Birds of a Feather Chapter 04
"The only way to cure the tribe's sickness is a dose of dragon's blood?" Fishlegs was aghast. "No! I don't want to kill any dragons! I could never do that!"
"Even if it means savin' the people's lives?" Gobber demanded.
"You can't ask me to kill a dragon!" Fishlegs protested. "They're our friends! They trust us! Killing one would be like... a betrayal!"
"Don't ye think the life of a human is worth more than the life of a reptile?" Gobber pressed him.
"I'm pretty sure the dragons wouldn't see it that way," the younger man quavered. "I don't think I do, either. I think most of the dragon riders would agree with me."
Gobber went on. "Well, even if this ol' book is right, that's not meanin' we have to kill a whole dragon to do th' job. It says 'a dose o' dragon's blood.' How much is a dose? An' what does this have to do wi' that I'll-knock-you-later thing that Gothi wrote?"
"I think the word was 'inoculate,' and I don't know what that means," Fishlegs stammered, flustered at the thought of making a dragon bleed. They returned to Gothi's shack and told her what they'd discovered. She wrote on the floor.
"She says 'inoculate' means just a drop or two," the old smith translated. "But how do ye take a couple o' drops o' blood from a dragon? They're tough! Either yer weapon goes deep and draws a lot more than just a couple o' drops, or it glances off an' does nothin'."
"Plus, the dragons won't like it if we start swinging weapons at them," Fishlegs added.
"Maybe we could practice on that arm o' yours," Gobber said helpfully. He wasn't far from the truth. Fishlegs realized that the fingernails on his right hand were getting thick and dark-colored, and the bumps were spreading up his neck. He really looked like he was turning into a dragon! He was spared from having to answer when Gothi drew a line with long, thin spikes on one side of it, then added some pictograms below it.
"Iron thorns," Gobber said thoughtfully. "Aye, those can probably pierce a dragon's hide, an' they won't look as scary as a sword or a spear. But I'm not knowin' how we could get our hands on any, an' that's probably a good thing."
"What are iron thorns?" Fishlegs asked, curious.
"They're the toughest, sharpest, nastiest weed that Loki ever inflicted on th' world!" Gobber exclaimed heatedly. "Once they start growin', they're almost impossible to kill. They take over entire islands an' force the people an' the beasties to move elsewhere. No one has ever found a use for 'em; they're nothin' but a curse."
"Would dragon fire kill those thorns?" Fishlegs wondered.
"It might, but th' dragons dinna like the thorns any more than we do, so they stay far away from 'em. That makes me think they might be tough enough to penetrate a dragon's scales an' draw a few drops o' blood, without scarin' 'em with our weapons. Maybe th' accursed weeds have got a practical use after all! It's gettin' those thorns in th' first place that'll be hard. They don't grow on Berk, may th' gods be praised, an' we canna get to another island to bring a few here. Ships will be too slow to get there an' back in time, an' all our dragons are gone." He stopped to scratch his good arm with his wire-brush attachment.
"Umm..." Fishlegs hesitated. If he revealed that he'd kept his dragon on the island, he'd be in trouble for sure. But if Meatlug could help save the entire tribe, maybe they'd forgive him for breaking the chief's rule. "What if there was still a dragon here that I could ride? Speaking hypothetically, of course."
Gobber glared at him. "Speakin' hypothetically, if ye still had a dragon on the island, the hypothetical chief would hang ye by yer hypothetical thumbs. I'd suggest that ye not tell 'im about that. Now, how fast could ye fly this hypothetical dragon to Desolation Island, cut some iron thorns, an' bring 'em back here?"
"Desolation Island? Where's that?"
"It's called Appletree Island on th' old maps, but there aren't any apple trees there anymore. Th' iron thorns took over, an' now there's nothin' there but the thorns an' a few critters that can live in the middle of 'em."
"Okay, I know where that is," Fishlegs nodded, "but that's a long ways away. At least a day each way, by Gronckle."
"Then I'd suggest that ye get started right away," Gobber said firmly. "Th' red bumps are joinin' together into a solid rash on a lot o' our Vikings, an' the itchin' is so bad, they canna stand to wear armor or helmets anymore. That means they're useless fer battle. If any other tribe chooses to come a-raidin' before we get the cure, we'll be ripe for the pickin'."
