Hunting of the Last Dragon (17 page)

Feeling in a dream, I got the sword and faced the pile of rubble where the dragon lay. It was ten paces or so from me, lying still again, its breaths long and terrible. With each breath it shot out fire, but the flames
were greenish-coloured, weak. The air stank, bitter and scalding to my throat. I lifted the sword to the bloodred skies.

“Jesus help me,” I said, and began climbing the stones.

The dragon's head was stretched towards me, though resting on the ground. As I walked higher, I saw the bulk of its body, twisted, awkward, its belly and throat lacerated by the razor-edged metal blades and shards embedded in it. Where the scales were shattered and the flesh wounded, black slime ran out. The wings, once so luminous and fine, were mangled. In defeat the creature looked deflated, drab, its inner fire dying. Its damaged tail twitched and flickered, the broken barbs rasping on the rocks. The creature watched me approach, its head side-on to me. I could see only one eye; it was a ball of molten gold, the iris long and black and slitted, like a cat's in the daylight. It blinked, a second skin sliding momentarily across the gold. I remembered what Lan had said about the dragon seeing best from the side, and knew it was aware of my every move.

I went nearer, the sword raised high. I wish I could say that at that moment I felt again what I had felt when I first held the sword on that shore, when I knew I stood in glorious company, protected and empowered
by destiny. But at that moment, when I stood before the dragon face-to-face, within a breath of fire and hell and death, I felt nought save grim terror, and could not move to save myself, nor swing the sword, nor breathe. I swear even the blood stopped in my veins. The dragon must have known it, for it lifted its head, its eye still blazing on me, and raised itself on its front legs. Slowly, it dragged itself around to face me straight on. Held in a terrible mastery, I could not move; I could see both its eyes, saw its mouth open, the black tongue flick towards me. Then I heard it draw in a long last breath, gathering force for one final, fatal onslaught of killing fire. It was then, betwixt that breath and its release, I remembered who I was and all that stood behind me, and I closed my eyes and swung down the sword.

I felt the blade hit flesh and bone and stone. The force of the blow tore through my hands and up my arms, shattering me, smashing me, as if the fire-dust itself had burst within, and blown apart my heart. At the same instant heat poured over me. I thought I heard a great bell toll, and that death had come. There was a huge sense of surrender, and sorrow, and a profound relief. Then I realised that the bell was only the ringing of the sword on stone, that I was still on my feet, the hilt of the sword still clenched in my hands. I tried to
open my eyes, but could not. Panicking, blind, I dropped the sword and staggered on the stones. I was sobbing, I think, or screaming; there was a cry from somewhere, echoing around the cove. Then I felt a hand on my arm, and something beating on my clothes.

“All's well—'tis dead,” said Jing-wei. “You killed it.” But she sounded worried, and my panic deepened. Why could I not see?

“What's wrong?” I cried, and my lips felt thick, more puffed up and painful than before. “What happened?”

She did not reply, but dragged me along the stones, downwards. Stumbling, I gripped her sleeve, felt her shaking. I could smell my clothes smouldering. Then there was water all around, and she was making me kneel in it, splashing the cold sea across my face and chest, my hands, my clothes. It was then the pain came, and I knew.

“Am I burned very bad?” I asked, half sobbing.

She helped me stand. The waves still washed about our legs, and I gripped her arms to steady myself. Even my palms were burned, for I suppose the sword too had been heated instantly by that blast. Faintness came over me. I heard her say, with her usual calm, “Your skin's red, like a child's when it's been in the sun too
long. Your eyelashes are gone, and your brows. The lids are puffed, but it's only the outside skin where the lashes burned. When the swelling goes you'll see again. I'll mend your burns with the potions Lan gave to us. You'll be fine, Jude. 'Tis all only skin-deep. The dragon's fire was much weakened, and your clothes protected most of you.”

I put my hands to my face, and removed them fast. I felt my hair; it was frizzed all over, burned short. “Like the time Tybalt played his sword about me,” I said, and tried to laugh. The laugh hurt, stretched my skin too tight.

“Aye. You have a wild time, getting shorn,” Jing-wei said. Her voice was broken, changed by laughter or tears, or both; and I reached out for her and pulled her close. Then we both wept, I think, from relief and nerves stretched too far, and awe at the thing that we had done.

The next hours blur in my memory. Jing-wei took me back to the shrine and anointed my scorched skin with oil and ointments. I remember thirst and pain, and the terror of not being able to see. A dozen times I made Jing-wei go and look outside, in case the dragon was still alive and crawling here to kill us. Then I slept, I think, or fainted.

When I came to, I heard a pounding sound outside,
like stones being thrown, and staggered blindly to where I thought the door might be. I found it at last. Sunlight fell warm on me, and I realised it was morning. I called to Jing-wei.

“I'm covering the dragon!” she called back.

A while later she came to the shrine, and put into my hands a smooth disc-like object, larger than my outspread hand. “One of its scales,” she told me. “'Tis a beautiful thing, Jude. Clear like ice on a winter pond, but the colour of polished copper. And there are colours layered within it, purples and greens and blues. It's a changing thing, more lovely than a jewel.”

