Fell Beasts and Fair

by C. J. Brightley

  It was like he had charbroiled Francesco's hair. The man stepped back, an expression of well-mannered pain on his face.

  "No, no. I cannot accept this, Brother Colombano."

  Colombano was confused.

  "But aren't these what you trade in? You men do not hunt and refuse to live in caves. You need these bits to get food and shelter. Don’t you?"

  Francesco shook his head, poise returning to one of whippet-like grace.

  "I have sworn to my Lady Poverty that I will forever abide by her sacred rule," he said with the air of a gallant knight, "and a man does not break his oaths. I shall never take from another what I have not earned with the work of my hands, and even then, I shall never carry more than I need to buy my daily bread. I have no purse, you see."

  "Can't I pay you for your kindness?" pleaded Colombano.

  "It was not I who named you, but God," said the thin man. "Shall I take from my Father His rightful due? Nay, Brother; the Almighty has no need of gold or silver. I feasted on a sop of bread this morning, with a sip of wine to grace my throat, and tomorrow I fast in thanksgiving. Give your coin to someone who truly needs it."

  Colombano mulled this over.

  "But the villagers are all stout and healthy," he said. "I have never seen anyone as thin as you. I do not think they would find much use for this coin."

  "You have not seen," smiled Francesco, "because you do not seek them. But the widow and the fatherless and the leper are known to God, who hears their every cry, and it is to them that I am sent. If they are not in your village, you will find them elsewhere."

  The thin man gave his blackened robe a final dusting, before bouncing jauntily on the balls of his feet.

  "Fare thee well, Brother Colombano! Perhaps we shall meet again on the way back."

  Colombano watched him until he looked like a little brown cocoon of cloth between the oak trees. Then:

  "WAIT!"

  The birds scattered and the dust ran. The trees trembled, shedding their leaves for fear, and the spiderwebs snapped for miles around. It was the dragon-roar, that incredible sound that nothing on this earth can ignore, the many-layered shout that shoots through every part of you and leaves your teeth a-quiver, like at any point they might start dropping from your mouth.

  Colombano was a very small dragon, but he had roared just like any city's bane. And as he flew towards the cocoon he saw it grow larger and larger, until at last it was Brother Francesco again, with a bright spark in his eyes and a stray leaf in his hair.

  "Did you forget something, Brother Colombano?"

  Our dragon wheezed. He did not think he had ever flown so far so fast, even when running away.

  "I scared off your donkey," he said, "and it is a long way to the village. Please, let me take you there."

  He panted, smoke jetting from his nostrils, a desperate light in his scale-ringed eyes. Francesco peered at him.

  "It would be an honor, Brother Dragon," said the thin man at last, and bowed deep.

  Now, Colombano had never carried anyone before. You may not think this a big deal, particularly for someone as thin and bony as Francesco—but the fact is that flying with someone on your back is very different, and much harder, than giving your little brother a piggyback ride.

  For one thing, anything that flies by flapping its wings has a very hard time of it. Their bodies have to be very light and their wings have to be very fast, and they end up using most of their strength in the air alone. The old winged horses flew only because of their godly blood, passed down their pedigree like drops of red in sea-foam; in other words, with something very close to magic. Dragons are much the same, but like all other things they have to keep a close eye on the laws of physics. Otherwise they would be prone to falling up and living backwards and all other sorts of chicanery, which is usually much more trouble than it is worth.

  And so poor Brother Francesco, clinging with all his might to the scaly white neck, had his thighs and arms horribly battered from all the bucking and swaying, and poor Brother Colombano found himself pitching and swerving like a dizzy pigeon, trying with all his might not to drop the holy man.

  "I'm terribly sorry about this," panted Colombano. "I never knew I was quite this bumpy."

  "Even if I fall," said Francesco, "I shall meet our Mother Earth with praises. Or perhaps an angel shall catch me. Fly on, Brother Dragon."

