Trial and Error

Trial, error, and more than a few bruises revealed a method by which Tara could ascend Sarah’s back. It bore no resemblance to a sack of wheat being shouldered, which pleased Tara and her aching joints considerably. It was a testament to Tara’s persuasive abilities that Sarah agreed to practice her take-offs and landings. “I am no mule or donkey, destined to cart humans about as it pleases them. I have been landing in this exact manner for centuries. It has never failed me before,” said the dragon.

“I do not question your landings, Sarah, but my ability to sit through them,” said Tara. “I have never ridden any beast in my life. You must see I have no seat at all.”

“Yes, I do see that,” said the dragon. “Now that you mention it, I understand your difficulty. I am more than happy to practice on your account.”

Tara was not lying when she said she had “no seat at all”. They practiced until dusk. Tara fell from the dragon on more than one occasion, and Sarah proved slow to alter her technique. Still, by the time the sun set, and the moon rose once more, casting the golden hills sterling, Tara had held her seat on three separate occasions, and Sarah had discovered a means to reach the earth that did not require diving headlong.

“How do you manage?” said the dragon, casting a critical eye upon her flightless companion. Tara walked gingerly.

“I manage,” said Tara. “No really, I am well. Will we go tonight? I am sure you must be eager.”

“Nothing will happen tonight. We will return to the Village, and you will rest,” said the dragon.

“Truly, I can manage,” said Tara.

“Yes, I can see,” said Sarah gravely. Tara attempted to launch herself once more upon Sarah’s withers in the way they had practiced. She failed, sliding down the scaled sides of the great creature before sinking into a most unceremonious heap by one large claw. Sarah said, “You fail to consider, though, that perhaps I am tired. I am not used to such exertion, after all. I have grown soft, living so close to the Village.”

“I am doing well enough, but I understand if you must rest,” said Tara. “Come, let’s go home.”

“Let’s,” said the dragon.

The Village hummed with quiet evening activity, the closing of shops, the final return of stragglers from the fields, the whistle of a solitary engineer, as he attempted to repair the corroding wiring connecting the street lamp at the corner of Market and Main to the Turbines (or so the aged green signs proclaimed it to be) with a handful of clay and a strip of leather. “You were missed today, you and that big beast of yours,” said the engineer. “You will hear of it at dinner.”

“I am sure I shall,” said Tara. She rounded the corner for home.