Facing the Dragon A Novella

by Linda K Hopkins

  An hour later, Max walked up the path to the cottage. The door was closed, but as he approached, he saw the shutter move, and Helen stepped through the door.

  “Max, what happened? Where’s Quentin.” She looked pale, and placed her hand against the door to steady herself.

  Max looked down at her. “Quentin is dead,” he said. A mixture of relief and sorrow crossed her features as she nodded. His gaze moved to her arm as the smell of her blood reached his nostrils. It was wrapped in a long strip of linen, secured with a pin. “You’re injured,” he said in dismay. He turned her around and led her into the house. “What happened?”

  “It’s nothing.” Helen said. “A small cut.”

  “Let me see,” Max said. Helen unwrapped the strip of linen that bound her arm, and lifted it for him to see. Blood gushed from the long gash near the top of her arm. The blade had cut all the way to the bone, and the wound gaped open. “Have you applied a salve?” Max asked.

  Helen shook her head. “I don’t have any on hand.”

  “Tell me what to do.”

  “Yarrow. There’s some growing around the back of the cottage.”

  Max nodded. “I’ll find some.” He returned a few minutes later, a bunch of yarrow in his hand. Helen was in the kitchen, her head down on the table, her hand pressing against the wound. It had started bleeding again, and blood seeped through her fingers. Max broke some of the yarrow leaves off the stem, and the pungent scent filled the air as he crushed them in his hand, before placing them in his mouth and chewing a few times, grimacing slightly. He packed the ground foliage into the wound and rewrapped it with the linen cloth.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You need to rest,” he said. Placing a hand beneath her arm, he guided her slowly up the stairs and onto her bed. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said, as he softly closed the door behind him.

  The door to the cottage was closed when Max came back the following day. He pushed it open and stepped into the kitchen. The hearth was cold and all was silent. “Mistress?” he called. “Helen?” There was groan from the upper story, and he quickly made his way up the stairs and to the bedroom. Helen lay on the bed, blankets and quilts twisted about her as she looked at Max with sunken eyes.

  “Water,” she whispered. He raced down the stairs into the kitchen, but the water jug was empty. Grabbing it, he ran to the well behind the house and quickly filled the urn, before heading back to the kitchen. He filled a cup and retraced his steps to the bedroom. Helen was groaning quietly as he knelt down next to her, and lifting her head, held the cup to her lips. She swallowed a few drops, then fell back on the bed. The bandage around her arm was red with blood, and sitting on the edge of the bed, Max carefully unwound it. Beneath it, the wound was red and weeping. There was no sign of the salve he had applied, and Max glanced at Helen in consternation. She must have changed the dressing again during the night. He cleaned the wound, and finding more yarrow, packed the gash and carefully bound it once more. She fell asleep as he worked, and he sat back to watch her. A thin sheen of sweat lay over her brow, and he wiped it away with a damp cloth. Rising to his feet, he quietly left the room and went downstairs. He needed to go into the village and inform Edith.

  Max found Edith’s house easily enough. The door stood open, revealing a neat and tidy home, sparsely furnished. He knocked on the doorframe and waited as Edith emerged from the dark interior. She stopped a few paces away when she saw who it was, her eyes narrowing angrily.

  “What do you want?” she said. She held a child against her hip, while another clung to her legs.

  “Get one of the older children to take the little ones,” he said. “I need to talk to you.”

  She stared at him for a moment, then turning, shouted for Agnes and handed her the baby. “We can talk outside,” Edith said, walking past him and towards a small, flimsy stool. Max walked behind her and leaned against the wall as she sat down and looked up at him.

  Max took in a deep breath. “Your mother has been injured,” he said. “She has developed a fever and is very unwell.”

  “What happened?” she said.

  “There was an accident.” Max paused. “Quentin came to see her –”

  “You’re blaming this on my husband?”

  “He wanted money, Mistress,” Max said. “She refused to give it to him.”

  “Of course she did,” she said bitterly. “But that doesn’t explain how she was injured.”

  “Quentin had a knife.” Max sighed. “He was trying to force her to reveal where she had hidden her money, and he wounded her during the altercation.”

  “Quentin would never do that.”

  “That is not the point. Your mother has been injured and needs your help.”

  “I cannot leave the children.”

  “She may die.”

  Edith rose to her feet and crossed her arms. “My mother was never there for me when I needed her. Why should I go to her now?”

  “Because this may be your only chance to make peace. Do you really want her to die knowing that you passed up the chance to say goodbye?”

  She shrugged. “My only concern is my husband and children,” she said.

  Max rose to his feet. “Your husband is dead,” he said. “And soon your mother will be, too.” She gasped, but he turned around and strode away without giving her another glance.

  Helen looked at Max as he entered the bedroom. Her face was pale, and sweat glued her hair to her forehead. “Edith?” she whispered.

  Max nodded. “She knows.”

  “Is she coming?”

  “I’m sure she will.” Helen turned away to stare out the window as Max refilled the cup of water. He sat down on the bed and helped her take a sip.

