(Dragon Breath)

DRAGON BREATH

Dragons aren’t really the monsters they’re made out to be - they’re more like naive and very gangly, playful, puppies. However, there was this tendency to incinerate anything within fifty yards with their excitable and uncontrollable fiery breath. Now that was an unfortunate trait.

It was a trait that Evolution had recognised too late, but one which - courtesy of generations of highly nervous dragon slayers - had led to Rufus now being the only remaining dragon in the Kandian Province of Ramidor.

Evolution is a funny old business: behind the times, as it were - if that isn’t pushing an aphorism a little too far. Just when the dragon population was on the brink of forced extinction over their fire-raising capabilities, genetics had rather belatedly recognised this trait as the root cause. Which is fair enough: genetics is always in a catch-up situation. But, in the case of dragons, genetics had caught up much too late, because the only dragons now left on Ramidor were - like Rufus - dry. Not a cough and an incendiary spit between them: about as much risk to a thatched cottage as a damp November. But they were now so rare and widely spread that the usual exchange of genetic material to perpetuate the species was about as likely as a cornfield’s chance of survival in the Ancestral Dragon’s coughing fit.

It was a lonely life for Rufus, lived atop the highest peak of the Sawtooth Mountains miles from sword-swinging heroes, made all the more poignant when all you wanted was to be loved. And made doubly poignant because Rufus didn't have a spark in his belly. All in all, he was a sad little dragon who hadn’t seen another since … well, ever. He didn’t even know what a dragon was. He didn’t know he was a dragon. Of course, he had vague memories of being tucked underneath leathery wings and tickled under the chin, but that had suddenly stopped and there he was, alone.

Still, he was optimistic. ‘If life gives you lemons, don’t suck’ was the mantra he lived by (if, that is, his mind had been capable of such profound philosophical reflection). However, one inspirational thought one day had come up with the name ‘Rufus’. When you live alone, self identity is paramount - but it has to have something to hang itself on, and ‘Rufus’ was as good as anything. If it was good enough for the hunter who had once nearly taken his eye out with an arrow, it was good enough for him. Besides, it had a nice warm ring to it. Unlike much of what else the hunter’s companion had screamed at the time, whilst simultaneously diving very quickly under a thorny but extremely sturdy bush: ‘Bloody hell Rufus you great Wazzack, you missed!’ ‘Great Wazzack’ could possibly have commended itself, but it sounded somehow derogatory. It was the inflection in the voice: dragons are very sensitive to intonation. So, ‘Rufus’ his self-identity had become from that point on.

It was something.

But, he couldn’t help thinking that something else very fundamental was missing.

Until, sniffing about after wild boar in remote woodlands one day, he happened across a human infant making the most appalling din, caterwauling, stamping her feet and throwing the biggest tantrum Rufus had ever seen … and he had witnessed plenty of those from aloft over the years with his keen eyesight and hearing. Human infants were the most fractious life forms he had ever flown across.

If she was making a din before, when she clapped eyes on Rufus she let out a scream that drilled through his head like an augur which, for a dragon with self-confidence issues already, was a bit demoralising as well as deafening. Without thinking, Rufus immediately clapped a wing across her mouth to make it stop which she, in turn, immediately bit. Rufus let out a squawk that almost equalled the infant’s which - had there been any fire in his belly - would have immediately incinerated the woodsman’s hut he now saw at the end of the clearing. Along with the woodsman, presently charging out of it with a double headed axe the like of which Rufus had never seen and had no wish to acquaint himself with.

He took off almost vertically.

Unfortunately, his talons caught in the clothing of the infant and, try as he might, he couldn’t shake her free, particularly when she dug her nails into his leg and clung on for all her might, still shrieking. Until she fainted. If a dragon had been able to sigh and roll his eyes in exasperation, that’s what Rufus then did and, gently, closed the talons of his other foot around her limp body and flew off back to his lair.

***

The interior of the ‘Bucket and Firkin’ was a pleasant fug of woodsmoke, ale fumes and various brands of smoking weed, ranging from the disgusting to the downright furtive which exchanged hands under the table. It was also abuzz with incredulous conversation. “Dragon? No such thing! Last dragon I heard about was in my great grandad’s day and that was a half-hearted affair. Not enough breath to light a cigar with.” The speaker quaffed his tankard by way of emphasis and banged it down on the bar, looking hopefully into the dregs.

