The Dragon in Lyonesse

by Gordon R. Dickson

  Jim's conscience struck him like a body block. In all the times they had gone strange places and without food or sleep before, Brian had been an iron man. He never seemed to think of food; and he never appeared to need sleep.

  Now the only amazing thing was that he was still upright. Jim eased slightly away from him, and stopped immediately as Brian leaned dangerously farther. Just short of falling, he slept on.

  Jim would have had trouble believing his eyes and ears if it had not been for two things; beginning with the fact that he had once read of a company of English soldiers in World War I, marching into a French village—every one asleep on his feet. At the time, he had sneered at the page of the book where he found this, disbelieving it entirely.

  Then, years later, he had also found himself in exactly that situation—for an entirely different reason, but still having to keep on his feet and keep moving. It had been after midnight and he, with others, had been marching steadily since morning.

  He had not remembered being out on his feet—just very tired—but he began to find himself stumbling off the narrow dirt road they were traveling, straying into the rough, weedy ground beside their route. He was aware of this happening several times, and it puzzled him, before his mind woke enough to understand he had been falling asleep—still walking—and, in his ambulant slumber, straying off their route.

  Now, he had magically given himself some sleep; but Brian had had none. As a result, for once he had outdone his friend. Understanding followed with a blow to his conscience. He took Brian's arm and shook it gently. Brian opened his eyes.

  "Brian," he said, "how would you like to be a dragon?"

  "Dragon? Sounds like a merry time…" said Brian, and went back to sleep.

  "Is he ill?" said the voice of David; and Jim glanced away from Brian for a moment to see the young King standing by and looking concerned.

  "No. He just needs sleep," said Jim. He put an arm around Brian as insurance against the other's falling over.

  "Can I help?" asked Hob's worried voice from Jim's shoulder.

  "No," said Jim, "but he'll be all right. QB?"

  He looked around for the QB and found him equally close, but on the other side of Brian, somehow managing also to show a look of concern on his snake's face.

  "Yes, Sir James?"

  "We were to go with King Pellinore to meet the other Originals and maybe speak to them? Was that the plan? When do we have to leave?"

  "Oh, not for some hours yet. King Pellinore will wish to wait for afternoon, when most will be there."

  "Then Brian's got time to get some sleep. Would there be a bed inside?"

  "Of course," said the QB. "Follow me."

  Steering his friend like a sleepwalker—something, Jim suddenly realized, at this moment Brian actually was—he followed the QB into the log building. Inside, it turned out to be rather like a hunting lodge, except for the lack of pelts or mounted heads on the walls. They went down a narrow corridor from the main room, to a door that let them into a very small chamber, almost filled by the small bed in it, and with some child-sized pieces of armor and weapons hanging on the wall.

  Jim brought Brian to the edge of the bed, rotated him, and laid him down on it, taking off his shoes, spurs, and weapon-laden knight's-belt. Brian began to snore in dead earnest.

  "Well," Jim said, when he and the QB had returned outside to Dafydd and David, neither of whom had followed them in. "He's settled. Four hours or so, if I know Brian, should see him on his feet again, whether he's properly rested or not. How are you two for food and sleep?"

  "Sir Pellinore fed us, and gave us a place to sleep, while you were gone," said David. "I, myself, feel no further need for sleep at the moment. But mayhap Dafydd…" He turned with a look of concern to the bowman.

  "I slept well, Sire," said Dafydd. "Enough that I know my eye is sharp and my aim sure."

  "But you, Sir James," said the QB; "if Sir Brian needs sleep so badly, surely you do? And when did you eat last?"

  "Oh, Brian can always outlast me in staying awake," said Jim. "And as for eating, I ate—"

  He broke off. When had he eaten? When he had stopped to see Angie on the way back here? No. Angie had offered; but he had said he didn't have time.

  "—I could eat a horse!" he found himself saying.

  "Horse, Sir James?"

