Dragon bike, p.1
Dragon Bike, page 1
Dragon Bike
fantastical stories of bicycling, Feminism, and dragons
Edited by Elly Blue
All content © its creators, 2020
Final editorial content © Elly Blue, 2020
This edition © Elly Blue Publishing, an imprint of Microcosm Publishing, 2020
First printing, February 10, 2020
All work remains the property of the original creators.
ISBN 978-1-62106-071-0
This is Microcosm #274
Elly Blue Publishing, an imprint of Microcosm Publishing
2752 N Williams Ave.
Portland, OR 97227
Cover art by Cecila Granata | www.ceciliagranata.com
Inside cover art by Tessa Hulls
Book Design by Joe Biel
Special thanks to Tomy Huynh and Cynthia Marts for editorial assistance
Elly Blue Publishing, an imprint of Microcosm Publishing
2752 N Williams Ave
Portland, OR 97227
This is Bikes in Space Volume 6
For more volumes visit BikesInSpace.com
For more feminist bicycle books and zines visit TakingTheLane.com
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
CHEN D’ANGELO AND THE CHINESE-ITALIAN DRAGON
WITCHCANIX
THE SOUND OF HOME
WHAT IS A GIRL WITHOUT A DRAGON?
THE MOTHERS OF PEQUEÑO LAGO
BOOTLEG
THE DRAGON’S LAKE
STORING TREASURES
‘TIL WE MEET AGAIN
BEASTS OF BATARANAM
WYVERN
SLOW BURN, STEADY FLAME
‘ROUND
BICYCLE ART
SIMPLE TREASURE
CONTRIBUTORS
INTRODUCTION
The week I moved to Portland, Oregon in 2001, I stepped onto my college quad one night into a maelstrom of fire-breathing bicycles. Jousting knights faced off, perched precariously on mutant bicycles, welded double-high or with six-foot long forks. Intoxicated combatants in ramshackle armor were steadied by their squires, who handed them lances and lit the padded ends on fire. With a great roar, they rode at each other, lances, bikes, and sometimes costumes aflame, firecrackers blasting behind them into the crowd. Beer cans flew, music blared and the crowd milled and jumped. I was overwhelmed, excited, and strangely soothed. The lawlessness of the experience matched something inside me, even though a reflexive disapproval kept me on the sidelines.
Later, I learned this fiery display was engineered by post-apocalyptic bicycle club C.H.V.N.K. 666, a joyous uprising from the rubble of industry and civilization, building steeds out of garbage and directing their despair and fury into glorious explosions of creativity and destruction like the rally I’d stumbled into. In their worldview, the dragons of capitalism had already laid waste to our world and there was nothing to do but lovingly battle each other in the ruins.
I chose the theme for this volume not purely out of commercial impulse, even though the finale of Game of Thrones had yet to fizzle disappointingly into existence and leave fans wishing for a different outcome to all those stories, especially the women’s. I had it in mind, of course, but I also thought about the Pern novels I escaped into as a girl. I thought about roaring, orange-faced demagogues, their golden towers and hoarded wealth. I thought about the fire-engulfed bicyclists and roaring crowd who shook me out of my shell that night in Portland, and the extreme gender imbalance of that scene occurred to me for the first time. I wanted a different outcome to that story, too—one where I’d showed up the next week and learned to weld, and turned my own drunken energy into a public expression of mayhem and metaphor. The point of this Bikes in Space series is to encourage people to revise the fantasies that inform our culture. In this sixth volume of the series, we’re tackling one of the most meaningful and intense mythologies there is.
