The Third Dragon, Part III The Prophet of Profit
“Yeah, I want to know.”
“Pardon?”
“Yes, Professor Eldridge, I’d like to know. Please.”
“Better, much better,” said the Professor.
He pulled the briefcase close to his ample stomach, and crossed his hands one over the other on top of it.
“There is a legend,” he began, “of how the book came to be in the hands of mere mortals. This is not a story passed down through the ranks of my singularly unimaginative family, but rather a tale that I have gleaned from the ranks of what might be called a secret society in more cultured times. The legend- and I cannot divulge to you or anyone else my source- is this: a simple man was working his fields one afternoon. I can imagine the scraping sound of his plow cutting the soil, I can see his sweat drenched forehead, and I can even smell the baked earth smell of his sweat. Perhaps you can imagine it, too. Can you think how his feet must have ached? Can you imagine the rough texture of his hands, this man who toiled over the earth for what little it repaid him in sustenance? It was a day like any other day, the hot air mixed with the smell of dry earth and oxen dung. Can you see it, Mort? Can you smell the dusty smell of arid ground?”
“Sort of,” said Mort.
“Then imagine this,” continued the Professor. “Imagine that overhead, the sky was bright and clear, and nothing protected this pour soul from the sun. He reaches up to wipe the sweat from his neck, feeling tired and wretched, but he stops and then drops his gnarled hand back to the crude plow handle. From somewhere in the heavens, he has heard a great and mysterious rumbling.
“He searches the sky, Mr. Kramer, to see if a sudden storm is grumbling his way. Our nameless friend cocks his head this way and that, wondering if he has perhaps imagined the timpanous sound. Then, suddenly, he hears a retort reverberate through the entire sky, as though a giant boulder from above has crashed through the very vault of heaven.
“He looks skyward again, craning his neck so that he is looking directly overhead, and sees something that no one else has ever seen since.”
Mort sat still as a wax figure. “What did he see?” he asked finally.
The Professor’s eyes seemed to glow as he leaned forward and said, “Yes, that’s the question, isn’t it? According to the legend, he saw the very heavens split open and heard the roar of a mighty battle. Dark clouds ripping with violent bright burning flashes of lightning poured from the gap and our simple farmer heard screams so hideous that he dropped to his knees and covered his ears. The sound of mighty horses filled the air and trumpets blared, and even his calloused laborer’s hands could not stop sounds filled with such conflict and power.
“Can you see it now, Mort? Can you hear and feel the blasts of searing winds that scorched the countryside? Can you hear the angelic choirs singing the glory of God and the demonic cacophony that withered the sturdiest of trees? Can you smell the sweat of our farmer’s fear pouring from his soul? Can you picture him on his knees grinding his face against the dirt to deny the event that he was witness to?”
And, for a moment, the Professor saw in Mort’s face that the man was actually seeing something of the tumultuous portrait he was painting.
“Our farmer turned over and lay on the ground, facing upward toward the spectacle in the sky. He lay still, as though commanded to do so by God himself, and saw a brilliant gold pinpoint of light at the center of the heavenly maelstrom. His mouth was wide open, as though waiting for drops of rain to revive him from a terrible thirst; his eyes did not blink, as though they had been varnished. His heart slowed, afraid to beat too loudly lest he be noticed. The tiny golden light grew larger, floated and spun and seemed to be descending toward the earth where our nameless farmer lay.
“The battle in the heavens grew dim to our man, but the falling golden light grew brighter and brighter til the sight scorched his eyes. The rain fell down upon him, drenching his clothes, washing the dirt from his face through the darkness and the ecstatic flashes of light, through the whirling vortex of good vs. evil that battled above, and still the golden light came closer to him, falling from the heavens. Perhaps, as I suspect, thrown to him and only him by the Archangel Michael. Why he was chosen, I do not know, but chosen he was, Mort, because the book that you just saw, the wondrous proof of the divine that you just witnessed, fell into that poor farmers hands as he lay staring up at the heavenly battlefield.”
“Wow,” said Mort.
The Professor sighed.
“Yes, of course. Wow. What else is there for mortal man to say but ‘wow’?” excerpted from “Burying the Past,” by Ferrel D. Moore
********
I can scarcely restrain myself. You, my very beloved, are standing next to the great Ferdinand, slayer of the Dragon of Separation, gazing at him with adoring eyes. Your long black hair falls about your shoulders, and your beautiful face glows with the soft radiance that is love.
“What is it?” asked the tall man.
“It is nothing,” I say, but it is really everything.
I turn my face away to hide my grief. You do not see me, or at the very least take no notice of me. After all, why would you notice me in the presence of Ferdinand, soon to be the greatest storyteller in all the world?
A tentative wind moves through the air, carrying fine dust that irritates my eyes. I lift my hand to keep them from injury and to hide a wayward tear.
“My fellow writers and storytellers,” begins Ferdinand.
The villagers cease their pushing and shoving for position. The wind quiets down, too, as though in respect for this great hero. I blow my nose.
My tall friend turns to me with a horrified look on his face.
“Sorry,” I say. “It’s the dust.”
“Shhhh,” says the crowd.
“Please, please, everyone,” says Ferdinand. His voice is resonant, his face strong chinned, and his eyes flash bright blue as wildflowers. “I am here before you to introduce to you three very special friends of ours.”
It is clear that he speaks of he and you as a couple. The crowd is immersed in the charisma of this hero; they stare at him as though they are raptured. To me, he looks less handsome than before, and has, in fact, a weaker chin than I thought.