"We'll leave right away and we'll get those thorns," Fishlegs promised. He turned and ran for his house.
"Meatlug! Guess what? You and me get to be the heroes!" He pulled down the cover over the window so they could get out. She made some grunts and rumbles to her young; Fishlegs got the impression that she was telling them they'd be away for a while, and they shouldn't try to follow her, but she'd be back for them soon. How had he gotten that impression? He couldn't speak dragon! The young Gronckles sat down and didn't try to follow her. He climbed onto his dragon's back, made sure he had a knife to cut the thorns and a leather bag to carry them, and away they went. One or two Vikings noticed them and pointed, but for the most part, the town seemed deserted. Everyone was too busy fighting the sickness to do much hunting or fishing or tradework.
By this time, the brown bumps had spread to Fishlegs' face and across his chest. His right hand looked more like a Gronckle's paw than a human hand. Fortunately, he didn't need a human hand to hang onto his dragon; they flew easily together. "We're probably going to be in the air for a while, so if you see any fish you want to eat, go ahead and catch them," he told Meatlug.
"I might do that. Thank you," she replied in a liquid female voice.
"You're WAAAAH!" Fishlegs almost shrieked. "Meatlug, you're talking!"
"Of course I'm talking," she replied, sounding slightly confused. "I've been talking since I was a week old. That's nothing new."
"Maybe not, but I understood you!"
"Yes, you did, didn't you?" Meatlug said, rolling her eyes back so she could see him. "Things will be so much better now that we can talk to each other and understand each other."
"Wait, wait, wait... how is this possible?"
"Seriously, Fishlegs? Do I have to spell it out for you? You look like you're turning into a dragon, little by little. The change started in your skin, and I'm sorry about the bite – I really didn't mean to, and I had no idea it would affect you like this. But it did, and now the change is working its way all over you. It's getting into your mind, which is why you can understand me now. In a little while, you'll be a Gronckle, just like me." She sighed. "Won't that be wonderful?"
"Uhh... uhh... I don't want to hurt your feelings, Meatlug, but I really like being human, and I'm not sure I'm ready to be a dragon. Is there a way to stop this change, or slow it down?"
"Why would you want to do that?" she asked, puzzled. "Won't things be better when we're both dragons? Snotlout will never bother you again, you won't have to take those tiresome weapons classes with Gobber, and we can go flying together anytime we want!"
"Well... the Snotlout part sounds good, but... I don't know how to be a dragon! I don't walk on four legs, I don't have wings or a tail, and if I ate a rock, I'd break my teeth. I'm kind of used to being a human. I don't want to change!"
"Fishlegs, to be honest, I don't believe that. Snotlout makes you miserable, Gobber isn't much better, you don't have any close friends, you don't have any skills that the village wants, your chances of getting a girl friend are dwindling into single digits... why would you want to keep living a life like that? Can't you see that being a dragon would be much better for you? For both of us?"
"Meatlug, to be honest, I just don't want to be a dragon!"
"Why would you want to stay human?" she asked, perplexed. "You can't fly, you can't shoot fire, you're weak, you're fragile, and I think your kind are a lot harder to get along with than us dragons. For instance, there has never been a dragon Snotlout that I've ever heard of. You'll be much happier once you've finished turning into a dragon; I'm sure of it."
"Do dragons always turn people into dragons?" Fishlegs asked, curious in spite of himself.
"No," Meatlug answered. "I mean, when we were young, we all heard the stories of dragons turning into humans and people turning into dragons, but I thought those were just scary tales to frighten hatchlings with. I've never seen a human really become a dragon. Of course, we don't know that much about humans yet, so anything is possible. Fishlegs, is it my imagination, or are you getting heavier?"
He checked himself. His tunic was feeling unusually tight; he did, indeed, seem to be getting larger through his midsection. He could feel the bumps under his clothing; they were all over his torso and were spreading down his legs and onto his left arm. His right arm looked very much like a Gronckle's foreleg, complete with stubby claws. His teeth felt much pointier than they should be, and he felt like his ears were both changing shape and migrating toward the top of his head. He loosened his belt; it was hard when one of his hands no longer had a thumb. "Isn't there some way to stop this?" he begged her.
