Hunting of the Last Dragon (8 page)

And that, I think, is enough to write for now. It must be almost time for bells, Brother, and a mug of mead.

Straight to our tale today, and no meandering! It was daylight when I came to. My left foot burned and ached, and my head throbbed as if it were being hammered by a fiend. I opened my eyes and saw a brilliant light shaped like a man, and thought it was an angel. I closed my eyes and dreamed that I had died and St. Peter was stabbing his finger at my skull, trying to knock some sense into me. When I opened my eyes again I saw that it was not an angel before me, but a silver robe. And later still, I saw that I was in a room with sunlight pouring in the door and falling on a soldier's armour that hung on a hook. And beside me was an old woman, brown and shrivelled as a nut, with wispy white hair pulled back in a knot, and white whiskers on her chin. And her black eyes, half lost beneath the wrinkles, were the same shape as Lizzie's eyes.

“Sweet Jesus save me,” I said. “I've died and gone to Lizzie's heaven.”

The old woman cackled like a hen, and I saw she had but two yellow teeth. “By all the powers, 'tis no heaven!” she said. Then, looking behind her, she called, “Come and see him, child. The boy's awake.”

I looked beyond the woman's shoulder and saw a doorway with bright sunlight shining through. And through that light came Lizzie, transfigured, wearing a dress of crimson and green, and with her hair brushed and braided smooth as ravens' wings. Right lovely she was. And she was walking, wearing ordinary shoes, though small ones.

“I have died,” I said, and fainted again.

Then someone was pouring cool water onto my tongue, and washing my hot face. After a time I woke fully, and began to look about me. I was lying on a pile of straw, a blanket over me. Between my bed and the open door crouched the old woman, lighting a fire in the middle of the floor. The air was still and hot, and the blue smoke rose about her, ascending to the rafters where hung sacks of grain, beside two pigs and several fish on hooks, smoking. There were bunches of herbs hanging on the walls, and strings of onions and garlic. My eyes travelled around the walls, and I saw more clearly the mail armour on its hook, with its helmet
nearby in a little alcove, and a great sword shining across two pegs above. There were shelves too numerous for me to number, laden with freakish things. Through the smoke's blue veil I made out jars of feathers and claws and oddly shaped sticks, shadowy carvings, and whitish objects that might have been bone. There were wizened roots, glowing stones, carven boxes such as I had never seen before, and other things, foreign and mysterious, I could not name. And in the sun on the step, and at the foot of my straw bed, were two cats, both black as coal.

The old woman came over to me, lifted the blanket at my feet, and pressed something hard against my sore ankle. I tried to pull away, but she was strong, for all her littleness.

“'Tis an arrowhead, boy,” she said. “'Twill ease the swelling, and your pain.” Then she sang a charm: “Come out, worm—out from the marrow into the bone, from the bone into the flesh, from the flesh into the skin, from the skin into this arrow.”

I whispered amen, to cover the spell with the Church's blessing, just in case.

No need to snort like that, Brother, nor to frown so disapprovingly. I know what you are thinking, and that you must blame me for staying in that house. But I had no choice about it. When I asked Lizzie later
how I came to be there, she said that when I had fallen in the lane she saw firelight in a house, and went to it. I suppose the flickering flames were what I had mistook for wolves' eyes. Anyway, the old woman came out to the lane with Lizzie and together they dragged me to the house. Once there I could not move for the pain in my head, nor could I have walked for the soreness in my ankle, and I was forced by fate to stay for good or ill. And that's the naked truth, as God is God.

The crone was called Old Lan. She was Chinese, the same as Lizzie, and she too had had bound feet. Hers she had straightened, and could walk almost normally, except that she hobbled with age. She must have been near ninety, but from what I could tell, there was nothing wrong with her hearing or her sight, and her mind was sharp as a knife. She was a scold, too, and I soon learned not to argue with her, even when she poured her nasty potions down my throat. She dosed me up right well, in those early days, and I have to say that her concoctions gave great ease. My ankle, that I had twisted bad, she mended with the arrow. I had a bad cut on my head, which she put cobwebs on and healed.

Brother Benedict, will you please stop doing that? I've confessed all this to the Abbot, and he's shriven me, and said a blessing over me. Now can we get on with the tale? I'd like to think I can tell it truly, as it
happened, without you frowning and tut-tutting and splattering ink every time you cross yourself.

Now, I'll tell you of my life those days, in Old Lan's house. At first I was as restricted as Lizzie in my walks, because of my sore ankle, and so I stayed mainly about the dwelling, resting in the shade. Lizzie went on short walks with Lan, or helped in the garden, or they sat on stones under the trees, talking together for hours like old acquaintances. When working in the house, Lizzie sat upon a stool to spare her feet, and she seemed at home, content with her lot.

I cannot say I shared her contentment. I feared Old Lan, and sorely resented the fates that made me stay. Though Lan had commanded me to stay abed and rest, whenever she was out of the house I got up and stood on my hurt foot, hoping to strengthen it, thus hastening the day when Lizzie and I might leave.

