The Story of Owen (23 page)

One of the most important things about history is that it loves to place the blame, to pin an entire shift in thought and behavior upon one single larger-than-life man (or woman), and hold that person up as an example to the ages. Alexander the Great. Julius Caesar. Thomas Edison. Adolf Hitler. Pol Pot. Vlad the Impaler. Narrowing the focus makes it easier to remember, easier to teach, and it definitely makes for a better story. The only cost is the truth, and so our history is stripped down to its simplest form and passed down through the generations until you forget about the Phillips and Nikolas altogether.

(It didn't take long for me to realize that part of Lottie's vision for me included keeping Owen on the right side of the Edison/Tesla divide.)

There are generations of dragon slayers who were happily married, to one another or to non-slayers both. They managed to balance the dangers of their livelihood and the safety of their
lives at home, without causing hurt or damage to anyone. And they had families, or not, as it suited their natures. So it is, of course, quite natural that the only case most people can cite is that of Eloise and Abelard.

Eloise was a twelfth-century dragon slayer and a member of one of the most prominent French bloodlines. As was the custom in France at the time, she was trained, not by her family, but by a dragon slayer who was hired specifically for that purpose. His name was Pierre Abelard, and by all accounts he was rather magnificent at pretty much everything, and also very handsome, though since it was the twelfth century and bathing was still considered unhealthy, it is important to remember that the modern definition of beauty can't really be applied. Eloise was no mean talent herself, and also somewhat renowned locally for her appearance, and before long the two of them were absolutely inseparable.

They married in secret shortly after Eloise's sixteenth birthday, intending to go on a quest together in order to conceal their marriage from Eloise's family. Unfortunately, Eloise rather shortly became pregnant, and her condition became apparent before they had mustered themselves to leave. Eloise's family was quite put out and attacked Abelard, leaving him alive and capable of slaying dragons, but castrated.

In a bout of depression, Abelard joined a monastic order of dragon slayers and encouraged Eloise to do the same. Her convent forced a vow of silence on her and fostered her child with her parents, leaving her separated from everyone she loved. She wrote letters, none of which ever made it past the abbess, and eventually her story was made famous by Alexander Pope in 1717, who wrote the story as a verse tragedy where Eloise prays
for forgetfulness, so that her pain will end.

Much like
Dracula
, written much later, the story of Eloise and Abelard missed one very important fact: Neither of them had actually done anything
wrong
. They were of similar station, married in the eyes of God, and, theoretically, would have raised their children to be dragon slayers, thus fulfilling the unwritten but universally acknowledged requirement that all dragon slayers produce a replacement. All of their misery was forced on them by outside sources, and over the centuries, the story started to treat them like they deserved it, and the entire history of dragon slayer relationships changed course on this one point.

By the time the Oil Watch was codified in the 1950s, it had become customary for dragon slayers to marry and have children only after their active careers were over. This usually meant that female dragon slayers, at least those who retired in their early forties, could only have one child, depending on how long they chose to extend their careers, though male ones could usually manage a few more. It also became very rare for dragon slayers to form any sort of bond with one another, particularly across gender, as this would lead to rumors and speculation. There was no official code in the Oil Watch Charter, but it's probable that the writers thought that the traditional rules about fraternization that came with the military would cover it.

This was a large part of the reason why, as the numbers of dragons increased dramatically after World War II, the number of dragon slayers did not. In addition to the obvious limitations in terms of procreation, dragon slayers who worked by themselves were much more likely to get killed. Separating dragon slayers from one another, and then, as previously
discussed, from their bards, made the stories juicer. There was much more heroism and desperate tragedy, but the actual tradition of dragon slaying suffered a great deal.

And then, as seems to be the case in many of these tales, came Lottie Thorskard. She married young, and though the child she was helping to raise was not biologically hers (or her wife's), they were still related. The heights of Lottie's fame made her nearly untouchable, and instead of being the victim of storytelling, Lottie began to rewrite perceptions, one at a time, of what it meant to be a modern Canadian dragon slayer. Not even her historic fall and injury could derail Lottie's plans. It was said that her decision to relocate and to focus on her nephew's training made her few friends, but once again, that was not the truth. It made her no friends in Ottawa or in the corporate world. It made her a hero to everyone who lived in rural southwestern Ontario.

Lottie was not the only person pushing for change. Like Alexander the Great or Caesar, her voice was simply singing in the right place at the right time. Those before her had paved the way, and those who followed would pay for what changes she fought to make. Lottie had learned how to make the story do what she wanted it to, and she was determined that her legacy would be of her own choosing. She would not be punished, as Eloise was. She would love where she willed and train whom she wished, and she was popular enough that no one could stop her.

What they could do, of course, was set up obstacles for those of us who came after. I escaped the worst of it, but the same cannot be said of Owen and Sadie.

We saw neither tooth nor claw of a dragon for the rest of the weekend. We didn't even see any smoke. We did camp on Saturday night, which was very cold, and by the time Aodhan stopped the van at the foot of my driveway on Sunday afternoon, I was very happy to be home. If nothing else, I wanted a proper shower and a real toilet. I stayed in the bathroom until the steam was so thick I pretty much had to swim from the shower to the door, and I was completely prepared to crawl under the covers and not come out until school on Monday when I remembered that I had homework.

I had a perfectly good desk in my bedroom, but I nearly always did non-musical schoolwork in the kitchen. It was brighter there, for starters, and when I was taking math, my dad was available to help if I got stuck. Plus it was a good way to keep up with what my parents were planning. I never understood teenagers who escaped to their rooms and hid all the time. If they didn't know what their parents were up to, how did they hope to properly evade them?