“I’m only tellin’ you what I heard,” the other speaker said. “Swooped down and carried off Fred the Forester’s little girl, Amelia, an’ if you want to argue the toss with Fred, go ahead. I wouldn’t. Especially not now. Fred said it looked as if it was heading up to the Sawtooths. If there are any dragons left that’s where they’ll be.”

The first speaker looked at his empty tankard again. “You gettin’ one in, or what?” he said, “or you savin’ up for a dragon hunt?”

The second speaker scowled and gestured to the barkeeper. “Don’t need any savin’ up. Fred’s bank rollin’ anyone daft enough to do it. Apparently, he wants his daughter back alive - or bones more like - though the gods know why. Noisy brat. I suspect it’s his missus. Dotes on the little darlin’ by all accounts. Don’t think Fred gives a toss, but anythin’ for a quiet life. You haven’t met his missus, have you?”

Five tankards down the bar, inquisitive ears pricked up at the mention of money and the ears’ owner sauntered up, dragging a sword that was bigger than he was and almost as broad. He doffed his hat as he approached the quaffing couple. “Filbert,” he said by way of introduction. “Did I hear mention of a dragon hunt for money?”

Both looked suspiciously down at him from their bar stools. “ ‘s right,” the second speaker said. “What of it?”

Filbert flourished a courteous bow. “Filbert by name, dragon hunter by profession, and in need of a job right now,” he said.

The first speaker scoffed. “Well you would be round here, wouldn’t you? Last dragon got dispatched about 150 years ago, by a hero three times your size by all accounts.”

His drinking companion demurred. “Look, I told you, Fred saw it with his own eyes! You’re not likely to make something like that up are you? Especially not when it’s got your daughter in its talons screaming blue murder.” He turned to Filbert again. “Dragon hunter, you say? Looks like you couldn’t hunt a ferret if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Not at all,” Filbert said, hoisting himself onto a bar stool and ordering another round. “Dragon slayers of old might have been big and bold, but the rate of attrition was atrocious. I’ve made a study of it. Now, if you’re small enough you can duck under the fiery breath, nip around their ankles and play merry hell with their balls. You can make them do anything with a firm grasp. Don’t be fooled by this sword. My main dragon deterrent is a tourniquet. You don’t actually need to kill a dragon. Best to train it.”

The first speaker received the speech with the incredulity it deserved. “And just how many dragons have you ‘trained’ then?”

Filbert made a show of counting. “Well … none actually. I’m just starting out, and like you say, dragons are like hens’ teeth but I’m really keen to put the theory into practice. I tried it out on a bull a couple of times and it worked a treat. Docile as you like with a tweak or two.”

By now, a fair crowd had gathered to join in the conversation, most of them failing to contain their hilarity. Filbert glanced around vexedly. “You can laugh. You’ll be laughing on the other side of your faces when I come flying back on it.

The first speaker wiped the tears from his eyes. “An’ how you goin’ to get to the Sawtooths, then? Take you six months on foot. And that’s by road, of which there ain’t any. And then there’s the climb. Fang’s practically vertical and the rest ain’t much better. I give you this though: you’ve got some balls.” He almost fell off his bar stool at this jocularity and his companion sprayed a mouthful of ale across all those in the vicinity, provoking a minor scuffle.

Filbert withdrew with as much dignity as he could muster. “You’ll see!” he called over his shoulder, negotiating his way to the door through the general melee that was now developing.

As he dragged his sword onto the street, a gnarled man with a ginger beard and calloused fingers caught up with him. “Interesting conversation back there,” he said. “I only heard a bit of it but perhaps I can help. Just so happens I know Fred. I can put a word in. Mulkhi,” he said, introducing himself and proffering a ham of a hand which crushed Filbert’s own as he automatically took it.

“Sawtooths, eh?” he said. “Long way by foot.” He tapped a conspiratorial finger across his nose, ‘Now, by air, it’s a different matter.”

