The Dragon Griaule
Read The Dragon Griaule Online
Authors: Lucius Shepard
‘These six stories explore ground far from the high fantasy with which dragons are frequently associated. Fans of Shepard’s unusual and often powerful Griaule tales will be delighted to have them all in one place’
Publishers Weekly
‘His work is daring and unsettling in the way art should be’
Kirkus Reviews
‘A writer with breathtaking ability’
Locus
‘One of the finest science fiction writers of all time’
Science Fiction Chronicle
Novels
Green Eyes (1984)
Life During Wartime (1987)
The Golden (1993)
Valentine (2002)
Louisiana Breakdown (2003)
Floater (2003)
Viator (2004)
Trujillo (2004)
A Handbook of American Prayer (2004)
Softspoken (2007)
Short Story Collections
The Jaguar Hunter (1987)
Nantucket Slayrides (with Robert Frazier) (1989)
The Ends of the Earth (1991)
Kalimantan (1993)
Barnacle Bill the Spacer and Other Stories (1997)
Two Trains Running (2004)
Trujillo and Other Stories (2004)
Eternity and Other Stories (2004)
Dagger Key and Other Stories (2007)
The Best of Lucius Shepard (2008)
Skull City and Other Lost Tales (2008)
Vacancy & Ariel (2009)
The Dragon Griaule (2012)
Five Autobiographies and a Fiction (2013)
THE DRAGON
GRIAULE
LUCIUS SHEPARD
Contents
Introduction by Graham Sleight
The Man Who Painted the Dragon Griaule
The Scalehunter’s Beautiful Daughter
The Man Who Painted The Dragon Griaule
In the last years of the twentieth century (as Wells might have put it), Gollancz, Britain’s oldest and most distinguished science fiction imprint, created the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series. Dedicated to re-publishing the English language’s finest works of SF and Fantasy, most of which were languishing out of print at the time, they were – and remain – landmark lists, consummately fulfilling the original mission statement:
‘SF MASTERWORKS is a library of the greatest SF ever written, chosen with the help of today’s leading SF writers and editors. These books show that genuinely innovative SF is as exciting today as when it was first written.’
Now, as we move inexorably into the twenty-first century, we are delighted to be widening our remit even more. The realities of commercial publishing are such that vast troves of classic SF & Fantasy are almost certainly destined never again to see print. Until very recently, this meant that anyone interested in reading any of these books would have been confined to scouring second-hand bookshops. The advent of digital publishing has changed that paradigm for ever.
The technology now exists to enable us to make available, for the first time, the entire backlists of an incredibly wide range of classic and modern SF and fantasy authors. Our plan is, at its simplest, to use this technology to build on the success of the SF and Fantasy Masterworks series and to go even further.
Welcome to the new home of Science Fiction & Fantasy. Welcome to the most comprehensive electronic library of classic SFF titles ever assembled.
Welcome to the SF Gateway.
In a 2001 interview with the critic Nick Gevers, Lucius Shepard described how this book came about:
The idea for a 6,000-foot-long dragon on and in which people lived occurred to me at the Clarion Writers’ Workshop in 1980. One afternoon I went out onto the Michigan State University campus, parked it under a tree, smoked a joint, and started trying to generate story ideas. ‘The Man Who Painted the Dragon Griaule’ was one of the ideas I came up with. I recall I wrote in my notebook the following words: ‘Big Fucking Dragon.’ Shortly thereafter I wrote, ‘Kill him with paint.’ Surely a moment that will be immortalised in the pantheon of under-the-tree-sitting moments, right up there with Newton and the apple.
And so, when Shepard began publishing stories a few years later, one of the first pieces that made his name was ‘The Man Who Painted the Dragon Griaule’ (1984). From the start, he was an astonishing writer. He wrote elegant and graceful sentences; his fiction embodied a range of lived experience far wider than most SF; he was able to evoke a sense of place with precision and force; he was passionate and politically committed. Most of his early stories were set near to the present in the USA or Central America, with some fantastical intrusion heightening the story. So, for instance, his superb novella ‘R&R’ (1986) takes place in a near-future Guatemala where the US is waging a war whose geometry has somehow become mystical and beyond rationality.
