by Thomas Sabel
One small section of the garden not given to ornamentation was a homey vegetable garden, kept in the hope he would have guests to share the harvest. “And now you’re here. Help yourselves,” he said.
With Ulrik’s help Clarissa gathered enough food for their first regular meal since leaving the hostel. “Now that the kitchen’s clean we might as well make use of it,” she said as they carried armfuls of roots, greens, and other vegetables. The root soup flavored with watercress caused Ulrik to say, “This isn’t plain food.”
“I know,” she replied with a flip of her hair and a smile.
When Ulrik took Prester John his soup, the prince saw his teacher examining his wound and saying, “Who stitched a posy into my side? Did she do that? And what is this place, a hospital? The last thing I remember is that we were about to be eaten by dragons.” Ulrik handed over the soup and related everything that had happened since the dragon attack. “Do you mean the dragon did this?” his teacher said, pointing to the wound.
“Yes I did, and I’m quite pleased with the way it turned out,” said Illyricus who had been listening from around the doorway so as to not frighten the patient. “And for your information, dragons don’t eat people. Not enough meat, too many bones, and a horrid taste, or so I’ve read. Never tried them myself, thank heavens.”
Under Illyricus’ care Prester John was up and walking within days, still tender, and lacking his usual agility. When he winced, he quickly passed off the pain with a comment about being hurt worse, although he couldn’t remember when.
“Now that you’re up and around, I can finally show you what I’m most proud of,” said Illyricus as they walked through the castle. Ulrik fully expected that his host would show them the great mural, but instead, Illyricus rushed them past it. In his excitement the dragon propelled his guests at such a quick pace that Clarissa needed to remind him of Prester John’s condition.
“We’re almost there, but we can rest here for a nonce if you so choose,” he said as he opened a large set of double doors. They entered a library flooded with light pouring through skylights and several windows stretching from the floor to the ceiling. A balcony ran halfway up the walls and bookshelves filled the space above and below. Except for a few notable empty slots on the shelves, every object was in its proper place; neat, dust free, and smelling of leather bindings and old books. The dragon’s couch reflected the imprint of his body; a closed book with an ornate silk ribbon presumably marking the last page read stood alongside the couch on a reading table. The writing table held a stack of papers, one carefully set on top of the others. Illyricus’ needlepoint was displayed on pillows, doilies and small wall hangings, all reflecting the progress and development of his skills through the years.
Prester John lay on a smallish couch in the warmth of the sunlight studying the room as Ulrik and Clarissa slowly examined the titles of the books. Some were in languages neither recognized. “Have you read all these?” asked Clarissa.
“Oh yes, at least twice. This has always been my favorite part of the castle, even when I was a small dragonling and my father forced me out of here to teach me what he believed was a proper dragonling’s education. I never cared much for all that armor and fighting and ruling business. I’d rather come in here and bury my head in the books. I had a dickens of a time figuring out how to read Hebrew. I still haven’t figured out all that is going on in the Book of Job. O bother, listen to me wax on; that’s not why I brought you here. My intention is to show you this.” He walked over to a small door tucked among the bookshelves and slowly opened it like a parent trying to build suspense for a child. “Let me light the candles first,” he said, popping a few carefully aimed bits of fire into the room. He stepped aside. Clarissa followed Ulrik into the room.
“Prester John, you won’t believe this,” said Ulrik sticking his head back out.
“Yes, I am most anxious for your expert pastor’s opinion,” said the dragon, who paced in the library while Ulrik and Clarissa helped the patient inside. “It was a closet before I remodeled it.”
The candles illuminated a chapel complete with altar, reading desk, and a dragon sized kneeler. Upon the desk lay an open psalter; a crucifix adorned the altar, and a needlework depicting the complete life of Christ hung behind the altar. Clarissa put out her hand to touch it, only to hear the dragon say from the library, “Please don’t. It took ever so long to make.” She pulled back her hand. The chapel was too small to hold three humans plus a dragon comfortably so Illyricus remained in the library, except, of course, for his head. “Do you like it? I was hoping you would,” he said.
“This,” said Prester John, “is amazing. But why?”
“I believe Jesus instructs us to pray in a closet, doesn’t he? So that is what I do,” explained Illyricus.
“I didn’t know dragons prayed,” said Prester John.
“This one certainly does, but only for the last hundred years or so. Ever since . . . Oh dear, I think I’m tiring our patient with too much talk,” he said, sliding his head from the chapel’s doorway.
Prester John needed both Ulrik and Clarissa to help him out of the chapel and back to the couch. Illyricus directed them to other chairs while he lay on his couch to tell them the story of the chapel. “About a hundred years ago I took the Bible off the shelf again . . .” he continued to explain that under his father’s orders he had read it in order to understand human beliefs, but it made little sense to him. Then, centuries later, he picked it up again and this time the depth and meaning became clear. “It was still a bit muddy. The Holy Spirit kept on teaching me, although I didn’t realize it at the time. By God’s grace I was illuminated to believe and trust in him. The only part I’m missing is being baptized. That’s probably impossible because that holy gift is only for humans as far as I can tell.”