***

Though Rufus said it himself, it was a pretty comfortable lair with a deep cave to insulate against the winter cold - it was at the top of a mountain after all, and you can’t expect much when all of humanity seems hell bent on killing you. Now, being male, Rufus’s definition of ‘comfortable’ was just that. Had there been any female dragons to pass muster, then that definition might have needed a little bit of refinement. As he swooped in to land, his encumbered feet caught in a heap of cattle bones littering the clearing and he skidded arse over tip ending up in a pile of wings and dragonish imprecations. He’d been meaning to clear that up for years. Now, with company, he supposed he was going to have to.

Reminded of the encumbrance in his talons, he bent his head and methodically un-entwined it, setting the infant free. He regarded the recumbent form sourly. ‘Now what’, his thought processes went. There was no chance he was going to eat it. He had only ever tried that once during a particularly heavy winter and to say that the experience had left a sour taste in his mouth was an understatement: sour, stringy, full of bones and loud to the point of excruciation until he’d bitten the head off to make it stop. He had spit it out immediately and then been sick and left wondering what the point of the things were if you couldn’t eat them. And now, here one of them was. Waking up.

Not only was she waking up, she was voluble again. Her eyes snapped open and her lungs resumed where they had left off. When she once again spotted Rufus, the volume increased. As expressionless as a dragon’s face is, Rufus’s ears made up for it. They laid flat against his head and his eyes slitted in what could only be construed as a grimace of pain by anyone even slightly versed in reptilian physiognomy.

“I WANT MY MUMMY! WHERE’S MY MUMMY? WAAHHH!” the little girl shrieked. “NASTY DRAGON!" She picked up a hefty meat bone lying nearby and threw it at Rufus with all the might her little arms could muster. She missed, but the bone went clattering across the clearing and as he watched its flight, something primaeval clicked in Rufus’s brain. Immediately, his eyes snapped open, his tongue lolled and his legs automatically propelled him in pursuit. As it bounced, Rufus caught it with his teeth in mid-air and scampered back to Amelia, dropping it at her feet and crouched there in anticipation, tail thrashing as if it had a life of its own. Then, the moment passed and Rufus was left wondering what had just happened.

Amelia giggled, and threw the bone again, and again Rufus automatically took off in pursuit, claws scrabbling in a blur in his haste to catch it. This went on for some time until both Rufus and the little girl were exhausted and fell asleep. As he drifted off, Rufus’s mind was more confused than it ever had been: what was all this chasing? But he knew one thing. He would look after this little human even if it cost him his life.

***

After finding a quieter tavern in which to converse, Mulkhi expanded on his oblique aerial reference. “Folks round here think I’m mad,” he explained (which didn’t do much for Filbert’s peace of mind), “but they wouldn’t know genius from one of Paisley’s Pasties,” he nodded at the bakery across the road. “Thing is, I’m an inventor. I’ve got a workshop up in the hills” he gestured vaguely in the direction of away. “And I’ve just perfected a flying machine.” He took in Filbert’s sceptical look. “No, straight up. I’ve been making gliders for ages, you ask anyone. That’s why folks think I’m mad. Strap a sheet on your back and throw yourself off a cliff is all they can see. Fact I’m still around to talk about it is proof enough, I would’ve thought, but folks can’t see where this could go.” He slipped Filbert a drawing from inside his jerkin. “Here, one of my lads did this.”

What he saw inclined Filbert to agree with the general consensus concerning Mulkhi’s sanity. It depicted youngsters with what looked like bat’s wings strapped to their arms, running over to a cliff edge and jumping off. Admittedly, there were some landing back on again, but…

“Of course, that’s only an artist’s impression,” Mulkhi pointed out. “Well, I say artist, Jonno’s better with his hands than he is with pencil and paper, unless he’s got a ruler and protractor - no stopping him then - but I think he’s captured the essence. Flying, Filbert - there’s the future.”

Filbert looked at the drawing again and the only future he could see there was a very short one ending at the bottom of a very long drop.

Mulkhi could see his scepticism. “Tried and tested, Filbert. I’ve had lads flying all over the mountains for years. Trouble is, you’re relying on thermals - and I’m not talking about vests although you do need them when you’re two thousand feet up - so it’s purely recreational up to now. No distance, see? So no commercial application.” He paused, triumphantly, and flourished another drawing from inside his tunic, laying it on the table alongside the other. “Until now!”

