In this life, Sir Barrow was a dragon. He lay asleep in a dark, damp den. His enormous body rose and fell with huge, deep breaths. The stiff, gleaming scales on both sides of its bulky torso pressed hard against its supple skin. It seemed as if the beast’s body was too large for its majestic suit of armor. Tight knots of muscle bulged ominously at each twist and turn of its form. Despite its carefree slumber, the dragon was ready to strike at the slightest provocation, but right now there was none, and the winged giant continued to doze peacefully in the velvety darkness of its cave.
Sir Barrow did not remember his past life. The dragon’s mind was meager and shallow, its thoughts terse. The dragon could react only to what was directly in front of it. When it was hungry, it would hunt; if it was threatened, it would set fire to all the intruders who dared to approach it. Anything much more complicated was beyond the dragon—and beyond Sir Barrow, now. His past life was but a faint shadow lost between the folds and hollows of the dragon’s vast and heavy skull.
The dragon exhaled loudly and shifted its colossal weight onto its other side, continuing its royal rest. Its many sharp claws were dark as onyx and could crush rocks and knights alike as though they were little straw dolls. Perhaps it was good that the noble Sir Barrow could not remember his past life as a knight now that he was a dragon, the very foe he had lived and breathed to defeat. True, Sir Barrow had slain dragons in his day, and it must have been one of the Creator’s jests that he was destined to become one. Life is as cruel as the gods make it, but men lend a hand. The dragon’s mind was too simple to ponder and philosophize about it. On a good day, the dragon thought no thoughts at all; its simple brain reacted to all the mundane matters of life (for the dragon) and death (for others) instinctively, if not mechanically.
A few bats flew into the dragon’s cave looking for a place to roost among the crooked, wet stalactites hanging from the cave’s rugged ceiling. The dragon ignored them. It exhaled a puff of smoke and covered itself with its enormous webbed wing, like a blanket. Somewhere in the distance, water was dripping from stony icicles, singing a sweet lullaby for the slumbering beast. Yesterday the dragon had enjoyed a good day’s hunting and managed to tear up an entire herd of dairy goats, which a young shepherd boy had so carelessly driven toward the mountain where the dragon’s cave was hidden. It was not often that food came calling, walking willingly straight into the dragon’s maw. The goat meat was succulent and tender, but the dragon did not remember what had happened to the shepherd boy. Had it devoured the boy too, along with his whip and restless reed flute? It was the flute that had woken the monster for dinner…
The dragon was not good at remembering such things. It was heavy from its meal and drowsy. It would be another week or two before it needed to hunt again. So there was no need for the beast to move, worry, or think. If only dragons could think! Then life would be so different for everyone. Alas, thinking in this world was reserved for the high lords, but truth be told, a great many of them could not muster much of a thought themselves. The best they could do was pay the dragon its dues, much as the beast paid its own. Sir Barrow could not recall whether he had ever managed to think when he was a knight… Perhaps he had been a mere simpleton like so many others? How had he died, and why had he become a dragon in his next life? This was too great a mystery for the dragon’s mind. The mind of the fiery monster is ill-suited for such thoughts.
Undisturbed by occasional bats, night owls, and grazing herds of wild deer just outside the cave, the dragon kept on slumbering day after day. What do dragons dream of? Can dragons dream at all? Sir Barrow had wondered when he was a man. Now that he’d become a dragon, the answer still eluded him.
One day the dragon’s sleep was broken by loud banging and yelling, mixed with the raw blast of a horn and the clanking of armor. The noise assailed the dragon like a sudden storm erupting on a hot, sunny summer day. At first, the dragon was surprised at the noise, for who would dare to disturb a dragon? The colossus opened its eyes, squinting into the darkness, its ears heavy with the unwanted clamor, its mind still asleep. It took the dragon a good part of an hour to wake up completely, and about as long to get annoyed with the cacophony coming from the mouth of the cave. Soon the commotion subsided, and the dragon could see a faint glimmer of torchlight bouncing off sharp stony spikes covering the floor and ceiling of the cave. Lit by the torches, the cave’s entrance looked like a prelude to a dragon’s maw. To a bystander, it would have seemed as if a few madmen had decided to give up their lives by marching straight into the dragon’s jaws. This was not far from the truth, it turned out.
The dragon waited for the mad party to come nearer, their torches glowing brighter. Soon the dragon could see the fools quite clearly. If any part of Sir Barrow was still alive inside the dragon’s mind, he would surely have recognized old Sir Flint, his hair still dark as onyx and his beard white as snow. Sir Flint was his old master, advanced in age but still strong as a bull. With him was young Sir Rodrick, knighted only a fortnight ago, his hair the color of dried straw. Sir Rodrick had been Sir Barrow’s young apprentice, back when Sir Barrow was still a man, but the dragon’s mind was too small to remember.
