Once upon a time there lived a young dragon, whose cave lay nestled within a great deep forest in the lush green land of Italy. The nearest village was many miles away—quite a way on foot, and only a little less by wing—and its inhabitants enjoyed a life of the finest quality. Plump, woolly sheep dotted the hills around the forest, accompanied by fat, sleek cows. In summer, the wheat-fields hummed with flies and farmers and the rhythmic swish of the scythe. It should have been a wonderful village for a young dragon like ours—after all, there were lots of good things to eat, and no dragon-hunters to bother him.
But it wasn't.
Perhaps an example will suffice. As we all know, dragons are meant to do three things: steal, hoard, and breathe fire. One day, in the woods near the old dragon's hunting grounds, a particularly plump cow presented itself for the taking. The new dragon crept out, the trapper sounded his bugle, and the villagers came a-whooping, waving pitchforks and scythes and torches and even the odd sword. But instead of baring his huge teeth or beating the air with his wings or even snarling, the dragon scrabbled around and flew off as fast as his wings could carry him, leaving some very disappointed villagers.
"For shame," said the baker, tucking his rolling pin back into his belt. "What a coward."
"Such a thin one, too," said the threshers. "We're going back to the fields."
"He's not a very good dragon," said rosy-cheeked Gianna, the most beautiful girl in the village, who had come to watch the fun.
"No, he isn't," agreed everyone, and they followed her all the way back home.
Our dragon went home, too. There was nothing in his cave save bones and a single coin of ancient gold. The coin had a hawkish man with leaves on his head on one side, surrounded by letters, and a woman with a sword and a sheaf on the other. On rainy days, he liked to pry the coin out and tap it with his biggest claw, which was as long as your left hand's index finger and thick as the last two. Dragons like the sound of metal. The bones were piled very high, mouse-bones and wishbones and the odd old dog's, but they were not the type of bones that any respectable dragon would be seen lounging over.
Our dragon had two squirrels and a thrush for dinner, and then he went to sleep. While he was snoring, little Pietro crept into his cave, squeaked, and ran out laughing. And that was how the whole village learned that their dragon was not just a terrible thief, but only hoarded bones.
"Our very own dragon," groaned the blacksmith over his dinner of rye bread, ham and lentils. "How will we face those louts from the city? They have one that's a field long, and bright purple to boot, and every month it eats twenty cows and ten sheep. And ours is whiter than my bottom."
"Just terrible," agreed his wife amiably. "More water, Gianna dear."
"Well," said beautiful Gianna, passing the jug with the cultivated air of a rural dilettante, "I think you’re all being quite horrid. Think of it from the poor dragon’s point of view. Why, if he could talk, I’d bet he’d tell you that he didn’t like the way you looked, either."
The blacksmith snorted, rolled his eyes to heaven, then ripped his slice of bread asunder. Gianna gave her most offended huff. It was the blacksmith’s wife who made to reconcile them, having, as mothers tend to do, a brighter brain than her daughter’s and a damper fuse than her husband’s.
"Now, now, dears," said the good woman, "you both know very well that dragons can’t talk—although I do suppose it would be rather interesting. Imagine that, Father, a talking dragon! Why, they’d come to us from miles around. Even the city doesn’t have one of those."
Father Adorno, who was seated at the table with them, wiped his mouth and looked solemn. He was a stern silvery man, not given to sentiment, and knew, among other things, that the village's old dragon had only been kept at bay because he was nearly toothless, that every week the city paid their dragon-hunters fifty silver pieces, and that young worms could grow older.
"I would beseech the help of San Giorgio," he said, and nothing more.
And so the months passed. There was one thing left for our dragon to do, which was breathe fire. He did breathe fire, or at least he tried. But it was more smoke than anything, a very weak and spindly fire, speckled quite often with dragon-spit. Sometimes, the village boys would sneak into his cave, holding sticks stabbed through with bits of raw meat, and see how many they could roast without getting singed. And as they scrambled out of the cave, laughing, with blue meat sagging from their wilting sticks, the dragon would curl up and look vaguely befuddled.
"I am meant to be a big and scary dragon," he told himself, "but instead I am small and weak. And the boys look very tender, but I cannot get at them. I cannot even breathe fire properly."