This time, the drawing was schematic showing a rather complicated looking contraption consisting of ropes, pulleys, struts, wires, sacking, sprockets, gear wheels, pedals and hinged wings - in short, the personification of a madman’s nightmare.

Mulkhi ran a hand lovingly over it. “Me and Jonno have been working on this for months. Forget your poxy gliders. This is what’s going to get you to the Sawtooths.”

***

Over the next few days, Rufus found the only real problem with Amelia was feeding. She didn’t like dead cow, she wouldn’t eat straw. Once, he found her sucking at a dead cow’s udder - which he felt was quite revolting - so he took to raiding all the nearby orchards for fruit which did seem to be acceptable. But he had taken to hiding all loose meat bones and stray eye balls for fear of succumbing to exhaustion: this compulsion to run after thrown things was wearing him out, although Amelia never seemed to tire of the game. And his tail was starting to ache. That was another strange thing. Whenever she spoke to him, his tail started threshing about and his tongue lolled out of his mouth as if they had minds of their own.

And those were not the only things troubling him. He couldn’t quite put a claw on it and wouldn’t have recognised the term if he could, but he was starting to feel … broody.

***

A quick trip to Fred the Forester to cement a deal eventually saw Filbert flagging, half-way up a mountain, with Mulkhi impatiently tapping his foot. “You think this is steep. You wait ‘til you see Fang,” he said in exasperation. “You need to get a move on if you stand a chance of even bringing a pile of bones back for Fred.” He ran a hand down his face. “Tell you what. Stand here. ”He led Filbert over to the cliff edge and gave a series of shrill whistles. A series of fainter whistles came back and, before Filbert could enquire what was going on, something swooped out of the sky behind him, scooped him up and into the air … and then dropped like a stone.

As his stomach lodged in his throat and the distant ground began to get closer, Filbert heard a voice above him, swearing. There was a frantic readjustment of things and the voice again said: “The sword. Get rid of the sword. Now!” Filbert did as he was told and watched it plummet to the ground. It was only then that he started to scream, which masked the sigh of relief from above as the downward descent gradually resolved itself into a graceful upward spiral. After what seemed like a lifetime, Mulkhi’s anxious face came into view again, peering over the cliff edge as Filbert spiralled past it. “Sorry boss,” a cheerful voice came from above. “Got that a bit wrong. A bit more payload information might be handy next time, though! See you at the top.”

Mulkhi’s figure gradually receded into the distance and soon a plateau appeared and rushed up to meet Filbert. He screamed again.

***

By the time that Mulkhi arrived, hardly out of breath, Jonno had settled Filbert’s nerves. “Sorry about that,” he had said, unstrapping himself from his wings. “The boss didn’t tell me about the sword. Payload’s crucial, see? Still,” he said cheerfully, “nothing lost. Except the sword. Hope that wasn’t important?”

Filbert took an indecent amount of pleasure in describing how a sword might be seen as an essential piece of kit for a dragon-slayer but then let Jonno off the hook by describing his own preferred method, by which time Mulkhi had wandered over.

Jonno recounted what Filbert had just told him and he and Mulkhi exchanged bemused glances. “Filbert,” Mulkhi mused. “You do realise that dragons are reptiles?”

“Yes, what of it?” Filbert asked.

Mulkhi coughed deferentially. “Well now, I hate to disabuse you, but you do know that reptiles don’t actually have balls? Not the hanging variety, anyway. Think about it. With a body that low-slung would you want your tackle dragging in the mud? Not to mention creating drag in the air. Very streamlined affairs are dragons.”

Filbert’s face suddenly took on a pallor.

“Still, nothing that cold steel won’t fix and we’ve got plenty of that. And we’re committed now. At least, you should be, but let’s not talk about that. Let’s get this finished, Jonno,” Mulkhi said decisively. “No time like the present.”

Jonno looked worried. “You sure about this boss? We’re dealing with a bloke who thinks touching up dragons is a route to fame and fortune.”

