Dragon Fly

Dragon Fly

         As deep as black onyx, the eye watched through the steel bars—fixed on her the whole time she sat on the floor in the farthest corner of the room from the cage. Antonella tried to focus on the gleaming imperfect circle on the hardwood floor where the sunlight from a round window filtered in and landed, but her cobalt eyes drifted up again to meet its stare. A shiver crept over her, and she drew her knees in tighter to her small frame. She wanted to cover the damn cage—shield herself from the looking eye. Don’t look at me.

         Everybody always stared at her; she hated that. Now, even this thing was doing it. Papa had told her it was just the way she was born—with curved bones, like some kind of scoliosis. Antonella glowered and pressed her lumpy tumor into the clay wall behind her; it was her turn to stare.

         She scrutinized the hybrid in the cage—it’s clawed feet, its webbed and,jagged wings, the slimy appearance of the green, flaky scales on its head, down its spiky back and on its snake-like tail. Gross, It even smelled bad; she wrinkled her nose at the dank stench in the room. Yet, to Papa Tobin, it was perfect—his first successful experiment. He was still trying to come up with a ‘catchy’ name for it. For now everyone just called it ‘the Drac’, since it was a cross between a Draco genus gliding lizard and a Dracorex dinosaur clone. Papa always talked about harvesting DNA from dino bones found in the Hell Creek formation and injecting it into lizard wombs—all that biology and genetic engineering crap she didn’t understand or care about. All she knew was this little Drac thing was Papa’s pride and joy since it hatched three week ago, and she despised it.

         Antonella groaned, “How much longer?” The circle on the floor had moved again. It was shining on the stone hearth when she’d first arrived to relieve Eammon from his watch. She figured it was close to Ingrid’s shift now. She glanced across the room just as Tobin opened the door and stepped through the rounded entryway.

         “Papa.” Antonella rose to her feet and dusted the legs of her jeans. “I’m surprised to see you—I was expecting Ingrid.”

         The wrinkles at the bottom of his white lab coat complimented his unkempt salt and pepper hair and bushy beard. He twitched his mustache. “She is with our guests.”

         Antonella lowered her eyes to the floor. “Oh right—the tour group.” She still wasn’t comfortable with the new tour groups coming to Fantasy Manor Farm, a new thing since Tobin decided it was getting too expensive to take the displays on the road. She missed those days when she was left alone on the farm, in own little world—no one to tell her what to do, no one to stare at her.

         “How was he?” Tobin pointed to the Drac.

         She shrugged, and a wavy lock of chestnut hair draped over her collar bone. She pushed it back over her t-shirt—a habit she did to cover the lump on her back. “It just sits there, like it has no purpose.”

         Tobin’s white brows knitted together. “Of course it has purpose,” he scowled. “For years, I have dreamed it—when I was a boy, growing up in foster homes, I got through those days by diving into books—into fantasy worlds with mystical beings. Merging the worlds, bringing them to life in this way—I have foreseen it with purpose.” He waved his hand over the steel cage. “He has purpose to me—to the entire world.”

         Antonella studied Tobin’s glassy eyes as he marveled his creation. She was relieved she hadn’t mentioned its gut-heaving stink.

         “You remember the story I used to read to you when you were a little girl?”

         A smile found its way to Antonella’s pretty face. She nodded. “The ‘faerie with the broken wing’ book.”

         “You would ask us to read it to you over and over again—until you drove us nuts.”

         After a moment of silence, Antonella asked, “Will it be able to fly?”

         Tobin’s forehead relaxed, and his tone lifted as if he was pleased at her new interest in the Drac. “I don’t think so; his body is quite large compared to his wings.”

         “Oh.” Antonella fought back a simper. So the thing wasn’t perfect after all. “Tell me again why I can’t stay here in the house with you, Papa?”

         “You know this—your room is down in the lower quarters where Ingrid can take care of you.”

         “But, I’m almost eighteen now—I can take care of myself. I wouldn’t be a bother to you while you’re working.” She looked toward the forbidden door she’d never before passed through—the door at the far end of the room which led to his laboratory. “I could take Mima’s old room upstairs--”

         Papa grunted. “What did I tell you about mentioning that name to me?”

         “I’m sorry.” Antonella’s voice cracked.

         Tobin’s face morphed back into a smile. “Go on, now. Ingrid is waiting for you.”

         Built into the side of a hill, the white barn, with eaves extending far over the outer walls, looked tilted up against the cerulean sky like a jet just taking off. Blotches of Fall colors dotted the tree line bordering the woods beyond the two-railed horse fence. The Indian summer day carried a milk-scented breeze to Antonella as she meandered past the rustling Willow spines in front of the lower quarters. She was glad when she spotted the group of strangers circled around the sheep pen in the opposite side of the barnyard.

