‘It’s a PR thing,’ said the Dragon, half to itself.
‘Sorry?’
‘It’s a public relations thing,’ he said again, opening his eyes and staring at me. ‘Why do people spend millions trying to save dolphins, yet eat tuna by the bucketful. Isn’t that what you were thinking of?’
‘You can read my thoughts?’
‘Only when someone feels passionately about something. Ordinary thoughts are pretty dull. Powerful ideas have a life of their own, they carry on, unshakeable, from person to person. Wouldn’t you agree?’
He didn’t wait for an answer, but carried on.
‘Elephants, gorillas, Buzonjis, dolphins, snow-leopards, Shridloos, tigers, lions, cheetahs, whales, seals, manatees, orang-utans, pandas – what have all these got in common?’
‘They’re all endangered.’
‘Apart from that.’
‘They’re all pretty big?’ I hazarded.
‘They’re all mammals,’ said Maltcassion contemptuously. ‘You seem to be making this planet into an exclusive mammals-only club. If seal cubs were as ugly as the average reptile, I wonder if you’d bother with them at all. But those big eyes and the cute barking and the soft fur, well, they just melt your little mammalian heart, don’t they?’
‘There are other non-mammals that are protected,’ I argued, but Maltcassion wasn’t impressed.
‘Window dressing, nothing more. No one much cares about the reptiles, bugs or fishes, unless, of course, they look nice. Seems a pretty crummy method of selecting species for survival, doesn’t it to you? If you want to redress your overtly mammal supremacist attitudes, I should ban the words “cuddly”, “cute” and “fluffy”, for a start.’
‘At least we’re doing something,’ I pleaded.
‘If your idea of something is helping less than one hundredth of one per cent of the world’s species, then you all deserve a medal. There are six great apes – all of which you merit of special attention – but over six hundred different varieties of the floon beetle alone.’
‘Floon beetle?’ I queried. ‘I’ve never even heard of a floon beetle.’
‘And that’s my point,’ said Maltcassion triumphantly. ‘You lot haven’t even discovered one, let alone the other five hundred and ninety-nine. And a floon beetle is a fascinating creature. One variety turns itself inside out purely for kicks and giggles, and another has the power of invisibility. A third secretes an enzyme that will convert raw marzipan to usable Almondoleum without the need for vast distillation plants. They are the most singular creatures on this planet, and yet mankind knows nothing about them at all. Do you see what I mean?’
‘Floon beetle, eh?’ I mused.
‘You know,’ he went on, after lapsing into silence for a few moments, ‘if someone asked me to sum up all complex life on Earth in two words, do you know what I’d say?’
I shook my head.
‘Mainly insects.’
I couldn’t think of much to say about this, so I asked instead:
‘Can I come and see you again?’
‘Why?’
‘To ask you some questions.’
‘Why?’
‘So we might know more about Dragons.’
‘Humans,’ he scoffed. ‘Always so inquiring about stuff. Never satisfied with the status quo. It will be your downfall, but oddly enough, it’s also one of your more endearing features.’
‘Do we have any others?’
‘Oh yes, plenty.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, counting in base ten is pretty wild, for a start,’ he said after giving the subject a moment’s thought. ‘Base twelve is far superior. You also have extraordinary technical abilities, a terrific sense of humour, thumbs, being built inside out—’
‘Wait! Being built inside out?’
‘Of course. As far as the average lobster is concerned, mammals – with the possible exception of the armadillo – are built inside out. Any crab worth his claws will tell you the soft stuff should definitely be on the inside. Bones in the middle? Whoever designed you was having a serious off day.’
I thought about this for a moment as Maltcassion continued:
‘Pretty daft, wouldn’t you agree? If I was looking for a transfer I’d be going towards the crustaceans; the crabs, lobsters, shrimps and so forth. Put it this way: if you lost a limb, would it grow back?’
‘No.’
‘Mine neither, but if we were a member of the crustacean family we could expect a new limb the following year. Mind you, if we’re talking about regeneration we could go a step farther and take a leaf out of the sponge book. There are sponges you can chop to pieces, whizz up in the blender and then press through a sieve, and they’ll still regenerate.’
