“ Are you really going, Ailbe?” croaked a voice from above.
    “...aye,” he guiltily muttered as he continued to pack, “the Rot’s spread too far. I need to go.”
    “Awww, but who’s going to take care of me. I’m dying-”
    “Ireland is dying!” Snapped Ailbe. Blazing emerald eyes, furrowed under fire-colored brows, bored into the withered figure draped on gnarled branches. Her gaunt face, painted in shock from his outburst, morphed into a mask of agony as muddy red blossomed over a swath of her pale green cloak. The keening moans of battered breezes as they tangled wandered the sky was the only sound that passed between them for a few moments. The burden of a difficult departing stayed Ailbe’s tongue. He wouldn’t have apologized if he could speak. What he said was true.
Splat! Tendrils of warm liquid oozed over the back of his hand. Calmly, he wiped the blood off with the corner of his threadbare jacket. His stubby, dirt-encrusted fingers then busied themselves with tucking the remnants of his fortune, two measly gold coins, into his well traveled rucksack. Brushing off the dirt from flapping lid of his top hat and halfheartedly polishing the tarnished buckles of his shoes, he set off on the first leg of his arduous journey.
Bare branches burdened only by the weight of the sky waved him off as he passed them. Shadows licked his brow under the brim of his hat, and moss clung to his soles as he sullenly trudged onwards. Night’s black cloak descended over the horizon slowly like ink spreading over a page. With nothing but his thoughts to keep him company, Ailbe soon found himself occupied by noting the effect of the Rot on his surroundings. The hum of life was duller than in previous years. The settlements of the humans he often liked to pester seemed to have dried up like a dairy cow who could no longer produce milk. A shell of their former selves, the few souls that remained trudged around in despair awaiting with grim resignation their last breath. Shaking himself out of his morose thoughts, Ailbe listened to the echoes of a small stone that had been dislodged from the cliff edge he stood on. His face turned an algae-green in queasiness as frothy fans of waves hurled themselves at the ragged cliff face. A decaying castle stood vigil to his right under guttering stars. Wind ripped at grasping fronds of grass and howled in spirited laughter as it raced across the terrain. On trembling legs, Ailbe made his way down stony steps to an ironclad boat bobbing like a cork. Once on board, he snuggled himself in an empty barrel and whispered one last farewell to the once green hills of Ireland as the current dragged him to a new life.
Morning dawned as the boat came into the harbor. Ailbe looked on New York City with a mix of awe and disgust. Tall buildings, taller than the tallest tree back at home, scraped the sky with their stoney plains. The parts of the ether that escaped the buildings, choked in soot- black tendrils of fog and smoke. What little light escaped the decaying ether crowned but the eaves of the buildings; none of it’s minute splendor managed to tumble down to the muck and swill covering the streets. Blinking tears and sea grime out of his weary eyes, Ailbe stared intently at a patch of boulders clinging to the ragged shore. A gasp ripped out of his parched throat as one boulder blinked back at him with beady eyes. The Scandinavian Stone Troll settled itself firmly back against its companions as it attempted to drift back asleep, not bothering to spare the New World’s latest arriving boat a second glance. However, it did let out a prolonged grunt (similar to the sound of a heavy glacier grinding across the earth) as a selkie flung herself onto his unprepared back. If this sight was what greeted him upon his first day in his new home, Ailbe wondered what other surprises lay in store.
Scarcely a month had passed since he first set foot on these shores, when Ailbe found himself employed under the tutelage of a wizened old gaffer at a lovely establishment: O’Toole’s Trodders. His days passed in relative peace as he settled comfortably into his job. Mending shoes and making sure the old boss didn’t tip over in his rickety old chair as he snored loud to rattle the dust out of the rafters. A fair amount of gold found its way into Ailbe’s patched up pocket; and, with bleak satisfaction, he noted that it would not be long until he would make enough to buy back his cauldron from the Pookah back home. Hopefully it had not been filled with the dank, fetid scum of the pond his equine friend so loved to muck around in. Things were looking up for Ailbe, until one day- as he trudged down the sidewalk- he saw his newfound house (a measly lean-to made of scavenged twigs) wreathed in smoke.
Auburn curls streamed free as his hat was whisked off his head from his frantic speed. Feet slapping against the pavement, stubby legs blurring Ailbe could scarcely have covered more distance if he had used ten league boots. Suddenly, his surprised face met with a mud puddle. A displeased sound, like a film of water sizzling on a hot pan, pierced his ears as he wiped the wet earth from his eyes. A russet-hued root, covered with splintering shingles, appeared to detach itself from the ground.
