by Lisa Cach
She watched him neatly eat his porridge, his back straight and his long fingers delicately holding the spoon. What to make of this man?
“Saint George died centuries past. How do you come to be here, if you are he?”
“I was needed. A woman called for me using a magic crystal, and I came.”
She smiled. “It is so simple! I wonder no one else has thought to do the same. This woman must have needed you very badly, to draw you from heaven.”
“She does. Her daughter is to be in the next lottery.”
Alizon’s breath was stolen by that simple explanation. A mix of grief and anger welled up inside her, undiminished since the day she herself had been sent to the mount. Her next words came out hard. “Why does she not take her daughter and flee the town? She seems a foolish sort of woman, to trust in prayers to a saint to save her child when she could save her on her own.”
“She did not strike me as foolish. After all, I am here. I came.”
“With no horse and no spear. How much did you demand she pay you?”
He set aside the tray and moved to stand up. She backed away. “Stay seated!”
“I am not going to hurt you,” he snapped, rising. “But I’ll be damned if I will sit on the floor while you, of all people, insult my honor.”
“I beg your pardon!”
“As you should, Sister. What manner of nun throws innocent girls to a dragon? Is that not a sin?”
It took her a moment to remember she was supposed to be the crone, who had been a nun. She had not expected confrontation of this nature. “It must be done. If it was not God’s will, He would not let it happen. He would not have formed the dragon so that he was appeased by virgin flesh.”
“If it wasn’t God’s will that I come here, then I would not be here. You had best lend me a sword and take me to the dragon.” He crossed his arms and smirked at her.
“You speak nonsense!” He had put her on the defensive, and she did not know how it had happened. He was her prisoner! He should be bowing down to her, asking forgiveness for invading her island, not smirking at her like a over-smug child!
He did not look in the least repentent, standing now with one hand on his hip, the other gesturing as he spoke, as if he was carrying on a normal conversation. “I speak no more nonsense than you. If you are going to say that the one is God’s will, you must say that all is His will. So, now that that is settled, will you lend me a sword and show me the passage to the dragon?”
“He will kill you.”
“Then you will no longer be troubled by my presence.”
“You will die a most horrible death. He will tear you to pieces.”
“You sound as if you are trying to frighten a child. Why do you bother? My death will be no worse than that you have meted out to dozens of girls.”
“It is the dragon who kills them, not I. It is as God wills.” She wanted to shout out that she had sent no one to her death, that she had saved almost a dozen girls. She wanted this infuriating man to know that he was wrong, wrong, wrong!
But of course she could say nothing of the kind. Everything she had built would be destroyed: the tapestry workshop, their peaceful lives, and most of all the retribution they steadily wrought on the townsfolk of Markesew, by year after year demanding more and more of what they valued most— sheep.
“One might almost think you did not want the dragon killed,” he said. “Do you enjoy your work here so much?”
For a moment she thought he had seen into her thoughts, that he knew the reality of Devil’s Mount. Then, just as quickly, she realized that such was impossible. He knew nothing.
She tried a different tack. “I fear that you will enrage the dragon. If you wound it before it kills you, it may go out and wreak revenge upon the shore. Many could die. You do not wish that to happen, do you?”
“Then I must be certain to kill it.”
“Why do you persist in seeking your own death?”
“I made a promise. I will not leave the lady to fight for her daughter’s life alone.”
Ah, Jesu mercy, how was she supposed to argue against that? “Who is this lady who holds such sway over you?”
“She called herself Emoni. You sent her dearest friend to the dragon a dozen years past, a girl named Alizon.”
“Emoni?” she whispered, stunned.
“Do you remember the girl Alizon?”
“No,” she said, her voice hoarse. She felt a tingle in her nose, and the sting of tears in her eyes. Emoni, dear Emoni, had not forgotten her.
A thousand times Alizon had stood on the north terrace and looked to the distant town and fields, asking herself if one of those tiny moving people might be Emoni—and might Emoni know, somewhere in her heart, that her Alizon still lived?
“She named her daughter Alisoun, after her friend.”
Alizon could not answer. Tears tightened her throat.
“Would you have so much be taken from this woman, both a friend and a daughter?”
The denial squeezed from her throat. “No.”
“I am Saint George. It is my duty to kill the dragon.”
“You will fail.”
“Then I will try again, and again, as long as it takes.”
“You will enrage it, and cause it to maraud on shore, and then this Emoni and her daughter will be eaten just the same.”
“Then give me three tries. If I cannot kill it in three tries, I will go back to the village and tell the lady I have failed.”
Whoever this man truly was, Emoni believed he was her only hope. Alizon could not send him back to her saying he had not so much as seen the dragon’s lair.
She would give the man his three tries, would make sure that neither he nor the hidden dragon suffered for them. Then he could return to Emoni and persuade her to take her daughter and leave Markesew. Her friend’s daughter would not go to the dragon even if she was chosen in the lottery, but Emoni had no way of knowing that. She would think her child lost to her forever as soon as she set foot on the causeway.
“Three tries,” Alizon relented.
