Steven George & The Dragon
The Temporary Wife
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, the little woodcutter and his tall wife were seated at the table waiting when Steven woke up. He was served a hot mash for breakfast and ate heartily. When he had finished, his dish sat empty at his place. It was obvious that the couple had no intentions of moving from the table until Steven had told his story.
“Don’t we need to work this morning?” Steven asked. “I’ll happily help you chop wood.”
“Oh no,” said Upik. “There is no reason to chop wood today.”
“We have very few visitors up here since the castle sank beneath the lake,” said Rayna. “We would much rather listen to you. Please tell us about your hat.”
Steven had tossed restlessly all night trying to think of a good story to tell the two, and had come up with no ideas. The truth was that he had suddenly been overwhelmed with loneliness when he saw the man and wife acting as though they were one person, and he had dreamt all night of the sweetheart he had left three hundred forty-nine thousand one hundred twenty-one steps ago across the lake and across the river. But he had agreed to the bargain and would have to begin soon. He took another long drink of the hot beverage Rayna had served with breakfast and began, not quite knowing where he would end.
ONCE UPON A TIME, almost out of memory and before all journeys began, there lived an ogre named Bimptwiss. Once every four years, Bimptwiss would emerge from his cave in a valley where the fog never cleared and come to the town of Lorbridge. There he would stand outside the barricade the townspeople had erected against him and demand that they send out their fiercest warrior to do battle with him. If he was defeated, he promised, he would go away and leave the town forever. But if he were not, he would feast on the bones of the unfortunate warrior. If the townspeople refused to send a champion to meet the ogre, then Bimptwiss would rampage through the town killing and eating whom he would.
In the course of time, warrior after warrior was killed and eaten by the vicious ogre. Eventually, all the truly strong warriors were gone, and the village sent any unfortunate victim they could entice out into the field to meet the ogre. Finally, they resolved that they would choose the victim by lottery. One year and one day before the ogre’s arrival at the barricade to the town, all the villagers between 19 and 22 were assembled and the mayor of the town distributed lots to each. The unfortunate who drew the black pebble would be designated as the sacrifice to the ogre. But during the intervening year, that person would be treated like royalty. He or she would have whatever was desired, and everyone in the village did what they could to make their sacrifice’s last year as pleasant as possible.
It may seem strange, but so lavishly did the people treat their would-be hero that young people competed for the right. In fact, as word of the quadrennial festival spread through the land, people from near and far came to the town for the lottery, hoping that they would win the right to be the champion selected to fight the ogre.
And so it was that a young man named Gareth came to Lorbridge to seek great—though temporary—fame and fortune. Even though the lottery was random and impartial, hopefuls competed with each other in races, mock battles, and exotic cooking demonstrations. They created special crafts that they sold in the market so the townspeople could show their support by purchasing the trinkets. Gareth was not the most popular candidate in the foray, but he was a likeable lad and had his share of supporters. In the races he consistently was within the first three across the finish line. In mock battles, he was often the one who stood most staunchly in support of the winner. And, though some said it was an acquired taste, his dish of curried sheep’s eyes was one of the most unusual dishes sampled during the festival.
Few people, however, wanted to wear the peaked hats he made from sheepskin and sold in the market. Lorbridge was not a particularly cold place and people preferred less ostentatious headgear. Gareth, however, wore his own hat constantly and thus was one of the most recognizable candidates in the fray.
The big day of the lottery arrived and Gareth stood among the candidates. In order to make the lottery more exciting, the townspeople had decided to have qualifying rounds in the lottery. After each competition, one candidate was eliminated. Gareth had survived each elimination round and now—with fourteen candidates still in the running—the mayor passed around a hat with seven black stones and seven white stones in it to determine the finalists. Each candidate drew a stone. Then from another hat with an equal number of stones, the festival princess drew a stone. Its color would determine which group of candidates would proceed to the final round. The stone was white and Gareth cautiously opened his fist to reveal a white stone. There were now only seven candidates.