  “Max,” she whispered, “you must go see your mother.”

  Max looked at her in surprise. “My mother?”

  “Please Max. Promise me. She needs to see you.”

  Max looked away. “I can’t,” he whispered.

  “Please. For me,” she said.

  “No. Don’t ask this of me. I cannot see her.”

  “Max, you must. You need to show her who you really are.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she needs to see the man you’ve become. And you need to see her, too.”

  Max glanced back at her, surprised. “I have lived more than twenty years without her. Why would I need to reunite with her now?”

  Helen fell back against the pillow and closed her eyes. “If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me.” He was silent. “I’m dying, Max,” she said. “Would you deny me this?”

  Max sighed. “Very well,” he said, “I will see my mother.”

  “Promise me,” she whispered.

  “I promise,” he said reluctantly.

  She nodded and closed her eyes. “Good,” she said.

  Helen wandered in and out of sleep the rest of the day as Max sat beside her. By evening she was delirious, calling for Clement and her dead husband. She soothed slightly when he wiped her brow with a damp cloth, but the relief never lasted long. In the early hours of the morning her eyes flew open, and she grabbed Max’s arm with her hand. “You must tell her,” she said.

  “Who? What?”

  “Tell her where it is,” she said.

  Max leaned closer. “Helen, what is it? Who must I tell?” but her eyes had closed and she was silent.

  Her breathing was shallow by the time the sun lightened the sky, and Max knew, with dreadful certainty, the Helen would not last another day. The skin around the wound was red and angry, and she burned with the heat of a dragon. The sound of footsteps had him glancing out the window, and he rose to his feet and went downstairs when he saw Edith coming up the path.

  “How is she?” she asked as Max opened the door.

  “She doesn’t have long,” he said. He stepped outside as she hurried up the stairs, and headed over to the beach. A cool breeze blew off the water as he stood in the soft sand. He could hear the s
ound of Edith’s murmuring through the bedroom window. He waited on the beach until he heard Edith’s sobs, and knew that the end had come. There wasn’t anything more for him to do, except give Edith Helen’s message. He walked into the cottage and paused when Edith came down the stairs.

  “She’s gone,” she said dully.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. He waited a moment. “The gold is hidden beneath a loose board in the cowshed,” he said. “Helen wanted you to know.” Edith glanced up at him, then looked away.

  “She deserved a better daughter,” she finally said.

  “Yes. But she was your mother, and she loved you,” Max said, then turning, walked out the door.

  Max flew north to the Draksons. His promise to Helen lay at the back of his mind, but, he told himself, he hadn’t said when he would go see his mother, only that he would. It was a poor argument, he knew, and the promise continued to niggle, but he thrust it aside during the long, hot days of summer. But when Erik started talking about heading south once again, Max knew that he had delayed long enough. When Erik went south, Max would head west, over to the ocean and back to the village where he had been raised.

  Max stood against a low, stone wall, watching the small, terraced house at the end of the street. An old woman was pottering in the garden outside, scraping back piles of dead leaves, wet and sodden after the winter, to reveal the new, spring growth beneath. The woman’s once brown hair was streaked with gray and twisted into an untidy braid, and when she rose to her feet, her movements were slow and clearly painful. Max wondered who she was, and what she was doing at his mother’s house. He watched for another moment as she steadied herself against the side of the wall. Her breathing was labored and she paused for a moment. Max pushed himself away from the wall. “Mistress,” he called. The woman turned slowly towards Max, narrowing her eyes as she peered at him.

  “Max?” she said. “Max? Is that you?” The voice was stronger than the frail appearance led him to expect, and he drew in a surprised breath.

  “Mother?” He strode towards her quickly. Gray eyes, alert and attentive, watched him as he drew closer, and when he reached her, she stretched out a twisted hand and touched his cheek with a bent and swollen finger.

  “It really is you!” she said. “And you look so young. How is that possible?”

  “Mother! I didn’t even recognize you.” He slipped a hand beneath her elbow. “Let me help you inside,” he said. She hobbled slowly beside him towards the front door, and Max pushed it open with his free hand, ushering his mother into the room beyond. He led her to a chair near the fire, and she lowered herself slowly into the seat, grimacing slightly as she did so, then pointed at a stool across from her.

  “Sit,” she said. She stared at him for a long moment. “I’m not imagining things, am I? You really are here? How I have longed for this day!” Max glanced away as she continued. “How are you, son?”

  “I’m well, Mother,” he replied. He paused a moment. “You’re not, though.”

  “A touch of gout,” she said briskly, “nothing serious. And just seeing you takes the pain away.”

  There was a scraping outside the door, followed a moment later by a tall woman entering the room. “Suzanna, are you here?” the woman said, glancing around, but when she caught sight of Max, she paused, then quickly glanced at Max’s mother. “Is this …? But it can’t be! He’s too young! Is he your grandson?” She turned back to look at Max as he rose to his feet and gave a little bow.