During the next few days he and Prester John engaged in long and detailed theological discussions. Plainly, Illyricus had read widely and, at times, was instructing the teacher. Ulrik listened in on their discussions a few times but grew restless. He was more interested in the great mural in the hall. He studied it and realized it was a history of dragons on the earth. The first panels showed humans and dragons together, living and working in one seamless community. He traced the mural’s changes as the dragons took to the skies more often, rising above the people. The humans began to cower and hide when the dragons appeared, for they were demanding gifts of gold and sacrifices. The last completed panel showed a mighty dragon king, splendid in golden armor striding among humans who lay at his feet in absolute submission. Illyricus found the prince examining the final panel. He explained, “That was my father, the last dragon lord demanding that humans worship him as their god. The humans abandoned their worship of him when I was a dragonling and that killed him.”
“There’s room on the wall for more. Perhaps that is where your story goes,” offered Ulrik.
“Who wants a story of a bookish, timid, talkative dragon?” Illyricus said and walked slowly away.
Prester John came down the hallway. “Have you seen Illyricus? I’ve got to talk to him.” Ulrik pointed down the hallway and Prester John followed the dragon’s trail. There was a screech and then the noise of wind rushing down the hallway. A great light bore down upon him; the dragon came, blowing fire and flying straight at him. Ulrik flattened himself on the ground as Illyricus flew over. The dragon landed in a tumble and said, “He’s agreed to it! I don’t believe it! I’m going to be baptized! Imagine that, an old dragon like me getting such a gift. I don’t believe it. Where’s the girl? I have to tell her. I have to tell everyone.” And off he went without waiting for the prince’s response.
Ulrik rose and dusted himself off as Prester John approached and explained, “He and I have been studying the Scriptures for the longest time, and we both have been praying about it. I could find nothing speaking against it, and he clearly confesses the faith, so there’s nothing to keep him from being baptized. And if I’m wrong, better to sin on the
side of grace.”
The evening’s baptism would be held in the chapel. Illyricus kept going from room to room, getting in the way, talking to each and all in turn, and then to himself when they grew tired of him, saying, “I can’t believe it. I’ve waited so long. Oh, thanks be to God. I’m actually going to be baptized. Think of it: me, Illyricus Draconitis being baptized in the name of the Triune God.”
Illyricus wore a robe draped over his shoulders and wings, “I read that in early times those about to be baptized wore white robes as a symbol of being clothed in Christ. I’m sorry this looks a tad yellowish; it was white when I made it seventy years ago.”
Clarissa discovered a large clamshell-shaped bowl suitable for the baptismal font. She and Ulrik carried it to the chapel and set it in the doorway. After the invocation Prester John asked the dragon what he believed. The dragon joyfully recited the baptismal creed. He prostrated himself on the floor, wings spread wide in the dragon’s position of complete submission. Prester John poured water over his head, “I baptize you, Illyricus Draconitis, in the name of the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit.” Tears fell from bright red eyes that burnt holes in the library floor as smoke with the aroma of incense rose from his nostrils.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Friendship and gratitude, not the rule of hospitality, moved Illyricus to accompany his guests out of his territory. When the time came for them to depart the dragon flew off and searched for what remained of the goods that had been packed on their pony. He returned with a few scraps of leather and Prester John’s sword. “Old Mogroth must have thought it was a particularly indigestible bone or something. I cleaned it off the best I could. It might have passed through his digestive system,” the dragon commented as he laid it on the courtyard pavement in front of the travelers. Prester John inspected it and saw that the sword and scabbard were no worse for the experience and strapped them to his side.
Illyricus gently picked them up and one by one and flew them from the castle’s height to the foot of the mountain. “I believe you’ll find a village somewhere out there,” he said, waving his claw toward the horizon brightened by the rising sun. “I’m not really sure if it’s still there. It may well be gone by now. Time among you human folk flies so fast I can’t keep up.”
They walked together as far as a river the map labeled the Pascaline, and beyond that a faint image of a village began to develop. “This river,” said the Illyricus, “is where we must part. I’ve never crossed the Pascaline, nor have my ancestors as far back as anyone can remember and I’m not about to be the first. An ancient curse has been put upon us saying that the worst fate of all would befall the dragon who attempts it. Not that I believe in such curses and the like but I see little sense in putting the Lord to the test over it.”
When the dragon bade Clarissa good-bye, she reminded him to stay out of the kitchen; Ulrik reminded him that like himself, he was the son of a king, and as princes, they must band together; Prester John traced the sign of the cross on his forehead reciting the Benediction to go in peace. This reminder of his baptism sent Illyricus soaring joyfully back to his castle without waiting for them to cross the river, leaving a trail of smoke rings the size of small clouds.
The map led them to a shallow ford that they crossed easily and then directed them on to the village which remained an indistinct blur. Other than the turf ruins of a long-abandoned shepherd’s hut or a stray bit of collapsed stone fence, the broad, treeless plain showed no sign of habitation. The bracing air of the morning encouraged a quick pace through knee high grass and over low rolling hills.