Now, dragons are smart, especially the weak ones. Unlike his little brother, the komodo dragon, who turns sluggish and lazy in the cold, the real dragon has a fire deep inside him, which keeps him cozy and alert even in the bitterest winter night. And because our dragon was small and weak, he had to think and plot and plan more than the big dragons, who roar and gnash and shake the world, spit a few blinding gouts of flame, and then swoop in amongst the panicked crowd and eat the stragglers. They are used to getting their way, the big dragons, but big our dragon was not.
So there he lay in his little cave, thinking, tapping his one coin, and munching the miller's housecat.
"I need a name," he decided. "All the great dragons have names."
It was not his intention to take a name like the one your parents gave you. Dragons have their own dragon names, but no one can pronounce them. No human can understand what a dragon is saying without a lifetime of practice, and as a rule, dragons do not come out to chat very often. No, what our dragon wanted was more like a nickname.
"I will eat my first person," he decided, "and then I will drag him out into the middle of the village. They will be so afraid that they will give me a name."
He did not know why he wanted to be feared, only that it felt very proper for a dragon.
At that moment, he heard a soft braying, and the dull pad of hooves on the forest floor. It was a donkey, he realized, and donkeys were smaller than horses, if a bit more ornery. He spat out the last fluffy bit of cat's-tail, crawled to the mouth of his cave, and watched.
The man on the donkey was very thin, with scabs and bruises all across his face. There was a large bald patch on the crown of his head, shaved around his pate so that his hair hung out like the crust of a hollowed pie. He wore a strange brown tunic, as rough as the sacks the miller kept his flour in, tied at the waist with a length of rope. His beard was thin and wispy. And as the donkey plodded along, the thin man sang a cheerful song. The song was in French, but even if you know French you would have a hard time understanding it. This was a very long time ago, after all. It went something like this:
Most High, all-powerful, good Lord,
Yours are the praises, the glory, the honor,
and all blessing.
To You alone, Most High, do they belong,
and no man is worthy to mention Your name.
Be praised, my Lord, through all your creatures,
especially through my lord Brother Sun,
who brings the day; and you give light through him.
And he is beautiful and radiant in all his splendor!
Of you, Most High, he bears the likeness.
Now, that is what we have from the Italian, as it was written down later—or rather, Umbrian, which is a type of Italian they spoke back then. But our dragon did not need any Italian or Umbrian or even French to understand it. Dragons can understand all the languages of the world, though they cannot speak them. And so our dragon decided that while this thin man might be stringy and lean and therefore bad eating, he was not very likely to put up a fight, especially if he sang songs like that in the middle of an unknown wood. Our dragon drew himself up to his full height, blew a great hacking puff of smoke, and flapped through the trees and down in front of the man like a big white pigeon.
The donkey gave a hee of surprise, and then a terrified haw. The thin man looked up, surprised; but it was the surprise of having an unexpected friend show up at your doorstep, and not the surprise of having a plow-horse–sized dragon land three feet in front of your face.
"I am going to eat you, thin man," said the dragon a little sheepishly, "and there is nothing you can do about it."
The thin man put a hand on his donkey's quivering neck, lowering himself slowly to the ground. The donkey stamped its hind hoof and grunted nervously.
"Go hence, Brother Donkey," said the thin man in Umbrian, "and may God be with you. Thank you for bearing me thus far."
The donkey bolted. Our dragon began to feel rather excited. This might actually work.
"Yes," he said, "that's right. Now, I've never actually eaten anyone before, so you'll have to forgive me if I'm a bit slow with the chewing. I really don't want to hurt you that much—oh, but you can't understand me, can you?"
The thin man looked up at him and smiled. It was a very gentle smile, and though the man's lips were cracked and parched with the sun and his teeth were all crooked it was much nicer than any of the sneers that the villagers gave him, even beautiful Gianna's.
"But I can," he said in perfect Dragon.
To say that our dragon was shocked would be an understatement. You might as well call the sea slightly wet.
"How?" he squeaked, accidentally sending a plume of smoke into the thin man's face.
"It is the gift of God, Brother Dragon," replied the man, wiping the soot politely off his face. "I have been sent with the blessings of my Lord Pope to the village up ahead. I have come to preach penance and sacred poverty, and to do mercy unto their poor and sick."
