Dragon Castle

by Joseph Bruchac

  “How do you put up with it?” I said to Georgi just last week after watching him help Paulek put on a pair of boots exactly like those I had just pulled onto my own feet all by myself.

  He said nothing until Paulek, oblivious as always, was out the door. Then, with more of a paternal look on his face than I’d ever seen on my father’s, Georgi leaned forward, laying his finger beside his nose to let me know that what he was disclosing was just between him and me.

  But what he whispered to me was puzzling. “They need less help than one might imagine, young sir.”

  Then, to confuse me even more, Georgi tapped his fingers together and patted me on the shoulder, adding, “They are not thinkers like you, young sir.”

  Thinking of thinking, I think I am about to lose my mind. If the message that discourteous courier delivered was true, our uninvited guests will arrive in time for the evening meal. That’s less than three hours. What should I do? Prepare for their arrival? Continue looking for my delinquent sire and dam? Who knows what they might have stumbled into! Stumbled into?

  An unbidden and highly unwelcome image suddenly comes to my mind. The moat!

  In old stories, such as those Baba Anya told Paulek and me when we were little, castle moats always hide fearsome creatures. Their dark waters are full of predatory fish or great snakes or reptiles, floating menaces waiting to devour anyone foolish enough to attempt to swim across.

  Our moat is full of floating menaces too, but none of them are living. I doubt even the hardiest reptilian horror could survive long in its noisome depths. The springs have never had sufficient flow to overcome the stench of the sewage dumped into it daily from our privies.

  In my fevered imagination I see my hapless parents returning in the middle of the night. Absentmindedly they forget that the drawbridge is up. They both tumble into those horrid waters. Then—the image is as inexorable as a bad dream from which I cannot wake—they sink beneath its surface, too dignified to shout for help.

  This time I don’t just think the old oath that harkens back to the founding of our line. I blurt it out.

  “By the head of the dragon!”

  I sprint to the stables and grab the long pole-hook that Edvard, our junior groom, uses—rather too infrequently—to fish things out of the thick brown water. I rush to the edge so fast that I almost lose my balance and fall in myself. Frantic, I set my feet in a solid swordsman’s stance. I start stabbing, probing, prodding. Greasy bubbles rise to the surface and break, releasing gases so foul that my eyes water as I begin to lever things out and flip them onto the shore.

  Nothing living, of course. Not from this poisonous stew. A worn jerkin. A coil of rotting rope. A broken-legged stool. A tangle of rotting chicken bones, guts, and feathers. Then the hook catches on something heavy and dead and man-sized. A fist clenches itself inside my belly. The submerged body is stuck on something, but I bend my knees and put my back into it. A shoulder breaks the surface and a sob escapes my throat. My eyes blur with tears.

  Then I see the horns, the collar around its neck, the silent bell clogged with brown, slimy weeds.

  A hand rests itself on my shoulder. “Sir,” a familiar voice says, “you’ve found Matilde. Poor old blind goat. We all feared the worst for her when she vanished a week ago.”

  I turn to look down at Georgi’s untroubled face. He lifts the pole from my grasp with one hand and twists it to flip the goat’s corpse up from the moat’s brown, grainy surface and onto the far bank.

  Despite his slender frame, old Georgi is one of the strongest people I know. I’ve seen him pick up a horseshoe and absentmindedly twist it into a circle. (And that is no easy thing to do. It took me two tries to bend that iron back into its original shape.) Though Georgi’s face is as wrinkled as a date and he’s as bald as the top of a mountain, he’s still straight and supple as a birch tree.

  I’m now a head taller than our loyal aged overseer, but I still look up to him. He’s unfailingly polite, always self-contained. I’ve never seen Georgi either angry or visibly delighted. Of course, I have caught a twinkle in his eye every now and then when my parents or brother have done something particularly foolish.