The dragons in today’s massive media franchises most closely resemble the dragon of Beowulf, a giant, winged fire-breathing lizard who was slain by two lone knights after terrorizing the townspeople in revenge for a cup stolen from its hoard. In Han and Qing Dynasty China, dragons were wingless serpents that brought rain and good luck. The emperors identified themselves as their descendants, and anyone else wearing or displaying a dragon image would be executed. In ancient Mayan lore, Q’uq’umatz was a feathered serpent who created the world and ruled the wind and rain. To the old Sufi poet Rumi, a dragon represented human greed and lust, an evil creature that must be fought. The ancient Egyptian Apep was a giant, serpentine chaos deity who did regular battle with the sun god Ra. Someone I met at a convention once looked deeply into my eyes and told me that the existence of dragon legends around the world proves that dinosaurs walked the earth in relatively recent memory and thus the creation story of Genesis was a documentary account. Of all these, the image I always come back to is the one in Tehanu, Ursula K. Leguin’s attempt to turn the Tolkien-esque dragon myth on its head—instead of a violent hoarder of wealth, her dragon rises from the ashes of trauma, and chooses a quiet village life instead of a glorious one of swooping through the skies.
Dragon stories are a powerful force in our world. I love the way the contributors in this book have chosen to engage with dragons. Some are great beasts of destruction, like in “Slow Burn, Steady Flame” and “The Mothers of Pequeño Lago.” Others represent joyful ways to bring play and meaning back into life—like in “‘Round” and “Chen D’Angelo and the Chinese-Italian Dragon” or Tessa Hulls’ illustration on the inside covers of this book. In some of these stories, dragons are reinvented entirely: in “The Beasts of Bataranam” they symbolize resistance against colonial oppression, and in “Wyvern” and “The Sounds of Home,” they have become something disquietingly futuristic and new.
Some of these stories are disturbing; others are adorable; some show dragons (and people) at their most terrible and others show them at their most kind. I hope you enjoy them all as much as I did.
–Elly Blue
Portland, Oregon
August, 2019
CHEN D’ANGELO AND THE CHINESE-ITALIAN DRAGON
Jennifer Lee Rossman
The mural on the pizzeria wall shows a Chinese dragon weaving between Ionic columns in a fantastical landscape of misty mountains and Tuscan vineyards. His frills and furs, the colors of the Italian flag, fan out like whirling dresses, but that’s not the part that transfixes me. It’s the sun, represented by a little orange circle, half-hidden by the mountains as it paints the clouds vibrant pinks and yellows.
The only sun I’ve ever seen doesn’t actually move across the sky, since it’s just a really big lightbulb stretching from one end of the ship to the other, but it does turn a nice sunsetty red for a few minutes before it shuts off for the night. It’s the only sun Mama Giulia has ever seen, too, but she painted this mural with a real sun, the kind my kids and grandkids will have when the ship gets to our new home.
Sometimes I forget this isn’t real, that this isn’t the only way humanity ever lived.
Anything you want, the Belinda has it. You want to live in a city? She’s got one the size of Manhattan, all shiny skyscrapers and neon lights, packed full of stores, movie theaters, and thirty-seven pizza shops. Yes, really. I counted. But only Xiang & Giulia’s is any good. Best Italian restaurant in all of Chinatown, and I’m not just saying that because my moms own it.
Or maybe country life is more your style. Belinda has farmland aplenty, all nurtured by the artificial sunlight running down the central axis of her cylindrical shape. Forests and bike paths full of wildlife from around the world complete the outdoorsy effect.
Seriously. You name it, she’s got it. Big library like in Beauty & the Beast? Yep. Gender health clinic? Several. Rollercoaster? It’s called La Requin and it will absolutely make you puke.
There’s just one thing (besides sunsets, I mean) that it doesn’t have: myths.
See, Belinda is a generation ship, hurtling through space somewhere between Earth and the promise of a new home. Earth was dying, so humanity had to leave. Back when my grandparents were kids, they packed up everything they’d need to start over on another planet.
Except I think something got left behind. I think in their rush to pack all the horses and DVDs and medicine, they forgot to bring the gods and monsters and miracles. I imagine a sad little suitcase full of myths, all alone on the launchpad.
