The Dragon Waiting

by John M. Ford

  The speaker was a small, stocky woman in a gray wool gown and white linen cap. She was flat-featured, forty or a little more, with bright eyes. She produced a bottle and sponge from an enormous shoulder bag. Softly, she said to Hywel "Is this your friend?"

  "Ie." Hywel turned, said in English, "Cynthia, this is Mary Setright; she's a healer. She speaks English."

  Cynthia looked up, took the soap and sponge. "You are a doctor, my lady?"

  "I'm a witch," Mary said, and smiled. "Boo." She took a roll of linen gauze from her bag. "Tell me when you're ready for this."

  Cynthia nodded, bent to work again, began washing the cut. The boy yelled. Startled, Cynthia drew back her hand, raised it to slap him.

  Mary smacked the roll of gauze into Cynthia's open palm, held it there. Cynthia turned, looked up, eyes very wide; then she shook her head slowly and closed her fingers on the roll. She picked up her dagger again with her left hand, looked at it. Hywel felt himself tense. Mary let Cynthia's hand go.

  Cynthia cut a length of gauze and wrapped the wound, tucking the ends of the bandage in neatly.

  The boy was helped to stand, and was taken into custody by his parents; Hywel could hear the first words of the tinsmith's lecture to his son.

  Rapidly the crowd, and then the children, dispersed, until only Hywel and Mary were left standing in the field, and Cynthia still kneeling. Her scarf was half unwound from her neck and trailed on the ground.

  Mary Setright touched Cynthia's arm. "You did that marvelous well, sister. Come, now, don't you want some dandelion tea?"

  "I'm supposed to do it well," Cynthia said raggedly. "I have a doctorate in medicine from the University of Pisa. My father is the best doctor in Florence. That is, he was." She looked up. Her head wavered. "If I had ever struck a patient, my father would have turned me into the street, to beg copper florins like a blind woman." She stared at her hands; they trembled. "I might as well be blind... do you see? How can I hold a knife now?"

  Cynthia pressed her palms together, as in supplication, and turned to Hywel and Mary. "Madonna... Messer Ficino.. .forgive me: I am the only Ricci left." Her voice was remarkably even.

  Hywel said quietly, "Mary... please, you mustn't ask me..."

  Mary put her arm around Cynthia, got her standing. "Sweet heaven, Peredur, do you think I can't see? Now help me."

  They moved away from the lake, two supporting one, until the light and noise of the festival were entirely lost behind them.

  Hywel leaned against the hearth in Mary Setright's cottage, staring at a medallion. He had picked it up at Arthur's Court, when it caught a flicker on the ground.

  It was as wide as two fingers, cast in white metal, with a hole for a cord or chain. The face showed two dragons, one incised dark, one bright in relief. The dragons were fighting, and the dark one was clearly winning the combat.

  He knew the symbolism well enough; anyone born in Britain would have. The Red Dragon and the White, that Merlin had prophesied Uther should find.

  The Red Dragon was the kingdom of Wales. The White...

  Hywel turned the disc over. Stamped on the back in Roman capitals was the legend rhxque futuris. And everyone in Britain knew that much Latin: the second half of Arthur's epitaph. the future king.

  He closed his fingers around the medallion, shut his eye, and reached into the metal.

  His mind recoiled from the contact. The medallion felt red-hot in his hand, for just a moment; he opened his eye, but the thing lay cool in his unmarked palm.

  There were minds at work here, he knew, who did not have his fear of the energies of magic: people playing with wildfire.

  He put the medallion away as Mary came in from the other room. He said "Is she all right?"

  "Of course she isn't," Mary said, not sharply. "And she'll be worse before she's better Will you fetch some water, Hywel? In the kettle."

  "Surely." He took the black iron kettle from its firehook and went outside.

  The cottage was set in a tiny clearing, invisible from twenty yards away. A clean, singing creek passed near the porch; Hywel submerged the kettle.

  The walls of the cottage were clear pine, and the roof was thatch, all tight and warm. The thatching was still faintly green, and moist, and it would not burn; Hywel had seen to that. And insects did not infest Mary's roof, as they did every other thatched roof in the country, but that was not Hywel's doing. Mary told the vermin to go, all but the spiders whose webs she harvested for wound dressings, and they all but the spiders went away.

