by Thomas Sabel
“I didn’t think dragons existed, Prester John. What do you think?” asked Ulrik.
“I’ve no idea. By the looks of it, this part of the map is older than the rest; I know it sounds strange, but maybe this is a left-over memory,” he replied.
“Who ever heard of such nonsense,” said Clarissa, shaking her head, “maps with memories, dragons. What next—fairy folk and hob-goblins?”
The valley looked like it may well have been the home of such creatures. Tall cliffs ran along either side, leaving only a narrow ravine for the road. A few scrub oaks grew precariously from the cliff sides, leaning over the road, the dead and dry branches looked like large skeleton hands grasping for travelers.
“There,” cried Clarissa, pointing up at one particular pair of oaks leaning from each side of the valley to meet in the middle. “Dragons. I found our stupid dragons.” Ulrik and Prester John looked up at the tangle of roots and branches. They looked like a pair of fighting dragons. Clarissa laughed, “Dragons of old trees! What a map you’ve got there, Ulrik! What’ll it say next?”
He took the map back, carefully rolled it, and tucked it into his shirt. The abbot said it was a special map by Nagel, full of surprises, but worthy of their trust. Now the map was letting them down, becoming a disappointment.
As they walked under the sinister trees, Clarissa looked up into them, faked a shudder and sniggered something about “fearsome dragons.” Ignoring her laughter, Prester John lagged behind and assumed the same wariness that emanated from him before they encountered Dragomere. Ulrik slowed his pace, keeping the pony near him and allowing Prester John to catch up. He motioned for quiet. Having learned from his teacher’s example, Ulrik’s senses grew more alert; he tried to sense what the ex-mercenary did. Prester John eased himself to the side of the pony where the sword lay hidden.
An ear-splitting howl careened toward them from above; an enormous shadow shrouded the valley, blocking the sun. Giant claws dropped from the darkness and seized the pony. The force knocked them back against the cliff walls. Clarissa shrieked. Ulrik stood and found himself face to face with a dragon whose claws squeezed the life from the pony that gave a last, pitiful whinny.
The dragon looked at Ulrik with his one good eye; the other clouded with a cataract. It roared, revealing lines of broken teeth and deep lesions in its mouth; its foul breath reeked like wet ashes from burnt garbage. In slow agony, it raised its wings to reveal tears and holes in its hide as dry scales molted from its belly.
With the sword out of reach, Prester John grabbed a fallen tree branch and set himself between the dragon and Ulrik. Using it as a quarterstaff, he defended the prince. The dragon regarded Prester John as a mere pest, whipping his tail around and smashing him against the cliff’s wall. Nothing stood between the prince and the dragon when another cry came out of the sky, “Magroth! No!” The dragon looked up, blew a fetid cloud of smoke from its nostril, cast his good eye at Ulrik, and soared off, clutching the limp carcass of the pony in his claws.
The sight of a second dragon flying down the narrow valley sent Clarissa running back to the others. She and Ulrik huddled behind Prester John who kept a tight grip on the branch, the only weapon at hand. The dragon landed fifty feet away from them and paused. Unlike the first dragon, this one was immaculate. Every black scale shined and was in perfect place. The claws were neatly trimmed and the red eyes shined clear and bright. He gingerly approached and spoke, “I do so apologize for Magroth’s rude behavior. He’s gone feral. He really doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore. Rather sad, really—probably thought you were extra-large mountain goats or the like. I try to keep an eye on him, being his last living relative and all, but we can’t be everywhere at once can we?”
By the time he had asked this last question, he had closed the distance between them. Prester John, using the last bit of his strength, raised the branch over his head as a club only to collapse in his attempt to attack the dragon. Ulrik and Clarissa rushed to his side, not noticing that the dragon’s nose followed them and sniffed at Prester John’s wound.
“Oh dear,” said the dragon as he sniffed again, pensively. “Dragon poison. Magroth must have stung him with his tail. We don’t have much time. I’ve the antidote at home and you must get him there. I don’t carry the stuff around with me, after all, haven’t had anyone traipsing down this path for ever such a long time.” He stopped talking, eyed them suspiciously and said, “Exactly, what are you doing here?”
Clarissa, struggling with Ulrik to carry the hurt man, screamed at the dragon, “Shut-up, would you? If you truly wanted to help, you’d see we can’t carry him by ourselves and we need your help.”