Sure, we have stories, and people still pray, but I don’t think we believe as much as we used to. There’s nothing on this ship we didn’t put here, no hidden pockets that haven’t been explored. The water in the lakes and rivers came from bottles, not magic springs full of mermaids, and I think someone would have noticed by now if there was a lake monster on the shipping manifest.
And now we’re going to lose our dragon.
Mama Xiang walks in from the kitchen, carrying a tray of drinks to the one table that isn’t empty tonight. She pauses as she passes me, taking in the dejected slump of my shoulders as I stare at the mural behind the counter. “We’ll be okay, Chen,” she assures me, stooping to kiss the top of my head.
It should bother me that we’re going to lose the restaurant if we can’t make rent. It should bother me that our little slice of the city is going to get a little less unique, that our few regulars are going to have to find some other place that serves Sichuan garlic
But it’s the dragon that bothers me, because we need magic in our lives. We need to remember what it was like not to know everything.
I look down at my tablet and my homework assignment: an essay about my choice of Gliese 581g’s extinct creatures. Mankind hasn’t even set foot on the planet, but we already have volumes written about its history. The probes and rovers have explored every inch of it, even going so far as to dig up its fossils. There will be nothing left to wonder when we get there.
What if we forget how?
• • •
There’s this forest on the edge of the city. Oaks and cypresses and baobabs, moose and red pandas and pangolins all living together to form one impossible ecosystem. It’s like you took all of Earth’s forests and condensed them into a few thousand acres.
Even though someone chose all the animals and landscaped the hills and valleys, some parts of the forest have rearranged themselves. Sure, there are a lot of places where everything gets along, but in other places, plants and animals from the same habitat have found each other, creating little ecosystems all their own. Pitcher plants and sphagnum moss grow in the wetlands, lemurs and parrots live where the humidity makes the air feel like liquid . . .
The forest is the one place on the Belinda that feels really wild and magical to me, like the wilderness of old Earth. If there were a dragon hiding on this ship, it would be right here.
My best friend Georgia isn’t so sure.
“Trust me,” I say as we walk our bikes up a well-packed dirt path leading away from the city. “This is going to work.”
She reads my lips and shakes her head, pausing and leaning her silver bike against her hip to respond in sign. “Adults are smart. They won’t fall for it.”
“Adults,” I correct, “will fall for anything if they think it’s their idea. Now come on.”
We get on our bikes and pedal deeper into the woods. Georgia can’t sign with both hands occupied, but we don’t have much time before school starts. We come to the swampy part where some of the older kids swear they’ve seen crocodiles lurking beneath the thick, green water.
Supposedly, the only crocodiles on board are frozen embryos in labs. The Belinda is a huge ship, but not big enough to guarantee predators and humans won’t come into contact, so people carefully control the herbivore population. The carnivores will be thawed out when we get to Gliese.
But that doesn’t stop people from whispering about the disgruntled scientist who did it early and let them loose in the woods, and we’re going to use these rumors to our advantage.
We stop where weeds start to encroach on the path. I find a pile of shiny black poop and pump my fist in victory.
Georgia laughs at my excitement. “I have some dog poop at home you can have.”
“We’re still visible from the main path,” I explain, “but secluded enough for deer—and dragons—to come through.” I motion for her to open her backpack while I do the same. Nestled between my tablet and art projects is some shed dragon skin I made from napkins and dried glue, with some spices mixed in for color and texture.
“Nice,” Georgia signs. She has bits of red fur from an old stuffed animal, and we spread it liberally around the area. It looks a little cheesy, but we’re ten. We’re not special effects artists.
And anyway, the fur and skin is just to get people’s attention. We hide the good evidence a little deeper, making big scratches with our house keys on trees and pressing claw marks into the soft earth.
We stand back and look at our work. I’m no expert, but it looks good to me. Not too obvious to be a hoax, but obvious enough to be noticed.
I turn to Georgia. “What do you think?”