  Like that time last summer when we were in the market. One of the vendors, a Russian jeweler who had not been to our little land before, was clearly trying to deceive my father. My father should have known that. Word had already been spread that the man was a cheat. Angry glances were being cast in his direction. But because the man was built like a bear and armed with a brace of knives slung across his chest, no one had done anything.

  “Here, noble sir,” the jeweler said in an unctuous voice to my father. He displayed the brooch in the palm of his right hand as he held up two fingers of his left. “Fine bargain. Only twenty pieces of silver.”

  I almost spoke up then. Even though I was young, I could see that brooch was worth no more than half that amount. But Georgi elbowed me in the ribs. I suppose, like me, he wanted to see how my poor innocent father would deal with such deceit.

  “Oh,” my father replied, a happy smile coming to his face. He plucked the brooch from the man’s hand and pocketed it. “Only two pieces of silver? Agreed.” He dropped two silver coins on the man’s table.

  “Nyet,” the Russian merchant said, spreading all ten of his fingers twice to indicate the actual total. “Nyet, nyet. More than that.”

  “You want me to take more?”

  It amazed me just how confused my guileless father became.

  “Vd’aka, pan. Thank you, sir.” My father reached out with his broad left hand—his right hand resting on the hilt of his sword—to scoop up the entire contents of a tray filled with rings. “These will do nicely,” he said, patting his sword hilt as he eyed the glittering palmful. “Dobre.”

  Then, before the startled merchant could speak another word, my father turned and walked away.

  The Russian stood there, his mouth open as he stared at the empty tray. Even though it was obvious to me that my father had no idea what he’d just done, that cheat had just been paid back in kind. All through the market people were nodding at my father, their pleased expressions turning into even broader smiles as my father casually passed out rings to each of them.

  For a moment it appeared the Russian was about to follow my father and protest. Or perhaps he thought to do more. His right hand was twitching toward one of those two knives. That was when Georgi stepped in front of the man and grasped the jeweler’s shoulder with such strength that the cheating merchant gasped. Georgi leaned close and whispered a few firm words in the man’s ear. The color drained from the burly Russian’s florid face. Within moments he had packed up his cart and departed rapidly from our marketplace and our land, never to be seen again.

  Good old Georgi. Who else could turn a moment of confusion on my poor father’s part into an act of justice?

  It’s a measure of how distracted I’ve been by the strange absence of my parents that I haven’t thought to seek Georgi’s counsel. Not that he would have told me directly what to do. Georgi has this way of offering diffident suggestions, hesitant hints that—when followed—may lead one to a conclusion.

  “The junior groom will bury poor old Matilde, sir,” Georgi says. He pats my hand reassuringly. “No need to worry yourself about her. But just now, I do believe there is something else at which you might want to look.” He motions with his head toward the window forty feet above us. “Up on your father’s dresser.”

  PAVOL’S LEGEND

  Dva

  THE BOY RAN till he felt himself reaching the limit of his strength. Still, despite the knife of pain in his side, he urged himself farther. Just ahead was the crest of the hill that rose up from the middle of the old forest like the head of a bird from its nest.

  From that spot, he knew, St’astie Dom would come into view. He could see what happened. Perhaps it would not be that bad. Then, when it was safe again, he could return to his home and his family.

  A tall ancient pine rose from the
top of the hill. The stubs of its dead lower limbs were like a ladder. He had climbed it often before. Despite his fatigue he struggled his way up it again. More than once he almost lost his grip and came close to a deadly fall. He paid no heed as his clothes caught and tore on sharp branches, as his fingernails broke and his bleeding palms were blackened by resin and bark.

  His breathing was ragged and painful as he reached the top, wrapped one arm around the trunk, and parted the green-needled branches aside so that he could see. His home lay there in the heart of the valley. It seemed, from this distance, a small structure made from a child’s blocks. But the black cloud that now loomed overhead was still large. It glowed and flickered as if it were a living thing threaded with fire.

  In front of the castle a mass of black ants seemed to have gathered, waiting behind one mounted figure that stood a long spear cast ahead of them.

