Dragon Castle

by Joseph Bruchac

  Pavol lifted his right hand to his chin in mild astonishment. “You can speak?” he said. “I’m surprised.”

  “Hunnnhhh,” Jedovaty replied. “No more surprised than hunnhh-I am that you can listen.”

  Despite his transformation from mute beast of burden to conversationalist, Jedovaty’s personality had not changed. As soon as he finished that second statement he made a determined lunge toward Pavol’s left hand, which had come to rest on a nearby rock. Pavol pulled back just in time to avoid losing a finger or two.

  “Are you enchanted?” Pavol asked once he’d slid upslope to a more discreet distance.

  “Hunnhh-ah, not that hunnhh-I have noticed,” Jedovaty brayed, slapping his tail at a new swarm of flies that had not yet discovered Pavol’s more tasty flesh.

  “Then how can you talk?” Pavol said.

  “Hunnhh-I might ask the same of you,” the donkey replied. “Perhaps,” he added with what could only be described as a sneer, “hunnhh-I do so by opening my mouth and forming words.”

  Pavol was not quite sure what to say next. He’d heard many a tale from Baba Marta of talking animals. However, he had never heard of one being as fluent in sarcasm as speech.

  I could ask why he is talking, Pavol thought. No, then he will likely just answer that he is talking because he wants to talk. There has to be some way to approach this. But what? This is giving me a headache!

  Pavol closed his eyes and lifted both hands to massage his temples with his fingertips.

  “Would you like to know why hunnh-I am talking to you?” Jedovaty asked. His less than friendly voice was a little too close to Pavol. Pavol scrambled quickly out of range of what might have been the loss of his left ear.

  Even if he starts reciting poetry, Pavol vowed to himself, I am not closing my eyes around this donkey again unless he is safely tethered a stone’s throw away.

  Then he realized that the question asked by his four-footed fellow traveler had been straightforward.

  “Ano, I would,” Pavol replied, looking the donkey straight in the judgmental eye that was turned toward him.

  In point of fact the animal’s attitude at that moment brought back to Pavol the memory of one of his childhood tutors, back before the death of his parents in the days when he’d been known as a prince. Magister Utchtel had been the man’s name. He was a stork-like scholar who’d viewed his daydreaming pupil with an air of disappointment. Yes, Jedovaty and old beak-faced Magister Utchtel made a fine pair.

  The thought of the two of them—donkey and teacher alike—staring down their long noses at him in disapproval brought a broader smile to Pavol’s face. Then he realized Jedovaty had not yet responded. Was the beast waiting for something?

  Ah, Pavol thought. Be polite.

  “Prosim,” he added. “Please. Would you be so kind as to tell me why you have now decided to converse with me?”

  The change in approach worked. A somewhat mollified look came over the creature’s face.

  “Hunnhh-ah,” Jedovaty brayed, “you do have some manners? In that case hunnhh-I will tell you. Hunnhh-I have spoken to you because hunnhh-I do not want to be eaten by the dragon.”

  “The dragon!” Pavol said. “How do you know about the dragon? No. Prepac! Pardon me. Please continue.”

  “I know about the dragon,” the donkey replied, “because my nose, like my brain, is far superior to that of any pitiable two-legs. I can smell it.”

  Further, Jedovaty added, that dragon was both hungry and waiting for them. He knew that because—as any intelligent four-legged beast knows—a hungry dragon’s smell when it is lying in wait is quite different from that of a dragon when it is unaware of any potential prey, or when it is sleeping, or when it is just sitting for days and weeks at a time and contemplating the shapes of clouds and stones as dragons frequently do.

  That drooling dragon was now just ahead of them. Its excellent hearing had picked up their approach and it was now lurking in ambush in its cave next to the trail.

  “The very same trail you have, hunnhh, been hauling me up to our, hunnhh, eventual mutual doom. A fine fate for a donkey in the prime of his life, dragged to his doom by an idiot human,” Jedovaty concluded.

  Pavol sat in silence for a long time. He had no doubts at all about what he’d just been told. But, as he sat, he was not contemplating either stones or clouds.