“No man stands alone in a great battle,” says the dragonslayer. “I am no exception. Wherefore comes my courage, my vision, my strategy and my tactics? Those of you who know me know the source of my courage, and it is verily true that my very inspiration to be strong comes from this fair maiden standing next to me.”
He turns and lifts his hand toward your face, so that the bedraggled crowd of celebrants can gaze upon your lovely face. I see you smile radiantly as you turn your face to one and then other, ever beneficent, showering them with your beauty. Men, women, and children applaud you enthusiastically. I feel as rooted to where I stand as the apple trees beyond the platform. My heart is frozen and I swear that it begins to beat first faster, then slower, first with hope, then with despair. You finally look at me and my three new friends. You smile at them, but when you see me your eyes widen, but still you smile as though I am not there. Like a woman stepping over table scraps that have fallen to the floor, you no longer notice me. Your eyes now are on the feast- the great Ferdinand.
A youthful wind has come running into the town to play with us. Banners flap and snap with a sound like breaking wood. The sky is still clear, and in a moment of self-pity, I search the skies for vultures, praying they will choose me next when they are done devouring the dragon. As Ferdinand raises his hands palm out for silence, I look at my three friends. One tall, one bald, and the other heavy. I am glad that I think of them only as this now. We storytellers should not look to closely at others. The stories that we conceive should not be formed from those we know, for what we know too well, we become part of. If therefore those persons leave us, part of us, too, is lost.
“You see my inspiration when I look at her. Now, you have the right to ask from whence came my vision. My fellow storytellers and writers, I now invite Andiron to come and stand by my side, the man who sees the future in all its details.”
The crowd begins clapping wildly again. I believe it is time for me to leave. I have heard and seen enough. You are with the great Ferdinand, and I can leave my three friends behind as the strangers that they really are- one tall, one bald, and one heavy.
I am about to turn and walk away, when my tall friend steps forward and straightaway walks across the open space in the middle of the crowd and ascends the steps to the stage.
“Profit, profit, profit,” chants the crowd.
I cannot believe this. Who did I walk into town with? Who did I stand next to?
“Bald one,” I ask. “Why has our tall friend gone up on the stage with the great Ferdinand? Tell me this, please.”
“Ah,” says my bald friend, “I can see that even without the great Ferdinand’s instruction, you are a modern writer.”
“Whatever are you saying?” I demand.
“Clearly, young lad, when you look at those around you, you do not measure or study or see within them. It is enough that one of us is tall, one of us is bald, and the other fat. With this talent, you are ready to understand the sword called Commerce and the lessons of the great Ferdinand, soon to be the greatest writer in the land.”
“I do not understand,” I say, but I know what he means and am afraid he will tell me anyway.
“No writer who sees only size and shape and does not explore the heart of those around him can ever hope to imagine enduring characters. This is a good thing for a modern writer, as Ferdinand will later explain. Such imaginings would take too long, and too much of our hearts and mind to bring forth. Remember, Athena sprang fully grown from the mind of Zeus. So to must a writer give birth to characters. We have no time to paint more than mere brushstrokes. We must only sketch what is easy and quick. Andiron will speak to us about why this is so.”
“But why?” I ask in bewilderment.
“Shhhh,” he says, “Andiron, who had the vision which inspired the great Ferdinand, is about to speak.”
I look for your face to reassure me. Once again, I feel lost. But you do not look at me; your beatific smile has settled instead upon that of Andiron, the man of visions.
“My friends,” says Andiron, “Ferdinand has so kindly asked my most humble self to address you all, to share with you the prophetic vision that transformed him into the writing hero that he is today.”
He takes a breath, and I notice for the first time that his ears are thin and large and veined like a king butterfly’s wings. I see that his face is sharp as a knife, that his chin extends forward beneath the ledge of his nose. His eyes are wide and black, with no white to them at all, like a man who sees visions more clearly than the life around him. Does he, I wonder, see color at all?
“One evening,” he begins, “I found a white petalled flower while walking in the woods. Ah, it was a magnificent day, my friends. I could not help but pick it up to smell and partake of its delicate essence. When I plucked it from its stem and held it to my face, I saw that at the center of its delicate white crown of petals was a circle of gold. I was overcome by the fragrant aroma of this forest jewelry, and I swooned, falling back and dropping to the ground.”
The crowd holds its breath. Andiron’s hands flutter as he speaks, like sparrows looking for a perch. You look at your hero Ferdinand, and then back to Andiron the visionary. Off in the distance, I see a vulture rise, his carrion-flecked beak too small and far away to despise.
“I was carried high into the sky, and when I looked down at the earth, I beheld from that great distance the future of writing.”
Though hurt deeply that you have not once, not even once looked at me, this tall man- cradled in a maroon cloak clasped around his neck by a thin gold chain held together by a blazing red square ruby that I had not once noticed- this tall man held my attention now as a candlelight holds a moth in its bright circle.
“Here is what I saw,” he says with a voice deep as a sacred bell tolling in a mountain pass where its call echoes and bounces and grows faintly quieter yet more powerful with each reverberation. “I saw this.”
For a moment, he shows us nothing, until he looks at me, sure that I am desperate to know his future vision. He smiles when he’s sure, and I see his thin, gray teeth trapped between narrow lips. Then, with the attention of all brought close to him as a whisper breathed into a lover’s ear, he holds up a gold coin for all to see.