  "I'd rather not," said Colombano, and started to descend. At last, in jerks and spurts, they reached the forest floor. The sun was setting, and the shadows of the trees danced across the travellers’ exhausted forms like fire. Francesco slid off the dragon's back, pulling his robe back over his hairy legs and tightening his cord-belt. Then he sat, sinking into a tree-root as if it were a cushioned chair.

  "You are weary, Brother Colombano. It would do you good to take some rest, and fill your stomach."

  "If you can go without food tomorrow," said Colombano resolutely, "then so can I."

  Francesco stretched out a gentle hand and placed it on his flank.

  "Fasting is a long study, my brother. It takes many years to learn how to conquer the pangs of the flesh and to learn to live without any luxury."

  Colombano’s stomach was growling, but the roar was still tingling in his bones. Now that his feet were on the ground he felt like he could do anything.

  "I’m sure I can do it," he said.

  "By no means!" cried Francesco, once again in the grasp of that curious animation. "If you fast to set your mind on our Father, please, heap that pile of leaves on my head. But if you fast merely in empty imitation of me, thinking that you cannot be second to a human, a mere bag of skin and bones and pious platitudes—why, then you commit the mortal sin of pride, which was ever the dragon's curse, and all your thrift will turn to avarice! Do not yield to it!"

  The man's reedy voice stuck Colombano in the heart like a flashing rapier. Our dragon stared at him, stunned. Even his roar seemed like nothing now, a storm of vast empty bluster with no substance.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not acting like a dragon should."

  He raised his head and bared his neck, which is how growing dragons apologize. The older ones don't even think of it.

  "On the contrary," said Francesco, all gentleness once more, "you were acting exactly like a dragon. But God has given you a name, and you must live up to it. It is no longer a question of your nature."

  "Must I always be different?" asked Colombano wistfully.

  The thin man reached into his robe with his spindly hands, rummaged for a while, and came out with a dry loaf of bread. There was only a small pinched-off hole in the side. It was very flat.

  "I am a simple man," he said, "and barely lettered. But the auctors say that the Lord God created the dragons on the last hour of the Fifth Day, the mightiest things in all Eden; and that because of their pre-eminence He gave them many gifts. Wings to awe the beasts of the field and bid them worship, glittering scales to dazzle the eyes of the birds and all the things of the sea — and greatest of all, fire, to light the night for Man and keep him warm."

  Francesco proffered the loaf in both hands, falling to his scabby knees. Colombano stared.

  "Do not be misled, Brother Dragon! The cunning of your kin is naught but the shadow of their fallen wit, the gutted dregs of what once made Adam roar and Eve rejoice; for the whole of Creation was cast down when we sinned. But if you will humble yourself, as I am humbling myself before you, and serve, as I am serving you, then what your brethren have lost will be restored to you, and you will be whole again. For it is a great and glorious thing to be abased before men."

  Colombano sniffed the loaf. It smelt homely, like nest-straw, and a little dry. It looked very nice.

  "If I went and knelt before the villagers," he said, "I'm sure they would come and chase me away with their sticks and scythes."

  "God knows," said Francesco evenly, the bruises shining on his face.

  "I'm not sure I can eat that," said Colombano. "I've only ever h
ad meat."

  "God knows," was the response again. "Try it."

  Colombano took the loaf in his jaws and chewed; slowly at first, but then ravenously. It was the nicest thing he had ever eaten, including the housecat. As it sank into his stomach and the weakness subsided, he tingled with warm bliss, just like he had on receiving his name.

  And as our dragon swallowed and chewed and swallowed again, Francesco made a cross in the air above his head, and blessed him.

  It was on the strength of that loaf that Colombano soared through the air the next morning, leaving the forest far behind. Not only that, he was getting the hang of flying with Francesco. The trees gave way to rolling hills and fields, speckled with sheep and cows that Colombano nearly shaved with his claws in passing. He dipped low for the sheer joy of it, for the smell of the summer flowers and the rush of the wind in his face. And as they flew, the thin man sang his song, bright as an uncaged bird.