“What do you expect me to do?” replied the dragon.
“You’re a dragon, fly him out of here!” exclaimed Clarissa.
“Impossible; it’s much too far! The strain of the flight would certainly kill him,” said the dragon.
“Then carry him on your back. You’re big enough to carry him,” said Clarissa.
“Carry him! On my back! You mean hoist him up between my wings like some pack mule?”
“Exactly,” spit Clarissa.
He sighed, took another sniff at Prester John and said, “If I must, I must.” He crouched down to allow them to put him between his wings. “Ouch; be careful there, what do you think I’m made of, tin?” He struggled to his feet, striving to keep his passenger on his back.
“Be careful,” admonished Clarissa.
“You needn’t be harsh. I’ve never done this sort of thing before. Have a little compassion, if you don’t mind,” said the dragon.
“Compassion! He’s dying and you want compassion?” screamed Clarissa.
“Please,” said Ulrik, “would you two stop bickering.”
Clarissa and the dragon eyed each other with suspicion as they all walked down the valley floor.
Prester John lapsed into unconsciousness by the time they reached the broadening of the valley. “I’ll have to fly him up. I hope it doesn’t cause extra damage,” said the dragon looking up a sheer cliff that marked the boundary between the valley and the plain.
“Up where?” asked Ulrik.
“To my home, of course.” He nodded his head towards the top of the cliff. A pattern of a castle camouflaged within the outcropping of rocks and caves of the cliff face grew visible. “You’ll need to take the stairs while I minister to his wound.” He pointed out a narrow stair, worming its way to the top.
“You expect us to climb all that way?” complained Clarissa.
The dragon looked at her and replied in a self-satisfied way, “Yes.” Then he directed them, “Now help your friend off my back. Don’t worry, I’m a gentle type by nature.” He took hold of Prester John with a grip in his claws that was more like a caress and lifted off, making an effortless rise to the top.
Ulrik and Clarissa looked at the stairs winding higher and higher to the summit. Ulrik took the lead, urging the girl on with his intensity. The centuries of frost upheavals, expanding tree roots, and weathering had converted the stairs into a mountain climb path. Darkness fell before they reached the top, causing them to stumble, fall, and scrape their way up the slope. Clarissa grew too exhausted to complain. Ulrik became thankful for the toughness exercises his teacher had put him through. The top of the stairs led to a large courtyard with an open door opposite the stairs. The light coming through the door invited them in.
“Come on,” urged Ulrik, taking Clarissa by the arm as she limped toward the light. She moaned as they hobbled across the courtyard then stopped abruptly when they crossed the threshold. Light reflected through countless crystals filling the spacious entry, turning the room into a bejeweled marvel where the light glimmered on walls, floor and ceiling. Ulrik looked at Clarissa to see her bathed in sapphire light that changed to emeralds when she moved from one place to another. They both stood in silent awe.
“A bit gaudy for my tastes,” interrupted the dragon, entering from a side hallway. “My grandfather
ordered it made this way. He had it all done up to impress the visitor, I suppose.” He noticed their scrapes, bruises, torn clothes, painfully out of place in the beauty of such light. “Oh my, look at you. I’ve completely forgotten my duties as your host in the emergency and all. Let me begin with an introduction.” He pulled back, bowed, extended a claw, and said, “My name is Illyricus Draconitis. May my hospitality be exceeded by your comfort.”
Ulrik took his claw and responded, “I’m Ulrik of Luternia, and this is Clarissa.” Clarissa made the attempt of a curtsey learned only through storybooks. The prince continued, “Now, about our friend, Prester John . . .”
“While my medical skills are a bit rusty, I believe I can give a good prognosis. I just finished with him. I gave him the antidote and stitched the wound. Pray that he will indeed heal fully. He’s resting well now and shouldn’t be disturbed for a while. This would be an excellent time for you to . . .” he paused, looked at them again and continued, “. . . to tidy up and tend to your own bruises. I’ll lay out the medicine and do my best to find undamaged clothing of some sort.”
