chores flipped through her thoughts. She had a few hours before her husband would be home.

  Pushing away from the computer, she walked into the kitchen and put together a dusting wand and pad. She walked around the house dusting pictures, doorways, light fixtures, and shelves. In her hall, she reached to dust the collection of family members’ portraits who had passed: her father, Pappy and Grandma, her mother’s parents, the eleven-member picture of the Oklahoma Eighty-Niners, and a hand-painted sign, “I believe in Angels.”

  Mary sighed again. How she missed her grandmother. She had been more of a mother to her than—she’d not allow the thought.

  “I wish I could talk to you again,” she told the picture.

  “What if you could?” A deep, calm voice resonated in her mind.

  Mary tilted her head, pressed her eyebrows together and looked around. “Yeah, right,” she told the voice.

  “Okaaay…”

  Mary stood in the silence, her arms limp at her side. She stared at her grandmother’s picture. Warm memories flooded her mind of sitting on her grandmother’s front porch, snapping green beans, crocheting, hemming garments, and just—talking. She missed talking with her grandparents. They were so wise, so safe, so funny.

  Mary turned from her reverie. Outside her living room window, the morning dew clung to yesterday’s mowed grass. It should be cool this morning, good time to go work on the storage unit. She pulled on shorts and t-shirt, socks and sneakers, tossed her purse over her shoulder and walked out the front door. Ten minutes later she unlocked the storage door and heaved it high over her head. A layer of dirt filled the crevices of her sneakers as dirt billowed around her ankles.

  So much junk! Her mother’s belongings, forgotten by the cruel disease of Alzheimer’s, met her scrutiny. Mary stepped over concrete yard bunnies and cats, to reach bags and boxes filled with unknown content. In her mother’s final years, she had become a hoarder. To be fair, Mom’s mind did not work right, and she simply didn’t know what to keep and what to throw away. Much like the professional packers Mary had hired. Although most of this stuff needed to be thrown away, she had unloaded two U-Hauls here last summer. She had instructed them to pack it all, and she’d go through it later. It was later.

  Mother had kept everything, even empty paper towel holders. The movers packed everything, including empty paper towel holders. Three thirty-gallon trash bags full of them sat within Mary’s reach. She lifted the bags and tossed them over her head toward her husband’s Dodge Ram.

  A large box rested beneath the absent trash bags. Mary reached for it.

  “Oh!” she said with a gasp. She staggered and rotated her arms to regain balance. She took a deep breath and heaved the box up to her thighs. Bracing it against her body, she staggered over the scattered yard figures and waddled to the tail gate to place the box there. She used her keys to cut through the clear tape and she pushed back the flaps.

  “What is so heavy?” Mary kneed her way up on the tailgate and sunk both hands into the peanuts. A rough animal-shaped object emerged from the crispy, protective packing. “Hmm.” She pushed her lower lip out and pulled the object. Static electricity crackled and bloated green peanuts clung to her hands and the golden figure. “Wow!” her eyes widened. The sun’s increasing rays bounced off the shiny golden scales of a dragon figurine. “Where’d this come from, Mom?”

  Mary turned the teacup-poodle-sized statue over. The recessed bottom held a network of clockwork gears, intricately linked and obvious to some function. She chewed the inside of her cheek as she examined the dragon. She weighted it in her hands as her eyes rolled up in thought. It’s gotta be twenty pounds—and solid? Could it be real gold? She looked closely at the bottom again for any etched carat weight or “Made in China” indication.

  Nothing. The base was smooth and—Mary’s eyebrows rose—dirt free. That must have been some good tape. Everything in this storage unit was covered in a gritty layer of Kansas’s constant-blowing dirt. Even the boxes she’d gone through in days past were filled with fine silt. This had a bright, polished, dust-free high gloss.

  Mary lowered herself to the ground and carried it to the cab. She slid the mysterious statue onto the tan-vinyl console. Another glint of sunlight flashed through the ruby-red eye. Did it blink? Mary stared at the dragon. It sat motionless on the embossed ram’s head. A shiver rippled over her neck and spine although the heat index was rising. She rubbed the raised hair under her auburn pony-tail and closed the passenger door.

  The sun had ascended and grew too warm for Mary’s liking. Shrugging the odd experience off, she threw the three black bags into the truck’s bed and closed the tailgate. She secured the storage unit door and climbed into the cab. Her elbow touched the cool metal of the golden dragon. A sensation shot cold pain through the bone in her arm. Her muscles stiffened with a lingering ache. She pursed her lips into a tight line as she turned the engine over and drove out of the storage facility. The sun’s glare off the white hood forced her eyes into squinting slits. The air conditioning blew wisps of loosened hair from her sweat-glazed face. She smiled, enjoying the cooling effect. The truck jolted by a rough spot in the road and the dragon slid agai
nst Mary’s arm.

  “Ow!” Mary jumped, jerking the steering wheel to the left. A silver sedan in the on-coming lane swerved to avoid her. She gasped, yanking the truck back into her designated lane. Her heart pounded hard against her ribs. The echo of a jeering laugh resonated deep in the recesses of her mind. She shoved the offensive statue to the passenger seat and set her sights for home.

  For several days Mary went about her routine, coping with the vacant, lonely sentiment she harbored. Her grandmother’s smiling face beckoned her attention when she passed down the hall. Why was the longing so strong these days? Was it the birth of her new grandson? Wanting to share the good news with the one person who made her feel loved and wanted as a cherished granddaughter? She missed that most of all, being cherished.

  Dusting duty brought Mary to the golden statue she had haphazardly left on the utility room shelf—the first horizontal surface she encountered upon entering from the garage. She lifted the dusting wand, but froze inches from the iridescent gloss. Its scales lifted and fell like the NYC Rockette show-girls’ legs. The scales spiraled around and up its body toward the slender neck which moved with the wave, twisting out of position as if loosening from the stiffness. Mary stared wide-eyed at the phenomenon. Her duster still poised for the action forgotten in disbelief.

  “Hello cherished child.” A voice penetrated Mary’s mind. The dragon faced her but its lips did not move. The ruby-red eyes glowed from an unobvious source. Mary shook her head and blinked hard. The dragon’s new position had not changed. Pressure built behind her eyes causing her head to ache. She pinched the bridge of her nose between her brows.

  Another sinus infection? Maybe fever was causing this illusion. Mary twisted her neck. Snap, snap. Her vertebrae popped. Benadryl, she needed a Benadryl. She turned to seek the relieving medication.

  “Come here, cherished one. You do not have a sinus infection.”