"Don't fight it, Fishlegs," she urged him. "Embrace your inner Gronckle!" She suddenly changed course toward a nearby islet. "But if your inner Gronckle keeps growing like this, I won't be able to carry you anymore. We need to land before I drop you."
"Dropping me would be bad," Fishlegs agreed as he looked down at the ocean. He suddenly felt two somethings growing out of his back, and something else growing from his tailbone. "Turning into a dragon would be bad, too. Meatlug, I can't do this!"
"Of course you can," she replied matter-of-factly. "I've been doing it all my life, so you can, too. Wow, you're really getting heavy!" He suddenly felt his head and body puffing up; his clothes tore away as he outgrew them in seconds. He screamed in pain and terror as his legs and arms reshaped themselves, and as his wings and tail grew to full size. Within a few moments, Meatlug couldn't support his growing weight anymore. They both plunged toward the sea. At the last moment, he rolled off of her. He splashed in, upside-down; she managed to stay in the air and hovered just above him.
After a second, he rolled right-side-up and gasped for breath. He felt too dizzy and disoriented to do anything more than float and breathe. Even after he caught his breath, he still couldn't bring himself to talk. Everything about him felt horribly wrong.
"Fishlegs! Is that really you?" Meatlug asked anxiously. He managed to nod "yes."
"You need to get out of the water," she urged him. "Try to fly."
"How do I do that?" he finally gasped.
"You flap your wings," she said. "Just like I'm doing."
"Okay," he sputtered, trying not to swallow sea water through his suddenly-huge mouth. "I never had wings before. How do I flap them?"
"You… you… you just flap them!" she exclaimed. "I can't describe it. You just do it. Every dragon knows how."
"I'm still kind of new at this, you know," he answered. Somewhere in his back and shoulders, there were muscles that would make his wings go up and down, but only Odin knew how to make them function. "It's not working."
"Oh, dear." She looked all around, and suddenly saw a burst of spray nearby. A Scauldron had just broken the surface to draw a few breaths before diving again. She fluttered over to it and got its attention.
"Can you help us, please?"
"What kind of help do you need?" the sea dragon asked in a deep female voice.
"My friend Fishlegs just changed from a human into a dragon, and he doesn't know how to fly yet. Can you push him to that little island off to our right?"
The big Scauldron rolled her eyes. "What a ridiculous excuse! Why don't you just be honest and admit that he fell asleep in mid-air, splashed in, and knocked himself silly? I'm willing to help, but not if you're going to test my credibility like that."
"It's true!" Meatlug exclaimed heatedly. "He really just turned into a dragon!" As the Scauldron began to submerge, she added, "Okay, okay, he fell asleep in mid-air! I'll say whatever you want, as long as you'll help him get to shore."
"Fine, whatever," the Scauldron muttered. "Just tell him to watch his step, and he can't stay there very long." She swam easily over to where Fishlegs was bobbing, set her nose horn against his flank, and pushed him firmly toward the island, about half a mile away. When the water was shallow enough for him to wade, she stopped pushing.
"Thanks for the ride," Fishlegs told her. "I never got this close to a Scauldron before."
"Next time, get your sleep before you start a long over-water journey," the sea dragon grumbled. "You're lucky your friend found me before a school of Sharkworms found you."
"Sharkworms?!" Fishlegs scrambled in panic, very much like he'd done when the Red Death nearly stepped on him, and galloped clumsily up onto the beach as the Scauldron withdrew to deeper water and submerged. Meatlug landed next to him a few seconds later. He was trying to look at himself, but his neck didn't work the way it was supposed to.
"Scales! Wings! A tail! Bumps! Claws! Fangs!" he exclaimed. "Ohh, my life has gotten so complicated! How can I save the village? I don't even know how to catch my own food! I can't believe this! I'm a dragon now!"
"And you're such a handsome one, too," Meatlug sighed as she turned her adoring eyes on him. "I love you, Fishlegs."
He gulped. "Okay, now my life is complicated."