“Fortune’s all I’m thinking about, Jonno. Fred’s cut me in on the reward and the gods know we need the money for research and development. So let’s get this in the air. Still needs finishing yet.”

***

A few days later, Mulkhi introduced his invention with pride. “The Aerambulator,” he announced. In the flesh, the madman’s nightmare had assumed reality, but with the clean-cut lines of the architectural drawing translated into a mish-mash of misaligned pieces, semi-swinging struts and an awful lot of string. Mulkhi saw Filbert’s aghast glance. “Yeah, needs a bit of refinement, but it works.” He pointed out the details whilst Jonno readied some last minute arrangements. “You see, me and Jonno sit in the cabin and pedal, which propels the pusher, and flap the wings with pulleys to give us lift so we’re not reliant on thermals. And next stop the Sawtooths.”

He scratched his beard. ‘Of course, when we developed it, we didn’t reckon on passengers, but Jonno’s working on that.”

Indeed, he was and soon Filbert was strapped face down on top of the fuselage, wrapped in fur, with two lances strapped beside him and a bow and arrows close to hand. And forcibly complaining as Mulkhi’s assistants pushed the machine over the edge. This time he didn’t scream. He fainted.

When he came to it was to an almost total absence of noise, apart from the creaking of wing struts, wind through the rigging and a lot of technical conversation from the cockpit. Letting the technical jargon wash over him, Filbert risked a look around and immediately wished he hadn’t. The ground floated by at a seemingly impossible distance and the shadow of the aerambulator cast itself on the occasional cloud top looking for all the world like a giant … squat… dragon.

Then: “Here we go, Jonno. Ready for this? Oi. You awake out there? We’re here.”

Filbert raised his head and saw the Sawtooths in front, gaping like an angry maw, as the aerambulator gained height, picking up thermals fast.

***

Amelia wasn’t quite as strident as she had been - her new pet was giving her a lot of diversion and he’d even been able to bring her some chocolate bars. She wasn’t to know the trauma that had caused, but the rumours of dragons abroad circulating since her disappearance had suddenly been given a lot more weight amongst distant shopkeepers, whose stock was mysteriously depleted overnight to the sound of flapping, leathery, wings. He’d also been giving her short rides on his neck, which was exciting.

And exhausting, Rufus had found. He hadn’t realised how much energy infant humans had. Content though he found himself lately, there was still a certain indefinable something missing Rufus felt, as he lounged at the edge of the plateau, gazing out across the Sawtooths. Then, his attention was caught by something in the sky, spiralling up. Something with a head and, admittedly, a bit of a squat tail, but definitely bat-like wings that now commenced a slow flapping as it approached. And something even more primaeval than chasing bones exploded throughout his whole being, concentrated, interestingly, on a region that he had never hitherto paid much attention to.

Without knowing why, his eyes widened, his mouth drooled, his ears pricked and his whole body stiffened as he launched himself off the plateau with a joyous shriek.

***

Now, unless you’re fully conversant in Dragon, a joyous shriek and one of malevolence are very difficult to differentiate. Especially when you’re a thousand feet in the air and the shriek is bobbing and weaving around you in an astonishing aerial display. Despite his purpose, Mulkhi was impressed. Then, approaching from behind, there was a ‘thud’ as the dragon landed on the fuselage … and an outraged cry from Filbert. Then the whole assemblage was guided in for a not-quite-so graceful landing on the plateau.

Once the dragon had crawled away for a nap, Mulkhi and Jonno surreptitiously crept out of the cockpit and, in astonishment, Mulkhi whispered: “I never knew dragons mated on the wing”.

“Well, you do now!” Filbert exploded quietly - a difficult thing to do except in close proximity to a dragon. “Get me off here! And if you ever tell a living soul what happened up there …” he petered out. Safely unstrapped, Filbert crouched behind the aerambulator with the other two, “What now?” he muttered, still seething from the indignity.

“Well, I’m no expert,” Mulkhi said, ‘but I rather think he’s expecting you to lay an egg right now.” Jonno barely restrained Filbert this time, but the commotion roused Rufus, who lifted his head … and revealed a sleeping Amelia curled up beside it.