They followed him to a pair of rooms, each with its own bath. He stuck his head into one of the rooms and muttered something, then quickly closed the doors off to them. “Wait here a moment,” he said as he hustled down the hallway, wings flapping to increase his speed, murmuring all the way. Before they had time to look around, he had returned carrying a basket in his claws, “Not yet, not yet,” he said, pushing them aside, as he reentered the rooms. Behind the doors a general commotion could be heard. He opened one door and stepped aside saying, “Ladies first, Clarissa. Ulrik, you take this one. I hope they’re all right. They haven’t been used in the longest time. I hope the water isn’t too hot. I put the towels over there. I do apologize for the dust. Perhaps I should go and find some kind of clothes for you now.”
Ulrik found the bath perfect and the soaking eased his scrapes and bruises. A knock came through the door after he had finished and was drying off. “I hope these fit,” said Illyricus from the other side. Ulrik heard him knock and say the same to Clarissa. Ulrik opened the door and found a neatly folded pile of clothes at the threshold. He pulled the clothing inside and closed the door. Both the smell and the style spoke of long storage. The simple robe had large deep sleeves edged in fur, some of which fell off as he examined it. An elegant pattern of intertwining plants and flowers had been woven throughout the fabric. He remembered an old book in which an ancient king wore one like it.
“Ulrik, I look like a princess!” exclaimed Clarissa as she barged in on him, looking indeed like royalty of ancient days. He quickly closed his robes and hurried her out the door. He readjusted his new clothes and went out to join her.
Illyricus greeted them, “I’m so thankful they fit. I wasn’t really quite sure. We used to get so many human guests that we needed to keep extra attire on hand. But that was a long time ago. Uh, are you hungry? I hope so. I’ve tried to put together a bit of supper for you. I hope it’s to your liking.” He took them away from the baths into an enormous hall.
“The whole castle is dragon size,” explained Illyricus as they stood within the gargantuan space. The room could have held the entirety of the courtyard of Castle Åræthi. Even though burning torches lined the walls, much of the room remained in darkness. At the end of the room stood a table which would have been gigantic anywhere else but was dwarfed within the hall. A meal lay waiting for them, artfully laid out, but with peculiar combinations: cheese and meat covered with fruit sauce, salads made of lettuce and cake, fruits with gravy. Hunger drove their attempt to eat, not an inspired appetite.
“I hope you find this pleasing. I put it together myself. I tried to remember how we served our last human guests. I’m sorry if I botched it up.” Illyricus said.
“No need to apologize; everything is fine,” said Ulrik rearranging the food from platter to plate in the generally preferred manner. Clarissa tried to do the same, but her first bite caused a grimace. Ulrik’s hard expression stopped her from saying anything, and then he said to the dragon, “We can’t eat right now.” Illyricus’ hopeful eyes fell as Ulrik continued, “We’re too concerned about Prester John. Can we see him now?”
“Of course, of course.” The dragon perked up and answered. “How foolish of me. Of course you’d want to see him as soon as possible.” They hurried down the immense hallway, leaving the meal behind. Ulrik and Clarissa broke into a trot in order to keep up with their host, scarcely glancing at the great, colorful mural that stretched along the entire wall. Prester John lay in a room paneled in polished white marble, like a hospital for royalty. He lay in an exquisite bed, sleeping peacefully among the elegant bedclothes. Absent from his face was the usual tenseness. The scar on his face, normally a raging red, had softened to a placid hue, He breathed evenly and comfortably. Scattered on a nearby table lay a collection of medical books, some open to graphic anatomic illustrations. In a basin lay a collection of recently cleaned surgical instruments.
“The sting went deeper than I had smelled. Part of it broke off and I had an absolute dickens of a time getting it out. Old Magroth’s getting brittle, so I’m not surprised. He doesn’t have much venom left in him either, which turned out for the good of your friend. I did my best at stitching him back together. I did a decent job, if I say so myself. Looks like the last hundred years or so of needlepoint proved to be good for something other than antimacassars. I stitched the tiniest posy into his sutures. I hope he doesn’t mind too much,” explained the dragon. When he saw they had stopped listening to him and were standing by Prester John’s bed, he apologized, “Do excuse me for rattling on so, I’m sure you’d rather see to him than listen to me.” He quietly backed out of the room.