The beast watched the approaching party wearily, still half-asleep. The dragon no doubt noticed how the torch wavered in Sir Flint’s hand, and how his long red cape kept catching on the stony spikes and tearing on sharp spongy rocks protruding from the cave’s floor. The dragon did not miss the way young Sir Rodrick’s longsword swung nervously in his hand, too large and heavy for such a young and skinny lad. There were two squires with them as well, trailing far behind, scared out of their wits and trembling, each carrying an oil lantern.
Finally, the knights drew close enough for the dragon to see them as plainly as it could see the bats on the wall in front of it. The monster shifted its weight silently onto its massive bronze front paws, its giant webbed wings with their spiky claws lifting slightly. By now the dragon was no longer amused by being woken so rudely. A soft rumbling in its stomach was beginning to sound like faint thunder. The rumbling of the dragon’s bowels grew louder until the knights heard it too. They froze in place, realizing that the dragon was right in front of them. Somehow, they had not spotted it until they were too close. It was too late. The tall shape of the dragon towered over them like doom, nearly as high as the small keep of some nameless castle that they had sacked only a fortnight before on the orders of their liege lord, Duke Ballon. For a moment the dragon just stood there, its red eyes glowing like molten lava, its breath pulsing with tendrils of smoke intertwined with occasional sparks and small snorts of flame. To the squires farther behind, the dragon looked like a giant smokestack. As if some overzealous blacksmith had fed too much coal into his foundry and made its flue breathe fire.
The dragon, however, was no chimney. The giant’s muscles tensed, its scales drew tighter together, its entire body sprang into motion, and it leaped effortlessly over its offenders, sending them tumbling onto the cave’s floor. The dragon’s leap was high enough to clear the knights’ swords and spears. It landed right in front of the squires, who promptly dropped their lanterns, preparing to bolt. Poor lads! They bolted not, for the dragon instantly inhaled them with a large gulp of muggy air, sucking the boys into its cavernous gullet along with their pouches, lanterns, and other things, and drawing in a good deal of loose rock and stray bats for good measure. The squires disappeared inside the dragon in a blink. This happened so quickly that they did not make a sound. Only the remaining bats dashed out of the cave for fresh air, accompanied by a dragon’s roar—which was not a true roar at all, but merely its breath, amplified by countless echoes in that confined space.
When the dragon turned to face the knights, the first wave of fear had already passed through them, and now, having collected themselves, they were charging at the dragon, fearless and daring. If Sir Barrow could see his young apprentice now, he’d be dismayed. Perhaps it was good that he could not, for it was the dragon’s unsympathetic eyes that were watching old Sir Flint and young Sir Rodrick now. Perhaps the dragon was still savoring the squires when it pushed Sir Rodrick unceremoniously aside, sending him tumbling with a swift kick of its hind paw. Sir Rodrick lost his longsword, which flashed like a bolt of lightning, struck a rock, and wedged itself firmly into a crevice.
Sir Flint fared little better. The dragon caught him with its tail, sending him flying through the cave like a giant bat (although Sir Flint looked more like a vulture than a bat). The knight landed on his head, his armor clanking loudly, his body convulsing uncontrollably. If Sir Barrow could see his master, he would surely feel sorry for the old man. His neck appeared to have snapped, blood streaming from under his armor.
In the meantime, the brave Sir Rodrick had found his sword and was pulling desperately on its hilt. The sword was stuck too deep and would not yield. It was Sir Rodrick’s turn to yield, but one does not yield to a dragon. The beast was no knight and knew no mercy. Sir Barrow had taught him that. Too bad his master was not here to help him.
The dragon turned around lazily, inspecting the cave for more intruders. By now the poor squires must have found their way down to the dragon’s scorching bowels, and the dragon was feeling primed for another bite. Poor Sir Rodrick was hardly worth the effort, though. Thin and scrawny, he would make a poor meal: more steel than meat. The dragon knew it and raised its paw to deliver a final blow to the boy, but suddenly its mind came alive with an unexpected memory. It was a memory of Sir Barrow practicing with young Sir Rodrick, a quick, thin boy twelve years old. Young lordling Rodrick, not yet Sir Rodrick, brandished a short wooden sword, which he swung feverishly in every direction, trying to hit a paper dragon on a stick held by Sir Barrow. The boy swung relentlessly yet missed when Sir Barrow yanked on the stick and pulled the paper dragon away from the boy’s face. Somehow Sir Barrow was swifter than the boy. The boy’s sword could only reach the long mock flame made of red paper that Sir Barrow had glued to the paper dragon’s mouth to make it more menacing. The paper flame grew shorter with each whack of the wooden sword, so the noble Sir Barrow was forced to step closer to the boy with each swing. Eventually, Sir Barrow got close enough to catch a blow from the toy sword on his temple, leaving one of his eyes with a permanently dilated pupil and a strange, wicked appearance. Perhaps Sir Barrow had grown so accustomed to young Rodrick missing that his thoughts had wandered off as he dreamed of the fair milkmaid who had brought them cheese and honey that morning. Or perhaps he was thinking of something else, lulled to sleep by the rhythm of the boy’s relentless swinging and missing the intended target. It was that one fateful hit on the temple that forged Sir Barrow’s new look, making him appear strangely fierce and a touch mad with his mismatched eyes.
