by Tom Holt
Weird dream. Talk about morbid…
His eyes shot wide open, and then closed again.
There must be some way out of this.
There were times, even now, when Vince felt just a little bit wistful about splitting up with Jane. Sure, she was difficult, querulous and, not to put too fine a point on it, on the chubby side of plump. And she had moods. And she didn’t like Indian food or the right music. And her voice, when you got to know it well, had that tiny edge to it that eventually had roughly the same effect as a dentist’s drill on an unanaesthetised tooth; on the other hand—
Lucky escape, Vince congratulated himself. Lucky escape.
Not, he realised as he switched out his bedside light and set his mind adrift for the night, like Sharon. True, Sharon had just enough brain to make up a smear on a microscope slide, but there were compensations. Sharon was what one might have expected to result if Pygmalion had been a photographer working on Pirelli calendars rather than a sculptor. He grinned at the darkness, and slipped away into sleep.
And dreamed a very peculiar dream.
He dreamed that he was asleep; and over his bed stood a huge, monstrous shape, towering above him like Nelson’s Column, all gleaming muscles, fiery red eyes and big canine teeth. And it seemed as if the vision spoke to him, saying
Listen, sunshine. Jane loves you and you love her. If you know what’s good for you, that is. Get my drift?
And in his dream he had cried out and tried to wriggle away; but the monstrous vision had grabbed him round the throat with a huge, clawed hand, and had said — Now you may be thinking, all that’s over, I don’t want to risk another broken heart. Well, there’s other bits that can get broken too, take my word for it, not to mention tied in knots and yanked out by the roots. So you can either listen to the promptings of your secret heart, or you can spend the rest of your life drinking all your meals through a straw. Think on.
And then he’d woken up.
“AAAAAA!” he’d started to say; but before he could develop this line of argument the dream had stuffed a pair of socks into his mouth, lifted him up by the lapels of his pyjama jacket and held him about an inch from the tip of its huge, flaring nose.
“Not,” the dream went on, “that I’m trying to influence you in any way. Heaven forbid. Just ask yourself one question. Is this Sharon the sort of girl who’d stick by you, come what may? Would she always be there to plump up the pillows, change the bedpans, maybe wheel you down the street as far as the library once a week? You reckon she is? Well, very soon you may well be ideally placed to find out. Sleep tight, punk.”
Then he fell, landing in an awkward heap on the mattress, and the dream turned out just to have been a dream after all. After three-quarters of an hour, he’d stopped shaking enough to switch out the light and—
In case I forgot to mention it before, looks aren’t everything. And even if they were, it’d be a bit academic anyway if you couldn’t see, on account of both your eyes having been pulled out and rammed up your ears. Hypothetically speaking, of course.
With a fantastic effort, Vince managed to ungum his mouth. “Hey,” he said.
In case you’ve lost it, I’ll just write Jane’s phone number on your chest with this red-hot — oh, you can remember it? That’s fine, then. Just remember, all the world loves a lover.
Vince gurgled and closed his eyes; then opened them again. Made no difference.
Last point, before I go. If I were you, I’d lay off the cheese last thing at night. Gives you bad dreams. Cheerio.
There was an old fisherman and he had three sons. They were called Malik, Ibrahim and Asaf.
Malik was very brave. Often when the wind was blowing in from the Gulf and the waves were so high that they seemed to splash against the clouds, Malik would take the boat and come back with his nets bursting with big, fat fish. Eventually Malik passed all his exams and became a chartered surveyor.
Ibrahim was very wise. Many a time, when the fish refused to leave the bottom and everybody else’s nets were empty, Ibrahim would bring his boat to shore and his nets would be so heavy with fish that it took five men to lift them out. In due course, Ibrahim won a scholarship and qualified as an accountant.