In this context, ‘The Man Who Painted The Dragon Griaule’ sat somewhat aside from the rest of Shepard’s work. It was told
with the sort of formality associated with high fantasy, and was set ‘in a world separated from ours by the thinnest margin of possibility’. The vast dragon Griaule, stunned into immobility but not death by a wizard’s spell, dominates the Carbonales Valley and casts a baleful influence over the surroundings until the artist Meric Cattanay arrives to, as Shepard says, kill it with paint. The working-out of this premise is both detailed and unexpected. Cattanay’s vast, obsessive project comes to seem as much of a sickness as Griaule itself.
Evidently, Shepard found that there was more to be mined from this setting, since he returned to it several times more; this book collects all he has written to date about Griaule. So, for instance, ‘The Scalehunter’s Beautiful Daughter’ (1988) takes us closer than the earlier story to perceiving Griaule’s nature. When the eponymous heroine ventures into the dragon, she discovers not merely an ecology of creatures surviving within the dragon’s body. She also, it seems, comes close to perceiving Griaule’s mind, the will emanating ‘from the cold tonnage of his brain’. ‘The Father of Stones’ (1988) also charts Griaule’s influence on the communities around him – and, indeed, the worship that has grown up to propitiate him. As one of the characters says, ‘Griaule...God! I used to feel him in the temple. Perhaps you think that’s just my imagination, but I swear it’s true. We all concentrated on him, we sang to him, we believed in him we conjured him in our thoughts, and soon we could feel him.’
One common thread in these early stories is how much agency Griaule has: how much his influence is real or imaginary. He might look like an object, an increasingly overgrown piece of the valley’s landscape. But at times, it becomes increasingly clear that he might be conscious, might after all be controlling events. The question these early stories play out is what kind of lives can be lived in the shadow of this ‘influence’.
By the time Shepard returned to this setting with ‘Liar’s House’ (2003) and ‘The Taborin Scale’ (2010), Griaule’s will has become much more pervasive. In both stories, we’re granted far more explicit insights into the dragon’s past and future, his wishes and desires. Despite Griaule’s trapped state,
his personality becomes quite clear in these later stories. He is as one imagines dragons to be: cruel, arrogant, a user of others to his own ends. Yet there’s also a strange kind of poignancy to these stories as the consequences of what has gone before are played out.
The last story here, ‘The Skull’ (2012), advances in so many directions that it’s difficult to know where to start. Griaule has become a myth, a legend, a holy relic. From the earlier stories’ notional 19th-century setting, Shepard moves to the present and beyond. The history depicted in the previous stories becomes something to be argued over and disputed. Yet Griaule’s influence – real or imagined – persists in curious ways. Politics also becomes a much more explicit consideration here: the exploitation of the poor by the rich, and the powerless by the powerful, are vividly present.
At times, these linked stories look like they have the form of allegories – that Griaule might stand for, say, power or corruption, or the dead hand of the past. Certainly, you could construct readings of them that render them as allegories. I’d argue, though, that Shepard manages to keep them from being so easily reduced. Every character in these stories has some kind of relationship to Griaule – they may fear him, or worship him, or want to kill him. In a sense, these relationships offer a kind of judgment on the characters. (Shepard is a strongly moral writer.) If a character makes their living as a scalehunter, foraging from Griaule’s body, what does that tell the reader about them and their view of the world? The choices these characters make about their interactions with Griaule are as revealing as anything about them. And then, once in a while, Griaule seems to make a choice about them. The dragon’s eyes are open.
Graham Sleight
THE MAN WHO PAINTED THE DRAGON GRIAULE
Other than the Sichi Collection, Cattanay’s only surviving works are to be found in the Municipal Gallery at Regensburg, a group of eight oils-on-canvas, most notable among them being
Woman with Oranges.
