Dragon Castle

by Joseph Bruchac

  From that point on, things were quite different. Several things changed for me, including my opinion of my mother. Although little in the realm of intellect was familiar to her, I realized her other talent that day in the deepest cellars of Castle Hladka Hvorka. My, yes.

  That door that loomed before us was unlike any I’d ever encountered before. Three times the height of a tall man, it was wide enough to drive a team through. It was made of neither wood nor metal, but a weird black stone that glistened with darkness. It seemed to glow and absorb the light at the same time. I was impressed—and also briefly bemused. How might it be opened? On its smooth surface there was no lock, no doorknob or handle, not even any visible hinges.

  “Velke dvere. Big door!” Paulek said in a reverential voice. Even he was awed.

  “Give me a bit of space, my dears,” Mother said, handing me the torch and pulling up the sleeve of her gown.

  There was a commanding note in her voice I’d not heard before. Both Paulek and I were swift to react, taking several steps backward. It wasn’t just what she said. She had visibly started to glow. Well, not all of her. Just the right hand that she held up in front of her. It was already twice as bright as the torch she’d passed to me.

  As she took a step toward the massive door, her hand became as difficult to look at as the midday sun. The look on her illuminated face was more determined than I’d ever seen it, even more than when she was trying (with little success) to thread a needle. Sewing was my mother’s favorite hobby, even though nothing she stitched together would have ever proved wearable, but for the patient assistance of Grace, Grace, Grace, and Charity.

  Now, though, there was power and certainty in every step she took. She spoke again.

  “Teraz! Now!”

  The voice that came from her mouth was hers but different. It rumbled and rolled, echoed around us and through us, out beyond the edge of the world and back again. We were more than awed.

  That is sooo loud, I thought. I hope Mother never yells at me with that voice. As soon as I get back upstairs, I am going straight up to her bedchamber to remove that frog I put into her sewing box.

  Then she spoke again in that voice of thunder.

  “VELKE DVERE! OTVORTE SA!”

  Yes, that’s what she said.

  Big door! Open!

  Unexpectedly potent as my mother revealed herself to be at that moment, she also proved she was still predictably unimaginative.

  As commanded, the door began to move. It lifted up a little—it had, I could now see, lots of little feet on the bottom—then waltzed backward and slightly sideways, leaving the immense portal open for our entrance.

  “Dakujem, dvere,” my mother said. “Thank you, door.”

  Then to us, “Come along, dears.”

  We came along. Neither of us uttered a peep. What could we say? Other than “Oh my!” or “Gah!”

  The room we tiptoed into was vast. It seemed, rather troublingly, much too big to fit into the space below our castle. It didn’t feel as much like a cavern in the depths of the earth as a cave that belonged high atop the Tatras. Its size, however, was only part of what we noticed.

  All around us was the “er-ah,” my father had mentioned.

  There were great heaps of rough nuggets. Innumerable coins spilled out of wooden trunks. There were finely worked goblets and statues, diadems and coronets, even chairs and thrones—some bearing scratches in their soft metal surfaces, as if they’d been at one time or another snatched up by sharp-clawed feet. Even though we were young boys, Paulek and I knew enough to be vastly impressed.

  “Oh my,” I said, finally regaining my breath.

  “Gah!” my openmouthed brother added.

  “Ano,” my mother agreed. “It is rather quite a lot of gold.”

  THE DRAGON’S GOLD.

  Note that I did not say “our gold.” No one in our family would ever dream of saying or thinking that. None of us are greedy. Not even Paulek. True, my brother did enjoy confiscating my childhood possessions and we still have been known to scuffle over the last turkey leg. But food and mutually owned toys are one thing. Mountains of precious metal and stacks of jewels are quite another.

  Paulek and I understand certain lessons that Mother taught us. If you become possessive about wealth, it does strange things to you. Especially gold that is cursed. The best thing to do is to keep it hidden away.