         Ingrid stabbed a pitchfork into a bale of hay, breaking it into two clumps and twisting apart the pale russet strands. “I’m doing your chores. Where’ve you been?—and, don’t use that damn hump-ache excuse on me.”

         Antonella shrugged and a wavy lock fell to her collar bone. She pushed it over her shoulder again to hide the hump. “I’m sorry. After I watched the Drac, I talked to Papa.”

         Ingrid grunted and raised a brow. “The group is waiting for me to take them on a tour.”

         Antonella glanced over at the strangers. They pointed and snapped pictures of a bearded goat ambling about with its unicorn lopsided on its head. “Where’s Eammon?”

         “In the barn.” Ingrid’s rich Russian intonation lowered to a whisper. “The third head of the dog has died. Eammon’s propping it to look like it’s asleep.”

         Antonella felt her stomach flip. She coughed and reached for the pitchfork handle. “I’ll finish up.”

         Ingrid jabbed the handle toward Antonella. “And when you’re done, check on the horse in the pen; she’s due any day now.”

         Ingrid hurried toward the sheep pen and disappeared with the strangers into the barn.

         Antonella poked at the hay until the horse trotted toward her; a full ebony tail swaying behind it. “Hi Serry.”

         The horse sputtered and stretched its long neck over the fence.

         Antonella pushed a flake through the bottom rail of the fence, and the horse lowered its neck and began to feed. Antonella patted its shiny coat, noting the bulge in its waist. She hoped Papa would let her name the foal. From behind, a sudden voice startled her.

         “Excuse me, but do you know where the tour group went?”

         Antonella spun around to face a boy with brown hair and matching eyes.

         He smiled. “I was in the bathroom,” he said, pointing to the row of lower quarter cottages. “They look just like oversized hobbit houses.”

         Antonella didn’t answer. She pressed her back against the top rail of the fence until her lump nearly exploded with pain.

         “You know—Tolkien . . . the god of fantasy fiction?”

         Antonella nodded. “I’m familiar.”

         “Well anyways . . . when I came out, the group was gone.” He stuffed his hands into his jean pockets and cocked his head. “Where do you go to school?—I’ve never seen you around before.”

         Antonella stared down at the thick, matted grass. “Here, kind of.” She looked up again. “You know—home school.”

         “Oh.” He glanced back toward the barn. “It must be cool to live in a place like this.”

         She shrugged and pushed her hair back.

         “Don’t move—” He pointed to Antonella’s shoulder. “There’s a dragonfly on you.”

         “Really?” Antonella's eyes widened. “I can’t believe they’re out this late in the season.”

         “Well, it is warm out today.”

         Through a frozen grin, she asked, “What color is it?”

         He cocked his head again and smiled. “It’s pretty blue—like your eyes.”

         From the corner of her eye, she saw the insect take flight. She hadn’t noticed the tour group filing out of the barn and dispersing into the yard until two girls approached.

         “Hey, Matt,” the brunette said wearing a smirk and mud clumped on her heeled leather shoes.

In a black skirt and tall boots, her friend's burgundy curls bounced as she suppressed a laugh.

         “Go away, Denise,” Matt retorted.

         Denise pulled a camera from her sweater pocket and sniggered, “Let me take a picture of you with the hunchback of Fantasy Manor.”

         Antonella’s feet burned inside her barn boots as she raced into the woods, but she didn’t stop moving until she crossed the brook, passed the thickets, and flopped onto the spongy rye grass at the edge of the posted property.

         The autumn sun beat down on her perfect face, but she knew from the other side of the barbed wire she wouldn’t be seen behind the leggy sunflowers. She peered out through the Xs on the fence and across the bend of the road where the pavement ended and the rocky ledge began. She liked to watch the people come to the lookout point and marvel at the glorious view over the gorge. Once, she watched a couple strip bare and press together like she’d seen the barn animals do before. She thought about Matt touching her that way.

         The burr of far-off a four-wheeler climbing the foothill road, growing nearer, sent Antonella’s heart flittering; her sky-blue eyes glinted with anticipation.

         The first time she’d found the spot was the day Mima left, five years before. Somewhere in her mind, Antonella imagined she’d see Mima on the other side of the barbed wire—out in the world she knew nothing about. Maybe, Antonella thought, if she’d watch long enough, she’d understand why Mima left—why she never said good-bye.

