Black, Blacker, Blackest

Far, Farther, Farthest.

Where is it you go,

Where is it you fly?

Breathe deep, breathe three,

And then come back to me.

Beyond the black, beyond the breath

What lies unknown at the edge of death?

Breathe deep, breathe three,

And then come back to me.

Black, Blacker, Blackest

Far, Farther, Farthest.

1

Fortran the Seeker felt the disturbance of the air before he heard the whup of an incoming object, and he danced exultantly on the sandy soil, leaving pointed prints where his claws dug in.

"On land! Our luck, boys!"

The three creatures rootling in the dirt looked around and made their high-toned hunting call, and pointed their dirty snouts towards the place where for an instant they could see into a darkness so complete it did not have any comparison on this water-besieged world.

A huge creature popped into existence bringing with it a blast of the coldest air possible. Its green hide was mottled with other colours in the sunlight, and then it was dropping down towards the small island. Fortran stood his ground once he had judged the angles, and the creature came to rest on the hard packed sand, shaking its head in bewilderment.

"A live one - is it alive, boys? Yes? And - by all that's marvellous - is that someone on it? Oh, our luck, boys, our luck!"

The green creature had landed with all four legs splayed out, its massive head dropping to the sand, the spade-shaped end of its tail flattening several bushes. On its back, held on by some sort of harness, someone fell forward over its neck.

Fortran ran towards the creature and paused to survey the damage to its hide. These creatures called dragons by their riders were either damaged or aged when they came through. Sometimes they came through and died in the instant of reaching Fortran's world, sometimes they lingered, with or without their rider. This dragon had scorch marks across the left shoulder, down the rider's leg, and on into the wing.

"Careless," Fortran murmured, shaking his head, and reaching for his back pack of rations, fresh drinking water, and the distilled bezel juice that brought relief from pain when applied neat, and happy forgetfulness when drunk in a measured quantity of water or fruit juice. Reaching the dragon, Fortran quickly applied the salve down the long score mark, and began disentangling the rider from his harness. This was a big man, he thought, as he undid the buckles, and slid him down the dragon's shoulder, onto the ground, and applied the salve through the scorched edges of his clothing.

Standing up, he glanced at the dragon's head as it moved, and saw himself for an instant, reflected, his long thin face and arms, the sparkling carapace of an adult male, and his foreshortened lower limbs that had made him leave his Homebase and wander. He turned away from the sight and then skipped out of the way as the dragon gave a coughing groan and regurgitated the stinking ash they carried in their bellies. There was a lot of it, and Fortran was smiling again as he surveyed it, because when sold as fertiliser it would fetch as good a price as the harness and clothing of the rider after he died.

Except, Fortran thought in frustration, this one did not look as if he was going to die. He was rousing, groaning, clutching at the sand as he opened his eyes, blinking around.

"W - where - did I - fall - where is this?"

"What d'you remember?"

"Hurting. Cold. Falling. Where is this?"

"This is Ourworld. That's what we call it. You've fallen through a hole in space from wherever you were - can you remember where it was?"

The man shook his head slowly. "Can't - remember - do you come from there? I can understand you?"

"Over the years we've taught ourselves Yourspeech. That's what we call it to distinguish it from Ourspeech. No one ever remembers more than bits and snatches of where they came from, or even their names, usually."

"I can't remember either."

One of the snout-hounds yipped and snorted, pointing its snout and Fortran reached and turned a metal locket on the rider's neck.

"Bitra," he read. "Is that what you're called?"

"I don't remember. Perhaps. What's that?"

He pointed a wavering hand and Fortran sighed and shook his head.

"Nor either they don't remember they came through on a dragon," he said aloud to the sky. "That's your dragon. He's green. You're a green rider. We know that much. You were fighting Thread - that's what hurt you - your dragon took you into the void, only he didn't get back - he came here instead."

The man reached up and undid his helmet and took it off, and wiped a hand over his sweaty face.

"It's hot."

"Yes. Good harvesting at the end of the growing season. You're lucky you didn't come down in the ocean, you'd have drowned then."

The man raised himself onto an elbow and looked around the small island, the long sandy beach, the green growths beginning at the high tide mark and rising to a group of trees inland. Something brightly coloured flew into and out of sight, calling, and the man sat up and began undoing his heavy jacket and fur lined trousers.