Ulrik stood by his teacher and began to pray, “Lord God, I don’t know where I would be without this man. He has been through much more than I can grasp. Ease his pain, dear Lord, ease the pain of body and spirit. Heal him, dear Lord, restore him to us.” Prester John groaned, turned his face to Ulrik and weakly reached out his hand. By instinct Ulrik took his hand, amazed at the great strength remaining in it.
“Ulrik, you’re here. Thank God.” he said before closing his eyes again and returning to sleep.
Bored with the vigil that Ulrik kept at his teacher’s bedside, Clarissa left to explore the dragon’s castle. As Ulrik looked at his mentor, he saw the peace that is beyond our understanding resting upon the ex-mercenary turned pastor. The cold, distant, and demanding instructor had been slowly replaced by this man who had risen to Ulrik’s defense, who cared for the prince in his own soul’s dark night, who was ready to give up his life for him and Clarissa, and now, lay healing in this opulent and unusual sickroom, equipped not only with human-sized beds and instruments but also with dragon-sized equipment. Ever since Ulrik left the safety of his home, much seemed more dreamlike than anything. These events, were they real? Were they disconnected events, a plan, a grand design laid out long before his own birth, or his mother’s or father’s birth, or before that? His ruminations were shattered by a bellowing heard throughout the castle, “What are you doing?”
“I’m cleaning up this pit. Either lend a hand, or a claw, or get out of the way.” Clarissa said, her volume matching the dragon’s. Ulrik dashed from the sick room and followed the noise through the passages to their source: the kitchen. Dirt encrusted pans littered the stoves. Ancient plates with ancient food filled the long dry sink, stains of soup and sauces lined bowls and ladles. In the midst of the mess stood Clarissa, angrily staring down Illyricus and demanding an answer: “When was the last time this place was cleaned?” The dragon mouthed something about the last guests who had been there several hundred years ago. She saw Ulrik and barked, “You finally showed up! Give a hand. Take everything out of the sink.” She turned to Illyricus and said, “You’re a dragon, right? You breathe fire, right? We’re going to need plenty of hot water.” His jaw dropped in disbelief. “Come on,” she continued, “we’ve work to
do. If we’re going to be here a while, we’re going to put the place to rights.”
Illyricus turned to fetch the water and heat it up, whispering to Ulrik on the way out, “Is she always like this?”
“She gets it from her mother,” explained the prince as he put on an apron and set to clearing out the sink.
Under Clarissa’s cajoling, the kitchen was put to rights in half a day. Working side by side, they were able to learn much about each other.
“Excuse me for asking, but does the castle have another kitchen?” asked Ulrik.
“No, only this one.” said Illyricus.
“Then what do you eat?” said Ulrik.
“Mountain goats, mainly. Sounds odd, doesn’t it? I don’t think about it much. No real taste buds, you see. Since I can’t taste my food, it doesn’t matter what I eat. And it roasts inside the fire chamber, you know. Every week or so I fly off and pop in a goat. That’s all I really need. This kitchen’s here to provide for honored guests,” the dragon explained.
“When was the last time you had honored guests?” asked Ulrik.
“That would have been in my father’s time about five hundred years ago or so.” answered the dragon.
Hearing that last exchange between Ulrik and Illyricus, Clarissa started to howl, “These have been sitting here for five hundred years? You’re the champion of putting something off! Look at this! I’ve ruined historical artifacts.” Ulrik and Illyricus joined her laughter. A smoke puff of contentment popped out of the dragon’s nose.
“It has been so long since there’s been laughter here. You don’t laugh much when you’re by yourself all the time. You rather forget how,” said Illyricus.
At their urging, Illyricus showed them his castle. He first took them to the garden behind the castle. “I’ve done my best to keep this part up,” he said, “unlike the kitchen.” A pair of carved dragon wings stretching to the sky formed the garden gate. Not a leaf or shoot was out of place. An intricate herb knot revealed the pattern of stars and planets; the topiary depicted a magical world: ogres, giants, elves, centaurs, and one hedge clipped into a line of soldiers ready for battle. As Illyricus was showing his work, a rabbit snuck through a hole in the garden wall and began to nibble upon the herb garden. Illyricus snorted, “Not you again.” The rabbit stopped and turned to him, its nose twitching. The dragon blew the faintest bit of smoke towards the rabbit, causing it to retreat back through the garden wall. “I should block that hole up, but he doesn’t eat that much, does he?”