by Rona Jaffe
He walked on, careful and alert for danger. Here and there he saw signs that others had been in this place before him. Food had been eaten, bottles of wine drunk and tossed away empty. There were runes written on the walls; names perhaps of other searchers for the treasure. Surely that dragon above had the greatest treasure in all the world. A treasure such as his would feed and clothe many of the poor and needy. As for himself, Pardieu had no money left. He had spent his last coin yesterday, and if he had not had the fortune to have found this place at last he would be sleeping on the street with the evil Trolls, or begging, which he was loath to do. A Holy Man should beg for the unfortunates, not for himself. Still, he was hungry and thirsty, and he hoped he would come upon some other wanderer who might share his provisions with him.
He turned a corner and found himself in front of a cozy little nest made of paper and rags. A Man was sitting there, looking at him curiously. He was a distinguished-looking man—tall and thin with an aesthetic face and silver hair. He did not look like an enemy.
“Who are you?” the man asked.
“I am Pardieu the Holy Man,” Pardieu said.
“I’m the King of France.”
“Why, may I ask, are you here?” Pardieu asked respectfully.
“There are worse places,” the King of France said. “What are you doing here?”
“I am on a quest.”
“Aren’t we all. I’m making some coffee. Care to have some?”
“Thank you,” Pardieu said gratefully. “I would.”
The King of France had set up some cooking things in his little corner, and he and Pardieu drank coffee together and talked. He also gave Pardieu some small cakes. “One of these days,” the King of France said, “I’m going to leave this place. I say that every day. But then I don’t go. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Have you been here long?”
“Years.”
“Have you ever seen the dragon?” Pardieu asked.
“Seen lots of them. Seen some you’ll never see.”
“The one above …” Pardieu asked. “Tell me of him.”
“Stay away from up there,” the King of France said. “They catch you, they throw you out. It’s safe down here.”
“But the dragon guards the treasure.”
“Depends on how you feel about money.”
“It’s not for me,” Pardieu said quickly. “It is for the poor.”
“Then forget it. Why don’t you go home?”
“I can’t.”
The King of France nodded understandingly.
That night some other wanderers began to come by, carrying bundles of provisions, and each went to a place which seemed to belong to him or her and prepared a nest to sleep in. Pardieu noticed they all slept very cautiously, trusting none of the others. He realized this was a kind of central meeting place, but no one discussed their plans or their quest even though they knew each other. Perhaps they had no quest. They were subterranean dwellers, that was all. He sighed. They might give him food or drink or company if he gained their trust, but they would never come along to aid him. They could not. He was destined to be alone … and perhaps that was as it should be.
The King of France was asleep, snoring softly. Pardieu rose to his feet and quietly slipped away. He remembered that the others had entered from a different branch of the maze than he had, and he thought there might be a way to the dragon’s lair. All the pathways were dimly lit, and in some of them he came upon other wanderers, also asleep. It must be very late. The dragon was silent. Dragons slept too.
He found a door, and touched it carefully, listening to hear what might be on the other side. He was sure now that this was what The Great Hall wanted of him: to find the dragon where it lay and to enchant it and take the treasure. The dragon was evil, as all dragons were. Perhaps there were slaves that had to be freed. Pardieu kept his hand on his sword. He fervently prayed that he would not be forced to kill anyone or anything ever again, but if he had to kill the dragon he knew he would be forgiven. He opened the door and gasped.
There was a huge, beautiful room with a vaulted ceiling, like a room in a castle. It was empty. Long hallways led into dank tunnels that had the metallic smell of dragon’s breath, and Pardieu knew the dragon was somewhere near. He walked down one of these, listening and sniffing, and then jumped lightly into a long narrow ditch that wound deeper into the dragon’s lair. He was walking along a kind of metal track that seemed to go on forever. He suddenly realized that he had been walking ever since early that morning, with the exception of the short time he had stopped to rest and take refreshment with the King of France, and he was very tired. It was dark here, and quiet. He could take just a short rest, perhaps sleep. When the dragon awoke Pardieu would surely hear him. It was more prudent to deal with a dragon when you were not so exhausted as he felt now.
To be sure he was perfectly safe, Pardieu opened his vial that held his potion of invisibility. He drank half. That would ensure his invisibility for six hours, which was enough. He curled up next to the wall with his cloak around him, his head resting on one of the tracks, and was instantly and deeply asleep.
In his dream Pardieu heard the rumbling of the dragon, far away. He felt it vibrating along the track where he had laid his head. Then he awoke and knew this was no longer the dream—the dragon was awake too, and nearby. Pardieu could hear him, coming closer.
He stood up, peering into the dark. Then he saw the great bright eyes of the monster, like lights, sweeping ahead to find danger. What a fearful racket! Pardieu rushed to the side of the tunnel and pressed himself against the wall as the dragon came thundering past him, screeching and clattering his iron scales, breathing great showers of fiery sparks. Never in his life had Pardieu seen a dragon as immense as this. He was terrified. It would take an army to kill this dragon; it would take a war. How vainglorious he had been to think he could do anything.