  “The Dark Lord,” the boy whispered. Far as it was from him, that figure was amazingly clear. Though it was impossible from his great distance, it seemed as if the boy could make out the arrogant features of the man’s face, see the sneer on his lips.

  Now, the boy thought, he will call for our surrender and it will be over. Perhaps he and his parents would have to live as peasants or servants to their new ruler. But that would not be so bad if they could just be together.

  However, such was not to be.

  The Dark Lord raised his hand, his palm glowing as if it were a burning brand. He lowered it and great gouts of lightning came pouring down from the black cloud.

  Every bolt struck the castle. By the time the great roar of thunder reached the shocked boy in his tree, it was over. St’astie Dom was gone, obliterated, wiped from the face of the earth along with every living being within its walls.

  The boy let go his grip and fell.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Invitation

  ON TOP OF my father’s dresser?

  As I start to rush away I think I hear Georgi mumble under his breath.

  It stops me in my tracks. “What was that?” I ask.

  “Nothing, young sir,” he replies, “just clearing my throat.”

  Georgi’s face is composed, devoid of any expression other than his usual readiness to please. I believe, though, that he did say something. Was it that old proverb I’ve never understood? “Pity the one whose heart is bigger than his eyes”?

  I hardly pause as I pass the great tapestry that tells the story of our mighty ancestor Pavol. Usually, whenever I start to walk past it, it stops me and I study it for long minutes, feeling that somehow its mysterious weave holds a special message meant for me alone in its images of Pavol, the mighty dragon he defeated, his magical pouch, and all the other rather curious figures—including armed men, revelers at a feast, and some sort of fair with Gypsy jugglers and the like.

  But not today.

  I pound up the four flights of stairs, reach the open door that leads into the royal chamber. The first thing I notice is that the bed is still unmade. Then, as I take a few steps into the room, I see, just beyond the bed, a dust cloth left in the middle of the floor. Strange. Though they come from overly devout and underly imaginative parents, Grace, Grace, Grace, and Charity, the four sisters who are our chambermaids, are neat as pins. They never fail to make our beds and would not dream of leaving cleaning things lying about.

  Then my eyes discern something stranger. It shimmers from atop the largest chest of drawers to the left of the bed. It’s a smooth subtle effulgence of light. None of the flickering one would see from a candle. I step slowly toward it.

  Why am I thinking of a moth being attracted by a flame?

  I stop short, lean forward to study it.

  Though I’ve peered in their bedroom at least twice in the last two days, I’ve not noticed it till now. Of course, I’d not been seeking a shimmering scroll small enough to fit into one’s palm. I’d been looking about for two wayward adults. Why would I have looked atop the highest dresser? Was it a place where I might have found either of my parents perched? Well, perhaps.

  I resist the urge to trace its golden script with my fingertips. Where have I seen writing like this before?

  I lift my left hand slowly toward the edge of the thing. The card quivers in my hand as I pluck it up gingerly between my thumb and forefinger. Best not to grasp things of magic too hard or too long, for only magic has this look and feel. I flip it onto the bed.

  I read it—but only once, and silently at that. Speaking words scribed in such a script might cast a glamour over me as strong as that which I now believe bemisted the already foggy minds of my dear parents. I close my eyes, but I still see those lines.

  Come Thee, Come Thee

  O’er the Way

  To a Ball So Fair and Gay

  Though I kept this perilously seductive card in my grasp for no more than a heartbeat, I feel its effect on me. True, I don’t pack an overnight bag, saddle up my horse, and ride unceremoniously away as did my parents. However, its magic works another way. Suddenly, as I think of my parents, I am actually able to see them.

  It’s as if I am looking through a window in the midst of the air. Before me is a landscape of fantastically beautiful trees and flowers, graceful arching towers, and frozen fountains of shimmering, singing waters. A fair field of folk are there, all heartbreakingly gorgeous. My parents are in their company. Father and Mother are, I note with a bit of pride, nearly as physically attractive as any of the Faerie. Further, they are so solid, so self-contained that they stand out in that crowd. They look regal. I can understand why they would be welcome as ornaments at any party, even one thrown by Fair Folk.