‘Useful, maybe,’ I replied, ‘but I think there is a limit to the amount of fun you could have as a sponge.’
‘I think you have something there,’ conceded the Dragon. ‘I’m not sure that crabs and lobsters are exactly funsters either. I was once told a joke by a crab and it was really dire; something about two shrimps going on holiday and one leaves his case on the train – I forget the details.’
‘I never thought about crabs having a sense of humour.’
‘Well, they do. You wouldn’t walk sideways for any other reason, would you?’
‘I guess not.’
‘Lobsters are more serious and cultured. Hermit crabs don’t say much but think a great deal. Horseshoe crabs are frankly a bit dim, but shrimps and prawns, well, they just love to party.’
‘You seem to know a lot about animals.’
‘I’m always surprised that you lot don’t take more interest in other creatures. It’s like living in a street and not knowing your next-door neighbour. If I were human I’d start investing in a little kindness. When the arthropods rule the planet all those lobster dishes and crab sticks could well be a cause of some regret. The Blessed Ladies of the Lobster might be a figure of fun right now, but in 1.8 billion years’ time, during the Rise of the Lobsters, everyone will be clamouring to join.’
‘I don’t think mammals are on the way out, Maltcassion.’
‘That’s what the giant reptiles said. What are they now? Birds. One moment you’re tearing a Stegosaurus to bits with rows of razor-sharp fangs, next thing your name’s Joey and you’re sharing a cage with a bell, a ladder and a dried cuttlefish. Bit of a come-down for a mighty thunder lizard, don’t you think?’
‘So what are you saying?’
‘Well, Darwin got it very nearly completely right. A remarkable brain for a human. But he overlooked one thing. Natural selection is also governed by a sense of humour.’
‘I’m not sure I’m quite with you.’
‘Well, you’ve heard the phrase “Nature abhors a vacuum”?’
I nodded.
‘Well, I would add to that: “Nature adores a joke”. You would see it yourself if only your lifespan were long enough. Over ninety million years ago there was a small, brightly coloured beetle named a Sklhrrg beetle. It was beautiful. I mean really beautiful. Even the most brainless toad would stop and gaze adoringly. It strutted around the forest, preening and primping itself, being admired by all. A few thousand years of this and it had evolved into one of the most vain and obnoxious creatures you could possibly meet. It was all “me, me, me”. Other beetles avoided it, and party invitations simply dried up. But as I said, nature adores a joke. Ninety million years later and what has it evolved into?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘The dung beetle. Dull coloured and innocuous, it pushes dung around. Lives in it, eats it, lays its eggs in it. Don’t tell me nature doesn’t enjoy a good joke!’
Maltcassion grunted out a short burst of fire that I took to be a laugh, then muttered something about chameleons telling jokes in colours before he settled down, shut his eyes and presently started to snore. Since he didn’t specifically say I wasn’t to return, I supposed he wouldn’t mind me coming back, so I stared at the heap of rubble for a
while, delighted at my good fortune so far. His tattered wing led me to suppose that he couldn’t fly, and if that was the case I couldn’t see him actually getting out to break the Dragonpact. I waited until I was sure he was truly asleep, then crept from the clearing and retraced my steps back towards the marker stones and the Rolls-Royce.
As I walked over the last rise I was surprised to see that a large group of people had gathered at the spot where I had entered the Dragonlands six hours previously. The potential claimants had alerted the press and TV stations; the last Dragonslayer was news indeed. I walked down to the marker stones and stepped through the force-field as the crowd nervously eased back.
‘Auster Old-Spott of The Daily Whelk,’ said one man in a shabby suit. ‘Can I ask your name?’ He thrust a microphone in my face as another equally shabby newsman said:
‘Paul Tamworth of The Clam. Have you seen Maltcassion?’
‘When do you expect to kill the Dragon?’ asked a third.