  "Forgive me, QB. Didn't explain myself well," said Jim. "It's just a saying where I come from—when you say you could eat a horse, it only means you've got an appetite."

  "It does not have to be horse, then?"

  "No, no. I'd rather not horse, actually. Anything else you've got handy will be welcome."

  "Then we must feed you at once, without delay," said the QB seriously.

  "Oh, no hurry, either," put in Jim, salivating secretly.

  "I will see to it right now!"

  The QB went inside. He did not return immediately; but after a moment, two half-grown black bears came out, walking on their hind legs and carrying trestles, a stool and a tabletop.

  Scarcely a minute later a deer pushed the door open from the inside and looked out briefly, before emerging completely. She was a doe, a slim young fallow deer; and she was carrying two otters, perched along her spine. The otters were holding a folded white tablecloth and a large folded napkin between them.

  The otters hopped down in a typical otter flowing movement, onto the tabletop, once it had been set in place upon the trestles. They spread the tablecloth, putting the napkin, with a spoon and a large, thick slice of coarse brown bread that had been hidden in its folds, in front of the stool at one end. After that they jumped up once more onto the back of the doe, who moved off a small distance; and, like the bears, turned back to watch the table.

  All together, they formed a line of observers; the two otters crouched down, one behind the other, on the doe's back, each gazing at Jim from one side of the doe's neck.

  Immediately, four perfectly ordinary, if a bit aged, male servants came out, bringing a pitcher and a wine cup, plus a large pie that radiated warmth as if it had just come out of an oven. They served a portion of the pie onto the thick slice of bread, filled the wine cup, and one of them held the stool so Jim could sit down. Then they also lined up, but at a small distance from the animals; and also stood waiting, evidently politely ready to be of service.

  The QB came out, closely followed by King Pellinore.

  "Forgive me, Sir James—" the QB was beginning, when Pellinore interrupted him.

  "It is for me to beg forgiveness, QB," he said. "Sir James, it is a sorry thing that I must serve you partly with animals. But out in these woods, away from others, it is difficult to get enough serving folk; and the beasts, being young, find much pleasure showing their cleverness to you."

  "No, no," said Jim. "I mean, that's quite all right. I like animals—all kinds of animals."

  "So do the QB and I—" said Pellinore. "But enough of manners. Let you now eat."

  Jim looked at the rough circle standing and watching him. Dafydd and David. Pellinore and the QB. The four human servants. The doe, otters, and young bears. He felt like Exhibit A in a courtroom trial.

  But they were all waiting. Fourteenth-century table manners—which ought to do here in Lyonesse—were that you used your fingers for any food they could pick up; and the spoon only for whatever they could not. Gingerly, hoping he would not spill the filling between the two layers of pastry, he broke off a piece of pie and put it in his mouth.

  It was, he found, fish pie. He had never eaten fish in a pie before; but that was no reason why he should not now. Also, he found, it was delicious. And he was not merely hungry, he was ravenous. Forgetting his audience, he waded into the food before him, washing mouthfuls down with straight wine—no water to mix with the wine had been provided.

  More fish pie, more wine—deftly served to him the moment his slice of bread or wine cup was empty.

  He realized finally he could not hold another bite. He was about to rise, with a sigh of
satisfaction, when he remembered that the bread, now soaked with juices from the pie, was untouched. It was good manners in the fourteenth century for a passing guest to eat it also, as a compliment to the food. Was it that way here in Arthurian times—perhaps a thousand years earlier? He felt as if one more mouthful would have no place to go; but he would have to at least go through the motions.

  He picked up the bread, which drooped like the sodden thing it now was, and took as big a bite as he could out of it. He managed to chew it and get it down. It, too, tasted good; but it was a labor getting that one bite down.

  He did, however; and smiled at his audience. They seemed to approve—those that were left. The humans, all except the aged male servants, had all gone off. Dafydd was engaging David in quiet conversation and had led him away a small distance. Pellinore had disappeared—probably to back inside his house, once he saw his guest was being satisfied. Only the QB, the animals, and the elderly servants remained to watch.

