by G. Wulfing
II.
Defeat.
A whiff of smell sounded an alarm in the dragon’s brain before she realised what the smell was. HUMAN!
The dragon’s head whipped up and her eyes opened. Immediately the youth turned and ran for his life downhill, his footsteps crashing through the forest.
Oh no, no, no! Not now, when she was too weak to fly away! The dragon began to heave herself up the slope, further away from the village. Every movement was flailing and uncontrolled. The human’s yell of alarm floated back up the mountainside: “Draagooonn!”
The dragon rested for a moment in a clearish spot, her heart pounding with fear and effort. Even her heartbeat felt unsteady and light. She spread her wings, flexed them, and thrashed with them, trying to beat strongly, refusing to let fear weaken them, willing herself into the air. For a moment she lifted, but not enough to break gravity’s hold. She beat harder, bludgeoning the air; but it was no use. Her tail had not even left the ground.
With the same sense of futile despair that she had felt since scenting the human, she inched onwards, toward a grassy clearing cropped short by rabbits.
It was a morning just like the one on which she had looked out at the landscape before crossing the valley. Above the clearing on the mountain, the sky was a soft, peaceful pale blue. The air was cool, crisp, and hazy, with the slight chill behind it that tells of Winter’s coming. The dragon reached the far side of the clearing, turned her back to the trees, and waited, facing downhill.
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Within an hour, the men were following her trail up the mountain. The youth who had found her was with them. The dragon heard them coming, and sighed.
Somewhere in the forest, Jack chopped at a heavy, fallen branch and threw the pieces of wood onto the cart. At the distant sound of the village boy’s cry, the black cart-horse’s ears had flicked around; but Jack, his ears full of the song of the axe, had not heard it. He did not know that his uncle was storming up the mountainside with a hayfork, wondering whether the dragon had already found Jack, but reluctant to call for him lest the sound alert the dragon to the villagers’ approach.
Jack paused in his chopping. In the moment of silence, the horse pointed his ears behind him, listening. Jack turned and listened too, hearing what the horse heard: distant rustlings and low voices. Men, proceeding up the mountain.
It was unusual for a large group of men to come into the forest together, but perhaps they were hunting, or trapping, or felling. Jack was about to resume chopping when he thought he heard his name mentioned. Were the men looking for him? Had they been calling him, and he not heard it because of his chopping?
He doubted it; his uncle knew that Jack had gone to collect firewood; but his uncle would be angry if he had been calling and Jack did not answer. So he put the axe safely into the cart, and followed the quiet sounds uphill. The horse would wait until he returned.
The men were travelling faster than he had thought; Jack had to hurry in order to catch up with them.
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Standing in the clearing, her eyes fixed across it at the trees, the dragon waited.
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Now the voices were closer; uphill, to the right. Jack followed their tracks. The group seemed to be larger than he had realised: the trail they had made was easily discernible. Jack scrambled further up the slope. Suddenly there were scattered shouts and exclamations from the men: “There it is!” “That’s it!” Jack could hear apprehension in their voices.
He hesitated; then continued.
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The dragon watched the men step to the edge of the clearing and halt, staring at her. She had seen it before: the pitchforks and hayforks, the long knives, the home-made spiked clubs … weapons with which to hurt and kill her. The nervous aggression and fear. She was the dragon; the hideous beast; the enemy fit to be killed. Once again, as she always did, she wondered why. Why did they do this to her? Why did they hate her?
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The men from the village looked on their foe, the fearsome dragon. They saw the huge, battle-scarred wings that must have brought terror to many villages; the sharp, curved talons that were stained dark with blood; the snapping, crushing capability of the jaws – how many men’s skulls had those teeth pierced? – the snakelike shape and ugly scaly hide; the evil-looking, slit-pupilled yellow eyes and unnaturally spiked back. This foul beast, this loathsome apparition, would never terrorise their valley. They would get rid of it here and now.
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Maybe it was because she was fit only to be hated. But it didn’t really matter why. If this was life, then the dragon had had enough. What was the point of being harried and tormented from one place to another? What was the point of being forever hated, abhorred and punished? What was the point in living?