These paintings constitute his portion of a student exhibition hung some weeks after he had left the city of his birth and traveled south to Teocinte, there to present his proposal to the city fathers; it is unlikely he ever learned of the disposition of his work, and even more unlikely that he was aware of the general critical indifference with which it was received. Perhaps the most interesting of the group to modern scholars, the most indicative as to Cattanay’s later preoccupations, is the
Self-Portrait,
painted at the age of twenty-eight, a year before his departure
.
The majority of the canvas is a richly varnished black in which the vague shapes of floorboards are presented, barely visible. Two irregular slashes of gold cross the blackness, and within these we can see a section of the artist’s thin features and the shoulder panel of his shirt. The perspective given is that we are looking down at the artist, perhaps through a tear in the roof, and that he is looking up at us, squinting into the light, his mouth distorted by a grimace born of intense concentration. On first viewing the painting, I was struck by the atmosphere of tension that radiated from it. It seemed I was spying upon a man imprisoned within a shadow having two golden bars, tormented by the possibilities of light beyond the walls. And though this may be the reaction of the art historian, not the less knowledgeable and therefore more trustworthy response of the gallery-goer, it also seemed that this imprisonment was self-imposed, that he could have easily escaped his confine; but that he had realized a feeling of stricture was an essential fuel
to his ambition, and so had chained himself to this arduous and thoroughly unreasonable chore of perception
. . .
– From
Meric Cattanay:
The Politics Of Conception
By Reade Holland, Ph.D.
In 1853, in a country far to the south, in a world separated from this one by the thinnest margin of possibility, a dragon named Griaule dominated the region of the Carbonates Valley, a fertile area centering upon the town of Teocinte and renowned for its production of silver, mahogany, and indigo. There were other dragons in those days, most dwelling on the rocky islands west of Patagonia – tiny, irascible creatures, the largest of them no bigger than a swallow. But Griaule was one of the great Beasts who had ruled an age. Over the centuries he had grown to stand 750 feet high at the midback, and from the tip of his tail to his nose he was six thousand feet long. (It should be noted here that the growth of dragons was due not to caloric intake, but to the absorption of energy derived from the passage of time.) Had it not been for a miscast spell, Griaule would have died millennia before. The wizard entrusted with the task of slaying him – knowing his own life would be forfeited as a result of the magical backwash – had experienced a last-second twinge of fear, and, diminished by this ounce of courage, the spell had flown a mortal inch awry. Though the wizard’s whereabouts were unknown, Griaule had remained alive. His heart had stopped, his breath stilled, but his mind continued to seethe, to send forth the gloomy vibrations that enslaved all who stayed for long within range of his influence.
This dominance of Griaule’s was an elusive thing. The people of the valley attributed their dour character to years of
living under his mental shadow, yet there were other regional populations who maintained a harsh face to the world and had no dragon on which to blame the condition; they also attributed their frequent raids against the neighboring states to Griaule’s effect, claiming to be a peaceful folk at heart – but again, was this not human nature? Perhaps the most certifiable proof of Griaule’s primacy was the fact that despite a standing offer of a fortune in silver to anyone who could kill him, no one had succeeded. Hundreds of plans had been put forward, and all had failed, either through inanition or impracticality. The archives of Teocinte were filled with schematics for enormous steam-powered swords and other such improbable devices, and the architects of these plans had every one stayed too long in the valley and become part of the disgruntled populace. And so they went on with their lives, coming and going, always returning, bound to the valley, until one spring day in 1853, Meric Cattanay arrived and proposed that the dragon be painted.
He was a lanky young man with a shock of black hair and a pinched look to his cheeks; he affected the loose trousers and shirt of a peasant, and waved his arms to make a point. His eyes grew wide when listening, as if his brain were bursting with illumination, and at times he talked incoherently about ‘the conceptual statement of death by art.’ And though the city fathers could not be sure, though they allowed for the possibility that he simply had an unfortunate manner, it seemed he was mocking them. All in all, he was not the sort they were inclined to trust. But, because he had come armed with such a wealth of diagrams and charts, they were forced to give him serious consideration.