There was a great feast that night and the seven were seated at the head table where they were waited on in lavish fashion. Dancers and musicians entertained, a tame bear danced for the revelers, and an exotic man with a basket of snakes played a flute and caused the snakes to dance. It was a magical evening. But most important of all was the final lottery. Seven identical puddings were placed on the table before the champions. Some of the puddings, they were told, contained a pebble. The champions were to eat their pudding and if they got a pebble, they were to keep it in their mouths until the puddings were all gone. No one knew how many pebbles had been baked into the puddings.
When the pudding had been eaten, the seven stood before the townspeople and one at a time were asked to take the pebble from his or her mouth. Gareth was the third in line and the first to spit out a pebble. There were no other pebbles in the puddings. People were amazed that the competition had come to such an abrupt ending and complained that there was supposed to be another round of elimination, but the mayor’s decision was final. Gareth had “won” the competition. After the brief dispute, celebration and revelry went on all night long.
Gareth sat, enjoying the festival, but contemplating the doom that he had just accepted for himself. He knew that he now had one year to live. He would walk back through the town for the last time and face the ogre. Oh, certainly he would fight. He might even try to run. But doom was inevitable. He would die and be eaten by the vicious beast.
Now among the other finalists were both men and women, and among the women was one who had always been friendly to Gareth. Her name was Cybele and she had dark flashing eyes and a lively temperament. Gareth was amazed that this young woman had even come to the competition, but unlike him, she was from Lorbridge and was required to join the lottery. While all others who were native to the town had been eliminated early in the competition or in the final seven, by some miracle she had been successful until the last round. She approached Gareth congratulating him on his victory, and asked him to dance with her.
Cybele was seductive and charming and before the night was finished, Gareth was in love. Enamored of Gareth’s bravery and steeped in the town’s tradition of giving the champion whatever he wanted, Cybele accepted Gareth’s courtship and before long, the two were married in a celebration attended by the entire town. They were happy together, for Gareth was given all manner of wealth. They lived in the finest home in the town. They ate the finest foods prepared by the best cooks. Their home was cleaned for them. They had music wherever they went. And Gareth had found the love of his life.
But time marches on and the day of the ogre’s arrival approached. Gareth’s attention began gradually to turn from the delights of his lavish life to preparation for his meeting with the ogre. Having found such great, passionate, and intense love, he was unwilling to part with her. Yet he knew that if he did not face Bimptwiss, the ogre would rampage through the town Gareth had also learned to love, and would likely destroy his beloved as well.
So, Gareth went to all the shops of the town, to all the craftspeople, to all the herbalists and shamans, and asked their advice for fighting the ogre.
“What you need are feathers,” said the butcher. “Ogre’s can’t chew feathers.” And with that the butcher took Gareth’s pointed hat and decorated it with feathers so that the ogre would be unable to chew his head. Gareth left the butcher and did not hear him chuckling to himself.
“What you need is cunning,” said a wise woman. “You should be like a snake in the grass, slipping up on the ogre unseen until your venomous bite takes his life.” She wrapped a snakeskin around his hat and chanted that the slippery cunning of the snake would go into the wearer of the hat. Gareth left the wise woman and did not hear her sudden fit of laughter.
“What you need is a talisman,” said the shaman. “I have been far into the mountains where there is a forge run by smiths of the finest silver, gold, and iron. This talisman has protected me through all my journeys, both in this world and in the spirit world.” And with that, the shaman fastened the talisman to the snakeskin on the hat. Gareth left the shaman and did not see him pull a new talisman from his bag full of them.
“You need lunch,” said Cybele. “Don’t even think of going out without eating. You can’t be your best unless you have had a healthy meal.” The two were eating the remains of dinner the night before and to humor his darling wife, Gareth took a chicken bone and stuck it through the snakeskin on his hat.
“There,” he said. “Now if I feel in the need for a snack when I see the ogre, I will have one handy.” The two laughed the laughter of lovers and Cybele wept over Gareth.
“I love you,” she said. “You are so brave. You are willing to save our village, even if it means sacrificing your life for us.”
“It is my love for you that gives me the courage to face this fate,” said Gareth. “But do not fear. I have the best protections and will fight the ogre and return victorious.”
