The Third Dragon, Part II
“Vampires scare you?” asked Ed as he rolled the big wheels of his wheelchair so that he could get a better look at the girl.
The afternoon light lit the girl’s blond hair with an apple colored light. He thought he saw freckles sprinkled on her cheeks, but it could have been dust on his glasses.
“Yeah,” said Parker, and she shivered, then gave him a quick smile. “Why, don’t vampires scare you? Are you too old to be scared?”
“Vampires are bullshit. Besides, be one jackass of a vampire to suck the blood of an old prune like me. No, vampires don’t scare me. And scary writers aren’t scary at my age. You don’t know what’s really scary until you get old.”
Ed regarded her for a moment, squinting his eyes and tilting his head, and then continued by asking, “How come you cut your hair so short? You got pretty hair; why don’t you keep it long?”
Parker crossed her legs and pulled her leather skirt down an inch. She looked at Ed and saw an old man with a few strands of white hair lying on his greasy bald skull. His eyes were cloudy white-gray and translucent stubble jutted from his face. He was hunched forward so far in his wheelchair that she worried that he would fall over and hit the floor.
“You’re not some kind of perv, are you?” she asked. “You don’t have, like, a hair fetish?”
excerpted from “Aping the King,” by Ferrel D. Moore
After two days of following a road the texture of a lizard’s back, foraging among prickly bushes that left my hands cut and bleeding for a mere mouth full of berries, and drinking dew from fading long grass when I could not find a clear stream, I come to the edge of an uproarious village. Parched and weak, I think it to be a fever vision. The music, the dancing, the smell of roast pork and the waving banners I watch in a shock as I step cautiously closer. A village festival here in the land of the dragons? Whatever could they be celebrating?
This is an illusion, I think. I have seen nothing but magic parading as reality since the day I left my own village with you. How cruel that after two days of loneliness and deprivation to have my heart’s desire for company play out before me when I know that as I grow closer, it will simply turn to air.
As I am thinking this, three men turn and see me. They seem confused as their tangled beards. I am too tired to describe them well for they are all dressed the same in their villager’s clothes, but one of them is tall, the other is bald, and the other is heavier than the others. There is no need to give more details. It is not as though they are characters in a story.
“Old friends,” shouts the tallest one. “I see a new friend. Let’s fetch him.”
I shrink back and am turning to flee when the bald one shouts, “Yes, by the Fates it is another writer. Behold his bewilderment. He seems tired and hungry and as covered with dust as the road itself. We must bring him to the festivities to celebrate with us.”
“Writer,” says the last and heaviest of the three as I turn to back in hesitant amazement, “Welcome. Welcome, lad. Today is a day of great feast and celebration. Today, this great and wonderful day, the Dragon of Separation is vanquished at long last. All hail the Conqueror of Dragons. All hail Ferdinand.”
“Ferdinand?” I ask. I have never heard of this man named Ferdinand. Truly, I did not know there was such a name.
“Yes, Ferdinand,” says the rotund one. “Ferdinand has destroyed the fearsome beast with his magic sword. Because of this magnificent achievement he will now become the world’s greatest writer. It was a fierce battle, for the Dragon of Separation fought with claws and flaming breath. It was a terrible struggle, with the valiant Ferdinand slashing and thrusting with his mighty sword. The roaring of the dragon and Ferdinand’s mighty battle cry could be heard to the ends of the earth.”
I marvel for a moment that I did not hear such terrifying battle cries, but then I say, “Ferdinand must be a man smiled upon by the Fates themselves.”
Suddenly I catch site of tiny black wings flapping in the cloud-laced sky behind the village and its celebrants. Against the hard-blue sky, they look like birds in flight. There are two, and I panic. The air is wavy with heat, and they seem to shiver with portent.
“No, you are too quick with your judgments!” I exclaim, pointing at the sky. “The dragon is not dead—and he has come back with yet another dragon.”
My skin is covered with dust and sweat. My throat is dry as split brown leaves, and my face feels like a sunbaked stone. But as I look at the distant wings, I feel my chest coat with sweat. My legs are suddenly feeble, and I am uncertain whether to flee or stay still. If I run away. Perhaps the approaching dragon will notice me.
“What say you?” asks the tall one. “The Dragon of Separation truly is dead. Ferdinand has said it is so. And for proof, he took from it a claw to display in our village.”
I shoot my hand out again with one finger extended as though it is an arrow. “There,” I shout. “Behind you in the sky.”
The tall one looks over his shoulder, then back again at me. “Not dragons, young lad,” he says and then smiles indulgently. “Those are blessed vultures come to eat the dragon’s flesh. We are all free again. All hail to Ferdinand and his magic sword.”
“Hurray,” they yell once, twice, and thrice again. I am too embarrassed to shout hurray with them. Truly, my only point of comfort is that the great Ferdinand did not hear me confuse vultures with dragons.
“Ferdinand has Excalibur, the great and legendary magic sword?” I ask, trying to appear more worldly and knowing than I am.
The three stare at each other, then burst into laughter. Behind them, young maids dance in flowered circles, while another plays the flute. I see villagers clapping and hear them singing. What a glorious day this is for them. A hero has slain the dragon. What legends will be told of this moment and passed down through the generations. And will be one of those storytellers first passing down the tale. I think of you for a moment, then quickly push the thought aside.
My bald friend leans towards me and says, “Excalibur? Ferdinand brings a mightier sword than Excalibur. He carries with him the mightiest sword of all, with a blade that can slice through and destroy even the Dragon of Separation.”