As the day wore on, the sun’s growing intensity pushed the cool of the morning into memory, leaving the travelers eager for shade. Ulrik took out the map to see if they were any nearer the village. The image remained blurred, more of a phantom than a clear picture. The map, however, did provide hope in clearly showing a nearby spring labeled, “Like cold water to the throat that is faint with thirst.” Ulrik followed the map and led the others into a hollow between the hills. Here, the refreshingly cool air and the spring’s inviting bubblings urged them into an artificial grotto half buried in the hillside. The grotto was built of ancient stones, some of which were clearly taken from even more ancient buildings; hints of their past- column turnings, ionic capitols, and ancient inscriptions found embedded into in the walls. The spring lay deep within the grotto and above the spring, a mosaic of a young woman adorned with a circlet of snowflakes watched over the waters. Under her gaze and in the cool of the grotto they rested. The fresh, cold water, the cool air, and the bit of fresh food Illyricus had given for their journey filled them with new strength and resolve.
“I wonder how my father is doing. With so much that has happened I haven’t given him the thoughts and prayers I should be.” Ulrik pondered out loud. “Do you think he’s still alive?”
“I don’t know,” mused his teacher. “I’m sure the abbot would have sent word to us if he had heard anything. He seems to have eyes and ears in the most unlikely places. And, sad to say, when a king dies news travels quickly.”
The water, alive and flowing from the spring, brought them new life and they continued on, reaching the village by nightfall. While the image on the map grew in size, it remained an indistinct blur. When they entered the village Prester John and Ulrik grew alert, sensing hidden eyes watching their arrival
“Can this be the right place?” Ulrik whispered. He didn’t want strange ears to hear his voice. The streets were empty and the buildings remained gray and drab, untouched by the yellow light of the setting sun. Clarissa walked over to a building and knocked on it hard, causing her knuckles to bleed. “I had to see if it’s real,” she said, nursing her knuckles.
The appearance of figures wrapped in long robes, faces hidden beneath deep cowls, captured their attention and forced them into the shadows of the nearest building. The figures, in groups of two or three, moved furtively and noiselessly through the streets. All seemed to have the same destination as a goal: a derelict barn-like building on the distant edge of the village. The three carefully followed a pair of the robed figures, one tall and the other short, to the building. When the pair entered through a crack in the wall, curiosity took Ulrik, Prester John, and Clarissa towards the back of the building where they hoped to find a chink in the wall to spy through. A small knothole was found and when each looked in, they were surprised to see the building empty except for the pair they had followed. As they were spying they heard the whimpering of a little girl complaining about the scary dark. Ulrik watched through the hole as the taller figure picked her up, comforted her to stillness, and walked directly toward the chink. The prince quickly moved away from the hole, waited a moment, and stole a second look. Both man and girl had vanished.
They continued to watch until nightfall, but saw no one else. The village lacked inn, tavern, or any public gathering place, so the travelers searching for a place to spend the night. In desperation, they huddled together on the ground between two closely set buildings in a narrow alley.
In the morning Ulrik was kicked awake by the sound of a gruff voice, “Geery-up, naah; Geery-up, naah.” A man stood over him, the dull grayness of his beard, hair, and skin matched his clothes. A gray ugly dog growled at his heel. When the man saw Prester John’s sword and the deep scar dividing his face he backed up without a change of expression. “Gee-wahl, Gee-wahl,” he said and with a wave of his hand, motioning them from between the buildings. He snorted in a satisfied way after they left; then entered one of the buildings, slamming the door behind him.
“How can this be the place shown on the map?” asked Prester John. Ulrik handed over the map. The map remained unchanged with only the shadowy village visible on its surface. As morning grew towards noon, they walked through the village looking for signs of life but finding none. Occasionally the sound of movement could be heard behind closed doors. The village well, usually a gathering point for neighbors and gossips, stood vacant. They saw footprints in
the dust near the well. “At least we know that whatever lives here drinks water,” said Clarissa.
By noon heat and hunger forced them to seek food and shade. The large barn-like building they’d visited the evening before provided shade. Clarissa reached into her pack and grimaced, pulling out a hand covered with greenish slime. “The vegetables didn’t make it,” she said. Ulrik looked to her, then Prester John, and sighed.
“Looks like desperate times,” the prince said, taking out the heavy loaf of bread Ethel and Harry had given him, its wrappings still intact.
“I hope it’s better than others I’ve had to eat,” said Prester John, sawing off a piece with his sword for each of them, a task that took more time and energy than expected. He handed the first to Clarissa, warning her to take small bites, chew long, and drink plenty of water; the second piece he gave to Ulrik and kept the third for himself. Ulrik followed the warning, but Clarissa didn’t, taking in a large mouthful and nearly swallowing it whole. While Ulrik and Prester John continued chewing their first bite, Clarissa grabbed her stomach, groaned, and doubled over, saying, “Are you trying to kill me? I feel like I’m going to explode.”
“He tried to warn you, small bites . . .”
“Shut up!” she bellowed, holding her stomach and rolling on the ground until she let out a resounding belch.