As morning came, people awoke to tremors in the earth from the ponderous footsteps of the ogre as it approached the village. Knowing what was to come, people rushed from their homes and created a solemn line from Gareth’s home to the town barricade.
Gareth kissed his wife and bravely went forth to meet the ogre. As he walked through the town, Gareth realized that none of his charms and protections nor any of the advice he had received would help him. The butcher, when he saw Gareth in his feather-covered hat, rolled his eyes. The wise woman hid her face when he passed. Gareth saw that their lore and wisdom were frauds and he was on his own to meet his doom.
Gareth had another weapon that he told no one about. It seemed insignificant when faced with the prospect of the monstrous ogre, but the hunter in his own village had given him a knife. This knife was sharper than any in the world, having been tempered in the great forges of the underworld. Gareth was confident that if he could get close enough to the ogre, he could twist this knife into its flesh and kill the beast. But this he held privately for himself as his only true hope and had not even told his wife about it.
At last Gareth stood before the village with the ogre only steps before him. Then a most remarkable thing happened. The ogre pointed at Gareth’s hat and bellowed, “What that?”
Gareth nimbly jumped up on a rock in front of the monster and called back, “It is protection against ogres. Feathers will make you sneeze. While there are tears in your eyes I will slither like a snake around your ankles. While the talisman keeps me safe from your clumsy swings, I will bite you with the sting of my knife and you will die.”
The ogre laughed.
The stench of his breath filled the valley and the sound of his vile laughter caused all to hold their ears.
“Hungry!” he bellowed through his laughter and reached out to capture Gareth.
“Eat this,” Gareth called back, and reaching to his hat he grabbed the chicken bone and flung it directly into the laughing maw.
The ogre inhaled the bone and it stuck in his throat where it began to choke him. As he clutched his throat, tears began to run from his eyes. Gareth jumped down from his rock and ran behind the beast and clambered up his back. The ogre, still choking and weeping flung himself around, nearly dislodging Gareth from his back. Gareth snatched the talisman from his hat and plunged the pin into the ogre’s eye. The ogre’s roar of pain was cut off as Gareth drove his knife into the ogre’s stubby throat.
The battle was over in moments. The ogre fell forward on his face. Gareth grabbed the largest rock he could carry and for good measure smashed the ogre’s head. Then all was silent.
Gareth retrieved his knife, pin, and bone, straightened his hat and turned to face the townspeople. “The ogre is dead!” he declared. “The town of Lorbridge is free!” His words were greeted with deafening silence.
Gareth approached the barricade to the town, but the people did not tear it down. They did not cheer for him. They did not welcome him back.
“I want to come home, now,” Gareth said proudly as he approached the barricade. “Let me through.” But the people did not remove the barricade.
“Go home, then,” said the mayor. “There is nothing for you in the village of Lorbridge.”
“But what about my home, my wealth, and the things I have accumulated over the past year?” Gareth asked astounded. “I am your hero!”
“One year,” the mayor said. “We promised you everything for a year. The year is over. You have taken everything away from Lorbridge. Our fame was based on the ogre. Our festival was to find a hero for the ogre. Our businesses and wealth were all based on drawing people from far and wide to the quadrennial festival of the champions. Now we have nothing. Go away.”
Gareth was shocked. He expected to be welcomed back with a hero’s parade. He expected music and dancing and feasting. Instead there were cold glares.
“Cybele!” he called from the gates. “Cybele, come to me, my wife, and join me in my exile.”
Cybele came to the barricade, but she didn’t cross over. She stood proudly with the people of her town and spoke to Gareth.
“I loved the man who was brave enough to face the ogre,” she said, “not the murderer who killed it.”
“But there is no bravery in being selected by lottery,” Gareth protested. “I am the same today as I was yesterday.”
“Do you really think you were the only one to get a pebble in his pudding? The rest of us swallowed ours. Only you were brave enough—or fool enough—to show yours. Go now. You have had your year of pleasure and have left us with years of suffering. Take your ridiculous hat and leave us.”
