In this life, Sir Barrow was a dragon. He was lying in a dark, damp den, sleeping. His enormous body was rising and falling as the dragon was taking in its 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 muscles bulged ominously at each twist and turn of its form. Despite its carefree slumber, the dragon was ready to strike at the slightest cause, but right now there was none, and the winged giant continued to doze off 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 than that the dragon could not muster, and neither could Sir Barrow, not anymore. 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 to the other side of its body, continuing its royal rest. Its sharp claws were many. They were dark as onyx and they could crush rocks and knights alike as 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 lived and breathed to defeat. True, Sir Barrow had slain dragons in his past, 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 it is the men who help it. The mind of the dragon was too cinch to ponder and philosophize about it. On a good day, the dragon thought no thoughts at all, his simple brain reacted to all mundane matters of life (to the dragon) and death (to others) instinctively if not mechanically.
A few bats flew into the dragon’s cave looking for a place to perch themselves among the crooked wet stalactites hanging from the cave’s rugged and uneven ceiling. The dragon ignored them. It exhaled a puff of smoke and covered itself with its enormous webbed wing akin to a blanket. Somewhere at a distance water was dripping from stony icicles, sounding a sweet lullaby for the slumbering beast. Yesterday the dragon had a good day’s hunt and managed to tear up an entire herd of milk goats, which a young shepherd boy so carelessly steered towards 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 happened to the shepherd boy. Did he devour the boy too, along with his whip and restless reed flute? It was the flute that woke the monster to its dinner…
The dragon was not good at remembering such things. It was heavy from its meal and dozy. It would be another week or two before it would need to hunt again. As such there was no need for the beast to move, worry, or think. If only dragons could think! Then life would be so much different for all. 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 to pay the dragon its dues much in the same way the beast paid its. Sir Barrow could not recall if he succeeded at thinking when he was a knight… Perhaps he was a mere simpleton like many others? How did he die and why did he become a dragon in his next life? This was too great of 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 wondered when he was a man. Now that he’d become a dragon, the answer had eluded him still.
One day the dragon’s sleep was broken by loud banging and yelling, mixed with a raw sound of horn and 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 at the darkness, its ears heavy with the unwanted clamor, its mind still asleep. It took the dragon a good part of the hour to wake up completely, and about as long to get annoyed with the cacophony noises coming from the mouth of the cave. Soon the fervor of the uninvited agitation subsided, and the dragon could see a faint glimmer of torches bouncing off sharp stony pikes covering the floor and the 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 seemed as if a few madmen 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 have surely recognized the old Sir Flint, with 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 he had young Sir Rodrick, knighted only a fortnight ago, his hair was the color of dried straw. Sir Rodrick was Sir Barrow’s young apprentice, back then 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 was unsteady 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 Rodrik’s longsword swung nervously in his hand, too large and heavy for such a young and skinny lad. There were two squires with them also, trailing far behind, scared out of their wits and trembling, each carrying an oil lantern.
Finally, the knights drew close enough that the dragon could see them as plainly as it could see the bats on the wall in front. The monster shifted its weight silently onto its massive bronze front paws, its giant webbed wings with spiky claws lifted slightly. By now the dragon was no longer amused with being woken so rudely, soft rumbling in his stomach was starting to sound like a small thunder. The rumbling sound 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, yet somehow, they could not spot it until they came too close. It was too late. The tall shape of the dragon towered over them like doom, nearly as high as a 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, his red eyes glowing like molten lava, his breath pulsating with tendrils of smoke intertwined with occasional sparks and small snorts of flame. To the squires that were farther behind, the dragon looked like a giant smoke stack. 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, the scales moved tighter together, its entire body sprung, and the dragon leaped effortlessly over its offenders, sending them tumbling on the cave’s floor. The dragon’s leap was high enough for knights’ swords and spears not to reach it. He landed right in front of the squires, who promptly dropped their lanterns, preparing to bolt. Poor lads! They bolted not, for dragon instantly inhaled them by drawing in a large gulp of muggy air, sucking the boys inside his cavernous gullet along with their pouches, lanterns, and other things, and catching in a good deal of loose rocks 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 for fresh air outside the cave’s mouth along with some dragon roar, which was not a true roar but rather a sound of the dragon’s breath confined to such a small space that it grew louder by countless echoes.
When the dragon turned to face the knights, the first wave of fear had already passed through them, and now, recomposed, 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 the old Sir Flint and the young Sir Rodrick now. Perhaps the dragon was still savoring the squires when it had 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 quick lightning bolt, hit a rock, and firmly wedged itself into a crevice.
Sir Flint fared not much 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 had landed on his head, his armor clanked loudly, his body convulsing uncontrollably. If Sir Barrow could see his master, for certain he would 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 found his sword and was pulling fervently 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 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. The poor Sir Rodrick was hardly worth the effort though. Thin and scrawny he would make for a poor meal; more steel than meat. The dragon knew it, it raised its paw to deliver a final blow to the boy, but suddenly the dragon’s mind came alive with an unexpected memory. The memory was that of Sir Barrow, practicing with young Sir Rodrick, a quick thin boy twelve years of age. Young lordling Rodrick, not a sir yet, 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 out 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 of the toy sword on his temple, forever giving one of his eyes a strange and wicked appearance by dilating its pupil permanently. Perhaps Sir Barrow got so accustomed to the young Rodrick missing that his thoughts had wandered off as he dreamed of the fair milkmaid that brought them cheese and honey on the morning of their practice. 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 fatal 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 that was 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 had mustered all of his remaining strength, preparing to face a certain death. He wanted to meet his end as befit a knight: standing straight up 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 straddled 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 repeated in his mind as Sir Rodrick was watching the dragon stomping about in his nest, finding a comfortable spot. Only when the dragon settled back into its den, returning to sleep accompanied by sonorous snores, did the young Sir Rodrick find the courage in himself to move, finally letting go of the stuck sword that he was pulling on impotently all this time. Unable to set free his iron from the death grip of the rock, the young knight had left his sword and stumbled awkwardly towards the entrance of the cave in near complete darkness. Only a faint glow of the dragon’s glowing breath illuminated his way out.
The dragon left 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 had spared you, even if it was 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. As such, the young knight knew he would be back. He must be back. Next month or next year. He must be back to slay the dragon that spared him.
No more than a week had passed when Sir Rodrick had 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 long sword. The swordless knight planned to sneak up to the dragon quietly without making all the noise and ruckus Sir Flint had him do 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 of the dragon’s breath and hear its monotone 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 was upon him. The sound of the dragon 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 inside the beast’s body as if it were butter.
The dragon sprung 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 were rising and falling unevenly, a strange wailing sound coming out of the dragon’s 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 fluttered in his hair. At last, the ground set upon him in one ghastly motion, but no harm had come to Sir Rodrick. He landed on his tummy like a cat, his outstretched arms and legs arrested his descent. A dull thud stirred in the damp air with myriads of echos.
Still lying on his tummy, Sir Rodrick stretched and bowed his enormous body, it felt good. He glanced around, the cave felt strangely familiar. It was dark, spacious, and… homey. Somewhere at a distance stalactites were dripping water, and bats were battering their soft webbed wings.
Suddenly, Sir Rodrick felt drowsy, his body heavy and tired. He nestled on the floor, pulling his arms and legs towards his chest. His left arm caught something prickly sticking from between his armored plates, it was a long sharp splinter. He pulled it out carefully, the raw patch of the skin where it had come out stung.
Taken in by the 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 onto him like a thick soft puff of black smoke, rich with fading memories of knights and castles, filling his shrinking mind with strange dreams.