Fantastical Ramblings (15 page)

“The monster,” Darville cried. “He’s going to eat me.”

“Not if I can help it.” Jaylor increased his pace.

In a thunder of flapping wings, hundreds of birds launched
themselves upward. What could frighten them all at the same time?

Darville looked downriver and gulped. A pair of yellow eyes
stared at him from the water’s surface. Huge eyes that did not blink.

Then a knobby black head with a long snout rose up. The
beast opened its maw wide revealing row upon row of dagger-sharp teeth.

The tide continued to drag Darville closer and closer to the
monster.

A dark shadow flew overhead. The shadow loosed a tremendous
roar.

“A dragon,” Jaylor croaked. “A
real
dragon.”

The monster in the river opened his mouth wider.

“Get away.” Jaylor threw something bright toward the beast’s
mouth. It snapped its jaws closed just before a bright ball of fire exploded in
front of it.

It backed off a few feet. Anger gleamed red around the
yellow of its eyes.

“Magic,” Darville gulped. He swallowed another mouthful of
water. Jaylor had a good reason to come to the island. But wasn’t he kind of
young to be a journeyman about to go on quest?

The outgoing tide dragged him further and further from the
safety of shore. He kicked and flailed helplessly. His heavy court tunic, now
waterlogged dragged him down…

The dragon shadow above shrank as it dove toward the narrow
river channel. A small trickle of fire leaked from its mouth in the direction
of the monster.

Darville noted the sunlight reflecting off the dragon’s
shimmering silver hide.
A juvenile
,
he thought and his heart sank. Only a full sized dragon could blast the river
beast with enough fire to kill it or send it fleeing.

Still this youngster of a dragon, with just barely any color
on its wingtips, veins and spinal horns, seemed too big to fit between the
steep banks of the nearest islands. He’d not be able to spread his wings wide
enough to fly and grab Darville.

“The dragon... it’s shrinking,” Jaylor cried from the tip of
Sacred Isle. He was too far away to save Darville. “And and… it’s turning
black.”

The dragon continued decreasing its size until it resembled
a large black housecat with wings. Frantically flapping to hover above
Darville, it extended long talons and snagged them in the boy’s tunic at the
neckline. Then he rose up a few inches.

The creature’s hot breath fanned Darville’s neck. It smelled
of sulfur. But its breathing sounded strained.

Darville breathed deeply, prepared for another dunking. A
shift in the water surface drew his attention. “Look out,” he cried. “The
monster is coming back!”

Jaylor threw another bright ball of fire. This one landed
smartly on the tip of the beast’s muzzle. Then it exploded, showering the beast
with sparks that continued to burn underwater. It roared in pain, whirled, and
dove. It thrashed its tail in one last defiant gesture. The backwash threatened
to swamp Darville and the miniature dragon… um… cat?

Jaylor dove into the water and swam the short distance to
Darville in swift clean strokes.

“I’ve got you, now.” He threw an arm about Darville’s neck
and dragged him toward the nearest shore, the very tip of Sacred Isle.

The miniature dragon, that truly did look like a large black
(so black it was almost purple) house cat with wings, hovered close above them
until they crawled up onto a pebbly beach. Then it landed on the grassy bank
above them and began to preen and bathe, just like the cat it resembled.

“What is that thing?” Darville asked, pointing at the black
creature that had helped save him. He panted in exhaustion and his teeth
chattered with chill.

Jaylor had to breathe deeply for a couple of moments before
he could answer. “It’s a flywacket,” he said.

“A flywacket?” Darville’s eyes widened in awe. “There hasn’t
been a flywacket in Coronnan in... well... over a hundred years.”

(
Two hundred sixteen
years.
)

“Who said that?” both boys asked.

(
I did
.)

They stared at the black cat intently. He stopped his bath
long enough to glare back at them.

“If you are a true flywacket, then you are a transformed
purple-tip dragon,” Darville accused.

(
Yes
.)

“But you can’t be a true dragon. Dragons always insist upon
an introduction
before
they do
anything for a human,” Jaylor insisted. He looked as if reciting a lesson.

