eighteen

All ready and waiting, Brother Benedict? I warned you our tale was hotting up. Which is more than I can say for your monastery. Doesn’t the Abbot believe in comfort? I’ve been peeling onions in the kitchen all morning, just to be near a fire. I’m glad you have one here—do you mind if I pile on a bit more wood? The rain’s settled in for good, along with the noble Chen. I think he’s addling Jing-wei’s wits. Yesterday she asked me if I still thought of her as a freak. She asked other things, too, which wounded me to my soul. I mean, I think so highly of her, it hurts to think I might have done things to make her believe otherwise. I asked her if I had done somewhat to offend her, and she said it wasn’t what I’d done that distressed her, but what I hadn’t done. And that was all she’d say. I really can’t fathom her out, Brother. And you’re the wrong man to help me, being a monk, and blissfully removed from all these difficulties. I tell you, I’m seriously considering becoming a monk myself, just to find some peace. I could swear obedience to Abbot Dominic, for I like him greatly; the vow of poverty wouldn’t alter my life at all, and neither would the vow of chastity, the way I’m going. Sorry. I’ve made you blush again. Back to my tale, to the safer territory of dragons.

That night I kept watch while Jing-wei slept, her head against my shoulder. Of a sudden I realised that the silken sheath had shifted, was lower than before, and dangerously close to the cliff. I could see it clearly in the full moonlight, the colour of blood, spiralling crazily almost against the cliff, its shadow flapping like a tortured thing on the silvered stone. I woke Jing-wei, and she stumbled to her feet, crying, “The cord! Wind in the cord!”

I ran ahead of her to the place where the ball lay under the stones, found it at last in the shallow water, and wound frantically. “Run backwards!” Jing-wei screamed. “Get it away from the cliff!”

I did as she said, though the tide was coming in again, and waves crashed about my legs. The cord tugged in my hands, and afore long I felt the pull grow steady and strong as wind filled the silk, lifting it, and I saw it rise free and powerful again, away from the cliff. It was up near the dragon’s lair when Jing-wei got to me. We both were thigh-deep in the waves.

“Well, it’s flying true again,” I said, full of relief.

“Aye, you did well,” said Jing-wei. I grinned, looking at our gorgeous trap. And then I saw another thing: a blackness that flew against the stars, blocking out their light. A glimmering like faded gold, and a breath of fire.

“Jesus’ wounds—the dragon’s back!” I cried.

I tried to run towards the shrine, the ball of cord still in my hands, but Jing-wei flung herself at me, pushing me back. “Stay here!” she cried. “Fly the silk!”

The dragon had seen us. In horror I watched as, ignoring our trap, it turned instead to the shore, to the place where we stood in the tide. I watched it descend, and it seemed that all time stopped, transfixed with the beast that drifted, deathly slow, between earth and heaven. I was aware of the way its belly glowed brighter then faded as it breathed, and of the beauty of the stars beyond; was aware of the wild, clean coldness of the wind, and the warmth of Jing-wei’s hands about my arm; and thought, in those uncanny moments, of my family waiting for me in heaven, perhaps not very far off.

And then the dragon was directly overhead, dropping fast—so fast!—towards us, its breath harsh and hissing. Fire poured through the night above our heads. Dragging Jing-wei with me, I dived into the tide. The barbed tail whipped the air just above my head. I heard the whistle of wind across taut wings, that awful outpoured breath, the hiss of flame on water. I felt Jing-wei floundering beside me, and caught her close. Waves crashed over us; fire and water mixed, the smell of burning and taste of salt. Praying, sobbing, I grabbed for the lost cord, found it wrapped about my wrist. Then fire again, and the cold force of the sea. Fighting for air, coming up through churning sand and sea, I saw the dragon spiral upwards, felt the rush of wind and fire and foam, glimpsed water drops aflame.

Then another wave broke across us. Still holding Jing-wei, I staggered to my feet. My eyes stung with salt and sand; I scarce could see. At last I got my breath, and we both looked up, saw the scarlet silk still flying, and the silver brightness of the stars. But the dragon was gone.