  When he came back from the creek, she was standing on the porch. "I've sung her asleep," she said, "but she's still not resting; she talks, in her native speech—Italian, is it? She talks of poison, and a man with a scourge, and quicklime. She said she is a gwaedwr, though I can see she does not need blood. What has my sister seen?"

  Hywel carried the kettle, heavy as his thoughts, into the cottage and set it on its hook. He had seen the image of the little black- eyed man, the flagellant, when they touched: he had no idea who he was, and there was no one to ask.

  But he had seen the vampire murder with ordinary sight, and told Mary about it. She said nothing in response, but sat in her chair and rocked, and hummed.

  Hywel felt his eyelids drooping. "No, Mary. Not me. Stop it."

  "I'm doing nothing, brother. You must sleep, as all the Lord's children."

  He was suddenly enormously tired. Mary was singing again, but perhaps it was really only himself. He usually slept only every three or four nights, but lately he had missed even that, because Cynthia was so terribly vulnerable at night

  "Sleep now, brother Hywel. I'll watch our sister tonight."

  He sank down onto a cot by the fire, not even feeling the bump; she pulled off his boots and put a folded cloak under his head, and he had no power to resist.

  The last thing he saw, far away through a golden haze, was Mary's shrine on the wall, the twinkling candles and the Latin cross.

  And then he was awake fully, a coldness around his good eye. Mary drew her finger back, still dripping clear water. "Get up, Hywel. I can't make her rest; we must try to do something. I need you to hold her."

  Hywel looked at her as he stood, not really understanding; then he heard Cynthia cry out from the other room. "You mean... hold her down."

  "That's so."

  He followed Mary into the bedroom. The bed was a large one, of oak spindles; afternoon light slanted across it, and Hywel realized how long he had slept without stirring. Through her screaming? he wondered. He looked, not willingly, at Cynthia.

  She lay with her knees drawn up, her hands above her head clutching the bedstead; her woolen nightgown was pulled up crookedly, exposing a pale shin and kneecap, bony as a child's. A nightcap held her hair. Her face was a bloodless mask, eyes closed, mouth open, flesh drawn tight, an ink sketch of despair. She made a sound like a kitten drowning.

  He was afraid, then, to touch her. His empty eyehole ached. "Must we..."

  "All right, then, get me her silk scarf," Mary said calmly. "You can wait outside, and I'll tie her hands."

  "Oh, no...no. I'll do it." He sat on the corner of the bed. Cynthia's eyes snapped open, and she stared. Hywel reached out, gently unwound the fingers of her right hand from the bed spindle. The pattern of the turned oak was printed on her palm.

  "I will not eat," she said suddenly. "I'll starve, or swallow poison, but none of your food or wine."

  Hywel loosened the other hand. Cynthia looked down at herself; she grasped her gown in both hands, tugged at the fabric. A bone button shot away, struck the wall.

  Hywel, startled, caught her wrists, syllables rolling unsummoned through his mind; he felt muscle and tendon warming, relaxing. Her grip went soft. At once Hywel let go. "Mary—" He slipped an arm under Cynthia, lifted her to a half-sitting position, let her lean against him. Her back muscles were like sheet iron. He put his arms around her waist. Her fingers brushed his forearms; he felt pins and needles. "Mary."

  Mary h
ad a web of string stretched between her fingers; a cat's cradle. "Tell us now what happened, sister." Her voice was soft and warm as autumn sunlight. "Tell us now, and let it into the light, for the evil cannot stand the light."

  "No," Cynthia said, and pulled at Hywel. "Let me go."

  "There is no redemption without love, no love without contact," Mary said. "Our Lord knew this, and became flesh, so that there could be contact, and love, and forgiveness. Tell us now, what happened at the inn in the snow?"

  Cynthia shrieked "Hywel?" and writhed in his hold. He hugged her, feeling her muscles strain, joints creak. And despite himself he used the power, and she relaxed. "Hywel..." Cynthia said, slurring the words, "... wha' did you tell her... ?"