His hands, black and grubby, moved like flickering flames as he talked. Despite himself, our dragon was intrigued.
"What's your name, thin man?"
"I was born Giovanni di Pietro di Bernardone. But now I am Francesco, your brother."
Our dragon blinked. It was a kind of shuttering of his pale chalky eyes.
"But that doesn't make any sense. You can't be the brother of the sun and that donkey and me. You're just a man. You should be scared right now, or running for your life."
"On the contrary, Brother Dragon, we are all sons and daughters of the Most High. How can I be afraid, when my lady Sister Oak is right beside me, and my lord Brother Wind is fanning my face, and my blessed mother, Sister Earth, holds me like the hands of Our Father? How can I be afraid of Little Sister Death, when I own nothing, and will pass to my true abode at her demure touch? I am the least of my brothers and the poorest of servants, but my family—ah! how great it is!"
Francesco spread his hands, and his eyes danced in the dragon's way.
"You may eat me now," he said, with perfect sincerity. "Perhaps it is ordained."
But our dragon was beginning to have second thoughts about eating this Francesco. He seemed a bit addled, with all his talk of mud mothers who were also soil sisters and looked like big men's arms—but he could also speak Dragon.
"I'm sorry if I scared you," said the dragon, curling his long thin tail around his front feet and wrapping his veiny wings around them. "I haven't really had a chance to talk to anyone at all. I didn't actually want to eat you—well, I did, but not because I was hungry or anything—well, I am, but…"
He stopped, sounding quite miserable. Francesco looked at him with something strange in his eyes. Not hard like anger or watery like fear, but soft and sweet like dew.
Kindness?
"You need a name, do you not, Brother Dragon?"
"How... how did you know?"
"A little bird told me," smiled Francesco. "Come, stay still."
The man moved closer, then, as if seized by a sudden impulse reached out and placed his hands on our dragon's snout.
"Your scales are very beautiful," he said wonderingly. "White as snow."
Our dragon, who had never been called beautiful once in his life, looked terribly embarrassed. Francesco closed his eyes.
"You are Colombano, the Dove. Praise God, and do His will."
Now, what our dragon felt on becoming Colombano was a bit like what you feel after jumping into a hot bath on a rainy day, when you let the warmth sneak straight into your bones. He felt right all the way through, as if he had always been Colombano but only just realized it.
"Thin man?"
"Yes, Brother Colombano?"
"Wait here. I have something for you."
Dragons don't smile, because when they try they look horrendous. But as Colombano flew back up through the trees, scattering leaves like feathers from a burst pillow, there was a lightness in his wings that made him feel like a sunbeam. He whipped into his cave, nosing and clawing through the scattered white bones. To his surprise, when he came back Francesco was still waiting for him.
"Here you go, thin man," mumbled Colombano, proffering the glinting coin between his teeth. "You may take this."
It was like he had charbroiled Francesco's hair. The man stepped back, an expression of well-mannered pain on his face.
"No, no. I cannot accept this, Brother Colombano."
Colombano was confused.
"But aren't these what you trade in? You men do not hunt and refuse to live in caves. You need these bits to get food and shelter. Don’t you?"
Francesco shook his head, poise returning to one of whippet-like grace.
"I have sworn to my Lady Poverty that I will forever abide by her sacred rule," he said with the air of a gallant knight, "and a man does not break his oaths. I shall never take from another what I have not earned with the work of my hands, and even then, I shall never carry more than I need to buy my daily bread. I have no purse, you see."
"Can't I pay you for your kindness?" pleaded Colombano.
"It was not I who named you, but God," said the thin man. "Shall I take from my Father His rightful due? Nay, Brother; the Almighty has no need of gold or silver. I feasted on a sop of bread this morning, with a sip of wine to grace my throat, and tomorrow I fast in thanksgiving. Give your coin to someone who truly needs it."
Colombano mulled this over.
"But the villagers are all stout and healthy," he said. "I have never seen anyone as thin as you. I do not think they would find much use for this coin."
"You have not seen," smiled Francesco, "because you do not seek them. But the widow and the fatherless and the leper are known to God, who hears their every cry, and it is to them that I am sent. If they are not in your village, you will find them elsewhere."