‘I don’t believe Griaule will be able to perceive the menace in a process as subtle as art,’ Meric told them. ‘We’ll proceed as if we were going to illustrate him, grace his side with a work of true vision, and all the while we’ll be poisoning him with the paint.’
The city fathers voiced their incredulity, and Meric waited impatiently until they quieted. He did not enjoy dealing with these worthies. Seated at their long table, sour-faced, a huge smudge of soot on the wall above their heads like an ugly
thought they were sharing, they reminded him of the Wine Merchants Association in Regensburg, the time they had rejected his group portrait.
‘Paint can be deadly stuff,’ he said after their muttering had died down. ‘Take Vert Veronese, for example. It’s derived from oxide of chrome and barium. Just a whiff would make you keel over. But we have to go about it seriously, create a real piece of art. If we just slap paint on his side, he might see through us.’
The first step in the process, he told them, would be to build a tower of scaffolding, complete with hoists and ladders, that would brace against the supraorbital plates above the dragon’s eye; this would provide a direct route to a seven-hundred-foot-square loading platform and base station behind the eye. He estimated it would take eighty-one-thousand board feet of lumber, and a crew of ninety men should be able to finish construction within five months. Ground crews accompanied by chemists and geologists would search out limestone deposits (useful in priming the scales) and sources of pigments, whether organic or minerals such as azurite and hematite. Other teams would be set to scraping the dragon’s side clean of algae, peeled skin, any decayed material, and afterward would laminate the surface with resins.
‘It would be easier to bleach him with quicklime,’ he said. ‘But that way we lose the discolorations and ridges generated by growth and age, and I think what we’ll paint will be defined by those shapes. Anything else would look like a damn tattoo!’
There would be storage vats and mills: edge-runner mills to separate pigments from crude ores, ball mills to powder the pigments, pug mills to mix them with oil. There would be boiling vats and calciners – fifteen-foot-high furnaces used to produce caustic lime for sealant solutions.
‘We’ll build most of them atop the dragon’s head for purposes of access,’ he said. ‘On the fronto-parietal plate.’ He checked some figures. ‘By my reckoning, the plate’s about three hundred and fifty feet wide. Does that sound accurate?’
Most of the city fathers were stunned by the prospect, but one managed a nod, and another asked, ‘How long will it take for him to die?’
‘Hard to say,’ came the answer. ‘Who knows how much poison he’s capable of absorbing? It might just take a few years. But in the worst instance, within forty or fifty years, enough chemicals will have seeped through the scales to have weakened the skeleton and he’ll fall in like an old barn.’
‘Forty years!’ exclaimed someone. ‘Preposterous!’
‘Or fifty.’ Meric smiled. ‘That way we’ll have time to finish the painting.’ He turned and walked to the window and stood gazing out at the white stone houses of Teocinte. This was going to be the sticky part, but if he read them right, they would not believe in the plan if it seemed too easy. They needed to feel they were making a sacrifice, that they were nobly bound to a great labor. ‘If it does take forty or fifty years,’ he went on, ‘the project will drain your resources. Timber, animal life, minerals. Everything will be used up by the work. Your lives will be totally changed. But I guarantee you’ll be rid of him.’
The city fathers broke into an outraged babble.
‘Do you really want to kill him?’ cried Meric, stalking over to them and planting his fists on the table. ‘You’ve been waiting centuries for someone to come along and chop off his head or send him up in a puff of smoke. That’s not going to happen! There is no easy solution. But there is a practical one, an elegant one. To use the stuff of the land he dominates to destroy him. It will
not
be easy, but you
will
be rid of him. And that’s what you want, isn’t it?’
They were silent, exchanging glances, and he saw that they now believed he could do what he proposed and were wondering if the cost was too high.
‘I’ll need five hundred ounces of silver to hire engineers and artisans,’ said Meric. ‘Think it over. I’ll take a few days and go see this dragon of yours . . . inspect the scales and so forth. When I return, you can give me your answer.’
The city fathers grumbled and scratched their heads, but at last they agreed to put the question before the body politic. They asked for a week in which to decide and appointed Jarcke, who was the mayoress of Hangtown, to guide Meric to Griaule.
