The Dragon of the Dolomites

by Scott William Carter

  The Dragon of the Dolomites

  a short story

  Scott William Carter

  || Includes a sneak preview of

  Drawing a Dark Way,

  a novel by Scott William Carter ||

  Electronic edition published by Flying Raven Press, November 2010. Copyright © 2011 by Scott William Carter.

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction, in whole or in part in any form. This short story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover illustration © 2011 by Joel Serrano. Used with permission. Find out more about his work at http://serranoart.deviantart.com/

  For more about Flying Raven Press, please visit our web site at http://www.flyingravenpress.com.

  Other books for younger readers by

  Scott William Carter

  www.rymadoon.com

  Drawing a Dark Way [Rymadoon]

  A Tale of Two Giants [Rymadoon]

  Wooden Bones (forthcoming)

  And for older readers:

  www.scottwilliamcarter.com

  Novels:

  The Last Great Getaway of the Water Balloon Boys

  President Jock, Vice President Geek

  Lincoln and the Dragon

  Short Story Collections:

  The Dinosaur Diaries

  A Web of Black Widows

  Tales of Twisted Time

  The Unity Worlds at War

  Strange Ghosts

  As Jack Nolte:

  (Mystery and Suspense)

  The Gray and Guilty Sea

  Everybody Loves a Hero

  As K.C. Scott:

  (Romantic Comedy)

  Dog Food and Diamonds

  The Dragon of the Dolomites

  Scott William Carter

  Fanzini was outfitted with new clothes, complete with black leather boots and a silk red cape, so he would have the necessary credibility when he asked the dragon to pose for a portrait. He was given food, paints, brushes, and a wooden easel. The only thing that bothered him was his ride—an old mare so thin and gaunt it looked more like a harp than a horse. He suspected they gave him such a washed-up mount because they didn't mind if the horse didn't return.

  He set out at once, a single guard (who was just as gaunt and sickly as the horse) accompanying him. The terrain was hilly and required them to rest their mounts often. Finally the forest gave way to the mountains, and the mountains gave way to the Dolomites—a limestone formation with high, stark walls that rose straight out of the ground, little vegetation on the steep slopes. Every crackle and snap made Fanzini jump. His companion interrupted long bouts of nervous silence with crude jokes about how Fanzini would end up as dragon droppings before long.

  After two days, Fanzini could stand no more of it.

  "It's quite possible," he said, "that I may actually manage to paint him, you know."

  The guard laughed and scratched his white beard. "A lowly goat herder like you?"

  "I'm destined to be a great painter," Fanzini insisted.

  "Oh, sure," the guard said, "and giant feathered turtles may fly out of my pants when I squat to relieve myself."

  Fanzini, who knew he was both good and fast at his art, stewed at the insult. A week earlier, he had left his home in the rugged mountains surrounding Bolzano to seek his fortune in the valleys of Italy. This was against his parents' wishes, but he knew that a painter could never become famous or wealthy in the poor village where he was raised.

  He had come to Lord d'Appiano offering to paint the man's portrait, but the lord of the valley offered only one assignment: Find the dragon in the hills of the Dolomites and return with its portrait. Though the existence of the dragon was only a rumor, none of the painters d'Appiano had sent so far had returned. Despite this, Fanzini accepted, because he knew he would have to take great chances to rise above his lowly beginnings.

  While the guard laughed at his own joke, Fanzini shot back, "Now that would be worth painting—unlike your face."

  The guard's laugher cut short and his cheeks bunched up like purple grapes. "You little goat boy, you may have put on new clothes, but you're still nothing. If I wasn't under orders—"

  "Yes, yes," Fanzini said. "You would beat me senseless, I'm sure. But I will paint him. You will eat your words."

  "Eat my words? I will do no such thing. If I had my way—"

  But the guard never got to tell Fanzini what his way was. As they passed a large rocky outcropping, a long serpentine neck attached to a cone-shaped head shot out in front of them.

