Steven George & The Dragon
The Gypsy’s Dance
GUARDS ROUSED STEVEN with a boot in his ribs. He lay in dirty straw and the guards were shouting at him to get up and be gone. The innkeeper of the Inn of the Lost Soul was standing behind the guards querulously complaining of the vagrant tramp in his stable.
“His master rode off early this morning complaining that the worthless page could fend for himself,” said the innkeeper. “He still owes a gold coin for lodging last night.”
“Where is your purse, fellow,” barked one of the guards. He snatched the little bag from around Steven’s neck and poured the contents out into his palm. “Nah!” exclaimed the guard. “Nothing but scraps of herbs.” He disdainfully tossed the last bits of the wisewoman’s herbs into the stall and pulled Steven to his feet. Another guard grabbed Steven’s pack and staff and pushed him out of the stall.
“What about the donkey?” the innkeeper asked. “I won’t keep feeding a worthless beast.” A guard dropped a lead rope into Steven’s hand and in moments Steven found himself in the street holding a lead rope, his pack and staff. “And don’t come back!” exclaimed the innkeeper as he slammed the door of the stable.
Steven stumbled after the guards who continued to push him toward the city gates. At the gate, they pushed him out and yelled, “Don’t come back to Byzatica, either,” said the guard.
“Wait a minute,” called another guard. Steven, bewildered over what was happening, halted and looked around. The guard held Steven’s chin in a gauntleted hand and examined Steven’s hat. “This vagabond has served the king,” he said to his companion.” The other guard stepped forward.
“How did you earn this emblem on your hat?” he demanded.
“I served a company of knights on the road to Zannopolis,” Steven said. “They told me this would guarantee me safe passage through Byzatica.”
“And so it should have,” said the guard. “How did you come to be in the stable of that unscrupulous innkeeper?”
“I was preparing to leave in the morning. Yesterday I purchased a horse from Ibin Arriaga. I am a dragonslayer and journey to find the dragon along the river to the south.”
“You purchased a horse and got a donkey,” said the guard. “You have no money and no weapons. You were so drunk that you’ve been robbed and now you must set out on your own with nothing. Who is this Ibin Arriaga?”
“He is a thief,” said Steven. “Not only of my goods, but of many wealthy homes in the city. If he follows my directions, he will ride to Zannopolis and from there continue with the knights into the war.”
“And what has he taken besides your horse?” one of the guards asked. Steven set his pack down and examined its contents. “Three gold coins and seven silver,” Steven said. “My knife, my sword, and my bow.” He described the knife, sword, bow, and horse to the guards who nodded.
“We’ll send out word that he is to be apprehended. Now as to your journey,” said the guard who had spotted the service medal on Steven’s hat. The guards consulted with each other and after a bit one reached in a purse and gave Steven five silver coins. The other handed him a small knife, plain and not half so glorious as the knife the tinker had engraved. “Here are five silver coins from the king for your service. And here is a knife. Nothing like what you have described, but you can make a bow as you travel. We’ve heard of a dragon in the southlands, but it has never ventured this far north. This is all we have to see you onto the road. Follow the southward caravan route and you should be all right. Safe travels, Dragonslayer.” With that they turned their backs on Steven and returned to the city.
Steven stood in the middle of the road thinking. 490,???… No. 500,???… He went across a river and across a lake and by wagon. How long had he been in Byzatica?
Steven George the Dragonslayer was lost.
With his head hanging, Steven shuffled off aimlessly on the southern road toward Tasmyrica.
He had no bow to hunt with, no powerful knife, no precious herbs, no sword, and no horse. Only the talisman given him by the knight that he wore on his ridiculous hat had saved him further harm at the hands of the guards. And he had mysteriously acquired a donkey—all this because he had ignored the advice of the tinker and had told a story about the knife instead of his hat. How would he ever fulfill his quest in this miserable state? He walked without counting his steps, no longer caring how far he was from home, for he knew now that he would never return.
Steven walked long into the night with the mournful donkey shuffling along behind him. At last he stopped beside a stream and camped, turning the donkey loose and not bothering to build a fire. His dreams were troubled by how easily he had been deceived and he sympathized with poor Jasper. Steven allowed himself his first smile when he thought of the thief, riding his fine horse, with the fine sword and knife at his side, joining the long line of knights headed north from Zannopolis as the merchant turned and headed back to the south along the western edge of the mountains. Perhaps the knights would find some use for Ibin Arriaga in their service.
With this encouraging thought, Steven woke to find that the donkey had not wandered away from him, but dozed peacefully standing nearby. Steven set about finding a sturdy piece of wood to carve down and make a bow. He set a small fish trap in the stream and built a fire. As he worked on his bow and new arrows, the smell of fish cooking in clay began to rise from his fire. He ate that night of the hot fishy flesh. He scrubbed the donkey with reeds from the stream until its coat shone like the knights’ chargers. The donkey dozed lazily under Steven’s ministrations and turned to nuzzle him often as he was cleaned and cared for.
The thief had left little to Steven. The pack still contained his bedroll and a scrap of oilcloth that had once held a sandwich from his sweetheart. There was a pair of dry socks that he gladly changed to while he washed his dirty ones. It was peaceful to engage in such domestic activities, and for some time, Steven thought he would simply stay in this spot. In the morning, however, the urge to move on overcame him and he returned to the southward road.