“And what is the name of this magical sword that is greater than even Excalibur? How came he by it?” I am eager to learn anything that I can.
Behind us, I hear a village crier interrupt the music and dancing and then shout out, “Come one and all. The dragon slayer himself will regale us with the story of his victory. Come to the platform and cheer for him. Applaud him. He has set us all free to be great storytellers.”
“What is this?” I ask my three new acquaintances. “Are the men and women of this village all storytellers?”
The tall one shakes his head in amusement. “Young lad, are you blind? We are all storytellers like yourself, gathered to celebrate our hero who has killed this one Dragon. Perhaps with the luck of heaven behind him, he will kill them all. Come, let us go sit at his feet and listen. He is as powerful a teacher as he is a slayer of dragons.”
They begin to walk away, but I shout, “I have it. I know the name of his sword. Is it Dragonslayer?”
Once again, as a mocking wind tickles the grass, I hear them laugh.
“What?” I demand, running after them. “Is that not the name of the enchanted sword that Ferdinand used to defeat this Writing Dragon? If not, then tell me its name so that I might not lose my mind in worry.”
All three men stop, and turn patiently to stare at me, as though they are really one person. But it is the tall man who tells me, “Ferdinand’s enchanted sword is indeed magical, lad. But perhaps you are not yet ready to know its name.”
“And why not?” I demand. “Why should you know it and not I?”
In unison they say, “Come join the festivities, imbibe our ale, dance with our women, and sit at the feet of he who slays Writing Dragons. There, if you are ready, you may learn the name of the enchanted sword and much more from the great hero who wields it.”
By this time, I am tired and hungry, and eager to eat and drink and be merry. The sky is still cloudless, the ground is dry, and I am hungry and thirsty for food and drink and knowledge and teaching. And besides, I have never before met a great hero, much less a dragonslayer with a magical sword that will allow him to destroy a Writing Dragon and, because of this, will become the greatest storyteller ever.
“I will join you,” I say.
There is no better choice for me. My new friends offer me water and a biscuit as we walk together. Although it may not seem like a great deal to have some water, some food, and some friends to walk with—it is indeed better than being left behind, lost and hungry.
As we approach the village, little girls smile shyly at us, and a juggler walks by without a word as though the six copper rings he is keeps revolving in front of him with his so busy hands are more interesting that the four of us… I see beautiful women and sturdy men crowding around a lone figure in the middle of a gathering circle of admirers. The smell of bread and cooked meat fills the air. I have found a place to rest and meet the great hero. Perhaps I must reconsider my quest to challenge the Writing Dragons. This village is a much safer haven than the space in front of a dragon, and, besides, I will learn from a true hero.
“And I wish,” I say to the bald one as the thought comes to me, “to meet the Great Ferdinand, slayer of Writing Dragons with his mighty sword. Will you not introduce me?”
No sooner have I uttered the words, then right before me, moving through the midst of the adoring crowd, I see the man himself, tall and powerfully built, wearing fine clothes with a hint or royalty about him, and carrying a sword that shines bright with heaven’s light. I marvel at its beauty and the confident stride of the yellow-haired man who carries it with such assurance. He has the true bearing of a victorious knight. This is the way I would hope to appear to you if I ever find you again.
“Hurry, before he begins,” urges the bald man. “If you wish to learn how he wields his might sword to destroy the Writing Dragons, we must draw closer.”
I quicken my pace. If only I could get close enough to the great Ferdinand himself to learn how he took possession of his magical weapon. But he disappears behind what looks to be a family of the tallest writers anywhere to be found on this earth. The four of us push forward to catch a glimpse.
The tallest of my new friends says, “His lady is with him. She is the most beautiful lass in the land. Do they not make a royal couple?”
“I don’t know,” I say, “The family in front of us is too tall.”
“Well I can,” he says, “and I tell you that both he and she are so lucky to be with each other.”
For a brief moment, I again think of you, but push the remembrance aside. You left me behind, and though I look for you, I will not pursue you. It is sometimes easier to lie to myself than to tell stories. I wonder if this is so for all writers.
We finally move past the family of giants, and I look about. In the circle’s midst of all the storytellers gathered, amid this riotous moment in a village festooned with colorful banners and children tussling in between their parents’ legs, there stands in the center of the circle a small platform of roughly hewn planks. I see the face of Ferdinand again, moving up the steps with a broad smile on his face. With one hand he waves to his admirers, and he offers an assist to his lady. A young maid plays the flute to honor their ascent.
“Prepare to learn about writing,” the bald man says close to my ear so that might hear him over the excited crowd. “And since you have come this far, I will now tell you that Ferdinand’s enchanted sword is named Commerce.”
“What kind of name is that for a dragonslayer’s sword?” I ask.
“Ahh,” puts in my rotund friend, “you forget that these are Writing Dragons. What better name for the sword that slays them?”
I am about to discuss this further with him, when he nudges me with his elbow and says, “Look, they are on the stage. It is Ferdinand himself and his most lovely lady. Is this not a wonderful day?”
When I look toward the stage, I see the handsome Ferdinand, the hero of the hour and soon be the greatest storyteller in the land. A boy is coming up the stage to present him with the sword named Commerce. It is a grand, festive event. Then, when Ferdinand steps to the side to accept the sword called Commerce, I see something even more important to me.
I see that it is you standing beside him on the stage.
