Legends of Luternia (18 page)

“There’s room on the wall for more. Perhaps that is where your story goes,” offered Ulrik.

“Who wants a story of a bookish, timid, talkative dragon?” Illyricus said and walked slowly away.

Prester John came down the hallway. “Have you seen Illyricus? I’ve got to talk to him.” Ulrik pointed down the hallway and Prester John followed the dragon’s trail. There was a screech and then the noise of wind rushing down the hallway. A great light bore down upon him; the dragon came, blowing fire and flying straight at him. Ulrik flattened himself on the ground as Illyricus flew over. The dragon landed in a tumble and said, “He’s agreed to it! I don’t believe it! I’m going to be baptized! Imagine that, an old dragon like me getting such a gift. I don’t believe it. Where’s the girl? I have to tell her. I have to tell everyone.” And off he went without waiting for the prince’s response.

Ulrik rose and dusted himself off as Prester John approached and explained, “He and I have been studying the Scriptures for the longest time, and we both have been praying about it. I could find nothing speaking against it, and he clearly confesses the faith, so there’s nothing to keep him from being baptized. And if I’m wrong, better to sin on the side of grace.”

The evening’s baptism would be held in the chapel. Illyricus kept going from room to room, getting in the way, talking to each and all in turn, and then to himself when they grew tired of him, saying, “I can’t believe it. I’ve waited so long. Oh, thanks be to God. I’m actually going to be baptized. Think of it: me, Illyricus Draconitis being baptized in the name of the Triune God.”

Illyricus wore a robe draped over his shoulders and wings, “I read that in early times those about to be baptized wore white robes as a symbol of being clothed in Christ. I’m sorry this looks a tad yellowish; it was white when I made it seventy years ago.”

Clarissa discovered a large clamshell-shaped bowl suitable for the baptismal font. She and Ulrik carried it to the chapel and set it in the doorway. After the invocation Prester John asked the dragon what he believed. The dragon joyfully recited the baptismal creed. He prostrated himself on the floor, wings spread wide in the dragon’s position of complete submission. Prester John poured water over his head, “I baptize you, Illyricus Draconitis, in the name of the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit.” Tears fell from bright red eyes that burnt holes in the library floor as smoke with the aroma of incense rose from his nostrils.

Friendship and gratitude, not the rule of hospitality, moved Illyricus to accompany his guests out of his territory. When the time came for them to depart the dragon flew off and searched for what remained of the goods that had been packed on their pony. He returned with a few scraps of leather and Prester John’s sword. “Old Mogroth must have thought it was a particularly indigestible bone or something. I cleaned it off the best I could. It might have passed through his digestive system,” the dragon commented as he laid it on the courtyard pavement in front of the travelers. Prester John inspected it and saw that the sword and scabbard were no worse for the experience and strapped them to his side.

Illyricus gently picked them up and one by one and flew them from the castle’s height to the foot of the mountain. “I believe you’ll find a village somewhere out there,” he said, waving his claw toward the horizon brightened by the rising sun. “I’m not really sure if it’s still there. It may well be gone by now. Time among you human folk flies so fast I can’t keep up.”

They walked together as far as a river the map labeled the Pascaline, and beyond that a faint image of a village began to develop. “This river,” said the Illyricus, “is where we must part. I’ve never crossed the Pascaline, nor have my ancestors as far back as anyone can remember and I’m not about to be the first. An ancient curse has been put upon us saying that the worst fate of all would befall the dragon who attempts it. Not that I believe in such curses and the like but I see little sense in putting the Lord to the test over it.”

When the dragon bade Clarissa good-bye, she reminded him to stay out of the kitchen; Ulrik reminded him that like himself, he was the son of a king, and as princes, they must band together; Prester John traced the sign of the cross on his forehead reciting the Benediction to go in peace. This reminder of his baptism sent Illyricus soaring joyfully back to his castle without waiting for them to cross the river, leaving a trail of smoke rings the size of small clouds.

