Lenna and the Last Dragon

by James Comins

  Chapter Twenty

  The Story of Brendan

  or, I Have Too Much to Lose

  “In a palace of ice lived a woman with no name,” Bres began. “Her father was a king, and her mother was long dead. She was a princess. With her was her husband Brendan, whom she loved more than the moon loves the stars. Brendan was the star of her world, and she was happy every moment they were together. With them was a boy. Their son. Brendan took him out to the harbor each day and taught him to fish with nets and to swim and to sail a curragh. As they sailed he would tell the boy stories of his home country, Ireland. Dream country. The woman with no name would sit on the end of the docks and sing as she watched father and son throw the nets and swim in the waves and sail their curragh. She was very happy.

  “One day, Brendan her husband kissed her, kissed his son, and walked away toward the docks. When she ran to follow him, he hit her across the face. He climbed into a boat and sailed to lands beyond the sea.”

  For a moment, Lenna thought the story was finished. This didn’t seem like a worthwhile trade for a magic hammer. But Bres went on:

  “From then on, the boy grew up alone in the palace with his mother and grandfather. But his grandfather was blind, and all day sat in a chair in the middle of the palace and would not speak to the boy. So the boy would go down to the docks each day. He would take his nets to fish. He would dive into the sea to swim. He built himself a curragh, and he would sail it around the cove at the sweep of the coast. His mother would sit on the docks and sing, and her songs were songs of deepest sorrow.

  “Soon the boy was a man. He asked his mother if he could sail away to lands beyond the sea. She asked her father the king, and the king said yes.”

  Again Bres stopped, then continued:

  “In his curragh, the boy went all alone into the vast, empty ocean. For weeks there was only water, up to the circle of the horizon. Then a line of little islands appeared. As he reached the islands, the young man looked up and beyond them was a line of cliffs. It was surely the place where oceans ended, these cliffs. It was the end of all things.

  “Of the people of the islands, he asked what were those cliffs that blotted out the sun in the morning? The people named the cliffs ‘Ireland.’

  “So the young man sailed up to the cliffs, climbed them with his bare hands, pulled himself over the rim and stood at the edge of the land of dreams.

  “The grass that lay across the ground was sewn of the finest green linen. The roads were paved with perfectly cut emeralds. And the houses were thatched with gold.

  “As the young man walked through this country, he came upon a village. There he asked after his father, Brendan. ‘Oh, yes,’ the people told him, ‘he’s up in Connacht, a priest who’s to be made a saint.’ So the boy went to Connacht and found his father.”

  Bres inhaled, and his breath shook.

  “It was a church of gold where his father was, and there was a gathering of a thousand people to hear him speak. From the pulpit Brendan spoke of his journey to the islands of the north and how he brought religion to each of them. The young man listened to his father from the back of the crowd, and more and more it all seemed like lies to him. So he waited for mass to end and for the people to confess, and he went to his father inside the confession booth and asked him why he was going to be made a saint.

  “ ‘Son,’ Brendan told him, sequestered in the gloomy box, ‘there’s only one island I found in all my journeys. It was Iceland I went to, and I built a church in the side of a hill. All the time I spent with you and your mother was naught but my own dreaming.’ Brendan looked at the young man through the grille of the booth. ‘The people are given faith when they hear my stories, son. It helps them believe. That’s why they chose me to be a saint. If they knew that I, a priest, had married a woman and had a son with her, they’d lose faith in my stories. So you must leave and tell no one who you are.

  “ ‘But since you are my son, and since I am to be a saint, I’ll give you two angels who will follow you in everything you tell them. Now get out and never come back. I have too much to lose.’ ”

  Bres looked away. Brugda clutched him.

  “There are more stories, of course, like the tale of how I came to be High King of Ireland, and what I did then. I haven’t the heart to tell them, now.”

  Pol O’Donnell scrutinized Bres. “A fair story, and well told. Now. Questions. All of them.” He put his arm around Emily protectively.

  “Ask,” said Bres wearily.

  “What will you trade to bring my Wicklow back?” snapped Mo Bagohn.

  “The people of my mother, the Fomor, have been trapped in Ireland for a thousand years. It was my own foolishness that put this fate upon them.”

  “Oh, Bres,” said Brugda breathily.

  “It was, Brigid. I was young and angry. Too young to be king. Since I left you and the boys in Reykjavik and swam here, I’ve been looking for a way to set my people free.”

  “Thought you’d died. Oh, Bres, you left me? I thought you’d died.”

  Brugda retreated down the steps leading to the throne. Bres’ cloak settled back around his shoulders as he stood before his throne in his golden chambers. His eyes fell, fell, fell.

  “I change my face every day, when I wake.”

  Lenna gulped as Bres’ face wrinkled, grew old and became a skull, then faded back to beauty. “You are not a shape-changer, Brigid. Your face cannot regain the beauty I once saw in it.”

  “Oh.” Brugda’s knees spilled her sideways, and she curled up in a bonneted ball and cried.