Mulkhi nudged Filbert in the ribs and gestured with his head. “Well, go on then. You’re the hunter, we’re just the transport.” Gently unhitching a spear he handed it to Filbert and motioned Jonno to begin a surreptitious repositioning of the aerambulator for a quick getaway.

***

Fifi was a lonely little dragon, which is why, some weeks ago she had left her homeland and flapped off towards the setting sun, following an unconsciously primaeval instinct to flog herself to death feeding little mouths forever: after the precursory quick shag, obviously. The fire might have gone out of her throat, but the boiler was still alight, even if she didn’t recognise the smoulder.

Better late than never, the one thing that evolution had recognised as an imperative for dragons’ perpetuation was ‘always go for the high places’. A high place was now slowly coming into view as she wearily flapped her way westwards. ‘Time for a rest’ she thought, and turned her nose towards it. Another evolutionary imperative was ‘don’t go in bull-headed, recce first’ (although obviously not in those precise terms), so she gained height and began to circle. And then, all evolutionary imperatives suddenly seemed superfluous. If it had been possible to skid to a halt a thousand feet in the air, that’s what should have happened. What did actually happen is that Fifi gave an involuntary squawk of astonishment, flipped into a somersault in the sky and arrowed down to the plateau like something whose biological clock was on overdrive.

***

Following on so closely after his recent encounter, Rufus could hardly believe his luck. Although he would be forever grateful to the creaky old bag of bones that had so willingly popped his cherry earlier, the vision that was now approaching held no comparison. Not that pure aesthetics were on either of their minds as Rufus scrambled up, launched himself into the air and commenced an even more elaborate mating display than he’d put on before, reciprocated joyously by Fifi.

As Rufus rocketed into the air, Filbert, approaching cautiously from behind, blanched anew as the total absence of the objects of his poorly researched plans passed over his head, and the dragon’s tail neatly whipped his spear from his hands in passing, breaking it into matchwood. Further down the plateau, Jonno and Mulkhi watched the display in awe and envy - and not a little vicarious embarrassment - and then snapped out of their reverie, pushed the aerambulator to the edge of the cliff and gestured to Filbert to grab the still sleeping girl. Filbert, needing no encouragement, scooped Amelia into his arms, bundled her into the cockpit and just managed to strap himself to the fuselage again before Jonno and Mulkhi pedalled the machine over the edge. Rufus and Fifi noticed nothing.

***

It wasn’t an easy flight home. “WAAAH! I WANT MY DRAGON” had now been tacked onto Amelia’s previous remonstrations about her “MUMMY!” but the thought of the forthcoming reward made that somewhat more bearable. When they finally made landfall again, to an incredulous crowd outside the ‘Bucket and Firkin’ and with splitting headaches, Filbert scrambled down from the fuselage and took Amelia into his arms again. She bit him. Luckily - both for Amelia and Filbert - Amelia’s mummy rushed shrieking out of the crowd, grabbed Amelia out of Filbert’s arms and smothered her with kisses. Fred followed, and glumly handed over a bag of money that Mulkhi pounced on eagerly and diligently divvied up the proceeds. Then they all retired to the ‘Bucket and Firkin’ where Filbert revelled in his new-found hero status, although he wisely refrained from a demonstration of his ball-tweaking expertise.

As for Mulkhi, it was the start of a new chapter as an aeronautical entrepreneur and, within months, he had new and improved aerambulators delivering goods and passengers all over the countryside, the first of whom was Filbert, who wanted to get as far away from dragons as humanly possible.

***

Although he was initially sad at having lost his playmate, Rufus didn’t really have much time to reflect on it. For one thing, there was a pile of bones to clear up (Fifi had insisted), the cave was, quite frankly, disgusting (Fifi had made that abundantly clear) and the diet left a lot to be desired (Fifi was a vegetarian - who would have thought it?)

And, there was a brand new clutch of eggs to cultivate, which neither knew quite what to do with - Fifi had thought it was just stomach ache. Still, evolution finds a way and soon there was a clutch of young dragons to tend to - and another clutch of eggs, and then another. Evolution had a lot of catching up to do - even if only to supply the wherewithal for the business that Amelia set up in her later years under the banner: A House is not a Home without a Dragon in it.

END