Chapter 26

The sun had just burst into full light in the east as they gathered around the funeral pyre. The clothed body with its head covered in a shroud lay atop a pile of wood, grasses, and thick bonnets of herbs. Hundreds had come to pay their respects, from different tribes and many clans. Even the insects were silent at the gathering.

Jack stood next to the Do’s, who were leaning on each other as they faced the pyre. Surrounded by his lovers, the small contingency of humans and his folk friends, Jack felt alone and comforted at the same time. He thought he was done crying, but now that he was standing before the pyre, he was not sure.

The shaman, Scoobee’s great uncle emerged from the circle of mourners gathered around the pyre. He held up a staff in one hand and a small dowel whose ends were wrapped in twine in the other. He sang a dirge that tugged at Jack’s innards. Then the voices of hundreds joined in as tears erupted from his eyes.

When the song ended, the shaman recited to the gathered:

“There are no graves here.

These mountains and plains are a cradle and a stepping-stone.

Whenever you pass by the field where you have laid your ancestors look well thereupon, and you shall see yourselves and your children dancing hand in hand.”

He walked around the pyre once, then twice and even a third time. With each pass, he would point the head of his staff at the body and then twirl the staff above his head. He told the gathered that three times he confirmed their loved one was bound to the weave and there she would always be.

He held out the small stick to Scoobee’s parents. Each touched the end with their first finger. He offered the stick to each of her siblings and their families. Last, he held out the stick in front of Jack. Quivering, Jack reached out with his finger, feeling the mass of magic that was wrapped around the stick. His feet sank into the weave as magic surged through his limbs, racing like lightning, jangling his hand as it emerged through his finger. He touched the stick and the wrapped twine combusted into flame.

The gathered gasped as one.

The shaman smiled widely at Jack. Bending his knees, the shaman pivoted on one heel before throwing the burning stick with all his might upon the pyre. The wood blossomed into flame. As the flames rose higher, the sweet smell of herbs filled the air. Jack rubbed his eyes, believing that he could not see through his tears again. The world remained obscured, billowy as magic swirled from and around the mourners as they watched the fire leap high into sky with licks of flame.

When the last embers died, the assembly slowly dispersed, until only Jack, Danica, Estra, and Spin remained. They watched the shaman, who was carefully sweeping the ashes into a pile. The shaman looked up from his task and nodded. He dropped his brush and picked up his staff.

“Today is a sad one,” the shaman said. “I did not imagine such a bright spark could be instantly and completely extinguished.”

“She was bound deeply to the weave,” Jack said. “I had so many bits of understanding that did not fit together until I saw her dead. Even then, days passed and many words of condolence were offered before I identified her threads in the warp of the weave. At this knot, she wove herself to the weft and that knot again, she did. Here, the dragon drew her down and there, we created great magic together, weaving ever more threads. The weave is fuller, but I am empty.”

“Thus, we mourn,” the shaman said with his arms open to the sky. “Heal yourself, shaman. The magic is a jealous bitch, relentless and demanding. Yet, she is fulfilling and lifegiving. Even as we mourn, life is rushing forward, and we are called to steward it. Take your loved ones home and find comfort in the magic.”

Jack bowed low before he turned to leave.

As they entered the garden, Spin asked him, “What are we going to do now?”

“Generate magic,” Jack said. “Scoobee’s death only confirms what she tried to teach us. We create life and meaning when we pursue those things that generate magic.”

“But, what about income and bills and...” Spin was cut off by Jack laying a hand on her shoulder.

“The human lands need us, not the other way around,” Jack said. “They need what we generate with the magic. They are ignorant of the weave and what we do. So be it. No matter what may come, our future lies in the magic.”

“Now you sound like a shaman,” Estra said. “I may like the old dirty-minded Jack better.”

“Shaman Jack Solutions, LLC.,” Jack said. “Our motto is: ‘If you can’t squeeze ‘em, screw ‘em.’”

“Better,” Estra said. “The logo can be a big pair of swinging tatas.”

“I don’t think I’m supposed to chuckle yet,” Jack said. “We’re coming home from Scoobee’s goodbye.”

“We’re walking through her family’s garden,” Danica said. “If she were here, she would be kicking your ass for wallowing over her passing. We have too much to do to keep stopping because you think we must, out of respect for her memory. I understand the human need to mourn and taking the necessary time, but we don’t have the luxury of time at this moment.”

“Fair enough,” Jack said. “By the way, where’s Intern?”

“He went back to the tavern to troll for a job,” Spin said. “He has this fantasy of harvesting sulfuric blooms on the ButterButt Hills above the Arboreal Plain.”

“Arboreal?” Danica asked.

“Arboreious?” Spin replied. “Arborinal?”

“Someone must sneak into her room and burn those vocabulary lists,” Jack said in a mock whisper. “It may be our only chance to survive.”

“Laugh it up, chore boy,” Spin said. “I’m going to bury you in so much paperwork, you will be shitting paperclips for a week.”

“Thusly, the magic returns,” Jack said, stepping up onto the deck. “You smell delightful, dear.”

“Yes, I do,” Spin said.

“Yes, I do,” Estra said.

“Yes, I do,” Danica said, ‘and you had better be talking about me.”

A fluttering of wings made Jack spin around with his staff at the ready. “Oh. Hypatia. You took me by surprise.”

“Of course, I did. I’m a dragon and we are capable of such things,” she said. “The time for us to have a conversation is upon us, Jack. If the three fine women at your side will excuse us, we will take a stroll through the garden.”

As they disappeared through the first bushes, Jack said, “I did not see you at the service.”

“I was there, standing next to Andres,” Hypatia said. “He feels partly responsible because he was incapacitated and unable to lead during those crucial days. Has he been avoiding you?”

“I don’t think so,” Jack said. “I mean, I’ve been standoffish in some ways since we returned from the border. I’ve never faced terrorists or the horror of their deeds; I’ve never lost friends, colleagues, and a lover, all at once no less. Yet, I have never been so emmeshed in the power of life before. Intellectually, I can say ‘life is sanctified.’ The shaman’s reality is all encompassing, every moment of every day. Magic is a cheap word, Hypatia; useful but shallow.”

“Perhaps you have an inkling of why dragons are often cantankerous,” she said. “You only have an introduction to the nature of magic, and you find it burdensome. Dragons carry the full responsibility for the entire tapestry of the weave.”

Jack had no response, preferring to walk quietly to whatever destination the dragon desired. They never left the usual paths. Hypatia stopped when they arrived at the Dragon’s Gate, the great stone doorway with two dragons carved on the side panels with their snouts meeting across the top lintel. Jack stepped up the gate itself, surveying the surrounding land.

“Use your staff to touch the weft,” Hypatia said as she settled down on her rear haunches.

Jack shrugged. He touched the staff to the ground and reached down to gently tap the undergirding thread. Nothing happened.

“It’s not there,” Jack said with his eyebrows raised as high as they would go.

“No, it is not there,” Hypatia said with a touch of sadness. “The gate is dead, and it is no longer a part of the weave. The gods did not close the gate as much as they severed it from the land. Only gods can do such a thing and we cannot fathom why the gods would commit such an act. With the dragon’s reverence for the weave, such a thing is heresy.”