Rosin

Legend has it… every dragon hatches whole — fully awake, fully loved, and connected to everything alive. Snow falls on the mountain, and the mountain keeps it. The glacier lets it go. The river carries it down, past the last town anyone has a name for, over the Long Falls and into the fog. And on a bridge below the ice, one small pink dragon is dropping a pine cone in the water, to see how far it goes.

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Rosin is one of these special dragons, and lives with her grandfather at the last bridge below the glacier, in a boat shed that smells of hot pine. She is named for the sticky gold they boil from pine sap to seal a boat's seams, and she is as pink as the ice at sunrise. A kettle of it is always on the stove, and nobody leaves that kettle alone, not for one minute. Her grandfather's eyes are going, so he mends boats by smell. Beside him stands Tiller: an old humanoid river robot the color of wet rope, with two legs, broad tar-dark hands, and one steady green lamp for a face. It hands him each tool before he asks. Every night, the lantern on the bridge stays on.

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Every morning, Rosin and her grandfather walk the river path to the mill, to mend whatever leaks. "Where does the river go?" Rosin asks. "Down," says her grandfather. "Past Cinderford, past the mill, over the Long Falls." "And then?" He shrugs one wing. "Fog. Nobody's ever come back up to say." He sniffs a seam and nods. "But I'll tell you this. That ice gives away every drop it has, every summer, and every winter it's full again. So somebody's sending it back." Rosin looks at the river for a long time.

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That winter, Rosin builds the smallest boat anyone in the valley has ever seen, no bigger than a loaf of bread, every seam sealed with rosin she boiled herself. Inside, rolled in wax paper, she puts a note in her best clawmarks: WHO IS THERE? On the first warm morning she carries it past the mill, to the top of the Long Falls, where the water goes white and the fog begins. She sets it down. It spins once, like a leaf that has made up its mind. Then it goes over. Rosin stands there until her feet are cold, and goes home, and starts another one.

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All spring she sends one boat every new moon. Nothing comes back. Of course nothing comes back; a river only goes one way. Then one windy morning at the end of summer, something bumps against the shed roof. It's a balloon no bigger than a pumpkin, patched and salt-stained, trailing a string with a shell tied to it. In the shell is a rolled-up scrap of paper. It says: WHO IS THERE? The marks around the words aren't claw marks. They're round. Rosin licks her claw and touches the paper, and tastes it. Salt.

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Rosin reads it out loud to her grandfather, twice. Then she writes back on the next little boat, and draws herself underneath: ROSIN. I AM A DRAGON. I MEND BOATS. WHO ARE YOU? By the first snow a balloon climbs back up on the sea wind, with a drawing in it: four legs, no wings, and one long horn. PETAL. I AM A UNICORN. WHY DO YOU HAVE TWO HORNS? Rosin laughs so hard she has to put the kettle lid on. WHY DO YOU HAVE ONE? she writes. So it begins: boats going down the river, balloons coming up the wind, a letter each way every moon.

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Rosin keeps the letters in a cookie tin, and reads them to Tiller, who holds the lamp. Petal lives where the river ends, on a white beach, beside a sea that goes out and comes back twice a day. Then one letter says: When my guardian was small, the tide pools ran orange every spring. Nobody here ever knew why. Rosin knows why. Every hatchling in the valley learns about the old mine and the orange river. Somebody downstream always pays, the teachers say, and it has only ever been a word on a chalkboard. Rosin takes a fresh label and sticks it on the tin: DOWNSTREAM HAS A NAME.

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The Grumblers grumble and grumble. They gather at the shed door while Rosin boils a new pot. "There's nothing past the falls." "Nobody pays for a letter." "A balloon from nowhere, and she thinks she's got a friend." Rosin pulls the kettle off the fire, sets the lid on, and says the three ledgers out loud, the way every hatchling does before a hard thing: Is it good for me? Is it good for them? Is it good for the world? Then she writes it in her plainest claw: It was us. The orange was our mine. I am sorry. What do you need? She looks at the loudest Grumbler, an old bargeman with a stiff wing. "Did you ever go and see?" she asks. His wing goes still. He doesn't answer.