But Asaf was always lazy and good-for-nothing, and while his father and brothers were out with the nets he would stay at home lying on his bed and dreaming of far-off lands and beautiful princesses. As a result, when his two brothers had both left home and his father came up lucky in a spot-the-infidel competition in the New Islamic Herald and retired, Asaf was left with nothing but a leaky old boat, a lot of split old nets and the prospect of a lifetime in the wholesale fish trade. Which served him, of course, bloody well right.
On one particular day, Asaf had been out since first light, and when evening came he still hadn’t caught a single fish. Sadly he looked out over the Gulf, towards the burnt-out oil rigs that stood out from the leeward shore, and sighed. As he did so, a little voice inside him seemed to say, “Throw out your net just once more, Asaf, and see what Providence may bring you!”
And why not? Asaf asked himself, and he flung the net out as far as he could throw it, and started to draw it in. As it came, he could feel how light it was; no fish again this time, he reflected sadly, isn’t that just my bloody luck?
He was just about to stow the net away and head for home when he saw, hidden in the corner of the net, a tiny jewelled fish no bigger than a roulette chip. He picked it up in his cupped hands and was on the point of throwing it back when something caught this attention. He checked himself, and looked down at the little tiny body squirming in his hands.
“Just a cotton-picking minute,” he said.
The fish kicked frantically, opening and shutting its round little mouth. Asaf peered down at it and frowned. Then, quick as a flash, he grabbed his thermos flash with his other hand, shook out the dregs of tea, filled it with seawater and dropped the fish into it.
“Hello,” he said.
The fish released a stream of bubbles, flicked its tail and darted down into the bottom of the flask. Asaf considered for a moment, then covered the neck of the flask with the flat of his hand and shook it up and down for a few seconds.
“You’re not a fish, are you?” he said.
The fish flopped round through 180 degrees and burped drunkenly. “Fair crack of the whip, sport,” it gurgled. “What d’you take me for, a flamin’ King Charles spaniel?” It froze, mouth open in a perfect O. “Ah, shit,” it added.
“Quite.”
“Let the cat out of the old tucker-bag there, I reckon,” the fish went on, hiding its face behind a fin. “All right, fair dos, I’m not a fish.”
“Sure?”
“Fair dinkum,” the fish replied. “Since you ask, I’m the Dragon King of the South-East, and if you’ve quite finished…”
Asaf stroked his chin. “A Dragon King,” he mused. “I read about your lot once. You grant wishes.”
The fish thrashed its fins irritably. “Look, mate,” it spluttered “get real, will you? If I could grant flamin’ wishes, my first wish’d be I wish I wasn’t stuck in this bastard jar. My second wish—”
“Other people’s wishes, I mean,” Asaf corrected. “The poor fisherman catches you, he takes pity on the poor little fish trapped in his net and throws it back, and next thing he knows he’s knee-deep in junk mail from the financial services boys. It’s a standard wish-fulfilment motif in Near Eastern oral tradition,” he added. “Usually three.”
“Three what?”
“Wishes,” Asaf replied, “for fulfilment. Now we’ll start off with a nicely balanced eight-figure portfolio made up of say fifty per cent gilt-edged government stocks, twenty-five per cent offshore convertible…”
The fish squirmed. “Sorry,” it said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“No can do.” Fish can’t sweat, but the Dragon King was, by definition, not a fish. “Look, mate, if it was up to me it’d be no worries, straight up, Bob’s your uncle
. But—”
“But?”
“Yeah,” replied the fish. “Dragon King of the South-East, remember? With responsibility for the Indian Ocean, southern sector.”
“You mean,” said the fisherman, “Australia?”
The fish nodded. That is to say, it moved up and down in the water, using its small rear fins as stabilisers. “And New Zealand,” it added, “not forgetting Tasmania. But excluding the Philippines. And where I come from, blokes don’t wish for the sort of thing you do.”
“They don’t?”
The fish shook its head; the same manoeuvre, but in reverse. “One, all the beer you can drink. Two, sitting in front of the TV watching the footie with a big bag of salt and vinegar crisps. Three, more beer. Interested?”
“Not particularly.” Asaf frowned. “In case you didn’t know, this is a Moslem country.”