*
The valley extended seventy miles from north to south, and was enclosed by jungled hills whose folded sides and spiny backs gave rise to the idea that beasts were sleeping beneath them. The valley floor was cultivated into fields of bananas and cane and melons, and where it was not cultivated, there were stands of thistle palms and berry thickets and the occasional giant fig brooding sentinel over the rest. Jarcke and Meric tethered their horses a half-hour’s ride from town and began to ascend a gentle incline that rose into the notch between two hills. Sweaty and short of breath, Meric stopped a third of the way up; but Jarcke kept plodding along, unaware he was no longer following. She was by nature as blunt as her name – a stump beer-keg of a woman with a brown weathered face. Though she appeared to be ten years older then Meric, she was nearly the same age. She wore a gray robe belted at the waist with a leather band that held four throwing knives, and a coil of rope was slung over her shoulder.
‘How much farther?’ called Meric.
She turned and frowned. ‘You’re standin’ on his tail. Rest of him’s around back of the hill.’
A pinprick of chill bloomed in Meric’s abdomen, and he stared down at the grass, expecting it to dissolve and reveal a mass of glittering scales.
‘Why don’t we take the horses?’ he asked.
‘Horses don’t like it up here.’ She grunted with amusement. ‘Neither do most people, for that matter.’ She trudged off.
Another twenty minutes brought them to the other side of the hill high above the valley floor. The land continued to slope upward, but more gently than before. Gnarled, stunted oaks pushed up from thickets of chokecherry, and insects sizzled in the weeds. They might have been walking on a natural shelf several hundred feet across; but ahead of them, where the ground rose abruptly, a number of thick greenish-black columns broke from the earth. Leathery folds hung between them, and these were encrusted with clumps of earth and brocaded with mold. They had the look of a collapsed palisade and the ghosted feel of ancient ruins.
‘Them’s the wings,’ said Jarcke. ‘Mostly they’s covered, but
you can catch sight of ’em off the edge, and up near Hangtown there’s places where you can walk in under ’em . . . but I wouldn’t advise it.’
‘I’d like to take a look off the edge,’ said Meric, unable to tear his eyes away from the wings; though the surfaces of the leaves gleamed in the strong sun, the wings seemed to absorb the light, as if their age and strangeness were proof against reflection.
Jarcke led him to a glade in which tree ferns and oaks crowded together and cast a green gloom, and where the earth sloped sharply downward. She lashed her rope to an oak and tied the other end around Meric’s waist. ‘Give a yank when you want to stop, and another when you want to be hauled up,’ she said, and began paying out the rope, letting him walk backward against her pull.
Ferns tickled Meric’s neck as he pushed through the brush, and the oak leaves pricked his cheeks. Suddenly he emerged into bright sunlight. On looking down, he found his feet were braced against a fold of the dragon’s wing, and on looking up, he saw that the wing vanished beneath a mantle of earth and vegetation. He let Jarcke lower him a dozen feet more, yanked, and gazed off northward along the enormous swell of Griaule’s side.
The scales were hexagonals thirty feet across and half that distance high; their basic color was a pale greenish gold, but some were whitish, draped with peels of dead skin, and others were overgrown by viridian moss, and the rest were scrolled with patterns of lichen and algae that resembled the characters of a serpentine alphabet. Birds had nested in the cracks, and ferns plumed from the interstices, thousands of them lifting in the breeze. It was a great hanging garden whose scope took Meric’s breath away – like looking around the curve of a fossil moon. The sense of all the centuries accreted in the scales made him dizzy, and he found he could not turn his head, but could only stare at the panorama, his soul shriveling with a comprehension of the timelessness and bulk of this creature to which he clung like a fly. He lost perspective on the scene – Griaule’s side was bigger than the sky, possessing its own potent gravity, and it seemed completely reasonable that he should be able to walk
out along it and suffer no fall. He started to do so, and Jarcke, mistaking the strain on the rope for a signal, hauled him up, dragging him across the wing, through the dirt and ferns, and back into the glade. He lay speechless and gasping at her feet.