The map led them to a shallow ford that they crossed easily and then directed them on to the village which remained an indistinct blur. Other than the turf ruins of a long-abandoned shepherd’s hut or a stray bit of collapsed stone fence, the broad, treeless plain showed no sign of habitation. The bracing air of the morning encouraged a quick pace through knee high grass and over low rolling hills.

As the day wore on, the sun’s growing intensity pushed the cool of the morning into memory, leaving the travelers eager for shade. Ulrik took out the map to see if they were any nearer the village. The image remained blurred, more of a phantom than a clear picture. The map, however, did provide hope in clearly showing a nearby spring labeled, “Like cold water to the throat that is faint with thirst.” Ulrik followed the map and led the others into a hollow between the hills. Here, the refreshingly cool air and the spring’s inviting bubblings urged them into an artificial grotto half buried in the hillside. The grotto was built of ancient stones, some of which were clearly taken from even more ancient buildings; hints of their past- column turnings, ionic capitols, and ancient inscriptions found embedded into in the walls. The spring lay deep within the grotto and above the spring, a mosaic of a young woman adorned with a circlet of snowflakes watched over the waters. Under her gaze and in the cool of the grotto they rested. The fresh, cold water, the cool air, and the bit of fresh food Illyricus had given for their journey filled them with new strength and resolve.

“I wonder how my father is doing. With so much that has happened I haven’t given him the thoughts and prayers I should be.” Ulrik pondered out loud. “Do you think he’s still alive?”

“I don’t know,” mused his teacher. “I’m sure the abbot would have sent word to us if he had heard anything. He seems to have eyes and ears in the most unlikely places. And, sad to say, when a king dies news travels quickly.”

The water, alive and flowing from the spring, brought them new life and they continued on, reaching the village by nightfall. While the image on the map grew in size, it remained an indistinct blur. When they entered the village Prester John and Ulrik grew alert, sensing hidden eyes watching their arrival

“Can this be the right place?” Ulrik whispered. He didn’t want strange ears to hear his voice. The streets were empty and the buildings remained gray and drab, untouched by the yellow light of the setting sun. Clarissa walked over to a building and knocked on it hard, causing her knuckles to bleed. “I had to see if it’s real,” she said, nursing her knuckles.

The appearance of figures wrapped in long robes, faces hidden beneath deep cowls, captured their attention and forced them into the shadows of the nearest building. The figures, in groups of two or three, moved furtively and noiselessly through the streets. All seemed to have the same destination as a goal: a derelict barn-like building on the distant edge of the village. The three carefully followed a pair of the robed figures, one tall and the other short, to the building. When the pair entered through a crack in the wall, curiosity took Ulrik, Prester John, and Clarissa towards the back of the building where they hoped to find a chink in the wall to spy through. A small knothole was found and when each looked in, they were surprised to see the building empty except for the pair they had followed. As they were spying they heard the whimpering of a little girl complaining about the scary dark. Ulrik watched through the hole as the taller figure picked her up, comforted her to stillness, and walked directly toward the chink. The prince quickly moved away from the hole, waited a moment, and stole a second look. Both man and girl had vanished.

They continued to watch until nightfall, but saw no one else. The village lacked inn, tavern, or any public gathering place, so the travelers searching for a place to spend the night. In desperation, they huddled together on the ground between two closely set buildings in a narrow alley.

In the morning Ulrik was kicked awake by the sound of a gruff voice, “Geery-up, naah; Geery-up, naah.” A man stood over him, the dull grayness of his beard, hair, and skin matched his clothes. A gray ugly dog growled at his heel. When the man saw Prester John’s sword and the deep scar dividing his face he backed up without a change of expression. “Gee-wahl, Gee-wahl,” he said and with a wave of his hand, motioning them from between the buildings. He snorted in a satisfied way after they left; then entered one of the buildings, slamming the door behind him.

“How can this be the place shown on the map?” asked Prester John. Ulrik handed over the map. The map remained unchanged with only the shadowy village visible on its surface. As morning grew towards noon, they walked through the village looking for signs of life but finding none. Occasionally the sound of movement could be heard behind closed doors. The village well, usually a gathering point for neighbors and gossips, stood vacant. They saw footprints in the dust near the well. “At least we know that whatever lives here drinks water,” said Clarissa.