  The mouth, decorated with blood-stained teeth, hovered above them. They screamed. An instant later only Fanzini was screaming because the guard had been snatched up into the jaws, and following a sickening crunch, was gone altogether. Fanzini's horse bucked and tossed him to the ground, along with his bag of paints and his easel, and then both horses screeched and galloped away. Not fast enough—with two swift snaps the horses were swallowed as well.

  And while Fanzini lay there flat on his back, this huge creature chewing what was left of the horses, Fanzini got a full look at the dragon as it stepped from behind the outcropping, sending a tremor through the earth.

  Its arched spine was half as high as the cliff faces, and when it tipped back to gulp down its meal, its head was level with the treetops. The legs and body were a swirl of rainbow colors, giving way to a head an intense brimstone red. Except for the head and the tip of its tail, which always remained the same deep crimson, the dragon's prism of colors shifted like a rainbow wreathed in fog. Gossamer wings, hardly more substantial than spider webs but extending the full length of its body, were tucked to its sides.

  After the dragon licked away the blood dribbling down its pointy chin, it peered at Fanzini with amber eyes made up of clusters of smaller amber eyes, each one with a black pupil of its own. It lowered its head, too swiftly for Fanzini to scramble away, and the pupils moved together, concentrating into one larger pupil—big enough that Fanzini could see his own trembling face in the reflection.

  The dragon, so close Fanzini could touch the fuzz of white hair fringing the dragon's nostrils if he'd dared, studied him for a moment, then expelled a hot breath that reeked of rancid meat.

  "Thanks for the little joke," the dragon said.

  Though the dragon spoke with perfect enunciation, its lips did not move. Instead, the voice resonated all around, as if a chorus of dragons hidden in the trees spoke the same words.

  Fanzini felt much like a blade of grass under the swing of an approaching scythe. "Joke?" he squeaked.

  "Humor, little man," the dragon said. "Dragon humor. You said he would eat his words. Well, I ate him and his words."

  The dragon filled up the forest with peals of laughter, spraying Fanzini with specks of spittle. Luckily the laughing went on long enough that Fanzini was able to get his wits about him. Legend had it that dragons were the vainest creatures on Earth. Perhaps he could use that to his advantage.

  "I have a position!" he cried.

  The dragon ceased laughing and opened its multitude of eyes within eyes. "A position? What kind of position?"

  "A proposition! I mean, I have a proposition."

  "Oh, well, that's not at all unusual," the dragon said. "You piqued my interest there for a moment, little man. No one's ever tried to save themselves by telling me they have a position before. But a proposition, well, everyone who has ever made me one of those I've gobbled right up before the sentence was even finished. So if you really wanted to make me a proposition—"

&n
bsp; "Did I say proposition?" Fanzini said, tugging at his suddenly damp collar. "No, I really meant position. That's right."

  "What kind of position?" the dragon said, lowering one dizzying eye so close that Fanzini could hear the swish of the eyelid blinking.

  "What kind? Well, er . . "

  "Answer quick!"

  "A position—my position is . . ah, court painter! Yes, I'm Fanzini Pastore, the official painter of Lord d'Appiano."

  "Lord d'Appiano! That greedy, fat, festering sack of horse liver? The one who sucked all the gold and silver out all my mountains except here in the Dolomites where he's afraid to show his blubbery face? That Lord d'Appiano?"

  "Did I say I work for him? I use that word rather loosely. What I meant was—"

  The dragon expelled two streams of smoke into Fanzini's face.

  "Don't lie to me!" the dragon said. "Speak truthfully and I may yet show mercy!"