  A second lesson was equally simple. Don’t attract too much attention. That’s been the motto of our family since the time of Pavol the Good. Admittedly, when my ancestor caused a hill to rise and a sizeable castle to appear overnight, he did create a bit of a stir. However, mystically appearing buildings do not attract the avaricious the way that the glow of that soft heavy metal does.

  Also, it was explained to Paulek and me, if one tried to remove too much of the er-ah from that cavern, even though it is, technically, under our control now—it might awaken the gold’s unseen guardian. Not to say what it is, but it is big, scaly, toothy, and breathes fire, don’t you know?

  However, my family does not hoard that gold like jealous misers—or the dog in the stable that keeps the horses from the hay it can’t eat itself. What my parents have always done with that treasure is to share it, a little bit at a time. The thing about cursed wealth is that those who are generous of spirit may actually use it, as long as it is for the needy and not themselves.

  Thus Mother makes her twice-yearly foray down to that cave to fill a few picnic baskets with coins. Then, masked and hooded so that no one can ever guess who they are—unless that person takes note of the fact that beneath their masks and hoods my mother and father wear their usual monogrammed clothing and travel in our castle’s ducal coach—she and Father distribute that wealth. Despite his rather limited grasp of economics (or history or geography or mathematics or virtually any subject, for that matter), Father can sniff out a swindler or thief from miles away. Thus only the truly needy ever benefit from my parents’ largesse. Homes for orphans, food and clothing for those in need, and so on.

  The help that my parents bestow is always accepted with gratitude. I know that firsthand. Paulek and I have accompanied them ever since our first visit to the cave. When we were little, it was a bit difficult for us to assist. Imagine yourself a seven-year-old boy lugging a large and suspiciously sagging picnic basket, while pretending that its contents are nothing more than a roasted pheasant, some bread and wine and cheese. Even a small handful of gold is heavy.

  “Might I help with that, young master?”

  “No, Georgi, unnnhhh, it . . . isn’t . . . unnnhh, at all heavy.”

  Naturally, there are rumors about our fortune.

  “Oh, that old story,” my father always chuckles whenever some visiting outsider brings it up. “Rather exaggerated. Dragon’s gold and all. Quite amusing. Wouldn’t believe that if I were you.”

  Within our dukedom, those favored by our family’s subtle philanthropy always say thanks—rather amusingly at times.

  Such as last summer when my father dropped sufficient gold coins into a famer’s hands to enable him to rebuild his barn and house burned down by lightning.

  “Dakujem, dakujem,” the man sobbed, tears filling his eyes. “Thank you, thank you.” He grasped my father’s hand and kissed it—something that always embarrasses my father, though he graciously did not attempt to pull his hand from the farmer’s grasp. “Thanks to you and your wife, Duke—ooof!”

  The “ooof” was a result of the farmer’s wife elbowing the man firmly in his stomach before he could finish his sentence.

  “Mysterious strangers,” she said, “we will always be grateful for your kindness.”

  “Ano,” said the farmer, having recovered his breath, “my wife is right. We thank you . . . ah, unknown people who have probably come from far away and not from any castle that we can see from our front door.”

  He looked over at his wife, who had raised an eyebrow, but nothing more. “May you live a thousand years,” he con
tinued.

  “And,” he added, emboldened by her lack of response, turning his glance toward Paulek and me, both of us as mysteriously and ineffectually masked as our happy parents, “may good fortune always attend your two sons, Pau—ooof!”

  The woman was amazingly adept with an elbow.

  IT HAS TAKEN only a few heartbeats to revisit my memory. I look up at Uncle Jozef.

  “I’ve thought about it,” I say. “About the dragon’s treasure.”

  “And?” he asks

  What else was I supposed to remember?

  He remains maddeningly silent. I wait. So does he. Despite my understandable impatience with my family, I actually can be patient when I need to be. But this is like having a contest with a boulder to see who can sit still the longest. I give up.

  “What?” I ask with a sigh.

  “Ah,” Uncle Jozef rumbles. “Don’t you know?”