The thin man gave his blackened robe a final dusting, before bouncing jauntily on the balls of his feet.
"Fare thee well, Brother Colombano! Perhaps we shall meet again on the way back."
Colombano watched him until he looked like a little brown cocoon of cloth between the oak trees. Then:
"WAIT!"
The birds scattered and the dust ran. The trees trembled, shedding their leaves for fear, and the spiderwebs snapped for miles around. It was the dragon-roar, that incredible sound that nothing on this earth can ignore, the many-layered shout that shoots through every part of you and leaves your teeth a-quiver, like at any point they might start dropping from your mouth.
Colombano was a very small dragon, but he had roared just like any city's bane. And as he flew towards the cocoon he saw it grow larger and larger, until at last it was Brother Francesco again, with a bright spark in his eyes and a stray leaf in his hair.
"Did you forget something, Brother Colombano?"
Our dragon wheezed. He did not think he had ever flown so far so fast, even when running away.
"I scared off your donkey," he said, "and it is a long way to the village. Please, let me take you there."
He panted, smoke jetting from his nostrils, a desperate light in his scale-ringed eyes. Francesco peered at him.
"It would be an honor, Brother Dragon," said the thin man at last, and bowed deep.
Now, Colombano had never carried anyone before. You may not think this a big deal, particularly for someone as thin and bony as Francesco—but the fact is that flying with someone on your back is very different, and much harder, than giving your little brother a piggyback ride.
For one thing, anything that flies by flapping its wings has a very hard time of it. Their bodies have to be very light and their wings have to be very fast, and they end up using most of their strength in the air alone. The old winged horses flew only because of their godly blood, passed down their pedigree like drops of red in sea-foam; in other words, with something very close to magic. Dragons are much the same, but like all other things they have to keep a close eye on the laws of physics. Otherwise they would be prone to falling up and living backwards and all other sorts of chicanery, which is usually much more trouble than it is worth.
And so poor Brother Francesco, clinging with all his might to the scaly white neck, had his thighs and arms horribly battered from all the bucking and swaying, and poor Brother Colombano found himself pitching and swerving like a dizzy pigeon, trying with all his might not to drop the holy man.
"I'm terribly sorry about this," panted Colombano. "I never knew I was quite this bumpy."
"Even if I fall," said Francesco, "I shall meet our Mother Earth with praises. Or perhaps an angel shall catch me. Fly on, Brother Dragon."
"I'd rather not," said Colombano, and started to descend. At last, in jerks and spurts, they reached the forest floor. The sun was setting, and the shadows of the trees danced across the travellers’ exhausted forms like fire. Francesco slid off the dragon's back, pulling his robe back over his hairy legs and tightening his cord-belt. Then he sat, sinking into a tree-root as if it were a cushioned chair.
"You are weary, Brother Colombano. It would do you good to take some rest, and fill your stomach."
"If you can go without food tomorrow," said Colombano resolutely, "then so can I."
Francesco stretched out a gentle hand and placed it on his flank.
"Fasting is a long study, my brother. It takes many years to learn how to conquer the pangs of the flesh and to learn to live without any luxury."
Colombano’s stomach was growling, but the roar was still tingling in his bones. Now that his feet were on the ground he felt like he could do anything.
"I’m sure I can do it," he said.
"By no means!" cried Francesco, once again in the grasp of that curious animation. "If you fast to set your mind on our Father, please, heap that pile of leaves on my head. But if you fast merely in empty imitation of me, thinking that you cannot be second to a human, a mere bag of skin and bones and pious platitudes—why, then you commit the mortal sin of pride, which was ever the dragon's curse, and all your thrift will turn to avarice! Do not yield to it!"
The man's reedy voice stuck Colombano in the heart like a flashing rapier. Our dragon stared at him, stunned. Even his roar seemed like nothing now, a storm of vast empty bluster with no substance.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not acting like a dragon should."
He raised his head and bared his neck, which is how growing dragons apologize. The older ones don't even think of it.
"On the contrary," said Francesco, all gentleness once more, "you were acting exactly like a dragon. But God has given you a name, and you must live up to it. It is no longer a question of your nature."
"Must I always be different?" asked Colombano wistfully.
