Steven George & The Dragon
The Unwinnable War
THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED proved just as strange. For now, Steven traveled eastward on the road and encountered other travelers on a regular basis. But it seemed that the more people he saw, the fewer saw him. Occasionally a traveler would greet him as they passed. Sometimes as he caught up with a slower traveler, they would walk together some few steps, but Steven now was feeling a more urgent need to press forward and soon, even those he spoke to were quickly forgotten.
After his first night in an inn, Steven realized that he would have to get more coins or go back to camping. He chose the latter. He couldn’t really imagine why people valued the coins, but he knew he had traded a day’s labor for the four coins and then traded two of them for a meal and a cold room to sleep in. If he had to work half a day for every night’s lodging, he would never get around the mountains to go back south toward the dragon.
He had traveled a total of 508,155 steps when he saw the dragon.
The sun was behind Steven and he cast a long shadow on the road ahead. He was looking for a place to camp, but this stretch of road had a steep rise on his right and a sheer drop on the left. There was nothing to do but traverse the passage and hope he could find a campsite after dark.
Then he caught a glint of light coming toward him. It sparkled like jewels in the evening sun. It was moving fast toward him with wings outstretched, skimming the ground. Fire sparked from the ground beneath it. Steven hastily strung his bow and nocked an arrow. This time a miss might easily cost him his life, he thought. As the dragon drew nearer, the thunder of its approach shook the ground. It had jeweled armor and two heads. It waved taloned arms and its armor jangled above the thunder of its approach.
Steven was having a difficult time drawing the bow, shuffling backward to try to find purchase. In his haste, he tripped over his discarded backpack and the arrow loosed up into the air. And then the dragon was upon him.
No, not one dragon, but several dragons, for there were at least six of the four-legged, two-headed beasts. As he fumbled for another arrow, the leader reached out with a taloned claw and swatted the bow from his hand. Steven prepared to die.
“Who fires on the king’s knights?” called the leader as he swept a gauntleted hand up to his face and pulled his visor back, revealing the face of a man, not a dragon. Then Steven realized he was riding a horse, but a horse unlike anything Steven had ever seen. It wore armor like its rider and skirts that billowed about its knees and clanged together as the pleats moved with its pace. The knight astride the charger wore armor that shone in the last rays of sun. He carried a shield across one arm and a sword was drawn in the other. His cape billowed out behind him in the wind.
“I am Steven George the Dragonslayer, sir,” Steven said weakly. “I thought you were the dragon bearing down on me.”
“A dragonslayer?” exclaimed one of the other knights. “How many dragons have you slain, man?”
“None yet, sir,” Steven said, “but I am on my way to find and slay the dragon that threatens my village, 508,155 steps that way, across a lake and across a river.”
“Well, Dragonslayer,” spoke the lead knight, “now you are Steven George prisoner of the king’s knights. Pick up your things and march ahead of us to the town that lies a league behind you. Before this night is over, we will know why you seek a dragon that threatens your village when you are so far from that village.” Steven picked up his bow and shouldered his pack and turned obediently back in the direction he had just come. 508,156. 508,157. Steven had retraced 2,349 steps when they came to the inn in the village Steven had passed through only a while before. Now, however, the sun had sunk beneath the edge of the mountain westward and darkness enveloped the little lodge.
Servants emerged from the inn to take the knights’ horses and the knights were welcomed into the inn with an elaborate show of respect. They were seated nearest the fire and served steaming bowls of lamb in thick gravy over turnips. Steven was seated between two of the knights and given a bowl of the savory stew as well.
“Now, Dragonslayer,” said the leader of the knights. “It is a noble thing to protect your village from a dragon, but tell us why you are 508,000 steps away from the place that is threatened?”
“510,504,” Steven corrected him automatically.
“Very well. Five hundred and so on…” said the knight. The knight waited patiently as Steven explained how he had been unable to cross the river near his village, had gone north along the river until he was able to cross, had become lost in the rain storm and was told to keep right, how he had come to the lake and been ferried across and how he had found his way back to the main road and was trying to get back around the mountains to the river again. The knights nodded, grinned, occasionally laughed.
“Yes, that would work,” said one of the knights. “Once he passes through Byzatica, he could take the south road toward Tasmyrica. The desert caravan route branches off South and would lead him back to the great river eventually.”
Steven never knew there were so many roads in the world.
“Very well,” said the knight leader. “As knights of the king it is our duty to protect the citizens of the kingdom from all evil, including beasts of prey. Therefore, I believe we should put Steven George the Dragonslayer on the right road to his destiny.” The other knights agreed. “But,” continued the knight, “there is a price to be paid.” He looked sternly at Steven. Steven solemnly reached into his pouch and produced his two remaining silver coins and offered them to the knight. The knights all laughed uproariously. When they had finished gasping for breath and ordered another round of tankards for their company, the lead knight continued.