By noon heat and hunger forced them to seek food and shade. The large barn-like building they’d visited the evening before provided shade. Clarissa reached into her pack and grimaced, pulling out a hand covered with greenish slime. “The vegetables didn’t make it,” she said. Ulrik looked to her, then Prester John, and sighed.

“Looks like desperate times,” the prince said, taking out the heavy loaf of bread Ethel and Harry had given him, its wrappings still intact.

“I hope it’s better than others I’ve had to eat,” said Prester John, sawing off a piece with his sword for each of them, a task that took more time and energy than expected. He handed the first to Clarissa, warning her to take small bites, chew long, and drink plenty of water; the second piece he gave to Ulrik and kept the third for himself. Ulrik followed the warning, but Clarissa didn’t, taking in a large mouthful and nearly swallowing it whole. While Ulrik and Prester John continued chewing their first bite, Clarissa grabbed her stomach, groaned, and doubled over, saying, “Are you trying to kill me? I feel like I’m going to explode.”

“He tried to warn you, small bites . . .”

“Shut up!” she bellowed, holding her stomach and rolling on the ground until she let out a resounding belch.

“The bread swells to five times its size,” explained Prester John, “that’s why you have to chew small bites for a long time and drink plenty of water.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She let loose a second belch, louder and longer than the first, then a third. “How long will this go on?” she asked between belches that were coming on at a faster and faster rate.

“Oh, I’ve known men to belch for a week,” Prester John said with a smirk. She glared at him, groaned, and belched for what seemed like an eternity. Then she stopped, looked a bit green, and lay down in the dust.

On the second evening in the village, Prester John led them in evening prayers. He was about to give the benediction when he froze, arms upraised. Tension flowed from him, the tension of mercenary memories taking over. A whisper came from the dark edge of night, “Were you….” A pause. “Were you praying?” The last word was barely audible.

“Yes.” answered Prester John.

“Sh…. not so loud. To whom?” the voice challenged.

“To God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,” replied Prester John.

“Please, if you would, follow me.” The shadowy image led them into the barn and warned them, “Be careful.” They followed to the place where Ulrik had seen the man and the girl disappear. A trapdoor opened from the floor and a pale light showed the way down a set of stairs. The shaded figure stepped aside and presented the entrance as an invitation. Warily, Prester John descended, followed by Clarissa and then Ulrik, who kept looking back over his shoulder.

The light from single candles spaced far from each other dimly marked the passage. As they walked, several other shadows fell in behind them, blocking the way out of passage. They stopped in front of a set of closed double doors of iron and wood, blocked by two muscled and grim-faced guards. When Ulrik, Prester John and Clarissa turned to go back they saw the way blocked by the robed and hooded ones; the candles extinguished, the passage black. The one who invited them approached, the hood still covering his face, and took his place between the guards. “Do you know the sign?” he asked. Prester John stooped down and drew an X in the dust. The hooded figure responded with the counter-sign, a P superimposed over the X, then stood to face Prester John and said, “I am Cleopas, acting deacon and leader of the village,” he said as he turned back his hood to reveal a strong and determined face.

“I am Prester John, of the Abbey Santa Sophia.” They exchanged the ritual kiss of peace.

Whispered “Amens” sprinkled with a few “Alleluias” rose around them. Hoods fell back and the guards opened the doors to a brightly lit hall lined with statues carved into niches along the walls, sparkling in whiteness.

“We heard you praying outside, which is why we brought you here. It’s too dangerous to pray in the open now. People who do so tend to disappear.” explained Cleopas.

“Is that why you’re down here?” asked Ulrik.

“Yes. This was a salt mine until the salt ran out. The miners had carved this chapel for themselves out of the salt. We had largely forgotten it until the dark times came upon us. Worship is safer down here. All who follow the Christ are welcome. As the darkness spread across the land, more and more believers moved down here to hide from the prying eyes of the spies from Castle Åræthi. This is the cross we are now called to bear.”