The thin man reached into his robe with his spindly hands, rummaged for a while, and came out with a dry loaf of bread. There was only a small pinched-off hole in the side. It was very flat.
"I am a simple man," he said, "and barely lettered. But the auctors say that the Lord God created the dragons on the last hour of the Fifth Day, the mightiest things in all Eden; and that because of their pre-eminence He gave them many gifts. Wings to awe the beasts of the field and bid them worship, glittering scales to dazzle the eyes of the birds and all the things of the sea — and greatest of all, fire, to light the night for Man and keep him warm."
Francesco proffered the loaf in both hands, falling to his scabby knees. Colombano stared.
"Do not be misled, Brother Dragon! The cunning of your kin is naught but the shadow of their fallen wit, the gutted dregs of what once made Adam roar and Eve rejoice; for the whole of Creation was cast down when we sinned. But if you will humble yourself, as I am humbling myself before you, and serve, as I am serving you, then what your brethren have lost will be restored to you, and you will be whole again. For it is a great and glorious thing to be abased before men."
Colombano sniffed the loaf. It smelt homely, like nest-straw, and a little dry. It looked very nice.
"If I went and knelt before the villagers," he said, "I'm sure they would come and chase me away with their sticks and scythes."
"God knows," said Francesco evenly, the bruises shining on his face.
"I'm not sure I can eat that," said Colombano. "I've only ever had meat."
"God knows," was the response again. "Try it."
Colombano took the loaf in his jaws and chewed; slowly at first, but then ravenously. It was the nicest thing he had ever eaten, including the housecat. As it sank into his stomach and the weakness subsided, he tingled with warm bliss, just like he had on receiving his name.
And as our dragon swallowed and chewed and swallowed again, Francesco made a cross in the air above his head, and blessed him.
It was on the strength of that loaf that Colombano soared through the air the next morning, leaving the forest far behind. Not only that, he was getting the hang of flying with Francesco. The trees gave way to rolling hills and fields, speckled with sheep and cows that Colombano nearly shaved with his claws in passing. He dipped low for the sheer joy of it, for the smell of the summer flowers and the rush of the wind in his face. And as they flew, the thin man sang his song, bright as an uncaged bird.
Be praised, my Lord, through Sister Moon and the stars;
in the heavens You have made them bright, precious and beautiful.
Be praised, my Lord, through Brothers Wind and Air,
and clouds and storms, and all the weather,
through which You give Your creatures sustenance.
Be praised, my Lord, through Sister Water;
she is very useful, and humble, and precious, and pure.
Be praised, my Lord, through Brother Fire,
through whom You brighten the night.
He is beautiful and cheerful, and powerful and strong.
Be praised, my Lord, through our sister Mother Earth,
who feeds us and rules us,
and produces various fruits with colored flowers and herbs.
Be praised, my Lord, through those who forgive for love of You;
through those who endure sickness and trial.
Happy those who endure in peace,
for by You, Most High, they will be crowned.
The villagers had difficulty believing their ears.
"Did you hear?" asked the blacksmith's wife. "Our little dragon is winging it right towards us."
"The threshers say there's a man on his back," said the baker, filling her basket with sweetbreads and hearty loaves. "He's going right for the mill, they say."
The loaves were so crisp you could hear them crackle as she laughed. She pinched off a thumbful of bread and sniffed it.
"A bit dry today, don't you think?"
"It's your copper," shrugged the baker. "Take it or leave it."
"A man?" asked beautiful Gianna back at home, as her mother passed her the loaf. "Oh, I do so hope he's handsome."
She spread a thick slice of bread with white butter and tossed it on her father's plate. The blacksmith scowled. He normally regarded their dragon with a sort of vague contempt—after all, it'd never done anything save run away and steal the miller's housecat—but things were different when the brute was heading right for you. Even a stray ember could burn down a house.
"You get that thought right out your head, you stupid girl. Dragons don't bring anything good, not to your doorstep. And if that man so much as looks at you askance, I'll knock his head in."
"I think you're horrible," said Gianna, and tossed her hair. "Soon I'll be married to the dashing dragon-man, and I'll go to a big city where they mint their own coins and you'll never see me again."
"And the sooner the better, you ungrateful wench!"