  Do I? Perhaps I do. It’s another of the mysteries that hang about the tale of Duke Pavol. Such as his building Hladka Hvorka in a single night. Or his marriage to the mysterious Karoline, who was acknowledged by all as the cleverest and most beautiful woman in the land. And where did she come from? Or the way neither he nor his wife nor even his horse ever seemed to grow older despite the fact that Pavol’s blessed rule lasted four decades and a day? Then Pavol and his wife rode off toward the west, never to be seen again.

  Of course, as is true in so many old stories about great heroes, the saying in our realm is that when he is truly needed, Pavol the Good will return again.

  This mystery, though, is something other than Pavol’s disappearance. It’s something I have often seen—more or less. It’s the object pictured in the center of the vivid tapestry that always most powerfully draws my eye.

  It’s surrounded by a nimbus of light. Rays of gold radiate from it with such energy that it seems as if it is going to burst into flame. More than once I’ve been drawn to it, felt impelled to touch it—rather hesitantly. I always half expect it to be as hot to the touch as a kettle heated over a fire.

  I look down at my hands, remembering all the times I’ve tried to grasp that pouch in the tapestry and felt disappointed when it has turned out to be no more than embroidered threads and cloth.

  “Prince Pavol’s missing pouch?” I ask without looking up.

  “Ano,” Uncle Jozef rumbles, his voice pleased. “Pozri. Look.”

  I raise my head and see what he is holding toward me. Another scroll. I read the first words:

  Pavol was climbing the mountain.

  PAVOL’S LEGEND

  Dvanast

  HE’D BEEN CLIMBING for a long time. It wasn’t bad enough that he had set himself a goal that might quite logically lead to his death. True, he’d had better training with a sword than most. But that was against a more or less human opponent. As fine a teacher and as worthy an opponent as Gregor had been, he was not a fire-breathing reptile reputed to be the size of a hill. Confronting a dragon was not something an inexperienced young man such as himself should hope to survive.

  In addition to his probably imminent mortality, he also had to deal with discomfort along the way. First there was the merciless heat of the sun on his head. Then there was the difficulty of making his way back and forth along a narrow mountain track that seemed to wend ever upward to the point where his journey now felt as if it had begun when the trees around him were no more than mere seeds in the stony earth.

  His disquiet was added to by the small incessant insects, of some species he’d never seen before and thus could not identify when they appeared in great sociable swarms to demonstrate their fondness for humanity. Actually he now did have names for those little blood-suckers, none of which might be repeated in the presence of polite company.

  He looked up at the golden eagle that had just come to circle overhead, its head cocked to watch him. How much easier it would be to undertake this quest if he had wings.

  Pavol sighed and looked over at what had become his greatest trial, that which made his journey seem totally interminable—his steed. He had set out not astride a horse—which his purse would not have been able to afford even if he had been given a choice—but atop a slow, stunted donkey named Jedovaty.

  Jedovaty. Poisonous. A well-named mount.

  Jedovaty’s lack of a saddle (which Pavol had been too impoverished to lease or purchase) was compensated for by the innumerable bony ridges of his spine. The uncomfortable young man had shifted his weight first from one side and then to the other to no avail. He even tried a sideways stance, both long legs dangling and scraping the ground, in a vain attempt to find a comfortable seat. Finally he had slid off to walk beside the bony beast.

  That, however, had not made things easier. Although Jedovaty might have been uncomfortable as a mount, the delightful creature was just as unpleasant as a walking companion.

  Indolent, bad-tempered, uncooperative, vicious, stubborn.

  Those were some of the many words that Pavol had catalogued to describe Jedovaty’s unendearing traits—each vying for first position. If his back was turned, Pavol now knew, the donkey would attempt to sink his yellowed teeth into any nearby portion of the young man’s flesh.

  The only good things about his current situation were two. First, it was slightly faster to drag his unwilling steed uphill by his halter than to use him as a means of transportation. Second, with his saddlebags on Jedovaty’s back, Pavol was still able to use his recalcitrant (another word to add to the list) companion as a burden carrier.

