It advanced through the backdrop, the enormous pink head, the enormous pink neck of an enormous pink dragon. A dragon only slightly less intimidating for being constructed out of fabric, wood, carnations, and wire. The chorus sang,
“Oh,
Great Dragon Saxbriton, leave your lair—
the door we tore in earth and air
that lays the way ’tween Here and There
awaits its blushing bride!”
Scott turned to Mick. “Saxbriton? Isn’t that the dragon from your story?”
“Aye. Mightiest dragon in all the land.”
“And she’s pink? Just like the dragon in the Goodco logo? How have you not mentioned this?”
Mick shrugged. “Lotta dragons ’re pink. That is, lotta dragons ’re red an’ lotta dragons ’re white, an’ … ahem … when two dragons love each other very much—”
“I don’t need the birds-and-the-bees talk, thank you.”
“The dreary age of man adjourns.
Our worlds are wed, and love returns!
The sapphire fire of Faerie burns
a path ’cross the divide!”
“Sapphire fire?” whispered Mick.
At this, as if on cue, the puppet dragon lifted its head, parted its jaws, and released a plume of brilliant blue flame.
“Did yeh see it?” Mick jumped. “That blue fire!”
“It’s a gas fire,” Scott said sagely. The Doe family had a gas stove.
“No. No gas fire is so blue. Not that blue…”
Two new backdrops descended from the rafters. They were not as wide as the painted forest—just narrow strips, really, made to look like yellowed paper and hanging to either side of the dragon’s head. Two hundred names were inscribed on these banners—a list of knights, it seemed. Sir William Marsters, Sir Patrick Stevenson, Sir Sanjay Applethwaite…
“My dad,” Scott breathed. “My dad’s name is written on the one on the right.”
“Where are the knights, once brash and bold
whom dragons fought in days of old?
They’re tired and fat! Their queen’s a fake!
They fall like dodoes in our wake—”
Here there was a bit of stagecraft: the red lights brightened, were joined by blues and greens until the light was colorless—and now, in the colorless light, one could see red Xs over each and every name. Two hundred British knights crossed out as if their deaths were only items on a hideous to-do list. Again the pink dragon breathed fire.
“Sir Reginald Dwight,” murmured Scott, testing the name. Assuring himself that he was not mistaken, because it was all too strange. “Why is my dad’s name crossed out on that list?”
“Did yeh hear that?” said Mick, speaking over the cusp of Scott’s question. “When the dragon blazes—a whistlin’. Did yeh hear the whistlin’?”
“No. I mean … was it part of the music? I think we should go. Did you see my dad’s name?”
Now, the Big Finish. The lights flickered in nauseating fashion across billows of smoke and glittering confetti as though anticipating the grand entrance of some vest-wearing and puffy-shirted stage magician who would Rock Your World with Magic. And indeed, just such a puffy-shirted man walked on from the wings, though he was also sporting pointy ears and antlers and a crown of holly. And he was joined by another Freeman in drag, wiggling about with fake boobs and a big bustle. The leprechaun and unicorn were back and dancing—apparently delighted to have had all of their magic sucked out of them—and here, too, were a host of other elves, goblins, a “giant” on stilts, and a disquieting number of leotards. The dragon blazed again.
“What do you—”
“Shhh!” Mick hissed.
In front of it all a row of eight more Freemen entered on their knees. It took a moment for Scott to realize they were supposed to be kids—a Dennis the Menace-y cast of characters designed by someone whose attention to actual children had ended abruptly in 1950. Many bows and buckles, slingshots and huge lollies.
“The children, stuffed with cereal
and magic most ethereal,
rise up and give themselves
as sacrifices to the elves!”
The dragon roared flame a fourth time. Scott thought that maybe he could hear a whistling after all. “Sounds like a bird,” he said.
“Sounds like rain,” Mick growled, before dashing forward and leaping over the balcony.