  The QB was still standing where he had been, but pointedly looking a little away from Jim. The human servants stood motionless, also seeming to look past him, but clearly attentive in case he wanted anything—almost as if there was a large badge with I AM INVISIBLE written on it and pinned to the shirt of each.

  Only the animals were still unabashedly staring, as if fascinated by every move he made and totally indifferent to whether he liked their watching or not.

  Jim looked at the QB.

  "Er… QB!" he said.

  The QB came over to him.

  "Yes, Sir James?"

  "An excellent meal," said Jim. "I hope I get a chance to thank King Pellinore."

  "There will be opportunity later, Sir James."

  Jim glanced at the animals, still watching.

  "I don't know how to thank the others…" He was a little drunk from the wine. "Fine-looking animals, all of them. Did I mention I like animals?"

  "You did, Sir James."

  Jim hardly heard him.

  "—Do you happen to know an old ballad called The Three Ravens'? There's a North England version called The Two Corbies." "

  "I do not," said the QB.

  "Too bad," said Jim. He looked at the animals again. "I was just thinking of singing it to them. You know—as sort of thanks and praise for their clever service—Whoa, he told himself, You're drunk… But his mouth went right on talking.

  "I thought maybe if you knew it, we could sing it to them together. It's about a knight slain under his shield; and three ravens are talking. They want to eat his corpse; but one points out the dead knight's hounds they lie down at his feet—so well do they their Master keep; and his hawks fly above him so eagerly, there is no bird dare him come nigh; and… you're sure you don't know it?"

  "To my disgrace, Sir James, I do not."

  "Too bad! It has a great ending. The end part goes—" And to his horror he heard himself beginning to sing:

  … downe there comes a fallow doe,

  Downe a down, hay downe, hay downe,

  As greate with young as sbe might goe.

  She got him up upon her backe

  And carried him to earthen lake.

  She buried him there before the prime,

  Was dead herselfe by even-song time,

  God send then to every man—

  Such hawks, such hounds, and such a leman

  With a down derrie, derrie, derrie, downe downe

  —I think I left out a line or two; and mixed it up a bit, but you get the idea. If you drop by, sometime, I'll show it to you—it's in volume one," Jim said, forgetting entirely that his dog-eared four-volume paperback copy of Francis James Childe's collection of English and Scottish ballads was universes of distance away.

  He stared at the bears, the otters, and the doe, who between them had just finished folding up the cloth and napkin, picking up the table furnishings, and taking everything into the building.

  "Tell me, QB," he said, "how did King Pellinore get these creatures and train them so well? Were they abandoned at birth for some reason? Did he raise them from nurslings and teach them—"

  "Oh, no, Sir James! They each—well, the bears and the otters came in pairs—but they came of their own will and offered their services. They are free to come and go, but they stay because they like him and his home."

  "Amazing!" said Jim. "Bears, otters, that doe…"

  "Both King Pellinore and I," said the QB, "honor the beasts and love them. We hunt always for the chase, never for the killing—sometimes we hunt each other, for sport—"

  He paused. To Jim's surprise, he seemed be hesitating. Jim had never known the QB to hesitate before.

  "But your telling me this and singing a part of that song for me," the QB went on, "encourages me to bring up something I have been less than certain about mentioning to you. As you undoubtedly know, we animals generally mistrust humans, all except the Magickians among them."

  Jim nodded. He did indeed know. It had been one of the first facts he had learned in his early days in the body of the dragon Gorbash. He had learned it from either Aargh the English Wolf or Carolinus, or both.

  The QB was going on.

  "The animals of Lyonesse, many of them, would like to speak to you and ask your advice. I have plainly come to trust you, and the trees have spoken well of you. But I hesitated, because I was not sure if you had the feeling for all of us who dwell in Lyonesse. But now I judge you do. Your song was about one of the few things that animals and humans tend to think about alike—loyalty to what and who they love. Also you sang it with real feeling. Will you honor us all by meeting with some of them? They have wished to know you."