Cursing, I helped Jing-wei up onto the dry sand. The tide tugged at us; our clothes were filled with sand and sea, heavy, dragging. Still holding the cord, I searched the skies, the shadowy cliffs, the long stretch of ashen shore. But the beast was gone, vanished. I thought of the time at Lan’s when it had disappeared behind her house, and then come back again, silent as a leaf afloat on wind. Was it just above the cliff, drifting, waiting to swoop down in final attack?

“Sweet Jesus, ’tis playing with us!” I cried, panic-stricken.

Jing-wei took the cord of the flying silk, unwinding the tangle from my wrist. My eyes never left the skies, but I could feel her fingers cold and trembling on my skin. I was trembling myself, so much that my teeth clattered.

“It has not the brains for playing hide-and-seek,” she said, very low and sounding calm, though her voice was not quite steady. “It is gone, frightened off for a time. It can’t be in its lair; it would have set the fire-dust alight.”

“It’ll be back, make no doubt,” I said. “The skies grow light already; it will come again, with the day.”

I discovered, then, that speaking hurt my lips. They were burned, not badly, but as they sometimes were when I worked all day in the summer fields. I looked more closely at Jing-wei. In the growing light I saw that she, too, was burned a little. But she must have turned her face away from the dragon’s blast, for only one ear was scorched, a part of her right cheek, and the edges of her hair. I realised that we had been saved by the sea, when the dragon poured its fire on us.

Mayhap Jing-wei was thinking the same thing, for she said, grateful-like, “Fate is on our side, Jude. We have another chance. ’Tis more than most have, who take on dragons.”

She looked up to check that the silk still flew aright, then placed the ball of cord beneath a stone again, to hold it firm. Her movements were slow, for she was hampered by wet skirts. Then, telling me to keep watch—as if I needed telling!—she went into the shrine, and came out with a pot of Lan’s ointment for our burns. “I’ll anoint our war wounds,” she said, with a brief smile. “And after, if the beast is still not back, we’ll find some breakfast, for I’m mortal hungry after our first battle.”

“’Twas hardly a battle,” I said. “A botch-up, more like.”

She shot me a disapproving look, and began spreading Lan’s potion on my scorched face.

While we were anointing our burns, the wind began to drop. The silken sheath dipped low and flapped against the cliff, so I helped Jing-wei bring it down. We laid it carefully in the shrine, to wait until the wind’s return. The sun came up, and still the dragon did not return. As the day grew hot, we spread our outer clothes to dry on the sand beside the shrine. I could not help thinking on the strangeness of it—me, bashful Jude of Doran, on a lone shore with a lone maid, and both of us in our underthings. And nought exciting happening, excepting that any moment we might be attacked by a dragon.

With great caution, still scanning the skies, we went down to the shore and hunted crabs and the strange sea-creatures in their spiral shells. I was not hungry, but Jing-wei ate hungrily enough, while I kept lookout. I was in a sweat, I don’t mind confessing, mortal scared in case the beast returned and found us unprepared; but in the early afternoon the wind came in, constant as before, and we flew the snare again. And again we tied the end of the cord to a large stone, so we could take shelter and yet leave the silken trap in place.

Then we pulled on our dry outer clothes and sat in the sun with our backs to the shrine, and kept watch for the dragon.

All afternoon we waited. And all the time my fears grew, for it was not the dragon’s habit to be away all day. Disturbed, had it changed its tactics, grown cunning and more deadly still? I did not voice my fears, but sat with my hand on the sword, my eyes scouring the skies, the restless sea, the savage cliffs. And near that deadly place at the top of the cliffs, bloodred in the sun, soared the silken snare, serene and strong, waiting, waiting.