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The balloon that comes back says: It runs clear now. Thank you for stopping. We have salt, and wind, and not one tree. Every boat on this shore is patched with rags, and every boat leaks. Rosin sits down on an upturned hull. Every jar on every sill in Cinderford drinks salt water, and salt comes the long way around by cart. So she writes the job on a slate before she starts: ONE BARREL OF PITCH FOR ONE SACK OF SALT, PAID WHEN IT ARRIVES. Only a barrel can't go over the falls. She walks the cliff with Tiller for nine days, and there, under the moss, she finds an old stair, cut in the rock, going down into the fog. She never sets a claw on it without a rope, and Tiller on the other end.

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The first barrel goes down the old stair on Tiller's back, one step at a time, with Rosin roped behind it. Halfway down the fog thins, and there's a meadow on a shelf of the cliff, full of flowers nobody has a name for. And standing in it is somebody just as pink as she is, with a gold horn and no wings at all. A round yellow robot stands behind her with a sack of salt. "You're small," says Petal. "You're pink," says Rosin. They stare. Then they both start laughing and can't stop. "You wrote first." "No, you wrote first." It takes them till supper to work it out: the first two letters passed each other in the fog. Back home, every coin goes in three jars on the sill: her wage, the valley's coin, and one marked GLACIER, for the slow season.

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Word spreads. By spring there's a barrel every week, salt on every sill in Cinderford, and two more boats waiting on her slate. Then a shadow falls across the slate. A Legendary Dragon — gold-scaled, a long burn scar down one wing — steps carefully around the kettle and lowers her great head to sniff a sack of salt. "My teacher had a friend who walked on round feet," she says. Rosin's heart thuds like a mallet on a hull. "What did she say?" The Legendary Dragon smiles. "She told me to breathe slow. I didn't listen for years. Come — I'll show you where builders like us grow."

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The Legendary Dragon takes Rosin to Venture Ridge, where investors hand young dragons venture capital: gold lent to make a trade grow fast. "Gold makes a fire roar overnight," she says. "Only good fuel keeps it burning." A venture fund has read her slate, and it sees a whole shore nobody has ever sold to. It offers a mountain of gold for twelve great barges by spring — if it gets it back twice over. Rosin takes it. She hires six dragons she can't pay till spring, buys a great winch on credit, and stops writing prices on her slate. A good seam wants seven days to cure. She gives them two. On the first run, at the top of the Long Falls, the seams open. Twelve barges and four hundred barrels of hot black pitch go over in one night. When the fog lifts, Petal's white beach is black for nine miles. No balloon comes. Not that week, not that month. Twelve barges gone, six dragons unpaid, nine miles of beach, and the gold gone. The cookie tin has gone in the river with the last barge. Tiller wades out on its last charge, up to its lamp, and comes back with the tin, and holds it out to her. Rosin doesn't take it. Tiller stands there dripping, its lamp fading, until she does.

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Tiller turns, and its green lamp blinks down the old stair — once, twice — until Rosin follows. Down through the spray, behind the Long Falls, into a hollow in the rock — and stops. The hollow is breathing. Cold air sighs in past her ears… and out again, slow as a sleeping giant. On the wall, worn smooth by a thousand years of spray, two lines are cut side by side. One was cut by a claw: Breathe in slow as the bellows fill. One was cut by something round: Breathe in slow as the wave that climbs. The pitch is still on Rosin's claws. The beach is still black below. And all that spring the melt comes down the river full of burst balloons, thousands of them, and she doesn't know why. Does Rosin blaze down to the beach and scrub it clean right now, tend the hearth and see to the ones she owes first — or bank the fire and breathe with the cave?

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