“And more rare than one,” I said.

I felt her hand on mine; our fingers linked.

“I placed Tybalt's sword in the pile of stones,” she told me. “I stood it upright, hilt skyward, like a cross.”

I thought it seemed a fitting monument, since Richard used it, too, and began the work we finished. It was a memorial to him as well, for he had courage, despite his faults. I wanted to tell Jing-wei how well she had done, but my lips hurt. I said instead: “I'm mortal tired, Jing-wei.”

And that, Brother Benedict, is how I felt after killing the last dragon. Tired, and triumphant, and dazed with disbelief. There was astonishment, too, that it was over
so quick. Old Lan had been right—the worst of it had been the haunting fear, the dragon in my own mind, that had roasted me slow with its fire and tortured me for days and weeks on end, over and over again, in my dreams and dark imaginings. The real fight, when it came, had been over in moments.

That first day after felt unreal, like a dream. For most of it I slept, and in my dreams heard the sliding of silk, like scales slithering, and smelled fire. When I woke Jing-wei was burning something out on the beach. Her little silk shoes, she told me afterward, and the rest of her mother's dress, save for the fragment where her mother had embroidered her name in Chinese. She has it still. And we have the dragon's scale, though no one has seen it save ourselves. I want to do something special with it, so it will not be lost. I thought perhaps when you've finished our book you might like to set the scale within the leather cover, perhaps etch a dragon on it, since your artwork is so fine.

And talking of your artwork, I do admire the letters you've done at the beginning of each day's work. You've been a good listener, Benedict, and a most excellent scribe. But I think now I need a break. A walk in the cloisters, perhaps, to breathe in the fresh air,
and smell the rain in the herb garden. I've been thinking more and more on staying here and becoming a novice, for I've grown passing fond of this place and its peace.

Well, I'll be off, and see you on the morrow, for the ending to my story.

Good morrow, Brother! Well, truth to tell, 'tis not so good. There's a sorrow in my heart today, and I know not why. Chen has asked Jing-wei to marry him. I ought to be glad for her sake. This was what I'd hoped for her—that she'd find someone from her own country, and be happy with him. And now it's happening, and I am come to grief. She's not too glad herself, and I don't know why. She told me that in China 'tis a disgrace for a bride to have big feet and marriages are made, or unmade, on whether feet are bound. In the wedding ceremony the groom's kin check the bride's feet for smallness. She's trapped between two worlds, she says, and I have a strange feeling that she blames me for it. Or she wants something from me, and I don't know what it is. What should I do? You know me well
by now and must have some wisdom you can offer. No—don't write your answer down, I can't read. Whisper to me.

What?

Marry her?
Marry her?

Corpus bones—what kind of advice is that, from a monk? I'm mortal shocked, dumbstruck, speechless. Well, not quite speechless. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Brother Benedict, for having such a mad notion in your head. How could I marry her? I have nothing, while Chen has everything—wealth, beauty, good prospects, a nobleman's house and land in China. What could I offer her? Work on a goose farm, and sweet little else, save for what we already have—our friendship and trust, the easiness in each other's company, the—

You smile, Benedict.

God help me, you're mad, or I am, or we both are. But I'm off to see Jing-wei. And here's a kiss for your advice—one on your forehead, there—and one on each of your lovely cheeks. Look—you've smudged your ink and spoiled the page. Serves you right—you shouldn't be writing all this, anyway. I'll come again afore the lighting of the lamps, and let you know how I get on. Meanwhile, say a prayer for me!

Benedict! I have sweet news! But I'm not allowed to tell it, for Jing-wei wants to come and tell you herself. So I'll just sit down here upon my stool, and calm my frantic heart, and let God know of my gratitude, and get on with the ending to my tale.

There's not much more to tell. Ah—here's Jing-wei already, to tell the news! I swear, she must run near as fast as I do, these days!

Here's a stool for you to sit on, dear heart. And don't mind that Benedict still writes; he records everything, and I suppose that what you have to say now is also part of our story—the most important part for us, come to think of it. Well, tell him, afore his grin splits his face in two!

Oh Benedict, I'm almost out of my mind for joy! My heart's going like a smithy's hammer, and won't calm down! I don't know how I'll ever gather back my wits enough to finish telling you this history.

Jing-wei is meeting Chen now, to tell him of her decision. I feel sad for him, for I know that in his way he loves her. I still don't know why I'm so blessed. I'm sure I'm not all those things she says I am. Still, I'll not quarrel with her—'twould not be a good omen this early in our betrothal. Now, where were we in our narrative? I remember: the day we killed the dragon.