(
Berrthoold
,) the
diminished dragon introduced himself. He sounded a little embarrassed at his
forgetting proper protocol.

“Dar... um… I’m Roy,” Darville introduced himself,
determined to remain anonymous.

Berrthoold chuckled in the back of his mind. Of course he’d
know Darville’s true name. The dragons were tied to the royal family by blood,
by magic, and by tradition.

“Apprentice Magician, Jaylor.” The city boy stood up and
bowed formally toward the dragon. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Bertie.”

(
Bertie
?) the
flywacket opened his mouth in a cat version of a smile. (
You give me a nickname. We are friends
.) He trotted over to Jaylor,
stropped the magician’s legs. Then he sauntered over and butted his head
against Darville’s chin.

“Friends,” Darville said. He held out his hand to Jaylor as
he cuddled the flywacket.

“Friends,” Jaylor repeated, dropping to a sitting position
so he could grasp Darville at the elbow.

They pumped their arms once, then took turns scratching
Bertie’s ears.

“I’m afraid your boat is long gone, Roy,” Jaylor said
quietly. “Any idea how we are going to get off this island? My gang won’t come
get me until tomorrow morning. You’ll like them, we’re mostly apprentices in
the city, but we’ve got the son of a palace guard, and a priest and a healer in
training from the University. I have to stay all night on a deserted island to
beat their dare. They think it’s haunted but I know it’s not. But you and I
should really tell someone at the palace about the river dragon. It’s real! As
real as a real dragon.” He scratched Bertie’s head as if to confirm his
statement.

“I think the University of Magicians should hear the report
first,” Darville said, looking at the ground. “They might actually do something
about it rather than spend all day arguing and fighting each other over who has
the right to kill it and become a hero.”

“Bertie, can you go back to being a dragon and fly us over
to the main islands?” Jaylor looked directly into the flywacket’s eyes.

(
I have chosen to be a
flywacket. A flywacket I must remain
.)

“Oh.” Darville’s shoulders sank in disappointment.

“We’ll figure something out. We are friends after all,”
Jaylor announced. “Just like I figured out how to throw witchfire without
gathering dragon magic. That was really strange. ’Course I could only tell a
friend that. My professors would punish me for not using dragon magic.”

“I’ve never had a friend before,” Darville whispered.

“Neither have I,” Jaylor replied. “Not a real friend. My
gang isn’t really about friendship, it’s more about… about not being alone ’cause
we’re different from other apprentices.”

“Come on. Let’s go build a fire. Maybe someone will see it
and come to investigate.” Darville stood up and slapped his friend on the back.
“We defeated a river monster. Together we can do anything.”

“But first we have to teach you to swim.” Jaylor slapped his
back in return.

~THE END~

A Jewish friend of mine gave me the premise of this
story—with a more dire curse at the end—when the first of the Merlin’s
Descendants series was published by DAW Books in 1999. I just needed an
anthology invitation to make that simple idea grow into a story. This world is
so rich for my imagination that it has spawned two short stories and a CD of
music by Heather Alexander available
www.faerietaleminstral.com

<<>>

“Has Tryblith the Demon of Chaos taken all of your minds?”
Wilfred of Kirkenwood, Don of Merton College Oxford, shouted at his students. He
pounded his walking stick with each word.

Power ran through the staff, begging him to cast a spell
over these ignorant savages that would force them to listen and absorb his
wisdom.

He swallowed the urge. Forced learning would not last.

The gathered throng of a dozen young men garbed in black
gowns with hoods in Merton’s colors, cringed with each reverberation of the
staff against the stone floor. That should be enough of a demonstration of
power to make them sit up and listen.

They all kept their eyes on their scrolls.

“Not one of you has the sense you were born with!” Doctor
Wilfred continued his tirade. His leg ached abominably. Otherwise he might have
treated his students’ stupidity with a bit more gentleness.

“S... sir, may I point out that, Dr. Merton said in his
Treatise of 1266 that King Arthur did not exist but served as a metaphor...”