“Is it? Jeez, mate, get me outa here quick. Talk about a fish out of water…”
“Quite.” Asaf lifted the flask and began to tilt it sideways towards the deck of the boat. “Are you sure that’s all you can do?” he said encouragingly. “I’ll bet you anything you like that if you really set your mind to it—”
“Watch what you’re flamin’ well doing with that…”
Asaf nodded, and restored the flask to the vertical. “What you need,” he said, “is more self-confidence. And I intend to give it to you. Inexhaustible wealth, now.” He started to count to ten.
“Just a minute.” The fish was cowering in the bottom of the flask, frantically feathering its tail-fin for maximum reverse thrust. “Um, will you take a cheque?”
“No.”
“Plastic?”
“No.”
“Then,” said the fish, “it looks like we got a problem here.”
“We have?” The flask inclined.
“Yes.”
Asaf shrugged. “Fair enough, then. What can you offer?” The fish oscillated for a moment. “How about,” it suggested, “a really deep bronze tan? You know, the outdoors look?”
“Don’t be stupid, I’m a fisherman.”
“Right, good point. I guess that also rules out a magic, self-righting surfboard.”
“Correct.”
“All right, all right.” The fish twisted itself at right angles and gnawed its fins. “What about stone-cold guaranteed success with the sheilas? Now I can’t say fairer than that.”
“Yes, you can. To take just one example, inexhaustible wealth.”
The fish wriggled. “Stone-cold guaranteed success with rich sheilas?”
Asaf nodded. “I think we’re getting warmer,” he said.
“Rich, good-looking sheilas?”
“Marginally warmer. Still some way to go, though.”
“Rich, good-looking sheilas who don’t talk all the flamin’ time?”
“Better,” Asaf conceded, “but I still think you’re missing the point somewhat. I think if you zeroed in on the rich part, rather than the sheilas aspect—”
“I got you, yes.” The fish turned over and floated on its back for a second or two. “What about,” it suggested, “rich old boilers who’ll pop off and leave you all their money?”
Asaf shook his head. “Too much like hard work,” he said. “And besides, you’re displaying a very cynical attitude towards human relationships, which I find rather distasteful. Let’s stick to rich, shall we, and leave the sheilas element to look after itself.”
“Could be a problem with that,” the fish mumbled. “The sheilas are, like, compulsory. Chicks with everything.”
“How depressingly chauvinistic.”
“Yeah, well.” The fish waggled its tail-fin. “Sort of goes with the territory, mate. You don’t have to treat ’em like dirt if you don’t want to,” it added hopefully. “I mean, if you want to, you can buy ’em flowers.”
Asaf sighed. “Gosh,” he said, “how heavy this flask is. If I have to stand here negotiating for very much longer, my arm might get all weak and…”
“All right, you flamin’ mortal bastard!” the fish screeched. “Just watch what you’re doing with that thing.”
“Well?”
“I’m thinking.” The fish swam in slow circles, occasionally nibbling at the sides of the flask. “OK,” it said. “But this is the best I can do.”
“I’m listening.”
“Just the one sheila,” said the fish persuasively. “And she’s stinking rich—”
“Beyond the dreams of avarice?”
“Too right, mate, too right. Richest chick this side of the black stump. And all you’ve got to do is rescue her, right?”
Asaf scowled. “You haven’t been listening,” he said. “All I’m interested in is the money. Climbing up rope ladders and sword-fights with guards simply aren’t my style. I get vertigo.”
“No worries,” the fish reassured him. “I’ll handle all that side of things, just you see.”
“Sure,” Asaf growled. “In case you hadn’t noticed, you’re a two-inch-long fish. Don’t you think that’d prove rather a handicap when it comes to rescuing wealthy females?”
“Huh!” The fish sneered. “Now who’s the bigot?”
“But…”
“Just ’cos I’m small and I’ve got fins—”
“Be reasonable,” Asaf said. “You can’t escape your way out of a thermos flask. How are you going to cope with heavily guarded castles?”