Over the next few days, Steven met other travelers, a merchant caravan, and a band of soldiers. He gathered herbs by the side of the road, no longer having the special mixture the wise woman had given him. He traded services for coins or food and hunted, but he carefully avoided the eyes of those he met. His skills with a cookpot soon proved most saleable. He acquired one of his own from another traveling tinker, but when he attempted to engage the tinker with questions about Armand Hamar, he was dismissed with a wave of a hand. “Faery stories and poppycock,” was all the tinker would say.
At last there came a fork in the road. Steven observed that most of the travelers turned to the left and went toward Tasmyrica. Ahead to the right he could see the desert road descending into a barren wasteland. Camping at the cross-road, Steven traded for a water jug and supplies that would feed him if game proved scarce. These he loaded onto the donkey and in the morning set his face toward the desert, southwestward. Though called the desert road, it did not go directly into the desert, Steven discovered, but skirted it in a long arc. This road he followed meeting only one northbound caravan over the next week.
Steven was searching for a good place to camp at the end of a day that had been hot in extreme. The donkey was weary and his water, refilled at the last spring two days earlier was running low. Steven and the donkey stood silently surveying the surrounding area from the top of a small rise when a tinkling of bells drifted faintly to his ears. He puzzled for a moment, but in the distance saw a small stand of low trees. Near the trees a shape moved, seeming to spin and then flare out vast wings.
His first thought, of course, was that he had found the dragon. This thought he immediately dismissed. He had now mistaken a melon farmer, a tinker, a dwarf, a knight, and a thief for a dragon and he would no longer be so easily deceived. He led his faithful companion on toward the dancing figure and the tinkling bells.
When he was yet a hundred paces away, he could clearly see that a woman was dancing around a small fire. She twirled and spun, clinking small finger cymbals together. Occasionally the veils she wore flared out from her like wings and she dipped down and sprang up in her dance as if she were flying. Nearby, a small cart rested with a canopy fastened to it to form a modest tent.
Steven hailed her while he was yet some distance away so as not to startle her by suddenly appearing in her camp. She abruptly halted her twirling dance and stared at Steven defensively. Then she relaxed and motioned him to join her. He led his donkey to the camp to discover there was a spring that fed a small pool beneath the trees. He greeted the strangely dressed woman.
“Hail. I am Steven George,” he said. “I travel this road alone save for the company of this humble beast. May I rest here this night in the shelter of your trees and water my companion?”
The woman laughed. It was such a high and delightful sound that Steven was caught off guard and thought reflexively of wind blowing through the pines in the high mountains.
“Do you think I own these trees and this spring that you need my permission to camp here, Steven George?” she asked. “The road provides the shelter and as you are a guest of the road, you are no enemy of mine. I am Madame Selah Welinska. Welcome.”
Steven found the voice of the woman as enchanting as the thief’s eyes had been mesmerizing. He first wanted to close his ears so as not to be entrapped, but as soon as he thought of stopping her voice, he was overwhelmed with desire to hear more of it. He led his donkey to the water and let it drink while he unloaded his modest belongings and set up camp across the fire from the lady’s tent. They chatted and Steven set his kettle on the fire and offered the lady a share of his meal which she willingly accepted. Each time she spoke he was more entranced with her voice and as he watched her, he was hypnotized by the elegance of her fluid movement.
When they had eaten and darkness had fully fallen on their camp, Madame Selah Welinska set a small table between them and placed a silk cloth on it. From her cart she brought forth a crystal ball and set it on the cloth.
“Now,” she said, “let us look into the crystal to see who we really are.” She directed Steven to look into the ball with her and then she began to chant and sing softly. Steven looked deep within the crystal, and though he did not hear her words, he saw images drawn within the orb as she spoke.
“I see a lost soul,” said the gypsy. “Everything he thinks he needs has been taken from him and he has found that all he has is what he is. He journeys the endless road, no longer knowing from whence he has come nor, indeed, where his fate will lead him. He draws from great and sometimes sad experience and lore to guide him through a world that is strange and sometimes unkind to him. Yet he continues on, for all roads lead to his dragon.” The crystal suddenly cleared as the gypsy stood and turned away from Steven.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “You are a dragonslayer!”
“You could see all that in your crystal ball?” Steven asked incredulously. The gypsy laughed.
“No. I saw it in your walk as you came over the hill. I heard it in your voice as you called to me. I saw it in the shiny coat of your humble beast that follows you because you are kind, not because you lead him by a rope. I would see it in your eyes if you ever looked at me.”
Steven blushed and turned his face away. He was still unwilling to look into the eyes of another person.
“Perhaps if I had not the experience I have had, I would trust you to see that,” he said, “but the thief has robbed me of my trust.”
“You were born to master a dragon, Steven George,” she said. “Would you fear the eyes of a gypsy?” Still Steven looked away.
The lady laughed again, a teasing, playful laugh and began her twirling, joyful dance around the fire; her tinkling finger cymbals providing all the music she needed. Steven watched her dance and thought of the strange whistling the bone in his hat had made as he ran next to the knights. He removed the bone and examined it for the first time since the wise woman of Lastford had placed it in his hatband. It had a slit in one end and three holes down its length. He blew at the slit, tentatively at first, and pleased by the sound it made began to cover and uncover the holes. Each time it made a different pitch and soon Steven was covering and uncovering the holes in time with the tinkling cymbals sending an eerie whistling into the night air.
As the whistle joined the bells, the gypsy’s dance became more and more sinuous until at one point, Steven marveled at how snakelike she had become. They played their music and Steven joined in the dance until they were both so exhausted that they collapsed together in a heap and slept through until morning.
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