DRAGONEL by Joyce Frohn, page 4/4
"At least three hundred years." Atarax watched the healer's face fall.
"If he's right, this little one may still be a child when I am long in my grave. Otherwise, I think I would have liked her as assistant." The healer blinked back tears.
Atarax decided to change the subject before the healer started crying. He thought that if the healer started crying, he would, too. He remembered his mates cursing his emotional male nature. "How could you tell it's girl?" he asked. "It's skin looks the same all over."
The healer dried his eyes in his apron. "I always wanted to ask you how you can tell the sex of dragons for my book. It always seemed to me that your tail would cover your genitalia,but you've told me about being able to tell the difference from a distance."
Atarax chuckled. "You mean you have to see a human's genitals before you know what sex it is? That's why you dress differently, isn't it?" He smiled at the healer's nod. "Dragons don't need to worry about that. See the pink scales on my chest? That shows I'm a male."
"Male?" The Healer's voice was almost a screech. The baby began to cry. "You've told me about nursing babies and..." The healer unlaced his dress and lifted the baby to his breast. "Males don't nurse babies. Women do, at least..."
Atarax began to laugh. His laughter shook the herbs hanging from the ceiling and rattled the dishes in the cupboard. "You're female. You humans have it all backward. Women lay the babies and then nurse them. All of my mates have said that carrying and laying a clutch of eggs was the end of their job. Those knights were male. No wonder they were so good. They didn't have to do anything with babies. You females do it all."
The village headman knocked on the door to the healer's chamber. "My Lord Atarax. What's wrong? I heard you roar." His face was dark with anger and he was carrying a sword. "Has this witch angered you?" He turned to the healer who had settled herself and the baby on a rocking chair. "Have you no shame? Cover yourself, woman." The healer joined Atarax in laughter.
Atarax winked at her. "Why do you call me lord? How can you be sure I'm not a lady?"
The headman blinked but didn't say anything. "What is the problem here, my lord?"
The healer buttoned her blouse and laid the baby back in the cradle. "The lord of our village has informed me that he has found an abandoned babe. We ask your wise opinion as to what we should do."
The head man spluttered for a moment. "Why, have it baptized immediately and then find some loving woman to raise it."
The healer stood up. "Since you and I both will be long dead when this child is grown, there is only one loving parent that should raise it. Will you accept the challenge, my Lord Atarax?"
He sighed, maybe he should have just followed that scent trail and returned it. "It's going to be hard. Will you two be the godparents?"
"We will be honored, my lord," the headman said. "And I am sure that I can find some woman willing to be the wet nurse. And if the rent needs to be increased, there will be no problems. Your rent will still be the lowest in the kingdom. Now, what was all the excitement about?"
The healer laughed again, too hard to say anything, and Atarax smiled. "I was just surprised to find out what sex the child was." Confused, the headman bowed and went to find the priest.
Atarax patted the healer on the head with his tongue, pleased that she could laugh again. "And I never thought that I would find a nurturing female and such an unusual dragonel in one day."
And that is how the parish record in Hobarttown recorded the baptism of an infant girl named Dragonel with both the father and mother listed as Lord Atarax.
Author's note: This story began as one of the most frustrating events of my life. I was a child curled up with a book of fairy tales, one of the color series, my father bought at an auction in a box of books. I had read the beginning of a story about a baby left in a dragon's cave. And then I turned the page and discovered the next page was missing. After screaming and crying, I decided that the only thing I could do was to write the rest of the story myself.
Joyce Frohn is the daughter of two antique dealers who has spent many years reading dusty books. She is now married with a five-year-old daughter and a geriatric three-legged cat. She has been a professional writer for several years and has been published in Writer's Digest and about fifty other places.
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