The stranger grinned, his unnaturally white teeth shining.
Chapter Seven
George sauntered after Milo, following him down the path from the castle. The “crone” had sent them to fetch a sheep to feed to the dragon, but he got the feeling that it was busywork, meant to get him out of the castle while she did God only knew what.
It was obvious that the “crone” was no such thing; he had seen better costuming on trick-ortreaters, and he himself could do a better impression of an old woman’s voice. A bit of false white hair and a deep hood did not a crone make, and when he had first seen her he had almost laughed out loud.
His unconscious mind was seriously messed up. According to that Jung book, women in his dreams represented his feminine side. So what did it mean that this “crone” was a younger woman, pretending to be old?
He wondered what else she was lying about, and why she wasn’t happier to see him. He was St. George! She should be overjoyed to have him come to kill the dragon.
At least if she believed him she should be overjoyed, but she apparently didn’t. She was the negative aspect of his unconscious feminine self, the part that doubted.
Wasn’t she?
And what about those giggles and running footsteps; what were they about? More feminine aspects that he was afraid to see?
He was giving himself a headache trying to figure it out, and the awful beer had done its work upon his system. “Hey, Milo, is there a john somewhere that I can use?”
Milo stopped and stared at him without comprehension.
He flipped through his mind for euphemisms, sorting out the likeliest. “Water closet? Privy? Latrine? Jakes?”
Milo grunted and pointed to some shrubs.
Great. He should have asked up at the castle. He doubted that the “crone” would be content to squat in the bushes like a bear; she probably had a very nice seat in a dark little stone closet so
mewhere.
As he was about to take care of that basic bodily function, a horrible thought crossed his mind, stopping him before he could release so much as a drop. He wasn’t going to wet himself in the wingback chair in front of the fire, was he, like a child dreaming of going to the bathroom?
He held himself ready and worried over the question. The pressure built in his bladder. How long could he hold it? Not long enough to kill a dragon, that was for sure. Better to just go for it.
He tried to release, but thoughts of the wingback chair kept intruding.
Dammit!
“Athena, you are going to be so sorry if I pee my pants,” he said aloud, and then he forced himself to go.
He felt no warm wetness in his groin. Everything worked as it would if he truly was outside taking a leak in the bushes.
The scent of the evergreens, the chill sea breeze, the crispness of the visual details in the plants and rocks around him suggested that such was the case. Everything looked and felt so real, he could almost believe he had slipped back in time and was physically here, wherever here was. It would be easy to forget that this was only happening in his mind.
And if he did forget? A shiver passed through his heart, fluttering it to the edge of panic. Might it be possible to be trapped forever in this trance, his unresponsive body shipped off to the hospital and tubes stuck in to feed and drain it? Athena had said nothing of how she would revive him, and she had given him no key with which to revive himself.
But then he remembered Emoni, who had “summoned” him, and who had eyes the same hazel as Athena’s. She must be the exit from this mental video game, she and the crystal.
The thought was a small comfort, and he shook and tucked himself back into his pants. He shouldn’t freak himself out like that, not when there was a dragon to kill! The goal of the exercise was to work through his issues by action in this dream world, not to sit around wondering at the symbolism of a bowl of porridge.
Although he did wonder about it. Why so bland? Why no cream or sugar?
He caught up to Milo, who had been standing waiting for him, his large pie face without expression. “How long have you lived here, Milo?”
“Long enough.”
Ah, a conversationalist. “Long enough for what?”
Milo grunted.
George worked among men who could teach Milo a thing or two about grunting, and he wasn’t intimidated. “Hey, I’m sorry about attacking you last night. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
The heavy brows drew down into a frown. “I was not hurt.”
“Good!” He considered giving him a slap on the back, but refrained. One step at a time. “So, the dragon. Have you seen it yourself?”
Another grunt.
“It must be a terrible sight, flying through the air, breathing fire on everything below.”
Milo turned his head just enough to give him a strange look, then kept walking, his heavy feet grinding the dirt and gravel of the path.
“Not many men would have the courage to live next door to one, I wouldn’t think. You don’t worry that it might come eat you in the night?”
They came to a small cottage a hundred yards from the shore, the thatch of the roof green with moss and darkened with rot. The wattle-and-daub walls were splotched with gray and brown, and bits of discarded carts and equipment were scattered over the patchy grass of the yard.
“Mistress would not let it,” Milo said, and ducked down to enter the cottage through its low door.
But she would let Milo live in this hovel? George followed Milo inside, bending almost double to keep from hitting his head on the lintel.
Inside it was almost too dark to see, the only light coming from the doorway and the pair of small windows to either side, their shutters hanging open. The place smelled of wood smoke, rotting thatch, and mice, and as his eyes adjusted George saw that there was an open hearth in the center of the dwelling, with no chimney to draw away the smoke.
The poor bastard! What type of life was this?
There was a narrow table shoved up against the wall under one of the windows. George stepped closer and saw that its surface was scattered with small pieces of wood and tools. There was a halffinished box in the corner, its surfaces covered in an intricate geometric pattern of inlaid wood.