  "Meet—oh, of course!" said Jim, scrambling to his feet and caught in an emotion that could have been partly from the wine he had drunk, but was also a matter of being both embarrassed and honestly touched by what the other had said. "When though? We've got this meeting with the Originals—"

  "It will take very little time to meet the animals; and we have ample left before we must go and Sir Brian be wakened. The animals can be gathering as we travel."

  "Well, good, then," said Jim. He was sobering up fast, but he wished it were even faster. He had not thought of the wild animals which must surely be in these forests of Lyonesse, and he found he very much wanted to see them.

  "Come with me, then," the QB was saying. "It were best you leave your horse behind and go on foot. If you close your eyes I can take the two of us more swiftly."

  "Can I come too, m'Lord?"

  Hob was so light, sitting somehow securely on his shoulder, that Jim had begun to forget he was there.

  "I think n—"

  "Indeed, it will be good if Hob is with you," said the QB. "Being small and inoffensive—and no human—he will be a warrant of the friendliness in you."

  "Well then… yes, Hob."

  "Thank you, my Lord."

  Jim closed his eyes. He felt the usual small breeze; but this time something else strange seemed to be happening. They were traveling with the QB's special quickness; but on this occasion he had a strange feeling that time itself was going by faster than it should, so that what seemed a minute or two might really be a quarter or half an hour—or even longer.

  "You can open your eyes now, Sir James," said the voice of the QB. Jim did so and looked around him.

  He was deep in forest, and at the bottom and center of a sort of natural amphitheater, a huge bowl covered with grass and curving up on all sides to wide-trunked old trees standing like guardians at the top edge of the bowl.

  All around him were animals of the forest and plains, from tiny meadow mice through shrews, hares, and stoats, to mature bears, heavy-antlered deer, and powerful boars; but with sizes, sex, and age mixed. On the rim of the amphitheater, the lower branches of the old trees were bowed down with birds of all sizes and kinds.

  But something more unexpected was there, too. He found himself staring, startled, at—not one lion, but a family of them—a pride led by a large, black-maned male, two
grown females, and several half-grown youngsters, two males and one female. They were standing all together, looking at him from a small, clear space in the crowd around them, as still and decorous as a family in church.

  It was not believable—all those species gathered together to meet him. Even in this magic-loaded, crazy version of fourteenth-century Earth. This was finally too much—the straw that broke the camel's back. His thoughts whirled crazily like the propeller of an outboard motor suddenly lifted out of the water. But then, rising like a friendly wave, overwhelming it again and slowing it back to its proper, useful speed, came the one explanation which made sense. The one to which he could cling.

  This was Lyonesse. Anything could happen here. He remembered the squirrel, boldly jumping from a tree branch onto the pommel of his saddle as he and Brian entered Lyonesse.

  But nothing happened anywhere without a reason, he told himself—and that must be true here as well as elsewhere. Find the reason for everything, from the squirrel landing on his saddle to the unreasonable congregation of all these creatures—most of them predators, from weasels to lions…

  Yet it was against reason for different species of animals to gather peacefully together—or was it?

  There were, he remembered, in his world, the breeding islands near the South Pole, where leopard seals waded through penguins, ashore, without harming the odd birds; though the same penguins encountered in the ocean water were immediately pursued, killed, and eaten by the carnivorous seals. Different conditions evidently could produce different behaviors by the same meat-eating seal. But what about Lyonesse would produce something like this, here and now?

  Out of a dusty corner of his memory came something he had been told of by a friend who was a wolf researcher. The story of the Mackenzie Arctic wolf, who normally did not join together in packs, but ranged individually over large territories—except for twice a year when the days-long river of migrating caribou flowed to and from the Great Slave Lakes where they gave birth to their young, before returning south again when the winter moved in.