SPARX Incarnation: Mark of the Green Dragon (SPARX Series I Book 1) by K.B. Sprague
Authors: K.B. Sprague
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shake.
Paplov remained calm despite the seriousness of the matter, and looked about curiously at the lamps and the candles. His eyes fell back to the mayor and he looked the man in the eye. “How do you know this?” he said.
“A friend in Harrow, about our size,” he explained. “He works in the entertainment and culinary industries – organizing events, catering and such. He hears things.”
I could not hold my composure any longer. I thought of the vision: the torn up gardens, the fountains toppling…
“We can’t just sit here and take it!” I said. “Why doesn’t someone stand up to Harrow?” The words just spewed out – there was no way to contain them. But really I didn’t want to contain them, and unfortunately for Paplov I didn’t try to hide the disgust I felt in my expression either. He was about to roll over to Mayor Otis the way he rolled over to Harrow years ago.
“Nud! Mind your place,” he said. In the midst of his interjection, the room went dark.
The women all gasped, followed by a long hush.
In good time, Mayor Otis rose from his chair. “A moment,” he said. In near darkness, he fumbled for a match, lit a lantern, and adjusted its dial for intensity.
“Ah, good,” said Paplov. In the new light, he shot me a stern look then turned to the mayor, who was in the midst of igniting the next lantern. “Please excuse my grandson; he is a bit off today. Clearly he is out of line.”
“No, you are,” I said. “Why doesn’t anyone else see it? Harrow—” Paplov cut me off.
“That’s enough out of you!” he said. “Mind your tongue or… or I’ll… you’ll… regret it.”
I felt my jaw tighten. We glared at one another. I opened my mouth to speak, about to say something I would probably regret.
That is when the mistress of the household reached up and gently squeezed her husband’s arm. Her head tilted slightly towards the mayor and when he turned and locked eyes with her, an unspoken kindness transpired between them. I swallowed the words on my tongue. Mayor Otis lowered his head and let out a loud sigh. He sat down beside her. The redness in his face began to dissipate.
“The boy is passionate, I’ll give him that!” he exclaimed, “and with enough hot air to blow out all the lights. He’ll make a fine politician some day.” Everyone laughed. Everyone, that is, except for me.
Turning to Paplov, he went on: “But such words are easier said than done – something experience has taught us both.”
Paplov nodded his head, “Indeed.”
“I suppose they are one in the same with Harrow – want and take,” the mayor said. “We were told to ‘take it down your way or we’ll take it down for you.’ That was the negotiation.”
Biting his upper lip, Paplov shook his head. “Harrow takes what Harrow wants,” he repeated, “always has, always will. There is little anyone can do about it. Proudfooters will know that it isn’t your fault.”
Great, another excuse to do nothing.
The mayor nodded as he met Paplov’s gaze. “Indeed,” he said. Otis sighed and seemed to relax a little. He shook his head quickly – almost a shiver – several times.
Then Otis smashed the table again. His voice boomed. “Give up the swampland, Paplov, or we’ll…”
“Give it up for you?” said Paplov. They both laughed. The comment made more sense when served with wine.
Mayor Otis raised his glass to Paplov, “Our negotiations will take a more civilized route, no doubt,” he said.
“Certainly,” said Paplov, raising his own glass to the mayor’s.
And with that, all the tension between the two fizzled. But it would take more than a toast to drown my emotions on the matter. I reached across the table and helped myself to a pint of ale. Paplov chose to ignore my indulgences and I returned the favor by containing any further outbursts.
“I take it you have full authority in the matter before us?” said Otis.
“Of course,” said Paplov. “I have been fully
Paplov remained calm despite the seriousness of the matter, and looked about curiously at the lamps and the candles. His eyes fell back to the mayor and he looked the man in the eye. “How do you know this?” he said.
“A friend in Harrow, about our size,” he explained. “He works in the entertainment and culinary industries – organizing events, catering and such. He hears things.”
I could not hold my composure any longer. I thought of the vision: the torn up gardens, the fountains toppling…
“We can’t just sit here and take it!” I said. “Why doesn’t someone stand up to Harrow?” The words just spewed out – there was no way to contain them. But really I didn’t want to contain them, and unfortunately for Paplov I didn’t try to hide the disgust I felt in my expression either. He was about to roll over to Mayor Otis the way he rolled over to Harrow years ago.
“Nud! Mind your place,” he said. In the midst of his interjection, the room went dark.
The women all gasped, followed by a long hush.
In good time, Mayor Otis rose from his chair. “A moment,” he said. In near darkness, he fumbled for a match, lit a lantern, and adjusted its dial for intensity.
“Ah, good,” said Paplov. In the new light, he shot me a stern look then turned to the mayor, who was in the midst of igniting the next lantern. “Please excuse my grandson; he is a bit off today. Clearly he is out of line.”
“No, you are,” I said. “Why doesn’t anyone else see it? Harrow—” Paplov cut me off.
“That’s enough out of you!” he said. “Mind your tongue or… or I’ll… you’ll… regret it.”
I felt my jaw tighten. We glared at one another. I opened my mouth to speak, about to say something I would probably regret.
That is when the mistress of the household reached up and gently squeezed her husband’s arm. Her head tilted slightly towards the mayor and when he turned and locked eyes with her, an unspoken kindness transpired between them. I swallowed the words on my tongue. Mayor Otis lowered his head and let out a loud sigh. He sat down beside her. The redness in his face began to dissipate.
“The boy is passionate, I’ll give him that!” he exclaimed, “and with enough hot air to blow out all the lights. He’ll make a fine politician some day.” Everyone laughed. Everyone, that is, except for me.
Turning to Paplov, he went on: “But such words are easier said than done – something experience has taught us both.”
Paplov nodded his head, “Indeed.”
“I suppose they are one in the same with Harrow – want and take,” the mayor said. “We were told to ‘take it down your way or we’ll take it down for you.’ That was the negotiation.”
Biting his upper lip, Paplov shook his head. “Harrow takes what Harrow wants,” he repeated, “always has, always will. There is little anyone can do about it. Proudfooters will know that it isn’t your fault.”
Great, another excuse to do nothing.
The mayor nodded as he met Paplov’s gaze. “Indeed,” he said. Otis sighed and seemed to relax a little. He shook his head quickly – almost a shiver – several times.
Then Otis smashed the table again. His voice boomed. “Give up the swampland, Paplov, or we’ll…”
“Give it up for you?” said Paplov. They both laughed. The comment made more sense when served with wine.
Mayor Otis raised his glass to Paplov, “Our negotiations will take a more civilized route, no doubt,” he said.
“Certainly,” said Paplov, raising his own glass to the mayor’s.
And with that, all the tension between the two fizzled. But it would take more than a toast to drown my emotions on the matter. I reached across the table and helped myself to a pint of ale. Paplov chose to ignore my indulgences and I returned the favor by containing any further outbursts.
“I take it you have full authority in the matter before us?” said Otis.
“Of course,” said Paplov. “I have been fully
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