But all in all, the idea of their dragon's arrival stirred enough of the villagers' interest to merit a small welcoming party at the mill. The scythes were cleaned and polished. The clubs had a few more nails hammered into them. The swords were oiled and whetted. The baker brought three rolling pins, in case he needed to throw one or two. The women (all excepting beautiful Gianna, who was right at the front with her hands clutched to her bosom) brought pots, pans, butcher's knives, and buckets in case anything burnt. The trapper dusted off his best bear-trap, set it right at the end of the bridge, and scattered his most expensive caltrops all around it. The hunters got together and pooled all their heaviest arrows, hiding in the balcony and windows of the mill. And the blacksmith stood amidst the crowded heads like a shark in a shallow pool, clutching his terrible forge-hammer and bristling like old Vulcan himself.
The only unarmed man among the lot was Father Adorno, but only because his vows forbade it. He was not particularly angry at the dragon, but neither was he against the mob. After all, it was better that the worm should die now, when the villagers were still capable of killing it, than for it to grow strong and sleek and impossible for swords to even scratch. Stewardship was all very well and good, but this was a fallen world; one still had to be practical. He was more concerned about the man. Little Pietro had said that he looked like a reed in a sack, with a rope around his waist. To Father Adorno, this sounded suspiciously like one of those crazy poor men who had nothing better to do than wander through villages, towns, and even cities, hectoring the good inhabitants for enjoying even the slightest bit of comfort. What were their names... Fryers Manure?
Father Adorno shook his head and frowned. He would not go so far as to see the man be hurt, but nonetheless he would have to be careful. No matter how weak the dragon, a mendicant would always be weaker; particularly a self-professed one. And the people were seething.
"What will you do in the village, thin man?" asked Colombano. They were nearing the mill now, a large wooden hut with a great wooden wheel on its side that turned and turned in the rushing river.
"Why, Brother Dragon, I shall do to them exactly what I told you before. Preach penance and sacred poverty, and do mercy unto their poor and sick."
"Well, there certainly are a lot of them," said Colombano nervously, "and they don’t look very sick. They seem to be carrying some very sharp things."
"Even so, Brother Dragon."
"Why do you want to help them? They're not like you. They tried to hurt me, and laughed when I ran away, even though I had never done them any wrong. I only ate that cat because I was hungry, and could not live on squirrels for much longer."
"Yes," said Francesco sadly, "we are cruel and venal wretches. If all of us were like you, my dear Brother Colombano, and just as willing to repent, then my Sister Moon would not have to hide her face from all this suffering. But even so..."
"Even so?" asked Colombano.
"You were made in the image of fowl and fish and beast. Your wings and scales and teeth and claws tell you as much. You are at the apex of all things. Do you think yourself weak, simply for being a stripling? Look down there at the benign babe in its mother's arms, or the boy clinging to her skirts. See how weak the young of humans are."
"Yes, they are very small and pink, and have no scales. If I wanted, I could make a mouthful of any two of them. I think I feel better about myself now."
"You must do no such thing," said Francesco sternly, "or you will answer for it. Man is made in the Image of God. His immortal soul is not yours to take."
They touched down on the river's other bank, to a chorus of ooh's and aah's from the crowd, and more than a few scattered grumblings.
"Welcome, stranger!" cried a beautiful girl in a florid dress, fluttering her eyes across the bridge.
"Hah!" laughed the huge man with the hammer. "I think you should get your eyes checked, daughter dearest—just look at him! He's a bleeding-heart religious!"
"Well," pouted Gianna, "you don't know that. He hasn't even taken off his hood yet, and have you ever seen a habit quite like that? Personally, I think it's just one of those new city fashions."
"Personally," yelled a rotund man in a flour-stained apron, "I'm more concerned about the dragon!" And he brandished his rolling pins in menacing glee, to a wave of general agreement.
"They sound very eager to use their weapons," whispered Colombano worriedly.
"Don't fret, Brother Dragon," murmured Francesco. "Are you resolved to do as you said?"
"I am," said Colombano.
"Then do it, and God be with you."
And Francesco took off his hood, showing his pie-crust hair, gaunt face, and crooked smile.
"Do not fear me, good people. I am your most humble servant."
"So he is a religious," squinted a little old man.