  When he'd finished coughing, Fanzini managed to say, "Yes, yes, I work for him—but this is my first week! And it's really a commission, so it's not like I'm in his employ. So you see—"

  "Commission to do what? Oh, wait, don't tell me. It's to paint me, isn't it? Of course that craven flatulent blob would want my portrait. It would be quite a feather in his rather massive cap, wouldn't it, to have an authentic portrait of the last dragon in all the world? Not to mention that if he tired of looking at my magnificence, he could sell it to the Emperor for a fortune. No! I have never allowed it to be done before, and I certainly won't allow it now. Soon I'd have little painters scurrying all over the place, and far too many to eat. Now, if you'll excuse me, this conversation has reached its rightful ending place—and you, little man, have an appointment with my stomach!"

  Petrified, Fanzini watched as the dragon opened its enormous jaws. Behind the pink gums, the deep back of the dragon's throat was crusty and dark like charred wood. From this place a spark ignited. It was fortunate that Fanzini, coming from a poor village where his only entertainment had been games of hand and foot, had quick reflexes. He leapt aside as a pulsating stream of fire shot out and exploded in Fanzini's boot prints, turning the dirt black.

  "Wait, wait!" he cried.

  "You're only prolonging your misery," the dragon said. "I was doing you a favor. Fire is a much better way to go than teeth."

  Another burst of flame shot at him and Fanzini jumped aside, rolling in the dirt. Before he could rise, the dragon's clawed foot pinned him down, as hard and heavy as granite. He squirmed but could not get free.

  "Ah!" the dragon cried triumphantly. "Got you!"

  "Please!" Fanzini gasped. "I only . . . want . . . to tell you . . ."

  "Be silent!"

  ". . . why . . . I really want . . . to paint you."

  "And why would I care?"

  "Please . . . can't breathe."

  The weight lifted slightly and Fanzini took in great gulps of air.

  "Fine," the dragon said. "Say what you must. You're certainly not getting away now—and I do feel I owe you that at least, for providing me with the joke earlier."

  His whole body ached, but Fanzini knew this was no time to rest. "Now that I've met you," he said, "I want to paint you more than ever. But I could never give the portrait to Lord d'Appiano. You're far too beautiful to end up in his filthy hands. But, but I still think I should paint you."

  "Why?"

  "To capture your beauty on paper. To make you—immortal!"

  A wide grin studded with jutting teeth broke out on the dragon's face. "I'm already immortal. Or at least as close to it as any creature can get."

  "But you are perfection! Before I die I want to paint perfection. It's my only wish."

  "You think this puerile flattery will save you? Believe me, I've heard all the flattery you could possibly imagine."

  "But if you've never been painted, then how can you know what I say is not true? Reflections lie, but the paint does not. It captures the essence of what you are, which is more than your appearance. Look, I'll agree to let you . . . let you . . . cook me. I'll let you do it willingly, that is, if you give me one chance to paint you."

  Fanzini spoke with as much passion as he could muster given the circumstances. He had no idea what he would do after he painted the dragon, but he would worry about that later.

  "The most beautiful creature, you say?" the dragon said.

  "By far!"

  "In all of Italy?"

  "In all the world!"

  There was a moment's pause and then, before he could so much as yelp, the dragon snatched up Fanzini in his jaws.

  Fanzini thrust out his arms against the moist, yielding roof of the dragon's mouth. All his bargaining had proved fruitless . . . and yet, the crushing snap he expected didn't come. He felt his stomach drop, heard the swishing of the wings, and through the gaps in the teeth he saw that they were airborne.

  "What are you doing?" he cried.

  "I've agreed to your offer," the dragon said—and it was strange, but the voice seemed to come from outside the dragon's mouth. "You will paint me, but not here, where it would be far easier for you to escape. I've brought your paints and your easel, so be calm and don't tempt me by squirming about."

  The humid interior of the dragon's mouth, the repugnant odors of flesh and worse, and the disturbing gurgling emanating from the dragon's stomach didn't make for a pleasant ride, but fortunately the trip was short. There was a jolt as they landed, and then the dragon spat Fanzini unceremoniously on a jumbled pile of bones.