“We are knights of the king,” he said. “We take coin from no common man no matter how noble his mission. That is not the debt we will collect. You have drawn your bow on the king’s liegemen. We accept that it was a misunderstanding, but it was one that must not happen again. Therefore, you will serve us for three days. We will head north from here, out of your way, but into an area in which villages are sparse. We need to eat. Therefore, you will accompany us as our huntsman. Find food, make camp, provide for us on this journey. In three days, we will arrive at Zannopolis. From there, you will continue back southeastward three days and you will arrive in Byzatica. The difference will cost you three days more than it would cost to go directly from here to Byzatica. That is the price for not knowing a knight from a dragon. Are you agreed?”
“All roads lead to my dragon,” Steven recalled the wise woman saying. “This road is as good as any other.”
“Perhaps while we are camped at night,” said one of the knights, “you will tell us the story of your fantastic hat.”
Steven hesitated.
“Is that story part of the payment you require for my crime?” Steven asked warily.
“Not at all,” said the lead knight. “It is a companionly request from your fellow travelers.” Then the knight lit up in comprehension. “Ah! You are one of those folks who deal in stories as currency! No, we would not steal a story from you, Dragonslayer. But perhaps we could trade a story for a story, no?” Steven grinned.
“It is agreed,” he said enthusiastically.
KNIGHTS, CHARGERS, AND STEVEN set off northward as dawn lightened the eastern sky in the morning. Steven’s pack and staff were loaded on one of the pack animals. He kept his bow and ran at the side of the trotting horses. Without his pack on his back, Steven felt somehow lighter and thought that he could run all day with no weight on his back. In fact, it proved that the horses, loaded with the weight of their own armor and that of the knights needed to stop and rest more often than Steven did. During the day, he brought down a grouse from beside the road and two rabbits. When they stopped to camp for the night, Steven added a duck.
Much to the surprise of the knights, Steven did not spit the animals and turn them over the fire, but used the camp pot the knights brought to create a stew. Into this he cut the meat and added turnips and carrots that grew nearby. He surreptitiously added a pinch of the wise woman’s herbs to the simmering pot of stew. Before the knights had finished caring for their horses, the smell of cooking wafted throughout the clearing where they camped. By the time the food was served, the knights were anxiously stamping their feet on the ground like horses champing at the bit. The stew was thick and chunky and they set to with a hearty appetite.
“This food is better than any served at the king’s high table,” exclaimed one of the knights. “Our dragonslayer is a wizard of the cookpot!” Steven silently thanked the old woman for her herbs.
“Much as I would like to press the dragonslayer for the story of his hat,” said the leader of the knights, “after such a tasty meal it is only fair that we regale him with a tale as tall as the trees that surround us.” The knights wagged their heads in agreement.
“The Battle of Turin Ridge,” suggested one.
“No, The Unknown Soldier,” called another.
“Why not offer the best?” asked the leader. They agreed. And the knight began his tale.
ONCE UPON A TIME, when the world was young and a man might walk all day and not see the end of his holdings, there lived a mighty patriarch who had two sons. These two boys were alike in every way, so much so that even when they were born there was so much confusion that afterward no one knew which was oldest and which was youngest. This created enormous problems on the twins’ naming day. No one knew which was which. So, the patriarch, despairing of ever knowing which was the eldest, drew lots over the boys and gave the first drawn a tattoo on his right hand saying, “This is Dakshina, the right hand of my clan. He shall have the portion of the eldest.” The second twin he tattooed on the left hand saying, “This is Vama, the left hand of my clan. He shall have the portion of the younger.” And so, it was established and the boys were ever after known as Dak and Vam, being distinguished from each other only by the tattoos.
Now these tattoos when seen separately were no more than a decorated band on the back of the hand. But when the boys clasped their hands in friendship, the band seemed to entwine the two together. The boys grew up, admired by all and feared by some, for they were rowdy children. All this time, people bowed to them, but a little lower to Dak than to Vam. It may seem inevitable, then, that a rivalry grew up between the two brothers, and that no matter how much they loved each other and protected each other, each was slightly jealous of the other—Vam that Dak was more respected, and Dak that Vam had less responsibility and could do what he wanted to.
As little jealousies are prone to do, these turned more serious as time went on. On one occasion the grown boys sat looking over a vast plot of land speculating about who could run to the tree at the end the fastest. Now Dak was known to be strongest, but Vam was cleverer. When Dak proposed a race to see who could reach the tree first. Vam pretended to disdain the idea. “Ah, you will only defeat me and laugh at my weakness,” scoffed Vam.
“If you will race me, I will give you the finest horse in my stable if you win,” Dak encouraged Vam.
“Not for any horse,” said Vam, “but because you are my brother, I will race you.” They set off running, but Dak easily outdistanced his brother.
Next the brothers were brought the best of the horses in their stable and went for a ride. “Brother,” said Dak, “let us race our horses to the same tree. You cannot complain that I am stronger, for our horses are twins of the same dam and are evenly matched.”
“Yes,” said Vam, “but you are a better horseman. I will not race you.”