She gives a tentative thumbs-up.
• • •
I think it’s going to work. I spent all recess planting the seeds of a new urban legend, and even invited some kids to go bike riding later in the week; just in case no one discovers our evidence, I’ll lead them right to it. And Georgia has put out the word that my mothers are experts in folklore in case anyone needs help researching a project.
Within a few days, the whole ship will be abuzz with talk of dragons, and people will start coming into the pizzeria and—
My good mood fizzles away the instant I walk into the restaurant.
Mama Giulia is crying. She hides it well, keeping her face toward the wall as she slices a white ricotta pizza on shaobing dough that peppers the air with a thick sesame aroma, but she’s breathing fast and she isn’t humming. That’s my perpetually upbeat Mama G’s version of sobbing.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, setting my backpack on the counter.
“I’ll tell you later.”
The fact that she doesn’t bother lying to me sends a jolt of dread straight to my heart, and I rush through the swinging doors to the kitchen. Mama Xiang has her face in her hands, her elbows leaning heavily on the prep table.
“Mama?” I say quietly. The sight of my heroes, the strongest women I’ve ever met, reduced to tears is more upsetting than whatever they’re crying about.
Mama Xiang doesn’t look up. “We’re being evicted.”
I frown. “I know. Mr. B. told us he isn’t renewing our lease, but if we can raise the money—”
“No, baby. Not at the end of the month.” She looks at me, her face wet and hollow. “He’s moving the date up. We’re closing tomorrow.”
My mouth hangs open in shock. No. We were supposed to have more time. We were supposed to be able to scrounge together enough to pay for the next month and by then, the dragon hoax would have brought people in. Maybe not a lot, but enough of them would discover a love of hoisin and marinara and become regulars. Enough that we could manage rent every month.
My eyes flick out the door, to the mural painted on the wall above our few customers. What will replace it? Will the new owners cover it with a gaudy logo for a fitness center or shelves full of designer clothing? Will they just slash some white paint over it and let it be forgotten?
“We’ll be okay,” Mama Xiang says, but I don’t think she believes it. “We own the apartment outright, and Giulia and I can get jobs at other restaurants. She’s the best chef on this ship. We’ll be okay.”
• • •
I sit on the roof of our apartment in the Little Italy district, watching the sun begin its red phase, and I know we won’t be okay.
The pizzeria is my home as much as the apartment is. It’s where I go to do homework while my moms cook and sing and tell stories their grandmas told them about Earth.
It’s the one place on all of the Belinda that smells like anise and basil, where you can hear tarantella music played on a paixiao flute.
It is the only place that has a Chinese-Italian dragon on the wall and that makes it special because, while the ship is so diverse and amazing, the city is much like the forest. You can mix all the plants and animals together and they live in harmony but sometimes they thrive best unincorporated. Where the pitcher plants and the moss and the little peep toads preserve and share their environment because they share a common evolutionary history.
That’s why we have Chinatown, and why we have Little Italy, but my history doesn’t fit so easily into just one section of the city. My name is Chen D’Angelo. I have Italian coloring and Chinese features. Part of me doesn’t fit no matter where I go, but I’m complete at Xiang and Giulia’s.
So I need to save it, and I need to do it tonight.
I call Georgia on my way downstairs; her smiling face appears as a hologram in front of me a moment later.
“Can you meet me on the bike trail in half an hour?”
She frowns. “Say again?”
I take a deep breath and try to talk slower so she can read my lips, but I’m so excited and anxious and I just want to babble. “Can you meet me on the bike trail? We need to make people believe in dragons, and we need to do it tonight.”
Georgia opens her mouth in surprise but nods and signs, “Meet you there.”
“Bring fabric,” I say. “Flowy skirts, long jackets . . . anything red, white, and green. And put out the word that there’s something roaming the woods. Start a hashtag, if you have to. We need as many people as possible to go dragon hunting tonight.”