For the rest of that day, I slept. That night we ate sea-food again, and at dawn the next day left the cove, leaning on one another. Miraculously, we found our donkey not far from where we had abandoned it. It seemed well enough, though I could feel its ribs beneath my hands, and its hide was stiff with dust or ash. Jing-wei rode and I stumbled alongside, my hand on the donkey's neck to guide me. When the sun was fully up, and hot, Jing-wei bathed my face again with the oil, taking care about my eyes. My skin was blistering but my eyelids began to return to their normal size, and for moments I could separate the lids and glimpse the light. In the hottest part of the day we rested, reclining in the shade of a wall in a ruined
village. By that evening, to my huge relief, I could open my eyes properly.

For several days we travelled, going south in search of the town where Jing-wei's countryfolk lived. We left the scorched lands and found ourselves in peaceful countryside with villages where church bells tolled, and sheep and oxen grazed the fields shorn of their rye and wheat. Jing-wei gleaned some of the stalks of grain from the edges that were left, and wove me a passable hat to shelter my burned face from the sun. I must have looked odd, for people stared as they passed us on the roads. I suppose Jing-wei looked strange to them, too, with her almond eyes and brown skin. Though curious, people were friendly, and every night we were offered a barn to sleep in, or the floor by a cosy hearth. Perchance they felt sorry for us, me with my burned face and hands, for we were fed well, too. Even our donkey got fed well, and slept in stalls with ample hay, and each day got a brushing with a bunch of twigs.

Life began to seem incredibly, wondrously normal. I realised how long I had lived in fear, how stretched my nerves had been, how close my wits to being lost. There was a huge joy in me, despite the pain of my burns, and I felt I had woken up from a dreadful dream. The world, it seemed, had woken up. People
were cheerful, and travellers had lost that haunted look. There were fewer burned villages here in the south, and those we passed were being rebuilt. There was hope in the air, brought with the cool and the autumn winds. And another thing came with summer's end: the rumour that the dragon was slain.

The first time we heard it was while we stayed in the village of Trute, about ten miles north of here. We were staying with a farmer and his wife, eating at their rough trestle table with their five daughters, when one of the maids said she'd heard a marvellous thing that day. “That dragon that plagued the northern lands,” she said, “is dead. Killed by a soldier with a single blow.”

“There never was a dragon, Tilly, so don't talk nonsense,” said her father. “It was the plague again, fallin' in fire from the skies, what killed folks and burned their crops and villages.”

“It were a dragon, father!” cried Tilly, red-faced with excitement. “The juggler who told us was told by a tinker, who mended pots for a miller's wife whose husband heard it from a smith who shod the knight's horse! The knight was on his way home from the dragon's cove. St. Alfric's Cove it was, he said, and described how he'd killed the beast with a single blow. So mighty was that blow that the world shook, and the
cliff fell down into the sea. The soldier left his sword in the pile of stones, to prove it, and the tip of the dragon's tail he laid nearby, to show what was buried there. He's ridden all up and down the lands, telling folks he's killed the beast and there's no need to go a-fearing any longer.”

“I wasn't a-fearing, to start with,” growled her father. “Leastwise, not a-fearing 'bout anything except bein' browbeaten by a bunch of frenzied women in me own house.”

Jing-wei glanced at me, and we grinned at one another over our thick chunks of oatmeal bread. I had half a mind to tell them the truth, but knew I'd be laughed to scorn.

The next day we journeyed on, asking at all the villages if they knew of a town where Chinese people lived. They had never heard the word
Chinese,
and they stared wonderingly at Jing-wei and shook their heads. Jing-wei began to be troubled, thinking we would never find her own people, or maybe that they had gone back to China. Truth to tell, I didn't mind if they had gone. I was enjoying this time in Jing-wei's company, walking the country lanes and wandering across fields being sown with wheat and rye, and talking with the lads who were chasing off the crows. Several times we got lost, cutting across those open
fields, for I tried to avoid the roads that ran through woods and places that might have hid thieves. Sometimes we met up with other travellers, and our way was made merry with songs and stories. Again and again we heard how the dragon was killed: sometimes by the king's army; sometimes by a lone and brave knight; sometimes by a hoard of angels who sang a heavenly note and made the cliff fall down upon the beast; sometimes by a beauteous maid using enchantment.

And so we came, eventually, to Minstan, and your Monastery of St. Edmund. Well do I remember that first night in your guest house, lying on a bed of soft straw with clean sheets, having eaten at a proper table with silver spoons, fine basins, and a polished saltcellar worth more than everything my father ever owned. I was not accustomed to so many people, for there were thirty or more of us lined up in our beds along the walls. We were a motley lot, pilgrims and traders, craftsmen and messengers; and the noise, even in the middle of the night, was horrendous. There was praying going on, and children howling, and there was snoring, and farting, and . . . Well, you don't need to know it all. Just be thankful for your quiet cell, and being disturbed only by bells summoning you to prayers.

I was walking in the cloisters the next morning,
admiring the porches with their carven columns and vaulted ceilings, and looking out at the herb garden in the courtyard, thinking how peaceful it was, when I first met your Abbot. We got talking, and he asked me where I was from and where I was bound, and why. And for some reason—the kindliness of him, mayhap—I told him all. And the rest you know.