‘How did you get to be a Dragonslayer?’ asked another. A man in a suit elbowed his way through the crowd and showed me a contract. ‘My name is Oscar Pooch,’ he announced, ‘I represent Yummy-Flakes breakfast cereals and I’d like you to endorse our product. Ten thousand moolah a year. Do we agree? Sign here please.’
‘Don’t listen to him!’ said another man in a pinstripe suit. ‘Our company will offer you twenty thousand moolah for exclusive rights to represent Fizzi-Pop soft drinks. Sign here—!’
‘Wait!’ I shouted.
The whole crowd went silent. All one hundred, two hundred, I don’t know how many there were, but there were a lot. The cameramen from the TV stations trained their cameras on me, waiting for whatever I had to say.
‘My name is Jennifer Strange,’ I began, to the sound of frantic scribbling from the newspapermen’s pens. ‘I am the new Dragonslayer. Charged by the Mighty Shandar himself, I will uphold the rules of the Dragonpact and protect the people from the Dragon, and the Dragon from the people. I will issue a full statement in due course. That is all.’
I was impressed by the speech, but then I had been bound to pick up a thing or two during Brian Spalding’s one-minute accelerated Dragonslaying course. I retrieved the Rolls-Royce and headed back into town, the crush of journalists and photographers following me as best as they could. Brian Spalding had never alerted me to this sort of media attention, although the sound of twenty thousand moolah just to endorse Fizzi-Pop sounded like some very easy money indeed.
Gordon van Gordon
* * *
I returned to the Dragonslayer’s office to find the whole street crowded with even more journalists, TV crews and onlookers. The police had thoughtfully closed the road, erected barriers and kept the public to the far side of the street. I parked outside and jumped out of the Slayermobile to the rattle of cameras and popping of flashbulbs. I ignored them. I was more concerned with a small man dressed in a brown suit and wearing a matching derby hat. He was aged about forty and tipped his hat respectfully as I placed the key in the lock.
‘Miss Strange?’ enquired the small man. ‘I’ve come about the job.’
‘Job?’ I asked. ‘What job?’
‘Why, the job as apprentice Dragonslayer, of course.’
He waved a copy of the Hereford Daily Eyestrain at me.
‘On the Situations Vacant page. “Wanted—”’
‘Let me see.’
I took the paper and, sure enough, there it was in black and white: ‘Wanted, Dragonslayer’s apprentice. Must be discreet, valiant and trustworthy. Apply in person to number 12, Slayer’s Way.’
‘I don’t need an assistant,’ I told him.
‘Everyone needs an assistant,’ said the small man in a jovial tone. ‘A Dragonslayer more than anyone. To deal with the mail, if nothing else.’
I looked past the small man to where there were perhaps thirty other people who had also replied to the advert. They all smiled cheerily and waved a copy of the paper at me. I looked back at the small man, who raised an eyebrow quizzically.
‘You’re hired,’ I snapped. ‘First job, get rid of this little lot.’ I jerked my head in the direction of the wannabe apprentices and went inside. I shut the door and wondered quite what to do next. On an impulse I called Mother Zenobia. She seemed even more pleased to hear from me than usual.
‘Jennifer, darling!’ she gushed. ‘I’ve just heard the news and we are so proud! Just think, a daughter of the Great Lobster becoming a Dragonslayer!’
I was slightly suspicious.
‘How did you hear, Mother?’
‘We’ve had some charming people around here asking all kinds of questions about you!’
‘You didn’t tell them anything, did you?’
I had no real desire to have my rather dull childhood splashed all over the tabloids. There was a pause on the other end of the phone, which answered my question.
‘Was that wrong?’ asked Mother Zenobia at length.
I sighed. Mother Zenobia had taken over the role of my real mother almost perfectly, even that unique motherly quality of being able to acutely embarrass me.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I replied with a trace of annoyance in my voice, a trace that she obviously didn’t pick up.
‘Jolly good!’ she said brightly. ‘If you get the offer to appear on the Yogi Baird Radio Show don’t turn it down, and if I may say so, I think Fizzi-Pop is a fine product. I have a jolly pleasant young man who is very keen to talk to you.’