  Be praised, my Lord, through Sister Moon and the stars;

  in the heavens You have made them bright, precious and beautiful.

  * * *

  Be praised, my Lord, through Brothers Wind and Air,

  and clouds and storms, and all the weather,

  through which You give Your creatures sustenance.

  * * *

  Be praised, my Lord, through Sister Water;

  she is very useful, and humble, and precious, and pure.

  * * *

  Be praised, my Lord, through Brother Fire,

  through whom You brighten the night.

  He is beautiful and cheerful, and powerful and strong.

  * * *

  Be praised, my Lord, through our sister Mother Earth,

  who feeds us and rules us,

  and produces various fruits with colored flowers and herbs.

  * * *

  Be praised, my Lord, through those who forgive for love of You;

  through those who endure sickness and trial.

  Happy those who endure in peace,

  for by You, Most High, they will be crowned.

  The villagers had difficulty believing their ears.

  "Did you hear?" asked the blacksmith's wife. "Our little dragon is winging it right towards us."

  "The threshers say there's a man on his back," said the baker, filling her basket with sweetbreads and hearty loaves. "He's going right for the mill, they say."

  The loaves were so crisp you could hear them crackle as she laughed. She pinched off a thumbful of bread and sniffed it.

  "A bit dry today, don't you think?"

  "It's your copper," shrugged the baker. "Take it or leave it."

  "A man?" asked beautiful Gianna back at home, as her mother passed her the loaf. "Oh, I do so hope he's handsome."

  She spread a thick slice of bread with white butter and tossed it on her father's plate. The blacksmith scowled. He normally regarded their dragon with a sort of vague contempt—after all, it'd never done anything save run away and steal the miller's housecat—but things were different when the brute was heading right for you. Even a stray ember could burn down a house.

  "You get that thought right out your head, you stupid girl. Dragons don't bring anything good, not to your doorstep. And if that man so much as looks at you askance, I'll knock his head in."

  "I think you're horrible," said Gianna, and tossed her hair. "Soon I'll be married to the dashing dragon-man, and I'll go to a big city where they mint their own coins and you'll never see me again."

  "And the sooner the better, you ungrateful wench!"

  But all in all, the idea of their dragon's arrival stirred enough of the villagers' interest to merit a small welcoming party at the mill. The scythes were cleaned and polished. The clubs had a few more nails hammered into them. The swords were oiled and whetted. The baker brought three rolling pins, in case he needed to throw one or two. The women (all excepting beautiful Gianna, who was right at the front with her hands clutched to her bosom) brought pots, pans, butcher's knives, and buckets in case anything burnt. The trapper dusted off his best bear-trap, set it right at the end of the bridge, and scattered his most expensive caltrops all around it. The hunters got together and pooled all their heaviest arrows, hiding in the balcony and windows of the mill. And the blacksmith stood amidst the crowded heads like a shark in a shallow pool, clutching his terrible forge-hammer and bristling like old Vulcan himself.

  The only unarmed man among the lot was Father Adorno, but only because his vows forbade it. He was not particularly angry at the dragon, but neither was he against the mob. After all, it was better that the worm should die now, when the villagers were still capable of killing it, than for it to grow strong and sleek and impossible for swords to even scratch. Stewardship was all very well and good, but this was a fallen world; one still had to be practical. He was more concerned about the man. Little Pietro had said that he looked like a reed in a sack, with a rope around his waist. To Father Adorno, this sounded suspiciously like one of those crazy poor men who had nothing better to do than wander through villages, towns, and even cities, hectoring the good inhabitants for enjoying even the slightest bit of comfort. What were their names... Fryers Manure?

  Father Adorno shook his head and frowned. He would not go so far as to see the man be hurt, but nonetheless he would have to be careful. No matter how weak the dragon, a mendicant would always be weaker; particularly a self-professed one. And the people were seething.