“I’ll have no worries swimming the moat,” the fish replied. “Anyway, I’m only a fish right now. As soon as I can get home and out of this flamin’ fish outfit, I can go back to being a dragon. Dragons can rescue anybody, right?”
“I suppose so.” Asaf rubbed his chin. On the one hand, the Dragon King hardly inspired confidence. On the other hand… He looked down at the boat, the empty nets, the threadbare sail. “Very well, then. So long as it’s guaranteed success.”
“Trust me.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
“Look…”
“All right,” Asaf said. “So what do I do now?”
The fish darted up the meniscus of the flask. “Just chuck me back in,” he said, “and then row to the shore. I’ll be there waiting.”
“Straight up?”
“On me honour as an Australian,” the fish replied solemnly. “No bludging, honest.”
“Oh, all right then.” Asaf jerked the flask sharply sideways, emptying its contents into the sea. There was a soft splash.
“Waste of bloody time,” he muttered to himself. Then he rowed to the shore.
He was just pulling his boat up on to the beach when there was a sharp WHOOSH! immediately behind his back, and sand everywhere. He turned slowly around and saw a very old, very battered Volkswagen dormobile, with lots of stickers inside the windscreen. He frowned; and suddenly realised that instead of his comfortable old fishing smock, he was wearing strange new clothes: a denim jacket with the sleeves cut off, shorts, trainers and no socks. There was also some sort of sticky white stuff all over his nose and lips.
“Hey!” he said angrily.
WHAM!
Hovering over his head was a huge, green scaly lizard.
“G’day,” it said. “Jeez, mate, you don’t know how good it feels to get me proper duds back on again after being squashed inside that poxy little fish skin. Ready to go?”
Asaf stepped back. He had to retreat quite some way before he could see the whole of the dragon. He began to wish he hadn’t started this.
“Hey,” he said, “what’s going on? Who are you, anyway, the local area franchisee for the Klingon Empire?”
The dragon chuckled. “I’m a dragon, mate,” he replied. “What did you expect, a little skinny bloke with glasses? Now, are you ready for off?”
“Off where?”
“Off to see this incredibly rich sheila,” the dragon replied. “Now I’d better warn you, she’s not exactly a real hot looker, but so what? Like we say in Oz, you don’t care what’s on the mantelpiece when you’re poking
the fire.”
“All right,” Asaf muttered. “But what’s with the broken-down old van? Why the stupid clothes?”
The dragon looked offended. “We’re going on our travels, right?”
“I suppose so, yes.”
The dragon’s lips parted in a huge smile. “Well,” he said, “if we’re going walkabout, we might as well do it properly.”
Asaf was on the point of objecting vehemently when it occurred to him that the Dragon King was perfectly right. Wherever you go, he remembered his brothers telling him, whichever inhospitable corner of the globe you wind up in, you can always be sure of finding three tall, bronzed Aussies in beach clothes and a beat-up old camper. And you can bet your life that when the chips are down, they’re not the ones whose fan-belt breaks three hundred miles from the nearest garage.
The Dragon King waves a giant forepaw and vanished. A moment or so later, when he’d recovered, Asaf noticed that the dormobile now had a chrome dragon mascot on the bonnet where the VW insignia ought to have been.
“This is silly,” he told himself. Then he climbed into the van and turned the key.
Love, according to all the best poets, works wonders. Under the influence of love, men and women scale impossible mountains, brave tempestuous seas, face down dangers that any rational human being would run a mile from; love does for the heart and the soul what a five-year course of anabolic steroids does for the muscles. Mankind will do virtually anything for love.
Blind terror, however, knocks love into a cocked hat.
It wasn’t love, for example, that brought Vince, white as a sheet and jumping like a kitten at loud noises, round to Jane’s front door at nine o’clock sharp, clutching a huge bunch of flowers and wearing the tie she’d given him at the office Christmas party (hastily unwound from a dripping tap and ironed).