“Watch your step,” a deep voice sounded. Looking up, Ailbe saw cadmium orbs flecked with jade staring back. Great round nostrils flared as twins streams of smoke slithered out of them. Fine white whiskers swayed in the breeze generated by the great beast’s breathing. The scales on slender throat crepitated as it undulated from the power of contained the fire it held. Ailbe sat stunned until it dawned on him just what this creature had done to his home.
“You- you glorified snake! What have you done? Thank the Lord that St. Patty got rid of your miserable lot back home or-”
“Who are you calling a snake? I am a dragon! And you have disturbed the one moment of peace I’ve had in several months.”
“Peace? You’ve burnt my home, you langer!” The two could’ve screamed their way well into next year, but at that moment a call like thunder ripped through the air. Shadow fell over their rigid forms as the winged being blocked the sun. A snapping ivory beak hurtled toward them as curvilinear claws spread. The dragon had enough sense to lie prostrate just before the swooping creature arrived at their position, but Ailbe only had time to lift his hand in defense. Searing pain flashed through his consciousness before he collapsed to the sodden ground. He inhaled the coppery scent of his blood, feeling the red liquid gush in torrents out of his tattered palm. He could feel the gaze of the bird as it circled back to finish him off. But just before it could reach him, the putrid maw of the dragon opened wide; and the jagged fangs sand into yielding flimsy flesh. Tormented by the pain of his hand, and the anguish of never being able to work again (for Ailbe had already decided that his hand was beyond repair), Ailbe wept as he never had before.
Yellowing talons pinched at flaps of skin before a rough tongue smoothed over the terrible wound. Hissing in disgust, Ailbe attempted to move away his hand, but the dragon’s grip was too strong. His mind barely registered the words uttered from the scaled monster. Only later did he realize that the ‘glorified snake,’ whose knowledge of healing ran as deep as the rivers he so liked to frequent when given the opportunity, had healed the very person he had been ready to vaporize a few moments before. Later reflection also told that he, Ailbe, had made a new friend (the first one in centuries) simply because the two had a common enemy. Hatred at the one who nearly stole his new life mingled with the resentment of the other, who had been chased out of his home all the way in China, only for the same to happen across the width of the United States while the Thunderbird chased him. A mutual agreement was made that day in the silence as Ailbe’s sticks sizzled and the two stewed in silence over their loses. They would hunt that creature down and make it pay for the havoc it had caused them.
***
Creeping through moonlight dappled trees, the pair stalked their prey. Just outside the city, they had followed the track of the great bird into a dense forest. Boughs heavily laden with foliage moaned overhead. Seed pods flitted down in elegant patterns and strewed themselves on the uneven ground. The crinkle of brittle leaves was masked by the crackle of a nearby fire. Shadows danced amongst broad trunks, and smoke tangled sensuously in the wind with mildew. A natural clearing lay ahead, illuminated from within by an ethereal glow. Halting beside a patch of toadstools, Ailbe and the dragon concealed themselves as best they could from wary eyes. They felt a familiar gust of wing-spurred wind before they saw the might Thunderbird land before the fire pit within the ring of trees.
Feathers it had loosened and let drop mid-flight spiraled from the sky. Smoke from the fire caressed each one individually as they fell and seemed to slow their descent. They seemed to enlarge and the barbs took on fantastical shapes until finally a circle of Indian braves materialized. The Thunderbird, which had been hunched over itself, raised its proud head to reveal the bald pate of an old shaman wrapped in a ragged cloak.
Hardened starlight gleamed in Ailbe’s eyes as he surreptitiously nodded his head. Springing into action, the duo took the group by surprise. Quickly, however, the air was filled with the whistle of arrows and the strum of bowstrings. Feet drummed the ground as they frantically formed a defensive formation around the shaman.
The dragon wrapped its body around the rough bark of a tree, scraping off great swaths of the stuff, before it sprang at the source of the offending arrows with a snarl. Inhuman shrieks rent the chilly night air as the braves toppled under his onslaught. Ailbe followed the path of destruction, performing a rather comical jig over the slain- as they had turned to ash when the dragon’s claws met them- and sang his favorite drinking song. When Ailbe and the dragon finally met with the shaman, they paused. His wrinkled brow weighed heavily on his once bright eyes. Gnarled hands clutched a long staff with a strength that belied his outer form. Knees bent and back hunched, he truly seemed pitiful. Yet, the fear he had caused them, the fear of losing yet another home, hardened their hearts. As the dragon lifted his formidable claws to strike, the shaman’s weary voice trembled, “ This land does not belong to you.” As he fell, a tremor passed through the earth; climbing the Appalachians, sloshing the Mississippi, and rocking the Plains.