Anyway, tonight I had to write five hundred words on the meditation technique of my choice for drama, and then write a couple of paragraphs in French about what I'd done over the weekend. Owen and I had done the French in the car, at least out loud, and it was a matter of a few minutes for me to commit it to paper, but the drama homework took actual research. I used Mum and Dad's desktop, which Mum had put in the kitchen so she could use it for recipes before tablets were invented. She hadn't gotten around to moving it since she bought her iPad.

Searching “meditation” brought up about 144 million results. Apparently people took this very seriously. I skimmed page after page until I saw an entry for “Tai Chi.” What caught my eye was the use of the words
dragon
and
army
in the blurb, and I clicked through to the page with more enthusiasm than I had expected to feel as a result of this assignment. As I read, I started to smile.

“What's that?” Dad asked, stepping into the kitchen. Both of my parents had eaten before I got home since Mum was working nights, but they had saved a plate for me, and when I got out of the shower, Dad had said he'd come down to sit with me while I ate.

“Drama homework,” I said.

“There's homework in drama?” he asked. He put my plate in the microwave and pressed START.

“It's a serious subject,” I said. “And you forgot the cover.”

“Shoot,” he said, and pressed pause on the panel. There was already sauce spattered on the roof of the microwave, but he put the cover on anyway. “Don't change the subject, what are you doing?”

“Researching meditation techniques,” I said. “There's this cool one called tai chi that's actually about dragon slayers.”

The microwave beeped and Dad took my plate out. He set it on the table, and I turned away from the computer as he sat down. I could tell by his face that we were about to have one of his trademark Very Serious Conversations, but that didn't stop me from taking a large bite of meatloaf.

“Siobhan,” he said. “You know your mum and I are proud of you, right?”

I nodded, hoping that my expression looked more “thoughtful on account of chewing” than “desperately trying to find an exit.” Apparently it was going to be one of
those
conversations.

“We used to worry that you spent too much time with your music,” he said. “But it made you so happy, and your teachers always told us how gifted you were at it, so we encouraged you to go as far as you could.”

I swallowed. “Is this the ‘we worry that you don't have a peer group at school' conversation again?” I asked. That was an old favorite. It didn't matter how many times I explained that I didn't particularly feel I was missing anything. They still worried. You'd think I was antisocial or acted like I'd been raised by wolves. I tried to act like Sadie hadn't been completely ignoring me since Christmas. Mum had to have noticed that she'd stopped calling.

“No,” he said, smiling. “This is the ‘you don't have to follow the dragon slayers around and camp in the winter if you don't want to' conversation.”

I laughed. “Thanks,” I said. “But it wasn't so bad. Well, once I mastered going to the bathroom in a snow bank, anyway.”

“Too much information!” Dad said, throwing up his hands
in mock defense. “But we're serious. Dragon slaying is an old and noble tradition, but it's not part of our family's heritage. Owen was raised for dragon slaying to take over his life, but you don't have any such obligation.”

“Dad,” I said, speaking slowly as I put voice to an idea I'd been turning over in my mind for a while, “please don't take this the wrong way, but that's kind of the point.”

“I'm not sure I understand,” Dad said.

“Someday, even though I'm not born to it, maybe even
because
I'm not born to it, I'm going to choose to follow a dragon slayer,” I said. It was the first time I'd ever said it out loud, and all at once the world seemed both smaller and distressingly big. “And Owen is going to very publically turn down a contract in order to come back here and defend farm animals and a salt mine that can't pay him a third of what he'd make in a big city. The whole idea is to get people to stop thinking of dragon slaying as a family obligation, as something only a select few can do. I'm a really good musician and I am not going to try to make it big. Neither is Owen. We're going to do a job, and do our best to make it seem like other people can and should join us.”

“You know, I figured you'd at least wait until university before you got all radical on me,” Dad said. He was still smiling, though, and I knew that he was at least half-convinced. “Is that why the two of you have been trying to research hatching grounds? Because you want to make a difference as soon as possible?”

“There are three of us, actually,” I said. “You haven't met Emily yet. She's from Saltrock. And yes. We are trying to think outside the box, because sometimes adults aren't really good at
that.” It sounded absolutely ridiculous as soon as I said it out loud, but by then it was too late. I gave Dad the opening, and he jumped on it.

“Neither are dragons,” he said. “While you were gone, the sign at my office got scorched again. Some stupid dragon, creature of habit, went for it even though there aren't any pictures of treasure on it anymore. Sometimes, people will just do the same thing over and over again, hoping for better results.”

“Does that mean we can go back to the library?” I asked.

“No,” he said. I slumped. “But only because it's not just up to me. I'll have to talk to your mother and to the Thorskards as well.”

“I'm glad you understand we're not just being deliberately obstinate,” I said.

“Isn't that teenager default?” Dad asked.

“Very funny,” I said.

“I thought so,” he said. “Ice cream?”

“No, thank you,” I said. “I never want anything cold ever again. Until summer.”

“Hot chocolate it is, then,” he said, and moved to the kettle. He filled it and plugged it in, then turned around and leaned back against the counter. “You know, Owen is a nice kid and I know he's got friends and all, but it really is too bad he can't fit in any sports.”

“Tell me about it,” I said. “If I have to hear any more cleverly worded suggestions from Ms. Ngembi, I might lock myself in the music room and never come out.”

“I mean it, Siobhan,” Dad said. “Think about it. You want people to think they can do what Owen does, you should make it so that they see more of him.”

I hadn't thought of it that way. Dad didn't offer any suggestions, though, so I put it out of my mind while I finished my dinner and hot chocolate, which, I should mention, was about 75 percent marshmallows, and therefore quite adequate as a stand-in for dessert. When I was done, I went back to the computer and printed out the page on tai chi I'd found so I could make notes at the table. Most kids typed their written assignments, but years of writing on staff paper had given me decent penmanship, and I liked to show it off every now and then.