When the monster was gone Pardieu climbed out of the ditch and ran on shaky legs back to the door that led to the safety of his underground maze. He felt sad and ashamed. He would stay here for a while and live like the others, sleeping underground in the quiet nights and begging on the streets during the day so he would not starve. And every day he would walk and look, waiting for The Great Hall to forgive him for the presumption of going out to kill the dragon unprepared—waiting for his next instructions. He knew that the next time he would be sent to do something that was possible.
CHAPTER 7
It was May. In Greenwich everything was blooming with fresh new lushness. The sky was a clear sapphire-blue. People who had boats began taking them out on the water, white sails snapping smartly in the warm breeze. Robbie had been gone a month.
His absence had not brought his parents closer. Cat knew that happened in nice novels but not in real life. She and Hall had made tentative attempts to be kind to each other, because they had no one else now, but there was still too much blame between them. She wondered if stopping drinking would make her stop blaming Hall for her life, and him stop blaming her for the loss of his children. She doubted it. Not drinking would only make her stop talking about her pain, not stop thinking about it. The only difference was that Hall spent more time at home now, waiting for a phone call from Robbie that never came, and thus Cat was able to talk to him more. She wondered if he really listened.
Most of the time she talked to herself. Sometimes she spoke to the absent Robbie, the way she wished she could do if he were there. “I wanted you to be able to listen to music and look at the sunset,” she said to him. “I wanted you to do all the silly, romantic, quiet things I did when I was young. But you don’t have sunsets—you have war and riots and terrorists and threats of nuclear poisoning. You have crime and drugs. We had implicit faith in money and the future, and you have only fear. I couldn’t keep the world away from you … maybe I made it worse. Did you hate coming home? Did you hate me? Did you hate your father? I wasn’t angry at you, just the world. It wasn’t your fault, Robbie. Did
you think I didn’t love you?”
Now she had no doubt that Robbie had run away, not been murdered. It still didn’t mean that she would ever see him again. Now that she knew from the newspapers about the game he had been playing with his friends she realized Robbie had run away long before he actually disappeared physically. She wondered who the other players had been. What kind of families did they have? Was it their parents’ fault, or life’s fault that they had to escape into a fantasy world of invented terrors?
She and Hall subscribed to the New York, the Greenwich, and the Pequod and Philadelphia papers. Except for a few locally written articles expressing new opinions about motivation, most of the news was from the wire services and concerned the police investigation. It was fairly scanty now. Most of the leads led to nothing. The only thing of significance was that a truck driver named William Hansen saw Robbie’s picture in the newspaper and told the police he was sure that was the kid he had given a lift to on the highway outside of Pequod, near the university. The kid had been going east, so since Hansen was on his way to New York he had dropped him off after the Holland Tunnel. So now the New York police were in on the case, and there was hope that Robbie hadn’t gone into the caverns after all.
Reporters still phoned and came to the house to badger them. Cat and Hall always told them the same thing. “He was under pressure because of his grades. It was near final exam time. He had his extra-curricular activities—the swimming team and that game he liked to play with his friends—and he probably just wanted to get away for a while, somewhere quiet, to reevaluate his priorities.”
Weren’t they worried, the reporters asked. “Of course. What parents wouldn’t be? We wish he would call us. We wish he would come home. We tried not to put pressure on him to get good marks. There is so much pressure today for young people anyway. We always thought he liked Grant.”
That girl, Robbie’s friend who had telephoned, never called again. Cat had forgotten her name. When the girl had called, Cat had been a bit drunk. If she could remember her name, she would call her … but what good would it do? The girl apparently hadn’t even been able to tell much to the police.
The police said that if Robbie had gone into the caverns he most certainly would be dead by now. Cat had to believe he was somewhere in New York. Robbie knew New York, and liked it. He could get a menial job, dye his hair, and disappear. Cat refused to believe Robbie would take drugs or live on the street, any more than she could believe he had gone into the caverns to commit suicide. Self-destructiveness was not in Robbie’s nature. Hall junior had been self-destructive. But not Robbie.
Robbie was normal. Cat had to believe that. Robbie was just upset.
CHAPTER 8
Every day Pardieu walked the streets of the great city, searching, making his way back at night to the underground maze where he slept. His companions there had told him of a place where he could bathe, so he had no need of an inn. Other travelers refreshed themselves at that communal bathing place too, and it did not seem to frighten them when the dragon roared nearby. Sometimes they even rushed out to be eaten, as if they were under a spell. He remembered an adventure from long ago, when he had traveled to the kingdom of the evil Voracians, where Ak-Oga had eaten the flesh of his slaves, as this dragon-god did. Pardieu feared that in spite of his magic powers he too might fall under the same spell, and was relieved to learn from his new friends in the maze that there were other places where he could bathe where there were no dragons. After he had been walking the streets of the city for a while he even found some of these places himself. He was glad there were so many of them, for he disliked being dirty and unkempt. His beard and hair had grown longer now, and his face looked very thin. The people he passed on the street never gave him food, and hardly ever gave him coins, so he was often hungry. But he had enough food to live, and that was all that mattered. Fasting was beneficial for the spirit. Soon he would find The Great Hall.