  "What do you fear said?" Mary said, and worked her fingers in the figure of string. "Say a thing and the pain is past with the echo, but fear goes on without an end. Tell us now, about the messenger." In the cat's cradle, a knot dissolved.

  "I did not cut him," Cynthia said. "I taught the spy the points... I took the quill from my bag. But I... I..."

  "And why did you wish to help the spy? In understanding there is peace. Tell me now, sister, what was the thing that set your soul on such a course?" Another knot melted from the cord.

  Another spasm. "The Sforza Duke..."

  They drove backward in time and deeper into hurt: psychic pus oozed out, and black blood, and a stink of corruption.

  Hywel sensed it as well; having looked upon the memories, they were partly his now, and now he understood what he had seen. He was trapped in a foul closet while Savonarola tore his flesh, and he wanted to vomit.

  At once he erased the nausea. Too quick, too easy, he thought; he was already doing enough damage to himself, and to Cynthia. Mary had trapped him, with the best of intentions. She did not understand, and never would.

  Of all the wizards he had known since first Kallian Ptolemy opened his mind, he had known only five who were not corrupted by the power. Five, in hundreds.

  They did not form any sort of union, those five. One was a Chinese priest, fat and bald and sensual, strange jolly humor echoing in the silence of the Tao. The Russian hermit was hairy and louse- ridden, living his whole life in a smoky cave full of crooked idols, some of them perhaps older than Man. Here was an ordinary village wisewoman, in an ordinary little house that was the same size inside and out and did not stand on chicken legs, whose god had required a comically absurd passion and the whole mechanism of Roman justice to conditionally redeem his creations. The fourth held that all gods were lies, that the cosmos was a machine, like a clockwork or a watermill—but a perfect clockwork or watermill. The fifth... he did not want to think about her, and anyway she was dead.

  "I was always taught that the scalpel was not just a knife, it was a tool of the Art, it was sacred... and I took a sacred thing and cut into a little boy's heart. And I did it very, very well...." She rocked back and forth, shaking her head miserably. Hywel stroked her hair, feeling sweat start on her forehead.

  He knew what kept those five alone from devouring themselves. It was not the sorts of spells they worked, nor the names they worked in, nor magic circles or eye of newt or the phases of the moon. He knew what it was, but knowing could not save him, because the parts of him that could sustain faith were all burned out.

  The string hung loose and untangled from Mary's fingers. Cynthia was quiet, apparently calm. Hywel could feel her inaudible sobbing through his fingertips. He took his hands away, afraid of touching something not physical.

  It was very dim in the room, and the small fire made moving shadows. Mary said "Sister, are you there?"

  "Yes, Donna Maria. How long have I... is the fair over?"

  "You need to rest now," Mary said, and began to hum softly.

  "No. Please don't make me sleep." She was not pleading. "Hywel? Is there still a fair? Please take me to it."

  Hywel stood up, took her hand in his. She slid her feet to the floor and stood, smoothing her nightgown with complete dignity. "Well, I shall need my clothes. I'm only suited now for a mad scene." There was an abrupt small silence. Then Mary opened a wardrobe and took out Cynthia's clothing; it was all quite clean, and smelled of spring rain.

  Hywel and Mary went into the kitchen, which seemed cold to Hywel; his sweat drying, he realized.

  Mary said "You're taking her, aren't you?"

  "She wants to go. You could have interfered more easily than I."

  "I don't mean down hill to a fair. She has some need for that; I felt it when she asked. No, Peredur. You want her for a crafting, don't you?"

  "I have no intention of hurting her," Hywel said, aware of how he already had.

  "If I thought you did, I would never let you out the door," Mary said very certainly. Hywel did not doubt her.

  Mary stepped close to him, looked up at him with an expression of infinite sadness. "I have said to you before, this work of yours will not make you happy. When will you believe this, and rest?"

  "Never," he said finally. It was only half an answer, because he did believe her. He had believed it before he knew she existed; he had known for over half a century, since his first departure from the Beautiful City Byzantium, that he was not on the road to any heaven.

  She had helped to prove it to him, though he would never tell her so.

  Cynthia appeared, tucking up her hair; she walked unsteadily, and her face was gray and drawn, but Hywel could see a life in her step, a calm in her eyes, that he had not seen in her before. "Shall we go?" she said.