Fortran went to find some leaves and stems, and wove a basket to contain the cooling ash. The dragon looked barely alive, its huge eyes closed, but it was a fine beast, and would revive soon enough. Humming softly, Fortran scooped the ash into the basket and fastened it, the snout-hounds snuffling and hunting through the undergrowth. Fortran continued with his tasks, harvesting the crops he had planted a year ago, trotting to and from his boat to load the baskets under the prow in waterproofed containers.

He paused to look at the two creatures often, but they lay without stirring, the man lying in the shadow of the dragon, until the sun began to set, and a cool breeze kicked up. Fortran came back over the trampled ground and touched Bitra gently, unprepared to have him heave off the ground and grab him, nearly breaking his arm. Fortran's high pitched yell of alarm brought the snout-hounds and they began yipping and yapping, and the dragon slowly raised its head, and nudged at Bitra, as if trying to communicate, and the rider let go, and sat back.

"Sorry! I wasn't expecting that - I was - I wasn't asleep - I was - somewhere - it was so dark and cold - someone was trying to speak to me but I couldn't understand."

Fortran nodded as he rubbed his arm.

"We know about that, over the years your people have been coming through. You've lost the ability to speak to your dragon, an ability you once had. Both of you've forgotten where you come from, or what you did back there."

"Do you know?"

Fortran shrugged.

"I know what the stories tell, but do I know if they're the truth?"

"The truth is a slippery customer," Bitra agreed. "Where're you going now? Where d'you live?"

"Out on the ocean, mostly. I've a few islands I cultivate - no one else comes this way any more, they prefer it on the larger lands."

"What am I going to do?"

Fortran studied him.

"Well - if you and your dragon had died, I'd know what to do with you, I can tell you! Your clothing, his hide, his bones, they'd fetch a tidy price at the market. But you're alive, and I never did learn how to kill anything."

Bitra was watching him as carefully, Fortran realised, and wondered if he was being too confident. On the rare occasions he listened to the wilder tales, they said these riders could fight to the death with bare hands or weapons.

"Are there others of our sort? Will you take us there?" Bitra asked.

Fortran glanced at the angle of the sun.

"Not in the night time. Boys! Are there clawed-beasts?"

The three snout-hounds searched back and forth as Bitra stood up, and Fortran gave back a pace, because he was so tall and bulky. The dragon also raised itself, and nudged Bitra again, who reached and scratched his eye ridges as the three snout-hounds came back.

"This island should be clear - I grow crops here every year, but you can never tell if you've taken out all the beasties. We can sleep here safely, then you - I can take you on the boat, but your dragon will have to fly - how strong is that wing?"

The dragon raised his wing, flexed it, sweeping it over the ground, raising eddies of sparkling sand in the slanting sunlight, and then took off over them, circled, and landed again.

"All right," Fortran gasped, wiping sand from his face and arms. "Help me set up the tent."

They went down to the beach and brought back the smooth supple tent, and Bitra ran a hand over it.

"Dragon hide?"

"Yes. I told you your sort is bounty to us."

Bitra stared over the darkening ocean. "Is it all like this? Oceanic?"

"That's a new word for me. Water - the world is made of water, with only pieces of land here and there, a long chain of them through the centre of the world, and these patches of outlying islands."

Bitra bent and scooped up sand and let it trickle through his fingers, shaking out a piece of rock.

"And this?"

"That was once under the sea. In grandfather's grandfather's day there was less land, and it was much hotter. There's plants growing now, big ones, that only used to be small back then."

Bitra stood staring at the piece of rock, turning it over in his hand, frowning at it.

"Ice," he said slowly. "Ice does that. I - seem to remember - someone talking about ice."

Fortran shrugged. "I don't know that word either, but I know my small islands are enough to give me a decent harvest and some surplus to sell in the markets."

He lit a fire and they spent some time dragging fuel to it, and then ate some dried meat and fruits from the gathered harvest, but Bitra was asleep long before Fortran who stayed awake with the snout-hounds huddled companionably around him, gazing up at the star-strewn sky, wondering yet again where the dragons and their riders came from.