This was a city of strange contrasts. Pardieu passed many places of sin, where voluptuous women danced naked and men shrieked with lecherous glee to see them. There was garbage tossed in the street, and beggars rummaged through it for scraps of food. He saw people in rags, and people in fine clothing. There were many mutated Half-humans with vacant eyes, singing in strange tongues or screaming in anger at things only they could see. You could turn a corner and find a street filled with horrors, and then turn again and find quiet and peace, especially in the evening. Pardieu was often lonely, for no one he spoke to seemed able to understand him, and often they appeared afraid of him, as if he would not forgive them for their sins. At night he still dreamed of The Great Hall, and that sustained him through his days of isolation in the midst of dense, unfriendly crowds. All this suffering was still part of his quest.
He had found a street where young boys and girls waited until older men came to speak to them, and then the older man and the young person would go off together. It was the Street of Messages. Pardieu took to waiting on that street at night, until his own messenger would come. Sometimes a man would stop to speak to him, but whenever Pardieu asked him if he was his messenger at last the man would look at him oddly and go away. Pardieu realized finally that these exchanges took place in some kind of code, and that he would have to learn it.
There was a lovely young Sprite who came to the Street of Messages every night and who was the only one who did not seem to fear him. She would look at him and laugh. Her laughter was like the sound of bells, her hair was long, blond, and silky, and she often wore trousers of velvet and shirts of gauze. She looked like a Princess of the Sprites. She was about thirteen years old in appearance, which meant she could be over a hundred in the Sprite world. That was not old for a Sprite. One night he approached her, praying she would not run away.
“I am Pardieu the Holy Man,” he said.
She laughed. “I’ve been watching you,” she said. “You’re never going to get a john when you’re stoned like that.”
“I cannot speak your tongue,” Pardieu said, confused and apologetic.
“Hey, man, don’t shit me. You’re ripped out of your head.”
“What are these terrors you warn me of?”
She laughed again. “You’re cute, and I have a weak spot for losers. Come on, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”
She took him into a brightly lit eating place where she bought him coffee and small cakes, and some for herself. She was beautiful and kind; the first who had befriended him in the city.
“Now listen,” she said, leaning forward over the table that separated them. “There are leather queens and piss freaks and S and M’s, but unless you get a real masochist weirdo nobody’s going to want you like this. They think you’ve been smoking angel dust.”
“Angel dust …” Pardieu said. “How beautiful that sounds.”
“Yeah, well, smoke it after, not before. I’m not afraid of you, but I’ve got friends on this street and I’m not going anywhere alone with you. Besides, I think you’re harmless.”
“I am harmless,” Pardieu said, grateful to understand at least a small amount of what she was saying. “I am the highest level of Holy Man, and I would harm no one who is not evil.”
“This is what you do,” she said. “The john comes up and he says something like how much and you tell him, and keep your mouth shut from then on. If he asks your name or tries to make conversation, make up some name. Don’t give him that Holy Man shit. How much do you get?”
“How much what?”
“How much money?”
“Very little,” Pardieu said sadly.
“I noticed.” She surveyed him carefully. “You’re kind of old for these chicken hawks, but you are cute. Ask him for twenty.”
“Twenty coins?”
“Twenty bucks, Par-doo. And don’t tell him your name is Par-doo. Say you’re Paul.”
“Paul,” Pardieu said. He nodded. “My name is Paul. Do I ask first or does he offer first?”
“Usually he asks.” She laug
hed. “The small talk is not terrific on this street. Hey, did you ever read Catcher in the Rye?”
“No,” Pardieu said.
“That was the last book I read before I left home. I loved it. This guy wants to stand in a field full of rye and catch little kids before they fall off a cliff. His only friend is a little girl. At the end he goes crazy and they put him away, but it’s really kind of the world that’s crazy. I don’t know why being with you reminded me of that book just now. Oh, well.”
“That was a fine tale,” Pardieu said politely. “Thank you.”
“Sure.”
They went back to the Street of Messages and waited, several feet apart from each other, as was everyone, and soon her messenger came and she went away with him. As she walked away she tossed Pardieu an encouraging glance. He smiled back at her, filled with fellowship and pure love. He knew tonight was the night he would find his answer.
His messenger was an ordinary-looking, respectably dressed man. Pardieu was relieved to see that the look in his dark eyes was not of fear but only of discomfort and a kind of desperate nervousness. It was not Pardieu the messenger was afraid of.
“How much?” the messenger asked.
