Энн Маккефри - Dragon’s Kin

The oval rocked, and Kindan wondered if he should move it away from the bricks. Would they be too warm for the hatchling? He compromised by pulling his sleeping fur over as a carpet.

The egg gave one more lurch and fell into two sections. The hatchling reared up and tumbled out, landing on its nose on the fur.

Kindan chirruped encouragingly and reached out to touch the watch-wher. It managed to raise its head, open its mouth, and squawk.

“Feed it,” Zist urged, and Kindan inserted his hand in the not-too-warm porridge mix and offered it to the watch-wher. Or, to be specific, dumped it on the hatchling’s tongue. It gulped back the offering, swallowing instantly and opening its mouth for more.

Kindan used the spoon this time. Considering how the hatchling seemed to inhale the porridge, he could see why feeding it cubes of meat might cause it to choke to death. He continued feeding it until the pan was empty. The watch-wher cocked its head as if surprised its feeding was interrupted.

“I’ll make another pot,” Zist said, leaving the shed while Kindan stroked the hatchling and crooned encouragingly. Kindan guessed by the dim light that the watch-wher was green. Female, then. Wanting confirmation, he examined her carefully to be sure all the necessary parts were there. Yes, there were, and she was.

He worked the stumpy wings to be sure they functioned, and stroked the eye ridges and scratched her ears. The watch-wher butted at Kindan, squawking urgently and trying to take his fingers into her toothless mouth. Kindan remembered that watch-whers teethed, not unlike human babies, and with the same pain and discomfort. He made a mental note to get fresh numbweed, or some of the distilled spirits human mothers resorted to for teething infants. Not that any mother he knew would find the watch-wher lovable. It had a really misshapen, ugly kind of dragon face. Like its stumpy wings, which were sort of draconic, but not quite, so was this watch-wher, with eyes that blinked furiously until Kindan dimmed the glow to a thin sliver of light, earning a purr of pleasure from the hatchling.

Master Zist stumbled back into the shed, holding the pot in front of him. The hatchling made a snarling noise, smelling the proximity of food, and lunged in the right direction. Luckily, Kindan was able to seize the pot, grab the spoon, and dump a big glob into the watch-wher’s open maw. This time, the moment Kindan felt the spoon scrape the bottom of the pot, he asked Master Zist to prepare a new batch. As Zist obeyed, it occurred to Kindan that maybe it wasn’t proper for him to order his Master about like this.

When would this creature have eaten enough? Her belly was well rounded, and she still opened her mouth or nudged Kindan’s body when she felt she had been unfed too long. Finally, though, she gave a monumental burp, emitting a sour, bloody smell, and crawled to a spot of straw that seemed appropriate, curled up, laid her head on her forepaws, and started to snore.

Zist got wearily to his feet and scrubbed at his mussed hair.

“I shall get properly attired and announce the arrival of...” He looked down at Kindan, who was lying back in the straw. “Did it give you a name?”

Kindan shook his head. “I didn’t ask.”

“Is it enough like a dragon to know its own name?”

Kindan shook his head. “I don’t know. I wish we knew more about watch-whers.”

“Is it male or female? Though I don’t suppose it matters.”

“It’s a green. They’re like dragons that way, so she’s a female.”

“Then I shall report that to Natalon.” He reached over and tousled Kindan’s hair. “You’ve done very well, lad. Very well indeed.”

Master Zist left and wearily Kindan gathered up the odorous porridge pot and took it inside to the sink to clean. Then he started a new batch on a back burner, not knowing how long the current feeding would stave off the pangs of hunger in his new charge. While the pot simmered, he went back to the shed and settled down to await developments.

He roused somewhat to the sound of Zist’s soft voice and Natalon’s pleased remarks.

“And no idea what its name is?” Natalon asked Kindan.

“She didn’t say ... she was too busy stuffing her mouth and swallowing. Next time she’s awake, I must blood her,” Kindan said, giving a convulsive shudder.

“Is that essential?” Zist asked, wincing slightly.

“It’s how watch-whers know who they answer to. And that tradition has already served me well.”

Zist held out his hand. “Do you have a belt knife? I’ll sharpen it for you. That way you won’t feel the cut as much.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Natalon said, giving Kindan a sympathetic wave in farewell.

Kindan handed over his belt knife, murmuring a thank-you. He hated to tell the Harper that he was going to ask him to make the cut, as he wasn’t brave enough to slash his own hand. He shuddered again as Zist left the shed. With nothing to do, Kindan settled himself on the warmest spot of straw he could find ... and then remembered that he hadn’t let Zenor know about the hatching. His friend would be topside by now from his shift, and maybe still awake.

Zenor was still awake but yawning mightily when Kindan called at his window.

“You were on shift, when the shell cracked,” Kindan said apologetically.

Zenor muttered under his breath but slipped back into his tunic and joined Kindan.

“You actually didn’t miss much. One single big crack woke me and then, it fell into two pieces. It’s a green, so it’s a female.”

“Is that what you wanted?”

“I wanted a live, healthy watch-wher ... and I suppose a female is as good as a male. Shards, does she eat!”

Zenor grinned. “My mother says my sisters eat more than I do.”

“C’mon,” Kindan urged, quickening his pace. “I don’t know how long she goes between feedings and I still have to blood her.”

They entered the shed, Zenor with a properly respectful attitude. He looked around.

“Where is she?”

A head rose instantly from the straw in which it had burrowed, the wide eyes blinking.

“She’s not as big as I thought she would be,” he murmured.

“Big enough to have the appetite of nine dragons,” Kindan said, almost proudly.

The hatchling worked her way across the straw to where Kindan stood and, opening her mouth, made a noise that he instantly interpreted as a demand for food.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, giving the watch-wher a reassuring chirp.

When he got to the cothold, Master Zist had just put down his sharpening stone, and the new knife-edge glistened in the sunlight. Kindan gulped, thinking of that edge cutting into his hand, and stirred the simmering porridge.

“Hungry again?” Zist asked.

“Would you mind coming with me now so I can blood her?” Kindan asked. “And then start another batch?”

“Is there enough blood left in the pail for more?”

“I think so. I’ll get more as soon as she’s asleep again.”

The Harper followed him out to the shed and greeted Zenor, who hadn’t moved from the spot in which Kindan had left him. The hatchling had been trying to crawl up his legs, her hungry bleek more insistent.

Kindan put the pot down and turned to Zist, holding out his right hand. He pointed to the original scar, barely visible in the dimly lit shed. “Here, please.”

He turned away so he wouldn’t have to look as the Harper steadied his hand in his.

Neither had realized how quickly the hatchling would react. Just as the dizzying pain shot up Kindan’s arm, a wet tongue was licking the blood from his hand—even before Master Zist had released it. The watch-wher mumbled a happy sound as she sucked at the wound.

“Isn’t that enough?” Zist asked just about the time Kindan thought it was more than enough. The thin wound ached. Kindan disengaged the watch-wher and held her away from him as he lobbed a spoonful of porridge into her mouth. That did the trick—she was immediately diverted from Kindan’s still-throbbing wound to sucking down the blood porridge.