"Oh, the poor dear," clucked a bevy of matrons. "Look how thin and pale he is. He needs to be fattened up."
Gianna wilted visibly. It was Father Adorno who stepped through the crowd, a serious look on his stern face.
"Don't take a step further, young man," he warned. "The ground at your feet is strewn with caltrops, and our hunters are quite ready to poke a few holes in your dragon's wings should he so much as flap them. Where did you get that tonsure?"
Francesco gave a deep and theatrical bow.
"I am at your service, Father," he said, voice filled with deep and genuine feeling, "but my Brother Colombano is his own dragon."
"What did he call him?" choked the blacksmith.
"Beats me," said the baker. "He's off his rocker, he is."
"Know that I took the tonsure in Eternal Rome, after kissing the ring of our Lord Pope and obtaining his blessing. I am Francesco of the Friars Minor."
There was a general ripple of disbelief at this. Could this scruffy man possibly have seen the Holy Father — nay, even been to Rome herself? Never mind that, what was a Fryer?
"If you have truly obtained the blessing of our Lord Pope," said Father Adorno in measured tones, "then surely you must have his seal in writing. Where is it?"
"Alas," said Francesco, "it never occurred to me that I could ask. You see, I am not very wise. But I was assured that my Lord Innocent's word was his bond, and that all Christendom would know it."
"Yes," said Father Adorno. "I think I do see. Thank you."
"Now look here," roared the blacksmith as he shoved his way to the front of the crowd, "what exactly did you bring that dragon here for? I know you've come here to beg, but you don't need that worm here with you — unless you want to use his mouth as an almsbowl!"
The big man opened his mouth to laugh, glanced around at the other villagers in the hopes of some mirthful accompaniment, got none, and then laughed anyway, which sounded a bit like a nervous shark gargling sand. Francesco did not stir. He looked straight across the river into the blacksmith's eyes, a strange fire flickering about his countenance, until at last the burly man flushed and jerked his head away.
"If you please, Brother Dragon."
The crowd gasped. The women blanched. A few men staggered. For the noise that came from the thin man's throat was not the voice of any man, but a guttural growl, deep and beautiful, full of the sound of mountains melting in a hidden furnace that no mortal eye could see. And Colombano bowed his head and knelt, eyes closed, his white nose touching the grey silt in the grass by the river.
"Friend Miller?" asked Francesco in Umbrian.
"Yes?" The miller was a stocky man, dusted with flour like the baker; but unlike the latter he looked rather bored with the whole business.
"Brother Colombano asks forgiveness for stealing your cat, and eating her. He wishes to make restitution." And Francesco produced the old gold coin from inside his robe, tossing it up and catching it in the other hand like a juggler's ball.
"See?" howled the blacksmith. "He has money!"
"Is that real gold?" baulked one of the threshers. "That's a month's wages, at least!"
But the miller grunted.
"Ah, I had a feeling that old puss was going to end up eaten one day or another. She barely earned her keep, neither—lazy as a sack, she was. Mice all over. Keep your coin, young'un, and God bless you."
"It isn't mine," said Francesco, with a twinkle in his eye.
Colombano raised his head from the grass and blinked.
"Hold it!" yelled the blacksmith again, face red. And he jumped straight into the river, fording it with barely a stumble. He came up with his breeches and apron soaked, staring down at Francesco like a thundercloud.
"You think you can worm your way out of this with a few fancy words?" he hissed. "I know your type. You'll wait until the night comes, and then get that pet salamander of yours to burn this whole village down!"
"If that was what I wished, my Brother Blacksmith, would I not have done it already? You are all out here, and your houses are unguarded."
"That's... I..."
Uncharacteristically, the blacksmith actually thought about this — the sheer effort of introspection made him sputter and spit like a quenched poker, and his hands, quite confused, clenched and unclenched on the hilt of his hammer. From the middle of the bridge, Father Adorno spoke again.
"If you truly are a holy man, and not a magician in league with the Devil," said the practical priest, "then show us a sign."
"I have asked nothing from you," smiled Francesco, "save absolution for my Brother Dragon, and offered you nothing save his indulgence. I came to you in broad daylight, and before me the birds sang of my coming. Which of you have I tempted or led astray?"
"There is more than one way to tame a serpent's tongue," replied Father Adorno, eyes clear. "I charge you to do this in the name of Christ."