One afternoon, while Lan and Lizzie were out in the garden, I hopped over to the suit of armour, to inspect it. It was dusty and dull with smoke, but beautifully made, each link in the mail skilfully joined. I lifted it in my hand; it was heavy, but slid and moved like a silver skin. Leaving it, I lifted the sword from the wall, withdrawing it from its steel scabbard. It was heavier than Tybalt's sword and cunningly etched with wondrous
designs. There were jewels about the handle, and a coat of arms in scarlet and blue. I wondered who the man was who had owned it, and how it came to be here in Lan's house, with the armour and helmet. What was his name, and who had been his lord?

“His name was Ambrose,” Lan said, coming inside, her arms full of vegetables. “He was a knight, sorely wounded, and stayed here for healing. I told you to rest your foot, boy. I know you're eager to be gone, but you don't hasten healing, walking before you should.”

I put the sword away, unnerved because she knew my thoughts. It was one of her less alarming habits, knowing what lay in people's heads—and in their hearts, no doubt.

Lizzie came in, too, her hands dusty with the soil, and with dirt smudged across her cheek. She smiled at me across Lan's bent back, then sat on the dirt floor in the shade. Both cats leaped from the hearth and curled up in Lizzie's lap. They were like fond kittens with her, though they snarled and spat at me. Lan crouched by her fire and began cutting up a cabbage and throwing it into the broth.

“You knew this knight well, old mother?” Lizzie asked.

Lan put down the knife and rested back on her
heels, her eyes peering through the smoke, beyond it, to things I could not see. I sat on the bed, sensing a story brewing.

“Aye, I knew him well,” Lan replied, soft and dream-like. “He was manly and tall, and lithe as a whip, once his scars were healed. Beautiful he was; my joy, and the love of my life. And I was the love of his.”

I smiled, for she was mortal ugly. “I was a young widow then,” she went on, “as comely as Jing-wei. I found him on the lane one day, much as I found you, Jude. He was covered with ash, and he could hardly stand nor speak from pain and weariness. I brought him here, and helped him take off his armour, so that he could lie down and sleep. And under the mail his tunic was scorched to rags, and in parts melted onto his skin, for he was sorely burned. And when I washed the dust and ash from his face, his skin came off as well. All over he was burned, and the scars were a long time healing.

“He had killed a dragon, though not before it breathed on him. Long had he studied the beasts, and knew much of their habits and weaknesses. He had a fine mind, did Ambrose, curious and well informed. He was right brave, and gentle, too. Never had I met a soul so tender, so full of loving gratitude for every
day, so near to joy. He healed in time, though his skin remained scarred, even on his face, and one eye would never wholly open, nor close. He never went back to his lord, or to his lands. He stayed with me, and we loved. Then one day he sickened, and there were red lumps upon him, in his armpits and groin, and in his neck. By that night he was dead, and my heart's joy with him. I buried him under the apple tree, and every spring I gather the blossoms as they fall, and put them upon my bed, and sleep touched by his transfigured skin.”

I thought the story morbid, and was glad the blossoming was done, and hoped there were no withered petals left where I lay at night. When I looked at Lizzie her face was wet with tears. She got up, spilling the cats into the sun on the step, limped over to Lan, and put her arms about her. They were like grandmother and grandchild, kinswomen, close and alike in soul. Seeing them together made me ache for my own kin, and I got up and hobbled outside. Afore I knew it, I was crying as well. I knew not why; but loneliness went through me like a sword, and with all my being I longed for kin to put their arms about me. And I was guilty. God's soul, I was guilty! Guilty for the way I had spoken to little Addy that last night, and refused to take her to Rokeby with me, thereby causing her death. Guilty because I had survived, when I should
have died with them. Guilty because the thing that slew them still roamed free, and I did nothing about it. And so I bowed over in the grass and sobbed, stricken with remorse and pain, and not knowing how I could live.

After a time my grief was spent, and I pulled up handfuls of grass and wiped my face and nose, and tried to gather up my fortitude. I realised, of a sudden, that Lizzie was sitting on one side of me, and Lan on the other.

“Lord, I'm a fool!” I said.

“No fool around here,” said Lan. “Just a boy a-sorrowing. My Ambrose, he could weep like that, too, and he did, oft times, for all his manliness. I knew he had left behind more than his lord and lands; that he had left a wife and children. He never spoke of them, but when they were in his heart there was fear, too, and he used to rub the scars upon his face, and weep. It was an unnecessary fear, for of all God's creatures he was the most beautiful.”

“Would his wife have loved him, if he had gone back?” asked Lizzie.

“I never asked the fates,” said Lan. “I took what they gave me, and was grateful. But I saw how his spirit was troubled because of what he had abandoned—not only his obligations as husband and father, but also his duty as a knight. And I knew that,
no matter how great our joy together, he would never know true peace.”

Then they both got up and went inside, for it was sunset, and supper was almost done.

And our supper must be near ready, Brother. I'll stop here, and take Jing-wei for a walk in the orchard, since the sun is out just now. Doubtless you'd like some spare time yourself, maybe to visit old Father Matthew. Jing-wei said he has taken a turn for the worse, and is dying now. I'm sorry; I know he was the abbot here before his wits left him, and that you're all passing fond of him. Jing-wei says he is never alone, and one of the brothers sits with him every moment, to keep him loving company on his last journey.

Well, I'll see you at supper. It'll be Brother Tom's bean soup again, no doubt—God have mercy on us all!