  Not that Pavol’s burden was heavy. It consisted of a small bag of provisions, a rusted sword, and a much dented shield. The age of each of the latter two well outweighed any ability they had for attack or defense. Pavol had chosen this weaponry with care. No traveler ever went unwatched in their small kingdom since the Dark Lord’s reign began. Thus he knew that his departure would be observed by suspicious eyes. But he had learned—been well taught—that to appear ridiculous remained his best defense. A callow lad with laughable armaments might be the target of jests and insults, but not seen as any sort of threat.

  “They will say let the fool go seek his doom,” Uncle Tomas had chuckled.

  In fact, quite similar words had been spoken by two of the Dark Lord’s men when they stopped him on the road that led past the blackened ruins of what had been his family’s small but proud castle.

  “Where are you going?” they asked, disappointed when a quick search of his pack proved he had nothing worth looting.

  “Up the mountain,” Pavol replied with a bright, slightly loony grin. “To meet and defeat the dragon and take its treasure.”

  They looked him up and down, sneering at the ignoble steed old Uncle Tomas had helped him choose.

  “What’s in the pouch?”

  “Treasures of great worth,” Pavol replied, opening it and spreading the contents on the ground before him.

  The two shook their heads in disbelief. Only a fool would call such things treasures. A shiny stone, a broken bear’s tooth, a bent eagle feather, a goose bone, an old iron ring, a worthless necklace, and a tarnished bracelet? They waved him past.

  “Let the fool wander off to his doom.” The first of the men, a great straw-haired brute with a scar down his cheek, chuckled.

  “If he even finds the great worm,” the second soldier scoffed.

  “Fool today, dragon dung tomorrow,” laughed the first.

  AS PAVOL RODE on he thought of how quickly they had dismissed him. The fact that he cut such a silly figure had worked well. If the eyes of the Dark Lord ever recognized him for who he really was, he would give the command that would end the line of Pavol’s family forever.

  Of course, his current quest might do just that too.

  Pavol smiled and shook his head. At the very least, he had accomplished one thing. He was not being prevented from going to risk his life by scaling the dread slopes that even the Dark Lord avoided.

  “Intrepid traveler,” Pavol said to himself as he paused to w
ipe his forehead, positioning a bush between his bruised hips and Jedovaty’s bared incisors, “where fareth ye? Questeth thee for adventure, for fair fortune and fine fame?” Then he laughed. “Or, more likely, to prove yourself a fool indeed by taking on this fool’s errand.”

  Amazingly, despite his nearly complete discomfort, Pavol was not feeling sorry for himself. His ironic laughter at the seeming stupidity of his quest and the likelihood of it proving to be a complete failure, was amused, not bitter.

  “Pavol the Foolish.” Pavol grinned to himself once again. He rubbed the bruise on his shin and edged a bit farther upslope from Jedovaty’s back legs that were taking aim. The donkey had now come up with another way of demonstrating his total devotion to Pavol’s discomfort by employing not only his teeth but also his hooves.

  Pavol looked at the clear blue sky above him and grinned even wider. A little breeze had come up and actually blown away all but the most stubborn of the gnats that had been billowing about him in a jovial cloud. The broad-winged eagle that had become their constant observer cried shrilly from above. Pavol brushed away the remaining bugs, then closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face.

  “What a wonderful day,” he said.

  Then, for he was not totally heedless of his own well-being, he opened his eyes and turned in the direction where he had heard a hoof scrape against a stone.

  It was loyal Jedovaty, stealthily extending his lanky neck uphill in the hopes of sinking his yellow teeth into Pavol’s arm.

  Pavol quickly drew his limb out of biting range. He had to admire the little donkey’s persistence. He went down on one knee and looked straight at his recalcitrant beast.

  “Kamarat,” Pavol said. “What better thing could we be doing than this?”

  Jedovaty drew his head back and stared at Pavol. “Hunnh-ah? You must be joking,” the donkey said. “How about resting hunnhh-in a nice warm stable and eating oats? And since when have hunnhh-I been your comrade?”