She gave a gag or cough, stopped, opened her mouth, and produced a thin but unmistakable thread of fire. At the dragon.
The tumult in my head changed, like changing gear, like putting one book back on the shelf and taking another one down — or more like having one of the muggers stop kicking you and another one start. It's impossible to describe, but it was so definite a sensation that I rocked where I sat, as if I really was being kicked. I put my hands to my head as if literally trying to keep it from exploding. Sometimes if you squeeze in the right place it does help a headache. I squeezed.
The dragon dropped down to all fours. (Good thing it was a big meadow.) It stretched its own neck till its enormous snout was way too close to Lois, but Lois stood her ground. Indeed she danced up and down a few times — and while I'd never seen her have a tantrum, she somehow looked like someone getting ready to have a tantrum — then spread all four legs out like she was bracing herself, snapped her neck down and her head out, and . . . shot out some more fire.
This second go was pretty impressive for something that looked like a short-legged overweight wolfhound with really bizarre mange. The big dragon actually drew its head back a few feet to avoid getting burned? Maybe the nose is a sensitive area. I somehow hadn't thought to look if the dragon pulled its lips back carefully before it fired. I know there's supposed to be a gland that produces fireproof mucus that lines the throat, blah blah blah, which is why a dragon coughs before the fire comes out. There are stories from what the humans have the nerve to call the "dragon war" in Australia, about guys who survived by throwing themselves down immediately or diving to one side or something when they heard that dragon cough. But you need really good reflexes. I have to say I hadn't noticed the warning cough when the big dragon tried to kill me.
I didn't piss myself when the dragon raised its head and looked at me again, but I don't know why. Beyond fear, I suppose, but I couldn't have stood up or walked away if that had been what my life depended on, so it's a good thing it didn't. Lois, having made her point, turned her back on the big dragon and flounced back to me. The pressure in my head moved again, and this time it seemed to me there were two different pressures sort of emerging from a general background of thumping and whanging — like Nessie and one of her boyfriends rising out of the stormy water of the loch to swallow your boat, oh well at least you can stop bailing — the great big one that was trying to make my head explode, and the little one that was the tiny jerky knot thot had been there before. (I hadn't thought of it as tiny before thought. )
The great big one was ANGER ANGER ANGER but it was turning, changing, now more like a prism turning in bright light, but blinding bright light, so it hurt to look at it, and becoming SORROW SORROW SORROW The little one was more like, oh help eek eek eek oh help which I understood completely.
Uh-huh. I understood completely.
I'd never read anywhere that dragons are telepathic. Maybe anything the size of a dragon that has a good brain can put out big unmissable vibes, if you hang around one long enough, which most people don't. Old Pete's journals never mentioned headaches particularly though — I didn't think? If I got out of this alive I'd have to check. But Old Pete might not have mentioned it even if he had skull busters; mere human foibles didn't interest him.. . . And I knew Lois awfully well, in my clueless human way, even if it was good scientific practice not to make too many assumptions. Don't we read each other's human emotions all the time? Don't you often know what your dog is thinking? ("I wonder if I could pinch that chicken off the counter in the kitchen before he noticed?")
So I knew that Lois' flouncing was phony. She was still terrified — as was I — but she was making a much better show of it than I was. I tried to look back at the big dragon as it looked at me, but it wasn't only terror that made me prefer to look at Lois. Her last few steps were not flouncy at all, and she dragged herself over the ridge of my crossed legs as if they were a mountain, and collapsed exhausted in their circle. I didn't try to pull my shirt over her again (one of the seams had parted the last time, so it would have been easier), but I did put my arms around her, and then I did look back at the dragon. Hey, big dragon, yeah, we're a family. You can like it, or you can fry me. I wasn't sending the message in words. But I was putting out vibes as hard as I could.
The dragon looked at us for a while — with big shiny dragon eyes, only from where I was sitting, underneath the surface gleam these eyes were bottomless blackness. It felt like a very long while, but I don't think it was. And then, very slowly and carefully, it settled down, and farther down, butt end first, then front end, till its body was flat on the ground, curling its front legs under it rather like a cat, with its enormous snaky neck arched, and its nose (and fire-spouting mouth) still aimed at us. Finally it stretched its neck out on the ground too, but then at the very last minute it turned its head so the nose (and mouth) was aimed a little to one side of us, and tipped up slightly on the cheek. It rolled its only visible eye back toward us to check that we were paying proper attention (I at least was totally riveted), opened its mouth a crack, and gave a long, long, long sigh. There wasn't even any smoke. The vast gentle backdraft of its breath smelled rather like chili powder.
I had to name the big dragon too, because she kept coming back. Also because I was sure she was a she too, and you can't go on calling something that isn't an it, it. I had no better excuse for believing that she was a she than I did Lois, mind you. I never saw her pouch, any more than there were any findable slits, sacs, or bulges on Lois' rapidly expanding anatomy, which, since Lois went on liking having her tummy rubbed, I went on getting a good look at. (Every time I did this I thought of Martha.) But she just was a she, and the next step was that she had to have a name. So I named her Gulp, because that's how she made me feel, no matter how many times I saw her. Uh-oh. Big dragon's back. Gulp. The fact that I was stiff as a plank for most of a week after Lois knocked me down — I had not fallen well — didn't help my attitude any. Neither did the claw marks on my poor much-abused stomach.
A full-grown dragon can't sneak up on you gracefully but I think she was trying to be tactful. She landed at a distance — and no, the earth did not shake; pheasants make almost more of a thump, but the wind her wings made was pretty spectacular — and then sort of ambled toward us, and as soon as she got to the edge of our meadow — meadowy part of our meadow, I mean, as opposed to the boulder-field end — she went down on her belly, as small as she could make herself, which wasn't nearly small enough if you're asking me, but she gets points for trying. Rattly things, big dragons. Folding up her wings was a sort of loud rustle, clitterclatterclitter, even from the far end of the clearing, and folding her up made a soft slightly clanky thunking noise, although again she hit the ground with no more noise than a sheep lying down.
And for all I know the apparent attempt to be slow and gentle was as much for her benefit as ours — trying to relate to something like me, whose proportions are all wrong from a dragon perspective, maybe made her feel queasy, aside from what she might think of humans in general, which, at a guess, wasn't too positive either. And it made sense if you're something the size of a young hill hanging out with something the size of a fat wolfhound (skin problems, short bowlegs and peculiar skull development optional) you need to try and find some kind of compromise. Since her neck was half as long as the entire meadow (well nearly) she still had a lot of negotiating room.