accomplishments, but they’re at least human .
But knowing, as I do, that not all who walk among us are strictly human, and being surrounded, as I am, with a family who most certainly is not merely human, there’s a part of me that’s not surprised that Ed doesn’t surface for a full six minutes.
Or that even when he does, he’s still not panting.
He looks up at me almost sheepishly, as though he’s afraid he might have gone too far and frightened me. He climbs into the boat over the side, tipping it precariously so that I throw myself against the other edge, not so much to balance it, but at least to keep it from capsizing.
I study Ed awhile, watching the water roll in rivulets down his shoulders and drip from the hem of his kilt.
He can hold his breath a long time underwater. A crazy long time. Maybe even an inhuman long time.
So, theoretically at least, if someone wanted to search the Caspian Sea for whatever it was that attacked me, Ed would be an excellent candidate for the job. Unlike a diver with an air tank, he wouldn’t have to worry about the death-bent attackers pulling out his mouthpiece, cutting off his air supply. In that respect, Ed could do for me something no one else could do. He could find the creatures that attacked me and finally put a face to my fear.
But—and this is such a huge exception I feel guilty for even considering it—if I were to fly Ed to the Caspian Sea on my back, he’d have to know I was a dragon. To even consider making the journey would require me to first break the cardinal rule of our existence, and let on to someone what I truly am.
But we know, or at least suspect, that someone at Nattertinny Castle is a dragon. And if the Sheehys are dragons, maybe Ed isn’t completely human, either? Such a possibility might explain a lot.
“How long?” he asks when I’ve been silent for a while.
“Six minutes.”
He makes a face. “I could have gone longer, but I was afeared ye might be worried.”
“How long can you go?”
He shrugs. “Never pushed my own limits.”
“How long have you stayed under?”
He meets my eyes. I can see him debating his answer. There is more, more he could say, more he could tell me. I know this look too well because I’ve felt it from the inside. Wanting to say something that would give away a clue to who you really are, wanting to scream a blast of fire just to let everyone who’s ever underestimated you know there is more to you than they can see, and you’re not someone to be casually dismissed.
And vying with that longing to be known, the simple reality that if we are to survive, we must keep our true selves hidden.
The world would destroy us if they knew who we are.
I reach for his hand. He doesn’t flinch away as I lift his hand closer to my eyes. His fingers are cold from the lake, and still wet, their gnarled tips swollen like raisins from the water.
In so many ways, it’s a human hand. But his joints are stiff, his fingers bent inward, his skin thick, calloused, hardened. His nails are nubby and malformed, like the toenails of some people’s smallest toe, like the body didn’t feel a real nail was necessary, and only bothered to sprout a bit of cuticle waste.
“I was born that way,” Ed explains as I study his hand. I press my fingertips to his. They are large and dense, but as I press against them, they press back, an affirmation of contact, a yearning to be known.
“Ed?”
“My name’s not Ed . It’s Eed .” He pronounces it with a long E so that it rhymes with feed and seed . “It’s short for Edan.” The name retains the long E in its full form.
“Is that a Gaelic word?” I don’t know much Gaelic. I only knew Cruikshank meant knob-kneed because I met someone with the name back in the states. But like his last name, which identifies a true fact about him, I can’t help thinking his first name might also yield a clue to his identity.
“’Tis.”
“What’s it mean?”
The look is back,
But knowing, as I do, that not all who walk among us are strictly human, and being surrounded, as I am, with a family who most certainly is not merely human, there’s a part of me that’s not surprised that Ed doesn’t surface for a full six minutes.
Or that even when he does, he’s still not panting.
He looks up at me almost sheepishly, as though he’s afraid he might have gone too far and frightened me. He climbs into the boat over the side, tipping it precariously so that I throw myself against the other edge, not so much to balance it, but at least to keep it from capsizing.
I study Ed awhile, watching the water roll in rivulets down his shoulders and drip from the hem of his kilt.
He can hold his breath a long time underwater. A crazy long time. Maybe even an inhuman long time.
So, theoretically at least, if someone wanted to search the Caspian Sea for whatever it was that attacked me, Ed would be an excellent candidate for the job. Unlike a diver with an air tank, he wouldn’t have to worry about the death-bent attackers pulling out his mouthpiece, cutting off his air supply. In that respect, Ed could do for me something no one else could do. He could find the creatures that attacked me and finally put a face to my fear.
But—and this is such a huge exception I feel guilty for even considering it—if I were to fly Ed to the Caspian Sea on my back, he’d have to know I was a dragon. To even consider making the journey would require me to first break the cardinal rule of our existence, and let on to someone what I truly am.
But we know, or at least suspect, that someone at Nattertinny Castle is a dragon. And if the Sheehys are dragons, maybe Ed isn’t completely human, either? Such a possibility might explain a lot.
“How long?” he asks when I’ve been silent for a while.
“Six minutes.”
He makes a face. “I could have gone longer, but I was afeared ye might be worried.”
“How long can you go?”
He shrugs. “Never pushed my own limits.”
“How long have you stayed under?”
He meets my eyes. I can see him debating his answer. There is more, more he could say, more he could tell me. I know this look too well because I’ve felt it from the inside. Wanting to say something that would give away a clue to who you really are, wanting to scream a blast of fire just to let everyone who’s ever underestimated you know there is more to you than they can see, and you’re not someone to be casually dismissed.
And vying with that longing to be known, the simple reality that if we are to survive, we must keep our true selves hidden.
The world would destroy us if they knew who we are.
I reach for his hand. He doesn’t flinch away as I lift his hand closer to my eyes. His fingers are cold from the lake, and still wet, their gnarled tips swollen like raisins from the water.
In so many ways, it’s a human hand. But his joints are stiff, his fingers bent inward, his skin thick, calloused, hardened. His nails are nubby and malformed, like the toenails of some people’s smallest toe, like the body didn’t feel a real nail was necessary, and only bothered to sprout a bit of cuticle waste.
“I was born that way,” Ed explains as I study his hand. I press my fingertips to his. They are large and dense, but as I press against them, they press back, an affirmation of contact, a yearning to be known.
“Ed?”
“My name’s not Ed . It’s Eed .” He pronounces it with a long E so that it rhymes with feed and seed . “It’s short for Edan.” The name retains the long E in its full form.
“Is that a Gaelic word?” I don’t know much Gaelic. I only knew Cruikshank meant knob-kneed because I met someone with the name back in the states. But like his last name, which identifies a true fact about him, I can’t help thinking his first name might also yield a clue to his identity.
“’Tis.”
“What’s it mean?”
The look is back,
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