  It’s clear to me in this moment that, unlike other mortal beings enchanted by the Faerie Lands and unwilling to leave them, my parents will certainly come back home. After all, we are of Pavol’s blood, a lineage favored by those of the Silver Lands.

  I can imagine my father’s reaction as he read that invitation. Rather than being ensorcelled and glamoured, he felt honored. I can imagine him saying to Mother as he showed it to her: “What a nice invitation. Shall we accept?”

  And then her response: “Well, dear, it would be the neighborly thing to do.”

  I’m guessing that its only undue effect on them was to hasten their departure, make them absentminded about letting their worried son know where they were going.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. They’ll not be seduced by drink or gluttony or the pleasures of the flesh that have proven so ruinous to other mere humans who’ve entered the silvery realm to either never return or drift wanly back as withered shells of their former selves.

  The image shimmers, bringing them closer. Now I can hear their conversation.

  “Would you not like a cup of this punch?” a tall, graceful lord in shimmering robes is asking Father.

  “Vd’aka, thank you, gentle sir,” my father replies. “But I’m not thirsty now, y’ know.”

  Then I hear my mother. She is politely chatting with a group of women whose effulgent beauty is striking. Yet Mother’s gentle loveliness still stands out. One of them proffers her a tray of sweets.

  “How kind, but I am not at all hungry. Ah, those little golden snakes do such a lovely job of holding up your hair, my lady. Their hissing is rather musical.”

  My father’s voice draws my attention again. He’s swapping hunting yarns as a group of broad-shouldered Faerie lords lean in to listen.

  “Ano, ano, yes, yes. I am sure that a griffin is challenging game to go after, but there was this great black boar in our woods.”

  I’ve heard such conversations a hundred times before. All is well. But then I suddenly remember what I have been told about the Realm by Baba Anya. Time passes differently there for mere mortals. The Fair Folk, it is said, are untouched by the ravages of years. They are like us in some ways. In fact, legend says, a mortal man or woman may even marry one of the Fair Folk. Their children, neither fully Faerie nor mere mortal, may choose to live in one land or the other. According to
one of Baba Anya’s more fanciful tales, such offspring of the two peoples are benevolent and seek to do good—though usually in hidden ways. Also, if they choose to live among humans, those doubly heritaged ones are unusually long-lived.

  However, when any normal human ventures into the Silver Lands, that unfortunate mortal is pulled out of time. A week there may be a year here. Mortals who enter the Realm for what seems a brief visit may return home to find that everyone they know has grown old and died.

  I cannot imagine my parents making that mistake. But even a brief stay at a party such as this may mean they’ll be gone for a fortnight. Time for far too much to happen in their absence.

  I look more intently at the picture in that airy window.

  My father is speaking again, this time to the tallest of the Fair Folk, one who wears a diadem of diamonds.

  “Vd’aka,” Father says, “thank you for inviting us to this party.”

  A frown furrows the brow of the Faerie lord. “I sent no invitation.”

  What? A terrible thought comes to me. “Nie!” I shout. “No!”

  My father and my mother start to turn their heads in my direction.

  The scene vanishes. For a moment the room around me seems to spin as I try to regain my bearings.

  I close my eyes, trying to see them again at the Faerie ball. I hear the music faintly, smell the delicious delicate odor of the food and wine of the Fair Folk. Then, like smoke blown away by a sudden breeze, it’s gone.

  I quickly open my eyes, brace my hands to keep from falling. I’m leaning over the bed, my face almost touching the treacherous surface of that false invitation. Its pull dizzies me.

  I force my legs to move, backing away until I feel the edge of the open window with my outstretched hand. I turn and lean over the sill. The wind that touches my face rises up from the moat.

  Dank, odiferous, vile. Excellent. Just what I need.

  I breathe its disgusting stench in and out several times until the allure no longer overwhelms my senses.