And with that the people turned their backs on Gareth and left him to wander the wide world alone.
THE LITTLE MAN and his wife sat staring at each other quietly as Steven’s story came to an end.
“Are you that Gareth who slew the ogre?” asked Rayna.
“Only his distant descendent,” Steven replied. “But this hat is the hat of Gareth.”
Steven thought at first that Upik and Rayna would not move—that they had become statues as he spoke. So intently did they look into each other’s eyes that they missed the tear that gathered in the corner of Steven’s eye.
“I can see the truth in this,” Upik said at long last. Rayna sadly looked at Steven and nodded.
“I will pack you a lunch before you go,” she said hastily and snatched Steven’s cold bowl and cup from the table as she went behind the fireplace wall. He could hear chopping and clattering as he and Upik continued to sit at the table.
“Now to get to where you want to be,” said Upik, “you will follow the footpath from our home around the north end of the lake. You will come to the road you were on when I found you, but at the other end of the lake. You can only go one way on it, so there isn’t too much chance you will get lost. It is about two days’ journey until you meet the low road again. That’s the road you should have taken from the manor house. Bear right when you reach the road and you will come into Lower Floria. Most of the people who lived in this valley before the flood moved down there. They know what it is like to be a stranger and will treat you kindly. I’ll tell you straight-way, though; they don’t know any stories other than the one Rayna told you, so there’s no sense trying to trade for something you already have. Beyond Lower Floria, you will start to head east, and the farther east you go, the more people you will meet. I thought we lived at the edge of the world out here, but you’ve shown us that the edge is much farther away than we thought.”
Steven was a little surprised at the abruptness with which the woodcutter and his wife ushered him out the door. She gave him a small parcel of food for the journey and Upik pointed out the path. Then, as Steven turned to bid them farewell, he saw them disappear back inside their modest little home. He set his foot on the path. 349,113. 349,114. Steven’s pace picked up and as he hit one hundred ten steps per minute, the ground again flew beneath him. He was headed downhill.
True to what Upik had told him, Steven met the road in only 7,133 steps. He camped for the night after 26,752 steps. He feasted on the sandwiches Rayna had fixed for him and early next morning he was hiking again. He ended his second day having traveled 400,961 steps from home, across a lake and across a river. As the sun began to set and Steven set up his camp, he could see, away in the distance, traces of smoke in the air. He would be at the town of Lower Floria tomorrow.
Steven awoke to the unpleasant experience of having been dusted with snow. Having lived all his life in lowlands in comparison to this region, he had seldom seen snow. He soon discovered that it made the old road very slippery. He had fallen on his back twice within a hundred steps of camp. It slowed his progress significantly. He had seemed to fly down from the upper reaches of the mountain, but this day he carefully placed one foot in front of the other until the sun had risen high enough in the sky to melt the snow gathered in the path.
It was a weary man who stumbled into Lower Floria as the sun was setting. He ventured into the inn. In Lastford, Steven slept in the barn with Jasper. He had camped along the road from Lastford to the Manor Borgia with the Tinker. Upik and Rayna had let him sleep on the floor in their home. But in all Steven’s life, he had not stayed in an inn. His village had no visitors, and so had no need of an inn.
Many people were gathered, eating and drinking and Steven inquired if he might have food and a place to lay his bedroll for the night. He was surprised when the innkeeper asked to see his coins. In fact, Steven had forgotten that he had coins from his labor at the manor. Steven proudly showed the four silver coins he had and the innkeeper promptly took two and motioned him to a seat in the corner. Steven sat and quietly ate the stew and bread he was served, warming up as the evening went on. It seemed strange to Steven that no one paid the least attention to him. But not only were these people used to seeing travelers, many of them were travelers themselves. They saw nothing more unusual in Steven than in themselves. And his hat, while garnering a couple of curious glances, was really no stranger than other headgear and styles of dress that he saw around him.
After the meal, Steven was shown a small room where he could spread his bedroll. The innkeeper bade him good night, closed the door and left him. It was a strange night in Steven’s mind.
Comments
Please feel free to send comments to the author at nathan@nathaneverett.com.