  “Mistress Ellen,” he said. Her mouth fell open as her eyes darted between Max and Suzanna. A small choking sound escaped her throat, and Suzanna leaned forward.

  “Ellen?” Suzanna said. “Are you all right? Do you need some water?”

  But Ellen ignored her and turned to Max. She crossed herself, then made a hooking motion with two of her fingers to chase away any evil spirits. “I don’t know what sorcery this is, but you had better not use it to harm this good woman.”

  “There is no sorcery,” he said. “I am here to visit my mother.”

  Ellen took a step towards him, her eyes narrowed. “Don’t take me for a fool,” she hissed. She jabbed a finger into his chest. “I will be watching you.” She turned to Suzanna, who was watching the interchange in consternation. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” Ellen said, before turning on her heel and striding out the door. Max watched as the woman left the house, then turned to his mother.

  “You’re friendly with Ellen Harper? If my memory serves me correctly, she wasn’t much of friend when I was growing up.”

  “Her daughter died around the same time you left. Losing our children at the same time gave us something in common.” She paused. “Is she correct? Is it because of sorcery that you look so young?”

  Max crossed over to where Suzanna sat, and dropping to his haunches before her, took her hands in his own. “No, Mother,” he said. “There is no sorcery involved. I am what I am because of James.”

  “James? Does he retain his youthful looks, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  Max rose to his feet and walked over to the window, pushing open the shutters. “There are things I need to tell you, Mother, but not now.” He turned to face her. “Do you see Ellen often?”

  “She comes around most days. She’s a lonely woman. Her husband died soon after her daughter, and I don’t think she ever really recovered. I think you were quite friendly with Sally. Do you remember her?”

  Max turned away again. “I remember her.”

  “It was so terrible, the way she died. Ripped apart by a wild beast.”

  Max was silent as he stared into the distance. As a child, he had never known about his true nature. He had thought he was just a normal boy, until strange things started happening to him. But nothing prepared him for the day he turned into a monster. He and Sally had sneaked away from the village and found a hidden spot behind the water mill. She was the first girl he ever kissed, and when his lips met hers, he had been instantly aroused, and the flames within him had flared and blazed. He hadn’t learnt how to temper the flames, wasn’t even aware that they rolled through him, and when she leaned back to caress his face, she let out a scream of horror as he looked back at her with eyes of fire. She had pulled away, but the smell of her terror had sparked that first transformation, and he had lost himself within the beast. Her fear had aroused his hunger, and the power that swept through him was more intoxicating than the aqua vitae he and John had once sneaked from the reeve’s office. It was only when it was too late to go back that he realized what he had done, and he was appalled. It was only much later that he understood that the hunger is always at its most intense when a dragon makes the first change, but he had been alone, without the benefit of a guiding hand to help him. Of course, it had all happened a long time ago, and never again had he lost control in such a way. But hearing Suzanna speak of her death made him realize, once again, just how much she would abhor him when she learned the truth.

  “Max? Son?” Suzanna had risen to her feet and was standing beside him. “What is it?”

  Max turned with a smile. “Nothing, Mother. I was just lost in memories.”

  “Ah, well. I’m sure of those while you are here. But I want to know what you have been up to these days? Do you still live in the city?”

  “Not lately. I’ve been doing some traveling.”

  “You have? Where have you been?”

  Max spent the rest of the day answering Suzanna’s questions. His answers were vague and he could tell she was disappointed, but she did not press him. That night he slept in the small alcove behind the kitchen, where he had slept as a boy. The bed seemed so much smaller now, but he smiled to remember the child who had spent many happy days in these familiar surroundings. He slept soundly, and awoke the next morning to see his mother sitting on a stool near the bed, watching him.

  “I needed to be sure you were really here,” she said when he opened his eyes.

  He reached out for her and
took her swollen, twisted hand in his. “I’m here, Mother,” he said.

  She smiled sadly. “Why did you stay away so long, son?”

  Max dropped her hand and rolled onto his back. “There were things I couldn’t tell you,” he said.

  “Things that had to do with your father?” she said.

  Max glanced at her. “Yes.”

  “I always knew your father was special,” she said. “And when you were little, I knew that there was something about you that made you special as well.”

  Max gave a wry snort. “James isn’t special, Mother, and neither am I.”

  “He was,” she said. “You have always been angry at your father for leaving, but I knew he wouldn’t stay. That he couldn’t stay.”

  Max pulled the blanket around his waist and sat up on the bed, placing his feet on the floor. “Your regard for James is misplaced,” he said. “He could have stayed, if he had chosen to. It just didn’t suit him to do so.”

  Suzanna look startled, but then she smiled. “He gave me you, and for that I am grateful.”

  “He gave you a monster,” Max said bitterly.

  “No! Why would you say such a terrible thing?”

  Max dropped his head into his hands for a moment. “You say that James was special. Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “He just wasn’t like everyone else. Sometimes it almost seemed like he was glowing. Like an angel. And he never seemed to mind the cold.” Max groaned, and she looked up at him sharply. “What is that for?” she said.