  He clattered down the bones, rolled over twice, and sprang to his feet. He stood on the gravelly bottom of a pit. He saw no peaks, only the blue sky, and the air felt thinner and colder in his lungs. The rocky walls, scarred by fire, were high enough to hide even the dragon from outside eyes. The slope was steep most of the way around, but in one area the incline was gradual enough that Fanzini knew he could make it out—if he didn't have a dragon on his tail.

  There was a shallow pool, ringed by spots of snow, in the corner. This surprised Fanzini because fire breathing dragons, from what he had heard, didn't drink water. It would be the end of their fire breathing if they did. A closer look showed that the water was a deep crimson. Fanzini swallowed hard, realizing that the dragon used the pool to wash himself after a kill.

  Fanzini flapped his shirt to shake off the dragon's saliva while the dragon placed the easel and the paints in the center.

  "I'm rather famished," the dragon said, "so let's get started."

  They argued for a few minutes about the correct pose the dragon should take. Fanzini wanted something serene—sleeping, if he could manage it—but the dragon insisted on looking fearsome. He crouched with his wings spread, his lips pealed back, his nostrils flaring and exhaling a steady progression of white rings. Fanzini saw little chance of escaping when the dragon looked ready to pounce.

  He took his time setting up his easel and mixing his paints. Though he'd never worked with paint before (he hadn't been able to afford it), he had experimented painting with different shades of mud and clay on tree trunks, and that experience served him well. He knew he would produce much better work in time, but after an hour, and much complaining from the dragon, he was satisfied with what he produced. It certainly wasn't a masterpiece—nothing done in an hour could be a masterpiece—but he did think he captured the essence of the beast. It looked fierce without being loathsome.

  Knowing what awaited him, he managed to look like was working for as long as possible, until finally the exasperated dragon snatched it off the easel with his mouth and placed it against the pile of bones for easy viewing.

  "Ha!" he said. "You were finished, as I suspected. Hmm . . . this isn't too bad. Actually, I'd say it's rather good. Not quite realistic, but given the short time . . . Of course most of your success was due to your choice of subject, but still . . ."

  "You like it?" Fanzini said, pleased despite his hammering heart.

  "Oh yes. In fact, I think I shall keep it and place it against the bo
nes here. Since you do have talent, it's almost a shame I have to eat you."

  "You're still—still—"

  "Of course. Art is one thing, hunger another."

  "But I thought I might paint you again. There are other poses. We might—"

  "Why? You got it right the first time. Now don't fret, little man. Let your last thought be that you got to paint the most beautiful dragon ever to grace the earth, and that dragon will treasure your painting long after you've passed through his stomach. Now stand there like you promised. You can't possibly escape."

  While the dragon inhaled, Fanzini thought of an idea—a plan that might save him.

  "I thank you for the opportunity," he said quickly. "But I must be honest and have my heart untarnished as I go to face God: you are not the most beautiful dragon I have ever painted."

  The comment quite literally deflated the dragon, all the hot air whistling between its teeth.

  "What do you mean?" the dragon said. "Only minutes ago you said I was the most beautiful creature you'd ever seen!"

  "A little lie," Fanzini said. "You are indeed beautiful, but now that I know I'm going to die, I must be honest. You rank up there with the very best of the dragons, but you're not at the top."

  "You've painted other dragons?"

  "Oh, yes, lots."

  The dragon snorted and a pebble-sized ember shot out his nose and bounced off Fanzini's boot.

  "I'm just clearing my conscience," Fanzini insisted, stamping his smoking boot. "The other dragons—"

  "There are no others!" the dragon bellowed. "There haven't been any for over a hundred years. You're bluffing."

  "I never bluff about art," Fanzini said. "Besides, they're not from around here. I may be young, but I've traveled all over the world. Just because you haven't seen them doesn't mean they don't exist."

  "Other dragons . . ." the dragon said. "I never imagined . . . and you say some of them are beautiful? How many—no, no, you lie! I am the only one left!"