Why bother? Why not just give up? She might as well die at the hands of these villagers as at anyone else’s. She would die soon anyway – a slow, agonising death of hunger and infection and misery. She had had enough. Let it be over.
So the dragon stood, gazing at those who hunted her as they gripped their weapons. Even if she could have flown away she would not have. Great despair filled her heart, and now a deep sadness came upon her. It was so sad that now she would die here; for a reason that she did not know, having lived a spurned life.
The dragon gave a last, deep sigh.
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The orphan called Jack, staring through the trees at the edge of the clearing, looked upon the dragon. He saw the huge, tattered wings that had carried the dragon so far; the sharp, curved talons that were not attacking anybody; the long, narrow jaws that were not snapping or breathing deadly fumes; the snakelike shape and battered, scaly crimson hide, the impressively spiked back ––
And most of all he saw what was beyond the slit-pupilled yellow eyes; the pain and sorrow, the fear and confusion, the great despair and the deep sadness; and the terrible loneliness. He saw the defeat.
In a low voice one of the men said, “I think it’s already wounded. In that hind leg. See?”
“Good;” muttered another, “that’ll slow it down. Er – where’s the rope, Smith?”
Now, confronted by the cornered dragon, they hesitated, a little unsure of themselves. But there were running footsteps, and suddenly Jack was in the clearing and had run to stand in its centre, between the men and the dragon. “Stop!”
Astonished and consternated, the men stared at this interruptor. “What are you doing here boy?! Get out of the way or it’ll kill yer!” Jack’s uncle commanded.
“You mustn’t kill her.” Jack’s voice was only as loud as it needed to be.
“‘Her’?!” His uncle had never been more incredulous.
“The boy’s gibbering,” exclaimed another villager.
“You mustn’t kill her,” the boy repeated stoically, unmoving.
Jack’s uncle tried to explain. “You don’t understand, boy. Dragons are dangerous, bloodthirsty beasts. They’re completely savage. We have to kill it before it attacks the village. So stand aside boy, and let us do the job.”
“Out of the way, boy!” another villager growled. Jack did not move.
“Give me three days with her and you won’t see her again,” said Jack clearly.
The men could not believe what they were hearing.
“What?!”
“Let the beast go? Are you mad, boy?”
“Not see ’er again? Aye – ’cause we’ll be dead!”
“And you can promise that, I s’pose?”
“Don’t be daft, boy,” said his uncle, taking a step toward him, with one wary eye on the dragon beyond.
“Three days,” said the boy, stepping backwards, towards the dragon.
The villagers looked at the dragon. Its eyes were half closed and its head had sunk lower. It was injured already and seemed to be weakening. It
might die soon anyway and save them the danger of trying to kill it. And if it didn’t die within three days, it would be so much the weaker when they did come to kill it. None of them wanted to risk an injury more than was necessary. And if the simple boy got eaten, what did they care?
Jack looked at them. “She’s dying anyway,” he said calmly.
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Once the men had left, Jack having directed his uncle to where the cart was, the boy turned and regarded the dragon. As he watched, the dragon’s head sank into the grass. She saw what had happened, but she did not understand what this young human wanted. It did not matter. She would die soon. Her body too sank to the ground, and she lay uncaring.
Jack approached the dragon slowly, murmuring a soothing string of nonsense, studying the creature. Her scales were crimson, with a dull waxy film on them that was probably unhealthy. Near the lower parts of the jaw, neck, belly and tail the colour gradated smoothly to rose pink. Jack guessed that it probably became even paler on the dragon’s underside, like a sunset: he couldn’t see because the dragon was lying on her belly. The spikes that rowed themselves along the dragon’s spine were the same crimson as the scales on her back and on the ‘fingers’ of each wing; but the wing membranes themselves were rose pink and semi-opaque, with a faint tracery of veins visible. Each wing had a curved claw at what would have been the thumb of the wing if the wing had been a hand;