  Finally Pavol nodded and sighed. He had put off this moment long enough. Jedovaty’s words, biting as they were, had just saved not only his own life but Pavol’s skin as well. He stood up and walked the few paces downslope to where the donkey stood. He reached into the left-hand pack and took out the largest of the three pathetic pears it held.

  “Thank you,” Pavol said to Jedovaty, giving him the pear. “You are the best companion fate could have ever chosen to accompany me on this quest.”

  The donkey widened his eyes as he chewed, turning his head to look at him. He was surprised by the new tone in Pavol’s voice.

  “Do you like being a donkey?” Pavol asked.

  “As compared to what?” Jedovaty replied. “Being dinner for a great lizard?”

  The sarcasm, Pavol noted, was still there, but at least not squarely directed at him. Further, the annoying braying that had accompanied all of his previous comments had vanished. Jedovaty was looking at him with what appeared to be real interest.

  “I mean,” Pavol said to Jedovaty, “would you like to be something better than you are now?”

  The little donkey looked hard at Pavol, whose face was so close to his that he could easily have bitten off his nose.

  “Yes,” Jedovaty replied with absolute sincerity.

  “I thought so.” Pavol smiled.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Seven of Them

  ONCE AGAIN I am back in Uncle Jozef and Baba Anya’s dom blinking my eyes. I look toward the door of their hut. From the slant of the light, I know that once again little time has passed. I’m not ready to be back here yet. I want to see what happens next with Pavol and Jedovaty. But that doesn’t matter to my old teacher.

  “Dost cas!” he rumbles. He takes the scroll from my hands, holds out his wide paw, pulls me up to my feet, thumps me on my back, and guides me to the door with his tree-trunk arm around my shoulder.

  I know enough not to protest. My sessions with him always end this way. Just when it seems as if I am about to understand something, he speaks those words. Dost cas. Enough time. And I am on my feet and out the door.

  To my surprise, though, Uncle Jozef—who always before has just stood watching in silence as I depart—adds a parting word.

  “Rashko,” he growls. “Davaj pozor. Be careful. The wise man is watchful even in his own backyard.”

  There’s no point in my asking Uncle Jozef about it. Just as it would make no sense right now for me to ask him for further guidance about my problem. The fact that I have gotten no clear answer from him about what I can do to save my family is no surprise. Cesta is not always easy to understand when you start on The Way.

  Yet, and this is a bit of a surprise to me, I’m actually feeling less worried now than I was before I visited Uncle Jozef. Experiencing part of my fabled ancestor’s quest seems to have helped me. Even though I am aching to know what happened next, I’ve seen that even a hero can feel unsure of himself. I feel a deeper connection to Prince Pavol than I ever did before. It’s as if a part of him is in me.

  It’s hard to explain, but I feel as if I have taken a step forward.

  But how far have I actually gone? And is the direction in which I’m going the right one?

  What am I supposed to do next?

  What will I find awaiting me when I get back home?

  My smile vanishes, trampled under the feet of the endless questions that crowd into my mind like uninvited guests pushing their way into a banquet hall.

  WE’VE ALMOST REACHED the uphill path that will wind its way back up to our castle. Ucta and Odvaha walk on either side of me, so close that their shoulder
s brush my hips.

  It is good to have two such loyal, large, and sharptoothed companions by my side. Especially just now. When I ducked my head out from Uncle Jozef’s dom, they were no longer just standing guard. They were sniffing the wind. Not a good sign.

  Their heads are up, ears pricked as if hearing something in the underbrush that might prove interesting to chase. No, that’s not it. It’s more as if they hear something that might chase us.

  I reach down to lift up a branch that has just fallen with a thump at my feet from one of the old oak trees whose limbs spread above us. Unlike the usual rough dead branch, it’s solid, shaped as if designed to fit my hand. I heft its weight. It’s as well-balanced as a sword.

  “Dakujem ti,” I say in a soft voice as I lift this stout club. I nod toward the oak. “Thank you.”

  We leave the forest. The trail uphill starts here.