Then, an hour before sundown, we spied the dragon—a small spot in the northwest skies. Without a word, Jing-wei and I both stood and went into the shrine. I stood behind her, looking over her head, as we watched from the tiny window. We did not speak, but we both knew that if the dragon came down first to the beach, as it had before, then these moments might be our last. I put my arms about her, and she covered my hands with her own, and held tight.

To our horror, the dragon did come down to the beach. But it went only to the sea, and spent a long time drinking. It stayed there in the shallow waves, cleaning itself, and I noticed that its limp was worse than before, and once it tore at its wound with its horned snout, as if it were trying to tear away the pain. Then it left the sea and turned towards us. My heart near stopped, and I felt Jing-wei grow taut within my arms. But the beast lingered on the foaming edge of the tide, sniffing at some low rocks and clumps of dark seaweed. It licked them with its forked tongue, tore at them with its horn, then breathed fire on them. I wondered whether, with its poor eyesight, it thought the rocks and weed were Jing-wei and me. Mayhap it had taken us for sea-creatures, and did not connect us with the shrine and human foe. The tide had come in again, covering our footprints and the smell of us, and though the dragon was long examining those rocks and lumps of weed, it came no nearer to our hiding place.

At last it lifted its wings to the wind, and leaped upwards. Water streamed from its limbs, and its bright scales shone like gems in the evening light. Again it struck me how beautiful it was, how graceful and shining and strong. Almost lazily, it soared towards its lair.

I thought at first the dragon had not seen the silk, for it seemed quite unconcerned; then of a sudden it gave a peculiar, raucous cry and spread its wings to slow its flight. It drifted back and forth along the cliff, its long neck outstretched towards the snare. It seemed unsure, cautious; then it began wheeling about the silk like a bird about its prey. I hardly breathed, for expectation and fear, and Jing-wei whispered something in her own language—a prayer, mayhap.

Then I saw that the dragon must have got entangled in the cord, for the silken sheath tossed violently, and the beast’s flight became fitful. It veered and turned, all the time uttering its rough and dreadful cries; then it darted at the silk and shot a breath of fire. The silk flashed, caught the flame, danced, writhed like a living thing ablaze. And then the fire-dust caught alight.

Radiance leaped across the skies, along the cliff, the brilliant beach, the bright dragon. Then came the sound, booming like thunder from hell itself. The very earth groaned; I heard a roaring and cracking, and the cliff began to slide. Slow it was, as I remember it: half the world collapsing in a cloud of sunlit dust; the scent of the fire-dust; the vast blackness falling, falling; and, sinking with it, the dragon, tumbling over and over, fire and light, flame and dust, beautiful even in death. And all around rained shards of rock, and dust, and bits of stone.

A long time the rumbling continued, perilously close. Crouching down, I sheltered Jing-wei with my body, while stones and earth rained down upon the shrine. Dust poured in through the windows and door and through the cracks in the roof, and once a rock thrice the size of my head crashed through, splintering the roof and missing us by a hand’s breadth. At last the dust settled and all was quiet outside. Trembling, Jing-wei and I stood and crept out onto the shore.

There was hardly any beach remaining. Half the cliff had sunk into the sea, and at the top, vivid against the sunset skies, were the remains of some of the houses of Seagrief. Others had fallen, and I could see the burned timber and roof beams sticking like bones out of the rubble. That part of the cliff with the pathway had survived intact, along with St. Alfric’s shrine. All else was gone, tumbled down in a chaos of shattered rock and broken earth. On a slab of jagged rock hung a strip of tattered scarlet silk. It fluttered in the wind, bright like a banner on a battleground. And nearby, tarnished and unmoving, lay the dragon.

“I won’t need the sword,” I said. And I remember feeling disappointed a little, for the prophecy had been wrong.

Jing-wei was looking across the shattered rocks at the dragon. “Get the sword,” she said, and I caught alarm in her tone.

Full of dread, I looked again to where the dragon lay. Its head was raised, waving about on that long neck as if it were a flower too heavy for its stem. Groaning, screaming, the dragon breathed fire. Then it tried to lift itself on its front legs, but failed.

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.