A Language of Dragons

by S.F. Williamson

For my husband, who believed in me more than I ever did; for my parents, who gave me the precious gift of a second language; and for all those brave enough to forgive themselves.

Every act of translation requires sacrifice—it is this harsh truth that made me fall in love. There exists no direct correlation between the words of one language and another, and no translation can be entirely faithful to its original. So, while a person can more or less bridge the gap between languages using words, there is always some deeper meaning left unsaid, a secret invisible to those who only have one language with which to navigate the world.

A translator, on the other hand, is a creature that flies with several pairs of wings.

“People shouldn’t fear their prime ministers, Vivien,” he says. “Prime ministers should fear their people.”

I have a long night ahead. I need a dragon, a dragon with a motive. Luckily for me, I know exactly where to find one.

Atlas, languages are like that. You can say the same thing a hundred different ways, and occasionally one of those ways is so unique to the translator that it is impossible to reproduce. No other translator will use the same words, the same rhythm, the same turn of phrase ever again. Translating is creating, too.

“I’m saying,” Atlas says pointedly, “that when you oppress a community for centuries you can’t exactly be surprised when it rises up against you.”

“To control languages, to control words, is to control what people know.”

“You can’t do this,” Marquis snarls. “You said that if we came here and did the work that was asked of us, we and our families would be free.” “I said that you would be released if you did the work required to help me win the war.” Wyvernmire stares into Marquis’s face, her nostrils flaring. “But I. Am. Losing.” “So only the one of us who cracks the dragon code will go free?” Gideon is staring between me, Katherine, and Sophie. “I’m glad you understand, Gideon,” Wyvernmire replies.

The echolocation dialects aren’t regional. They’re familial.

“I have no interest in political debates—” “Only because you are privileged enough not to be concerned by them.”

“Every time we shed, we leave an old self behind. Every time we shed, it is a chance to be someone new. A chance to change our minds.”

“You’re right that what the rebels are trying to achieve will take years, because inequality is so deeply entrenched in the foundations of our society that it’s going to need to be dug out, rock by prejudiced rock.”

“Peace isn’t peace if it’s only given to some,” Marquis says. “And I know you know it.”

“Dodie’s story is tragic, I’ll agree with you there. But she broke her end of the deal by trying to escape. My Guardians did what was necessary.” “Killing a defenseless girl is never necessary.” “Oh, Vivien,” says Wyvernmire with a sigh. “You are trying to be honorable. I admire that, truly I do. But the truth is you’re like me. You do what’s best for you.”

I shake my head. “The only reason I’m here is to save my family. I don’t care what happens to me anymore.” “Oh, but you do,” Wyvernmire says softly. “Of course you want to save your family. But you also want to be the girl who cracks the dragon code.” She lets out a throaty laugh. “Doing what is necessary to achieve your ambitions is not an unknown concept to you, is it?” My face begins to burn as a knowing smile creeps across Wyvernmire’s face. “You’ve done it once before, with your friend Sophie.” My throat tightens. “Oh yes, I know all about that.” She speaks slowly, her eyes locked on mine. “I got my information from that teacher who was so desperate for a place for her daughter at the University of London. Tell me, Vivien. Can you still replicate Sophie’s handwriting?”

Wyvernmire leans forward. “You are like me, Vivien. You are like the Dragon Queen. Ruthlessly ambitious.” I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. “But I don’t want to be,” I croak. “You don’t have a choice. This is who you are,” Wyvernmire says. “So own it.”

Atlas is wrong. I was born bad. No matter how hard I try, I can’t bring myself to make the right decision. Not if it comes at a personal cost. I’m not brave enough, not selfless enough. And I’ve made too many mistakes to go back now.

“Remissio dolor redemptus est,” Chumana says. “Forgiveness is suffering redeemed.”

“Together we’ll make Britannia greater and ensure its security. But only if you let go of your rebellious notions.” The vision vanishes, evaporating suddenly as I remember the way the Bulgarian dragons pulled Rhydderch’s head from his body. The dead Third Class girl’s bloody face. My father’s eyes as he was led out of our house and pushed into a Guardian car. The images Wyvernmire’s words have created are just an illusion, one that hides the ugly truth that my parents saw from the beginning. “People shouldn’t fear their prime ministers, Wyvernmire,” I say slowly. “Prime ministers should fear their people.”

He looks up at me, his brown eyes shining. “She’s wrong about you. You’re brave and selfless and good. But you?” He laughs at Wyvernmire and brings his other hand down on top of my bloody one. “You’re dead without Viv. She could have protected you, and the nation you claim to love, if you’d have just agreed to extend that protection to everyone. Even Ralph knows it—that’s why he shot me. Because he thinks Viv will stay here with me, with you, instead of joining the rebels.”

I am leaving you one more note because, well, I feel like I should make up for the last one. Tell me, Atlas . . . if God turned the dragons into swallows to make them light and carefree, do you think He’ll do something similar for us? This code, this language of dragons, has weighed so heavily on us all. I can barely bring myself to think of it, of the destruction it could cause. But there is one silver lining. The brightest silver lining I’ve ever known. The Koinamens—and all my dragon tongues—are what brought me to Bletchley Park. They are what brought me to you. And beneath it he has scribbled his reply. Thank God for dragon tongues, Featherswallow. Thank God for you.

And as I close my eyes I see his soul, seeking God as it slips among the burning Bletchley trees.