  "You'll visit again, before you travel on?" Mary said.

  Hywel said "Of course."

  Cynthia said "Are we leaving so soon, then... ? I would like... to learn to say the name of this place."

  Mary hugged them both, and Hywel just heard her whispered prayer.

  He led Cynthia out of the house and through the forest, to the sounds of Arthur's Evening Court, which were audible afar off.

  The King's battle with his bastard son was beautifully staged, spear and sword glittering in red sunset: as Mordred pierced his father's body, and Arthur crawled up the shaft to swing Caliburn for the last time, Llyn Safaddan seemed all blood.

  As stars came out, hard as the points of spears, the Lady's boat appeared across the water. Bedwyr departed with Caliburn, returned twice to lie about casting it away, and was sent out twice again. The boat touched shore, and three queens debarked to bear the King aboard; they sailed away without steersman or oar.

  Bedwyr appeared again, stumbling and convincingly awestruck; someone in the audience shouted "Found beer, did you?" There was a loud thump from that direction, and no more comments ad libidem.

  The lone knight on the strand dropped to his knees, his muslin armor creaking. "My lord," he said, "where have you gone? I have done as you commanded me. I cast the sword—truly, my lord, I did it—Arthur, where are you?

  "There was a boat, Arthur, a little boat, with three ladies in't, great ladies they must have been. And Caliburn was turning over and over in the air like a wheel, and the lady at the prow of the boat put out her hand, and she caught the sword, by the hilt.

  "There was another thing in the boat, I could not see what it was for the setting sun... but I think it was a treasure, for it shone like red gold.

  "Oh, Arthur, it was a wonder; I wish you had seen it."

  Gwenhwyfar appeared then, dressed all in white mourning, with a veiled maiden to either side of her, and behind her two bowmen in green. She came to within a few paces of where Bedwyr knelt, and stopped.

  The knight looked up. A moment passed, as if both were thinking that now it would be only love, and no adultery, but too late, too late. Then, in silence, Bedwyr stood, moved next to Gwenhwyfar—

  but did not touch her—and they walked side by side out of sight, maids and archers in their train.

  Hywel turned; Cynthia was gone. He knew how to follow her.

  When he reached the pavilion, a harp and recorder had begun to play; a moment later Cynthia
's voice joined them, rich and clear, and Hywel pushed his way through the crowd.

  She was singing penillon, working words to meet the meter as the melody spun on: she sang in Italian, of course, but as Hywel had known, it did not matter at all.

  He slipped between the last few people and saw her, and saw that she was crying freely. Her voice remained absolutely clear: she would skip a beat to swallow a sob, then catch the tune in the next measure.

  Hywel understood, without knowing or wanting to know the particulars, that the song was somehow at the center of the web of agony Mary had unraveled knot by knot; the tears had been sealed inside layers of scar tissue. He half-wondered that they did not boil in the open air.

  And he genuinely wondered if Mary's unspoken accusation was true: had he brought her to be healed only because he wanted her for his real work... his dragon-hunt? He touched his pouch, seemed to feel the medallion warming through the leather.

  She would be a good hunting-partner, he thought, brave and intelligent and skilful.

  "She healed the tinsmith's boy last night," someone whispered, "and two witches came at her call, and obeyed her."

  "She spoke to them in an unknown tongue; I heard it."

  Hywel heard the mutterings in the crowd; he said nothing. There was nothing to say. They did not, perhaps could not, understand magic, because their dreams of power and the facts of the craft were so very different.

  "Rhiannon," someone murmured.

  "Rhiannon..." said more voices.

  They believed that just reading a person's mind gave the reader total communion with that person's soul. They were wrong, so cruelly wrong.

  "What is life," Cynthia Ricci sang, eyes flooded and glowing, "but an improvisation to the music?"

  Cynthia and Hywel were descending from the mountains at Cader Idris. It was a brilliant high summer day, with a fresh and delicious breeze up the estuary from Cardigan Bay. Hywel sat down on a rock, put his feet up on another, exhaled. Cynthia untied the scarf cov- ering her head and let the wind lift her hair.