  Ucta leans against my hip, growls, and then look into the bushes to my left.

  Be ready. Something dangerous.

  To my right Odvaha has moved a stone’s throw away. He curls up his lip and glares into the underbrush on his side.

  Something here too.

  The path we are on is visible from the towers of our castle high on the great hill. But there’s a dip in the trail ahead where one is concealed from view and the bushes are even thicker to each side. As we enter that little glen there’s one thought in my mind.

  Good place for an ambush.

  I stop. Ucta and Odvaha stop with me.

  “Ukashte sa!” I say in a loud voice. “Show yourselves.”

  And they do. They lazily stalk out of their places of concealment from behind trees, brush, and piles of rocks. They are large, long-clawed, and sharptoothed. They appear pleased at having us not only surrounded but outnumbered.

  Three of us. Seven of them.

  At first I think that they may be lions. Unusual, for there have seldom been lions in our valley, but not impossible.

  My judgment as to their species is only at first glance. As they began to circle, gradually getting closer, I note that they’re not at all leonine. The long, narrow shape of their heads shows that they are a different sort of cat altogether. Their long tails are thick-furred, not sleek, with a tuft of fur at the end. Their bodies are not the royal gold of those kingly beasts but the black of a night without moon or stars.

  Whatever they are, they’re no less formidable or smaller than an average lion, a beast that weighs as much as four grown men with enough power to kill an ox with a blow of its paw. The huge muscles under their skin ripple as they edge toward us, drooling mouths gaping.

  I’m impressed by the dagger-like fangs they’re displaying. I understand what is meant by their purring throaty growls.

  We have you. You cannot escape us.

  As they slowly circle, I hold my club tightly in both hands. There’s something unnatural about these beasts. Something malevolent. A dark aura of evil about them. They’re exactly identical one to the other, including the white spot in the middle of each of their foreheads. Why do they look familiar?

  The closest of the seven cats suddenly crouches. Its shoulder blades move back and forth. Then it hurls its huge body through the air at me—front paws spread wide, deadly claws extended.

  I react without pausing to think. All those sessions of being drilled and battered by my brother and Black Yanosh have made quick reflexes as much a part of me as breath. I don’t freeze in panic at the sight of a huge beast descending on me. I step to the side and swing my club around and down with all my strength. It connects solidly with the center of the white star on the huge cat’s skull.

  The resultant bone-cracking thunk is quite satisfying. To me, at least. The big black beast is now past caring, sprawled limply on the earth.

  One down.

  “Grrooowr-urgggh!”

  I glance quickly over my shoulder at that sound of a roar cut short.

  Make that two.

  Ucta and Odvaha back away from the carcass of the second monster that attempted to attack me from behind as I dealt with its companion. Their jaws are red with blood from Ucta holding the cat’s flank as Odvaha ripped out its throat.

  The five remaining creatures circle us more warily now. They seem somewhat smaller than before. I’d think that strange were it not for the fact that strange has lately become commonplace.

  Which of them looks to be boldest?

  Ucta and Odvaha have that same thought.

  That one there crouching down in front of a limestone outcrop.

  Now.

  We move as one. Ucta clamps his great jaws on the surprised creature’s left hind leg, Odvaha digs his teeth into the loose flesh of its neck, my club crunches down on its backbone. It sprawls dead.

  Three down.

  When we leap back, no more than a few heartbeats have elapsed. We’re not untouched. The flail of the black cat’s claws caught each of us, but our cuts are shallow.

  The three of us stand back to back, keeping in clear sight the four dark beasts that still stand.

  No doubt about it. They’re all . . . diminished. Before, each was massive as a lion. Now they’re only two-thirds that size. The fierce glow in their eyes has dimmed. Not only have they shrunk in size and ferocity, they’re even more familiar now to my eye.

  Ah! Of course.

  “Bezhte!” I stomp my foot on the ground and lift my club. “Run!”

  As one, the four surviving ambushers do just that. They flee as one, side by side. Like a single panicked being they disappear back up the path.

  In the direction of Hladka Hvorka.