         The four wheeler hummed in the distance and then faded again. Antonella exhaled as she stared past the lookout at the emptiness.

         A different sound rose in the distance—this time it came from behind her, back toward Fantasy Manor Farm. A call . . . her name . . .

         “Antonella!” Ingrid’s hoarse voice lifted to a notch higher than usual. Something was wrong.

         Antonella scrambled to her feet and bolted through the thicket. When she neared the edge of the forest, she could see between the tall trunks of scattered hardwood; Ingrid and Eammon stood by the horse fence—waiting for her. She saw the gate swung wide open and knew Serry was gone.

         Ingrid leaned against the steering wheel, scanning the side of the dirt road. “Come on, where are you?” she hissed under her breath.

         Eammon said nothing. His wide shoulder and brawny arm pressed into Antonella who was squeezed in the middle. “There,” Eammon said and pointed to the far corner of the field.

         Swirls of dust and dead leaf parts lifted like suspended snakes, coiling in the wind over the beaten road. The sky deepened by the advent of a dark tempest cloud rolling above the pasture. Antonella clung to a skinny, yellow leaf maple tree—wishing she was anywhere but there.

         Where the horse stood and whinnied, the tall alfalfa stalks tossed about and bent, almost glowing against the backdrop of the dim field. The quickening wind howled and the others raised their voices over the hiss of the gale.

         “It’s not moving,” Eammon called out. He knelt beside the small figure and poked it with his gloved finger.

         “Is it dead?” Ingrid croaked. She leaned for a closer look.

         Lightning flashed, and for the first time, Antonella braved a look at the small body lying in the bed of weeds at the edge of the field. An impossible figure—unrecognizable to that of any race of beings she’d ever seen before or read about. It was animal, with hoofed feet and a face like some kind of alien, but it had hands—human hands like hers that hugged the rough bark of the tree, or like Ingrid’s or Eammon’s. She didn’t expect her reaction to be so dramatic; it just erupted from deep inside. Her screams pierced even her own ears. They were only stifled by the electric crack that echoed off the rocky hills in the distance.

         “Get her out of ‘ere!” Eammon demanded in a guttural brogue. “She’s spooking the mare worse than the thunder.”

         The horse kicked its front legs and neighed.

         Antonella’s hands covered her tear-stung eyes. “It’s wrong—its just so wrong.”

         “I’ll take her back and get Tobin.”

         Eammon stood up, and his face hardened. “Tell 'im this was how we found it—already born, already dead.”

         Ingrid stared for a moment at the creature and nodded. "I will. We won’t lose more than our share on this deal." She turned and took Antonella by the arm. "We go back now.”

         The truck hummed and bounded over bumps along the dirt road. Antonella gasped for a steady breath that never came.

         “Stop it, I say,” Ingrid scolded. “This is half your fault, you know? If you hadn’t disappeared and left the gate unlatched, the mare wouldn’t have wandered off.”

         “I didn’t even open the gate—did you ask anyone in the tour group before they left? Maybe those haughty girls?”

         Ingrid continued, ignoring Antonella. “The foal might have had a chance if someone was there when it was born.”

         Antonella glared across the front seat at Ingrid’s homely face, hard with rage. “Foal? That thing was hideous—the most sickening hybrid ever.”

         “Hybrids are how we make our living on Fantasy Manor. Your issues with them are what’re sickening—you are no better, I say!” Ingrid scoffed.

         Antonella’s thin brows touched and her supple lips parted in horror. “But, Ingrid, it had hands. How could he cross an animal with a human? How could Papa do that?”

         The truck came to an abrupt halt in front of Tobin’s house, and Ingrid slammed her fist into the steering wheel. “He’s not your damn papa!”

         Sheets of rain rolled down the windshield. “No!” Antonella pushed open the passenger side door and stumbled out, into the downpour. Blinking away the pattering rain, she saw a white figure in the open doorway.

         Antonella ran up the steps to Tobin, sinking into his arms, feeling his starch-crisp lab coat around her chilled body, letting the coarse bushel of his beard scratch her soft ear. “Oh Papa, it was awful.”

         Tobin stiffened. He groaned and peeled Antonella off him. “You’re all wet.”

         Water drizzling down her cheekbone, Antonella stared at his face: void, expressionless.

         “Well? Are you going to tell me what was so awful?”

         “It’s the centaur, sir.” Ingrid said gravely as she stepped through the doorway.

         Tobin yanked a long black coat off a wrought iron hook behind the door. “Watch the Drac,” he ordered Antonella without looking at her and followed Ingrid out to the truck.