Francesco nodded, then bowed low to the priest of God. He laid a spindly hand on the blacksmith's shoulder, who with a furtive start made way for him. Francesco raised his hands and closed his eyes, and the sun seemed, for a moment, to bend his radiant head, kneeling in honour of the sorry shabby man with the sores and sackcloth.
"Brother Colombano, in the name of Christ, speak to your masters and beg pardon."
The dragon raised his head from the bank, looking quite confused.
"Well," said Colombano in a thin reedy voice, "if they don't mind hearing any more Dragon, then I guess I will. I really am terribly sorry about all this trouble. I didn't..."
And then he stopped short, because he realized that he was speaking perfect Umbrian, and that everyone except Francesco was staring at him with their jaws on the ground and their eyes six feet out in the air.
"A miracle," whispered Father Adorno, and crossed himself.
"A miracle?" balked the baker, shoving his rolling pins back into his apron-strings with some haste. The third pin fought back, wiggled, and burst them with aplomb.
"A MIRACLE!" bellowed the blacksmith, before sweeping Francesco onto his hulking shoulders, running pell-mell back across the river, and tossing the hapless mendicant into the arms of the rejoicing crowd. The trapper swept the caltrops off the bridge. The hunters dropped their bows and tussled to be the first out the mill. Beautiful Gianna led the women in a hymn of thanksgiving, fluttering her eyelashes violently, and warbling completely off-key. The miller raised not one, but two eyebrows.
"Oh dear," said Colombano, and at this everyone cheered even louder.
"A feast!" cried the threshers. "A feast for our talking dragon!"
"A feast for the holy man!" echoed the crowd, the blacksmith loudest of all.
"If it's all the same to you," said Francesco serenely, bouncing up and down on the wave of heaving hands, "I'd rather have some water."
But Colombano sat at the other end of the river, feeling completely addled, a little overwhelmed, and ridiculously, impossibly happy. There was a shifting by his snout, and a nervous cough. It was Father Adorno, who, uncertain how exactly to address a dragon, was looking somewhere in the vicinity of his left nostril.
"I have wronged you, dragon," said the priest, "in both word and thought. I blinded myself to the hand of God, and let my pride unman me. Forgive me."
"Well," said Colombano, still somewhat surprised at his own new-found power of human speech, "I don't see how you could've done any different. And I did steal that poor cat, so, ah, well..."
The dragon thought for a few moments, leaving the anxious priest with bated breath.
"Would you like to fly?" asked Colombano at last.
If you had been at the feast that night, or indeed for many nights to come, you would have seen a small but noble dragon, in bright and beautiful white, sitting at the table of honor in the center of the village square. And you would have seen children scrabbling up and down his tail, and a garland of flowers on his neck, and a beautiful new-forged harness on his back; limned with copper, gleaming in the firelight, and bathed in the fragrance of roast lamb and the sound of laughter from the tables all around him. And every few minutes some reveler would yell out a wine-sodden question, and the dragon, terribly embarrassed, would have to answer, and everyone would hoot and applaud and stamp their feet.
(There was a priest, too, with stray feathers in his cassock and honey in his hair, but his legs were still too weak to stamp on anything.)
And if you stared hard enough at the dragon's side, you would have seen a poor mendicant with a trencher of bread and a wooden cup of water, holding up the dragon's whole left wing like a bale of precious fabric, and singing. And the song he sang went something like this:
Be praised, my Lord, through Brother Dragon;
He is bright and noble, and fiery, and great beyond compare.
His speech is the laugh of mountains, and his wings are the envy of birds.
His flame is warm and tender, and awful and strong; and of all your creatures he is first.
Be praised, my Lord, through our sister Bodily Death,
from whose embrace no living person can escape.
Woe to those who die in mortal sin!
Happy those she finds doing Your most holy will.
The second death can do no harm to them.
Praise and bless my Lord, and give thanks, and serve Him with great humility.
About the Author
Troy Tang hails from sunny Singapore, but currently resides in Auckland, New Zealand. He has been previously published in Apex Magazine. You can find more of his serial fiction, articles and assorted musings at https://steemit.com/@t2tang, with a static directory at troytang.wordpress.com/works/.