  My two companions by my side, I jog up to the next hilltop. I can see the open hillside in front of our castle. No sign yet of four black panthers.

  But I do see Princess Poteshenie. She’s standing at the end of the lowered drawbridge. Her arms are raised high and spread wide, her head lifted and her mouth open. It’s too far away for me to hear what she is shouting, but I’m certain who she’s calling back to her side.

  Sure enough, out of the low scrub brush, a single black creature comes limping, looking back fearfully over its shoulder. The princess bends down to lift it up. She kisses the white mark on her black cat’s forehead and glares down in our direction.

  It is just as well that we are not close enough to hear her. From the gesture she makes—quite impolite—I doubt that we’d enjoy the words she’s spitting our way. If my infatuated brother could see her now, his opinion of her beauty would change.

  Or perhaps not. Love is doubly blind when the besotted one is as dense as a block of wood. Infatuation and blindness reinforced by sorcery.

  Still, I cannot help but smile as Princess Poteshenie turns and stalks back into the castle bearing her diminished pet, minus three of its seven selves, in her arms.

  I turn and descend back into the dell where our dangerous encounter occurred. The three bodies of our attackers are gone. The grass where they lay is seared as if by fire.

  I lift up the club given me by the Old Forest and feel its reassuring weight. I may have a sharp sword stored in our armory, but I’ll hold on to this battletested gift.

  “Dakujem,” I say again. A wind stirs the trees at the edge of Stary Les. A graceful bow of acknowledgment.

  An angry cut sliced down the length of my right forearm begins to sting, then throb. Blood is dripping from the two gouges on Ucta’s muzzle and the four long slashes along Odvaha’s side.

  I’m worried about the time we’ve been away from the castle—even more so now that I know the princess no longer believes I have been fooled by her. I need to get back there soon. But not wounded and bleeding as all three of us are. I look up at the sun in the sky. From its position, Baba Anya should be back by now from the market. She’ll take care of our injuries, using her herbal salves to make certain that our injuries are neither poisoned nor infected. Perhaps too Uncle Jozef will let me experience more of my ancestor’s story.

  “HOW MANY TIMES have I stitched you
back together, child? You have more of my thread in you than my quilts.”

  Baba Anya’s voice may be teasing, but there is no disapproval in it. She’s never said anything harsh or critical to me, even when I’ve been ruining one of her rag rugs by bleeding excessively upon it. Rather often, now that I think about it.

  A loving word is better than sweets, according to the proverb.

  But there is nothing wrong with enjoying both at the same time.

  As she sews together the long slice down my forearm, I am using my other arm to reach out for another one of her warm, luscious pastries.

  Buchty are lovely steamed dumplings that Baba Anya fills with plum jam made from the trees that Uncle Jozef planted behind their dom. Though I love her cooking, I am showing remarkable selfcontrol as I eat them. I’ve only had a few. Well, actually eight thus far. I have to admit that buchty stand little chance of survival when I’m within arm’s reach.

  “Dobre,” I say as I down that doomed dumpling in two bites, hand cupped to catch any jam rolling down my chin. No need for fine dining manners here. That’s another reason, apart from the fact that she is an excellent cook, that I love coming to her and Uncle Jozef’s humble table.

  I have always made certain that I’ve honored their hospitality with equal gifts of my own. Baba Anya and Uncle Jozef firmly refuse payment in any form other than whatever physical tasks I may undertake to show my appreciation. Though a prince, I am also a young strong man who—thanks to Uncle Jozef and Georgi—is good with his hands and unashamed to use them. I helped craft the table at which we are sitting and all four of the kitchen chairs. I’ve been Uncle Jozef’s main helper when it comes to rethatching their roof or carrying in firewood. I’ve also hung numerous strings of trout from the hook by their door.

  I look over at Baba Anya. I’m almost embarrassed by my gluttony. But not quite. I take a ninth plum buchta.

  Baba Anya beams approvingly at my appreciation for her food. When she smiles like that she seems younger—barely old enough to be a grandmother. However, if one believes the rumors about her longevity, her only seniors are the ancient oaks of Stary Les. Of course she denies that.