Wanting to compete, Dak coaxed his brother again. “If you race me to that tree and win,” Dak said, “I will give you the finest flock on the mountains.”
“Not for all the flocks of our kingdom,” said Vam, “but because you are my brother, I will race you.” They set off at a gallop, but Dak easily won the race.
That night as the brothers sat at the table, Dak said to his brother, “Let us see who can eat the most meat.”
But Vam would have nothing to do with this competition saying, “You have worked harder than I and have a heartier appetite. I cannot eat as much meat as you.”
“If you can eat more meat than I can,” said Dak, “I will give you the most beautiful of my wives and concubines as your own.”
“Not for all the maidens in the kingdom,” said Vam, “but because you are my brother, I will eat with you.” The meat was sliced and set before them in equal portions, but Dak had soon eaten far more than Vam.
“Brother,” said Dak, “It is good that the lot has fallen to me to be our father’s heir. I am faster. I am a better horseman. I have a heartier appetite. Is there anything at which you are better than I am?”
“Nothing, I fear,” said Vam. “I am sure that if we both fetched water from the river and brought it to our father, your urn would have more in it than mine.”
“Now how could that happen?” asked Dak. “Surely this is a competition at which we could at least be equal.” But Vam protested the competition.
“You have beaten me on foot, on horseback, and at the table,” Vam said. “How can you humiliate me more?”
“Brother,” said Dak, boldly. “If you join with me in this contest, I will give you my birthright as heir to our father, if he judges that you have more water in your urn than I.”
Now Vam agreed to the competition. “Because you are my brother, I will carry water from the river,” he said.
Dak had never carried water from the river, but Vam had observed the servants in their duties often. He gave to Dak a new unglazed pot, but kept for himself an old water pot that the servants had often used. His brother held this as a sign of the high esteem in which Vam held him and accepted the new pot as if it were his due; and the brothers journeyed to the river for water.
At the river, each had filled their water jug and hoisted it, still dripping, to his shoulder. The day was hot and the journey from the river to their father’s palace was uphill. Vam sweated beneath his load, but Dak seemed to sweat more. Water poured from his back and shoulder where he carried the jug, but he strode boldly up the slope, proud that he could carry such a large jug of water with such ease. Vam struggled behind his brother.
Dak reached their father first and took his cup to offer his father water. But there was scarcely enough water left in his jug to fill the cup, the water having sweated out through the porous clay. Then Vam set his full jug before his father and poured out cup after cup of water.
“Dak!” exclaimed his father. “How can you have done this? For now, I must make Vam my heir.” And having so said, their father was so overcome with grief that he died straightaway.
“Now,” said Vam, “I shall rule in our father’s stead.”
Dak was so furious that he raced to his stable and left on his steed with all his wives and concubines following. They set their camp on the far reaches of the little kingdom and his camp grew into a mighty and warlike city.
Vam was content to let the people do as they would in his father’s palace and the people grew fat and lazy, so the day came when the army of Dak rode against his brother and camped without the city. Vam was furious that his brother would make war against him and rode out with his soldiers. The two brothers met in combat.
Dak soon discovered that even though he had often easily defeated Vam in races and riding, his brother was a formidable foe, for Vam had never shown his true strength to his vain brother. Eventually, the armies fell back from the field to nurse their wounded, but the brothers remained in front of the palace, swinging their swords in earnest.
For three days the brothers fought until exhausted by their ordeal. Then Dak let his guard slip and seeing an opening, Vam charged in to slay his brother. But in shifting his weight to make the killing thrust, Vam also let his guard down and Dak struck him a simultaneous killing blow. Both brothers lay dead in the field of battle and their armies retreated from each other.
Both brothers had large families and loyal subjects. Each clan believed the other had stolen what was rightfully theirs. In the next generation, one army came at the other and was vanquished. In the next generation the other army had come at the first and was vanquished. The clans grew into mighty nations, both claiming the same land. For generations and for centuries, one has fought the other, sometimes victorious and sometimes defeated, but never undisputed. Sometimes, a generation might pass in peace and the world would think the war had been won, but in the next generation it is renewed again. For as long as the two nations exist, one cannot abide the other. Neither can surrender and neither can be victorious.
“DOES THIS WAR still go on?” Steven asked.
“This is the battle we ride to fight this day,” answered the knight.
The camp was silent but for the restless stomping of the chargers and the low crackle of the dying fire. One of the knights began a plaintive song and the others joined in. Steven could hear in their music the deep yearning they had for their homeland that was occupied by the enemy. When the song had ended, Steven dared ask a question.
“But Sir Knight,” he began in respect, “if the war is unwinnable, why do you ride to fight in it?”
“Ha ha!” laughed the leader of the knights. “Because this time we will avenge our ancestors and drive the usurpers from the land forever. This time it will be different!” The knights cheered and Steven crawled off to his bedroll and slept fitfully as he dreamt of what story he would tell on the morrow.
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