“What is your name?” Wilfred asked, his voice suddenly as
icy as his temper was hot. If he did not get a poultice on his leg ulcer soon,
he just might send the boy to the cave where his ancestress had imprisoned the
previously invoked demon. He knew the spell. He’d just never had the courage to
try it.

His nephew, Griffin, Baron of Kirkenwood and Pendragon of
Britain, wouldn’t hesitate. But then he had more magic in the tip of his
fingers than Wilfred would ever be able to conjure in a lifetime.

“I am...” the student stammered.

“I don’t really care who you are. Nor do I have the patience
today to deal with your half reading. Show me the logic in your statement.”

“Sir?”

“You are here to learn logic, the finest discipline in the
quadrivium. The last discipline you must learn before you can call yourselves
masters. And not one of you has the sense to think this through. All you do is
quote previous masters.” Wilfred pounded his stick once more. This time the act
sent vibrations through his feet, connecting him to the earth. The sense of
power ready to be tapped calmed him. A bit.

“Sir, is there no logic in quoting masters who have already
thought the problem through?”

“Cheeky youngster, aren’t you.” Wilfred and the young man
began a staring contest.

Wilfred won. The young man looked back to his scroll.

“I could claim descent from King Arthur for myself. Would
you believe me?” He could prove it if any of them showed enough interest, and
discretion, to appreciate it. His nephew had decided the populace in general
could not appreciate and might misinterpret such information. So the family
kept their ancestors secret from all but the king. King Edward, the first of
that name, had a right to know which one of them currently acted the Pendragon
and advised his royal personage.

“Such a claim would be suspect,” the cheeky student offered.

“At last you are thinking.” Wilfred crowed in triumph. “The
purpose of this class is to make you think on your own. If we accept everything
previous masters believed, we’d still be living in caves with monkeys, eating
bugs and not knowing the truth of our God-given talents; never puzzling out the
meaning behind the movements of the sun, moon, and stars, never creating or
understanding beautiful music, learning to read...”

Wilfred paused for breath as he raised his eyes to encompass
the entire class. “All of you take yourselves off and finish reading the
assigned scrolls before we convene again on Monday. And I mean study them, form
your own opinions, don’t just parrot the words back to me. You have brains. Use
them!” He flung open the door from where he stood with just the power of his
mind.

Finally a release of the energy building within him.

If only he could heal the ulcer on his leg as easily as he
opened doors or lit candles. Even if he had the healing talent, he couldn’t use
it upon himself.

The students scuttled out of his chambers. The young men
hastened away. The clatter of their patens on the flagstones made Wilfred’s
head ache as sorely as his leg.

Wilfred frowned at the lengthening shadows in the quadrangle
of the college. Sunset approached on this Friday eve. Simon ben Isaac would not
stir from his home in the Jewish quarter this late even for his old friend
Wilfred.

Therefore, Wilfred must go to the good physician and
apothecary if he hoped for any relief from the pain in his leg.

He grabbed his walking staff and cloak and stumped out the
door of his chambers. The bleak cold of early November in this Year of Our Lord
1289 penetrated his woolen undertrews and set the oozing ulcer on fire. He
cursed again, this time in Greek, knowing that any student who overheard him
would have to work at understanding the words.

A student, wearing the gown and colors of Merton wove a
drunken path across the quadrangle.

Wilfred tried to avoid bumping into the fellow. His painful
leg locked in place, then threatened to give way beneath him. This left him a
target for the young man’s bleary vision. The youth carried a pewter tankard
that sloshed dark and fragrant ale.

“You one of mine?” Wilfred shouted, peering beneath the boy’s
hood. “You’ll be out on your ear if you are. Drunk this early on a Friday eve. Couldn’t
you have waited until after sunset?”

“Sorry, Sir,” the boy slurred. “Been over to the Turf. New
ale. Best brewed in whole city.” He waved his arms expansively. More of the ale
sloshed upon Wilfred’s gown.

“Drunken fool.” Wilfred brought a ball of cold witch light
to his palm, the better to study the boy’s face. Too many hours of studying
ancient manuscripts had weakened his eyes.

“Strange torch,” the boy mused. “Almost magic.” He wavered,
coming close to toppling over.