The dragon staring down at Sir Rodrick had the same strange mismatched eyes. Trembling with fear, Sir Rodrick looked at the beast’s muzzle. It seemed oddly familiar to him. Sir Rodrick mustered all his remaining strength, preparing to face certain death. He wanted to meet his end as befitted a knight: standing straight and unwavering. A minute passed; it felt like an eternity, but nothing happened. The dragon peered at the youth apathetically with its huge wicked eyes, then lumbered back to its lair, leaving the young knight shamed and confused. Why did the dragon spare me? Was I not worthy of a noble death? the young knight wondered. A true knight deserves a noble death, his master used to tell him. When the time comes, let death come to you, but do not rush to greet it. His master’s voice echoed in his mind as Sir Rodrick watched the dragon stomping about in its nest, finding a comfortable spot. Only when the dragon settled back into its den, returning to sleep accompanied by sonorous snores, did young Sir Rodrick find the courage to move, finally letting go of the stuck sword he had been pulling on impotently all this time. Unable to free his iron from the death grip of the rock, the young knight left his sword and stumbled awkwardly toward the entrance of the cave in near-complete darkness. Only the faint glow of the dragon’s breath illuminated his way out.
The dragon had let him live, so it was time to bid the beast farewell, only to return for it another day. Will death come to Sir Rodrick then? Surely the dragon will not spare him next time, but how can you kill someone who has spared you, even if that someone is a dragon? This was the question Sir Rodrick wished he could ask his late master. Alas, such is the fate of knights: seek glory by slaying dragons. And so the young knight knew he would return. He must return. Next month or next year. He must return to slay the dragon that had spared him.
No more than a week had passed when Sir Rodrick returned to the cave to avenge his honor. Without his sword he was a knight only in name, the shame of it unbearable. This time Sir Rodrick had come alone, armed with a spear to make up for his lost longsword. The swordless knight planned to sneak up on the dragon quietly, without all the noise and ruckus Sir Flint had insisted on last time.
Sir Rodrick entered the cave in utter silence. He didn’t light a torch but waited and waited until his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. Soon, in the damp, heavy air of the cave, he could see a faint glow from the dragon’s breath and hear its monotonous breathing. The knight crawled through the cave like a cat without making a sound. He was wearing light leather garments and soft leather boots: no plates, no armor, no mail, nothing that could betray his presence. The young knight proceeded through the cave until the breathing mountain loomed before him. The sound of the dragon’s snores moved the air back and forth around him like bellows. The shiny dragon scales rose and fell, forming a gently curving wall in front of Sir Rodrick. The knight studied the scales carefully for a few moments, then raised his spear and thrust it with all his might into a bare patch of skin between the scales. The spear went deep into the beast’s body as if it were butter.
The dragon sprang up and roared in agonizing pain. The entire cave shook, sending rocks and stalactites raining down to the cave’s floor. The monster raised its clawed wing and slashed at Sir Rodrick, impaling him instantly on its huge onyx talon. Then the dragon fell back on its belly, its wings limp, its eyes half closed. The sides of the beast’s body rose and fell unevenly, a strange wailing sound coming from its maw. Cradled beside it, under its giant webbed wing, was Sir Rodrick, his face frozen and unmoving, eyes wide open. Then the breathing stopped.
…
Sir Rodrick was flying through the darkness for what felt like an eternity. Cool, pleasant wind kissed his clean, smooth cheeks and sent his hair fluttering. At last, the ground rushed up at him in one ghastly motion, but no harm came to Sir Rodrick. He landed on his tummy like a cat; his outstretched arms and legs broke his fall. A dull thud reverberated through the damp air in myriad echoes.
Still lying on his tummy, Sir Rodrick stretched and arched his enormous body. It felt good. He glanced around. The cave felt strangely familiar. It was dark, spacious, and… homey. Somewhere in the distance, water was dripping from stalactites, and bats were beating their soft webbed wings.
Suddenly, Sir Rodrick felt drowsy, his body heavy and tired. He nestled on the floor, pulling his arms and legs toward his chest. His left arm caught on something prickly sticking out between his armored plates: a long, sharp splinter. He pulled it out carefully. The raw patch of skin where it had come out stung.
Overtaken by slumber, Sir Rodrick cradled himself, covering his massive body with a warm, soft blanket of a wing. The raw patch of his skin stung no more. Deep sleep descended on him like a thick, soft puff of black smoke, rich with fading memories of knights and castles, filling his shrinking mind with strange dreams.