I thanked her and rang off. The doors to the garage opened and the small man in the brown suit expertly reversed in the Rolls-Royce. He hopped down from the armoured car, put the sword and lance away – he could without being vaporised, since I had employed him – and offered me a small hand to shake.
‘Gordon’s the name,’ he said brightly, pumping my arm vigorously. ‘Gordon van Gordon.’
‘That means “Son of Gordon”, doesn’t it?’
He nodded enthusiastically.
‘I come from a long line of Gordons. My full name is: Gordon van Gordon Gordon-son ap Gordon-Gordon the IV.’
‘I’ll stick to “Gordon”,’ I said.
‘It may save some time.’
‘Jennifer Strange,’ I announced, ‘pleased to meet you.’
‘And you.’
He didn’t stop shaking my hand. He seemed so happy to be here he wanted everything he did to last as long as possible so he could savour it to the full.
‘I don’t know who put the ad in the paper but it wasn’t me,’ I told him.
‘That’s easily explained,’ he said with a grin. ‘It was me!’
‘You? Why?’
‘I wanted to be first in the queue. Dragonslayers always need an apprentice so I thought I would save you the trouble of advertising.’
‘Very enterprising,’ I said slowly.
He raised his hat again. ‘Thank you. A Dragonslayer’s apprentice has to be discreet, valiant, trustworthy and enterprising.’
‘Gordon?’
‘Yes?’
‘Can I have my hand back?’
He apologised and let go.
‘So,’ he said, ‘what’s our first move, chief?’
‘Nothing yet. I’ll be living over at Zambini Towers as usual but it might help to have some food in the house. The Quarkbeast likes to rest in a dustbin; you’ll have to buy one from the hardware store but make sure it’s painted and not galvanished as he will chew it. He eats dog food but isn’t particular as to the brand. He needs a link of heavy anchor chain to gnaw on a week and a spoonful of fish oil in his water dish every day – it keeps his scales from chipping. Do you cook?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’m vegetarian but not particularly militant – you can eat what you want.’
He had been scribbling down notes on his cuff. I swore him to secrecy and told him about the prophecy regarding next Sunday. This filled him with greater enthusiasm than cooking, dustbins or the Quarkbeast’s peculiar eating habits.
‘Wait a minute!’ I interrupted hurriedly, grabbing his lapel between finger and thumb as he tried to hurry off. ‘I want to make this very clear. I don’t ever intend to actually kill a Dragon.’
‘So why are you a Dragonslayer?’ he asked with blinding directness.
‘Because . . . because . . . well, that’s the way Old Magic made it happen.’
‘Old Magic?’ he said uneasily. ‘Wait a minute. You never mentioned anything about Old Magic in the advertisement.’
‘Didn’t I?’
‘No. We’re going to have to discuss new terms if Old Magic is involved.’
I thought for a second.
‘Hang on. Gordon, you wrote the advertisement!’
He paused for thought.
‘I did, didn’t I?’ he said at length. ‘Well, I’d better let it go this once, then.’
He looked crestfallen, but soon perked up when I told him he could be my press officer, and he dashed off to get some paper and crayons from the dresser to draft a quick press release.
I needed to get back to Zambini Towers but hadn’t got more than one pace from the door before a scrum of people quickly ran towards me.
The first to talk to me was a businessman wearing a very large hat and an expensive suit.
‘Jethro Ballscombe,’ he said, passing me a business card the size of a roofing slate. ‘I want to make YOU a very rich young woman.’
He grinned at me, showing a ridiculously large gold tooth that must have made metal detectors in airports throw an electronic fit. He thought that my silence indicated assent rather than a curious interest in his dentition, so he continued:
‘Do you know how much people will pay to come and see a real live Dragon?’
He grinned wildly, expecting me to leap up and down or something.
‘You want to put Maltcassion in a zoo?’
He put an arm around my shoulder and hugged me as though I were a long-lost niece.
‘Not so much a zoo but his own special one-species family-entertainment exclusive themed adventure park.’
The Last Dragonslayer Page 11