“Come,” Milo said, ducking back out of the cottage, the loops of a rope dangling from one hand and a wooden bucket of grain from the other.
George followed, saying nothing about the box and its finely done artistry. He felt abashed at his unconscious assumption that Milo was nothing but a slovenly simpleton, a sort of medieval redneck. No one was ever only what they appeared. He of all people should know that.
They trudged up the slope of the mount, eschewing the path for the open meadows. The land was so steep in places, the grazing sheep above would only need to take a small leap to land on his head. Milo gave the bucket a shake, and sheep everywhere raised their heads, ears pivoting like radar dishes to capture the sound. A half dozen trotted toward them, fat white bodies bouncing above thin black legs.
“Poor stupid things,” George said. “They have no idea.”
“They are sheep,” Milo said, in a tone that implied this fact was obvious and explained and excused everything. He let one of the black-faced animals eat from the bucket while he tied the rope around its neck. The leash secured, he took the bucket away and set off back toward the castle, shaking the remainder of the grain every few steps, keeping the chosen sacrifice intrigued enough to follow.
“So, your mistress …” George said, following as well. “She has some control over the dragon?”
“It is a dragon.”
“So she doesn’t have any control?”
“She knows its ways.”
He bet she did. She was a bit of a dragon lady herself, and he bet she knew an awful lot more than she would admit to him. There would be little help coming from that quarter. “Has anyone tried to kill the dragon, before?”
“You must ask mistress.”
“You don’t know?”
“Ask mistress.”
“Does she always wear that hood?” he asked, just to see what type of reaction he would get. “She must be old and ugly, to want to hide her face.”
Milo said nothing.
“Or maybe she is young and beautiful.”
The bucket slipped from Milo’s hand, hitting the ground and spilling grain onto the path. The sheep gobbled it up.
“Git, go on now!” Milo grunted, pushing the sheep away and scooping grain back into the bucket, his motions jerky.
Was that an involuntary “yes”? If the mistress wasn’t old, then she couldn’t be the original nun. Who was she, then?
George’s curiosity about the woman behind the fake white hair went up a notch, and at the same time he felt renewed hope for a bit of dreamland nookie. Maybe he would have to “accidentally” pull the hood off her head, and see who this mystery chick was who had Milo in such thrall, and who knew the ways of the dragon.
The breeze picked up, chill against his bare skin, and with it came a faint stink of something unspeakably foul and corrupted.
“What the hell is that smell?”
“Have you never smelled a dragon?”
He caught himself, realizing St. George would have recognized the scent of a dragon. “Of course I have. I just haven’t smelled one that stank so bad.”
Milo grinned, his chest vibrating in what could only be a chuckle. “You think this is bad? I think life for a saint is too easy.” He laughed, tears coming into his eyes, and he ignored the sheep that was nibbling the ground in search of missed grain. “You cannot fight, you make faces at your food, you shiver in the wind, you wrinkle your nose at a bad smell. I think I will not see you again after you meet the dragon.”
George gave Milo his best glare, the one he used while awaiting his opponent in the ring. Usually there was a bit of sweat—real or fake—rolling down his temples and dampening his hair as the cameras z
oomed in on his heavy-browed gaze of contempt.
Milo bent double, holding his sides, his brays echoing down the slopes.
If the glare didn’t do it, maybe some medieval trash-talking would. “That dung-spawned snake of a dragon will see what Hell looks like when I shove his head up his ass!”
“He will tear you apart,” Milo gasped and began to hiccup.
“I’ll wear his teeth ’round my neck!”
“You will!—hic!—He will bite—hic!—off your head!” Gasping and laughing, Milo tugged on the leash, dragging the sheep with him up the path.
George watched Milo’s shoulders continue to shake, the man’s hiccups deepening into great rasping caws that jerked his whole body, and he felt a very real desire to pile-drive the bastard.
Dammit. He was St. George in this vision, but he was getting no respect at all!
He spotted his pitchfork under a bush and retrieved it, feinting with the sorry weapon against imaginary dragons as he followed Milo and the sheep. He would show them, Milo and the “mistress,” even if he had to kill the dragon with his bare hands, twisting its neck like a dish towel.
The foul breeze rippled through his surcoat and lifted tendrils of his hair, and as it whispered past his ears he heard again that distant, buried rumble. It was so low that it was more felt in his chest than heard, and a primitive part of his animal brain urged him to hide under a rock and poke his stick at anything that came near.
He knew about fear, though: One took note of it, then set it aside and got on with business. He would be as pathetic as Milo thought if a mere sound could make him cower like a rodent.
The mistress was waiting for them at the gateway, still hooded. “Where did he get that?” she asked Milo, flicking her fingers toward George.
Milo turned, and the laughter that had died down during the walk returned full force when the man saw the pitchfork.
“A sheet of paper can cut through a tree, if blown by a strong enough wind,” George said, and he prided himself on the Oriental-sounding wisdom of the statement.
“Mmm,” the mistress said.
George shrugged. “Emoni gave it to me—it was the only weapon she had. I lost it last night on the path.”