  "What will you do in the village, thin man?" asked Colombano. They were nearing the mill now, a large wooden hut with a great wooden wheel on its side that turned and turned in the rushing river.

  "Why, Brother Dragon, I shall do to them exactly what I told you before. Preach penance and sacred poverty, and do mercy unto their poor and sick."

  "Well, there certainly are a lot of them," said Colombano nervously, "and they don’t look very sick. They seem to be carrying some very sharp things."

  "Even so, Brother Dragon."

  "Why do you want to help them? They're not like you. They tried to hurt me, and laughed when I ran away, even though I had never done them any wrong. I only ate that cat because I was hungry, and could not live on squirrels for much longer."

  "Yes," said Francesco sadly, "we are cruel and venal wretches. If all of us were like you, my dear Brother Colombano, and just as willing to repent, then my Sister Moon would not have to hide her face from all this suffering. But even so..."

  "Even so?" asked Colombano.

  "You were made in the image of fowl and fish and beast. Your wings and scales and teeth and claws tell you as much. You are at the apex of all things. Do you think yourself weak, simply for being a stripling? Look down there at the benign babe in its mother's arms, or the boy clinging to her skirts. See how weak the young of humans are."

  "Yes, they are very small and pink, and have no scales. If I wanted, I could make a mouthful of any two of them. I think I feel better about myself now."

  "You must do no such thing," said Francesco sternly, "or you will answer for it. Man is made in the Image of God. His immortal soul is not yours to take."

  They touched down on the river's other bank, to a chorus of ooh's and aah's from the crowd, and more than a few scattered grumblings.

  "Welcome, stranger!" cried a beautiful girl in a florid dress, fluttering her eyes across the bridge.

  "Hah!" laughed the huge man with the hammer. "I think you should get your eyes checked, daughter dearest—just look at him! He's a bleeding-heart religious!"

  "Well," pouted Gianna, "you don't know that. He hasn't even taken off his hood yet, and have you ever seen a habit quite like that? Personally, I think it's just one of those new city fashions."

  "Personally," yelled a rotund man in a flour-stained apron, "I'm more concerned about the dragon!" And he brandished his rolling pins in menacing glee, to a wave of general agreement.

  "They sound very eager to use their weapons," whispered Colombano worriedly.

  "Don't fret, Brother Dragon
," murmured Francesco. "Are you resolved to do as you said?"

  "I am," said Colombano.

  "Then do it, and God be with you."

  And Francesco took off his hood, showing his pie-crust hair, gaunt face, and crooked smile.

  "Do not fear me, good people. I am your most humble servant."

  "So he is a religious," squinted a little old man.

  "Oh, the poor dear," clucked a bevy of matrons. "Look how thin and pale he is. He needs to be fattened up."

  Gianna wilted visibly. It was Father Adorno who stepped through the crowd, a serious look on his stern face.

  "Don't take a step further, young man," he warned. "The ground at your feet is strewn with caltrops, and our hunters are quite ready to poke a few holes in your dragon's wings should he so much as flap them. Where did you get that tonsure?"

  Francesco gave a deep and theatrical bow.

  "I am at your service, Father," he said, voice filled with deep and genuine feeling, "but my Brother Colombano is his own dragon."

  "What did he call him?" choked the blacksmith.

  "Beats me," said the baker. "He's off his rocker, he is."

  "Know that I took the tonsure in Eternal Rome, after kissing the ring of our Lord Pope and obtaining his blessing. I am Francesco of the Friars Minor."

  There was a general ripple of disbelief at this. Could this scruffy man possibly have seen the Holy Father — nay, even been to Rome herself? Never mind that, what was a Fryer?

  "If you have truly obtained the blessing of our Lord Pope," said Father Adorno in measured tones, "then surely you must have his seal in writing. Where is it?"

  "Alas," said Francesco, "it never occurred to me that I could ask. You see, I am not very wise. But I was assured that my Lord Innocent's word was his bond, and that all Christendom would know it."

  "Yes," said Father Adorno. "I think I do see. Thank you."