         Mud marked her steps through Tobin’s house, but Antonella didn’t care. The room with the Drac cage was dark, and she was glad she couldn’t see it watching her as she passed it on her way to the door on the far end. The door clicked as she turned the knob and creaked open.

         The room was deep with a long, ebony-topped table in the center holding a microscope, stainless steel instruments, glass tubes, and jars filled with mysterious contents. Against one wall, an incubator housed the broken halves of an eggshell. The Drac’s? On the far end of the room was a long aquarium, bubbling at the top, with tropical fish swimming about in the sea-tinted water of their artificial world. He keeps fish? Antonella ran a palm along the tabletop and made her way to a desk situated beneath a row of windows. She gazed out at a spectacular view of the town in the valley she’d never to before.

         Ingrid’s harsh words rushed back to her: He is not your damn papa! Antonella dropped into the leather chair and rustled through papers, desperate for answers. Her hands fell upon a thick notebook, and she opened it to a random page:

         ‘Three D’—hopeful creature: Three-headed dog—born May 29, 2017, Successful experiment.

         Following nine pages of detailed lab notes, Tobin had attached a photo of the creature in the barn and a graph charting the astonishing income raised each year from displays of Three D.

         Antonella flipped a few pages forward to another lab trial. This time, it was titled, ‘Merma’—hopeful creature: Mermaid, born July 15, 2027; died two days later on July 17, 2027. Antonella gasped. “Human biological, #4839 Denver sperm bank fused with fish egg . . . ” She shuddered when she saw the picture of the corpse and, penciled in below it, the amount earned from its sale to tabloids. She glanced back to the aquarium in the rear of the room. He thinks he’s God.

         She found the incomplete page on the centaur and the pages on the Drac. The book was full of cases she never knew about. Then, she turned backwards to the beginning.

         The notes were less organized, less detailed. The first page contained a picture of an infant child—a girl with a lump on her back. Antonella bit her lower lip. Tobin studied my birth defect? She read on:

         ‘Antonella’ (‘First born’)—October 24, 2013 to surrogate mother, Mima Wright. First ever human hybrid (from sperm donor #8669) fused with dragonfly—Failed experiment. Hopeful faerie born with underdeveloped wing hump. Projected income gain--Nothing.

         “Oh, God, no.” Antonella’s fingers grew limp, and the notebook slid from her grasp.

         She barely felt her feet move as she left Tobin’s laboratory. Antonella could see the orange sunset through the round window and reflecting in his eyes. She was going to walk right past it, but she couldn’t. It was the cage that irritated her. She reached down and unlatched the door.

         He just sat there.

         “Go. Go on. Get out—you’re free.”

         He stared at her.

         “Stupid hybrid. Don’t even know where to go—where you belong.” Antonella noticed, for the first time, the slight rise and fall of his smooth belly. Her hands felt the cool underside as she lifted him out of the cage.

         The Drac curved his clawed feet around her forearm and she leaned him against her chest.

         Outside, the rain had long stopped. The barn truck was now parked near the sheep pen, and the only sounds came from the animals and the bickering voices in the barn.

         Even at dusk, Antonella still found her way through the woods, to the thicket—all the way to the barbed wire and the tree with the ‘No Trespassing’ sign was nailed to. Careful with her steps, she jumped the fence, only tearing a small hole in her jeans and scraping her hump against a branch. She barely felt it. Her legs were numb—her whole body was numb, yet, she ambled with ease across the pavement and over the rock bed to the lookout point.

         On the ledge, Antonella shifted her feet, and a pebble rolled off the rock, plunging into the vast gorge. Her heart thumped against the Drac, still snug in her arms. She peered out at the dark treetops and occasional light from the town, awake in the distance. With the storm erased from the sky and the sun at its lowest, wispy clouds glowed in layered hues of ginger and claret. Where the night began, star points glittered in the navy sky.

         “This is it,” Antonella said to the Drac. “If you can do it . . . so can I.” She stroked the scales on his head and whispered, “Good luck.” With her arms up high, she raised him up.

         The Drac’s claws pinched her knuckles, and he unfurled his jagged-edged wings.

         Antonella beamed as the dragon released its clench and drifted off into the starlit night. She ignored the faint shouts until she could no longer see little Drac, free now like a bird. She knew they’d come looking for her and for Drac, but by the time they came, she’d be gone, too. Antonella inhaled a deep breath. She turned, straightened up tall—straighter than ever—and began walking away, down the foothill road. She didn’t know where she was going; it didn’t matter. She was real, alive—a beautiful sensation—and even though she couldn’t fly, at that moment, she could still feel the stars.




         

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