Christopher Cross-
For most people, it could be considered a thoroughly miserable day. The clouds that darkened over the forest had encroached over the village. A heavy scent of petrichor swamped the market; this had alerted them to the downpour that had soon befallen the vendors. The vigour of the rain discouraged even the most determined vendor; it was a comical sight to finally see Bunty hurry her sodden husband along with the cart of waterlogged bread. Yes, on the whole it was a miserable day.
For Barn, however, today was a day for opportunities. Fortunately, his master, Allard, had needed to rush home and help his family fix the collapsed beam in their house.
Allard had not quite grown to trust Barn at the Smith-shop by himself yet, on account of the incident. Barn still insisted to everyone that he had no idea how it happened, but nonetheless it could be widely agreed that a more watchful eye and even better yet, a sturdy hand would have prevented the flood of molten steel upon the very flammable hay bale. Some had even scorched poor Nessie; it was her brays that had alerted Allard and customers alike to the torrent of chaos. It was due to Allard’s quick thinking and Barn’s ability to understand his bellows that the fire was managed. Poor Nessie, she had to be retired and was now living a life of relative comfort in Allard’s garden, enjoying fresh, unsmoked hay.
Barn could feel anticipation pooling in his stomach alongside the oozing mud that was pooling in his socks. His feet squelched further into the forest. Despite his feet’s loud insistence on turning around (and perhaps find a cozy fire with a footstool), Barn trekked onwardly, though where ‘onward’ was he couldn’t quite be sure. The meandering path was near indistinguishable from the murk of the forest floor. It didn’t help that no one seemed to like to signposts in these parts. He had to hope that he didn’t accidentally walk into a pack of wolves or even worse into a fairy’s ring (he had never been that good at dancing). Deeper into the woods he ventured; the foliage above him became so dense, the rain didn’t reach him as much. Unfortunately, neither did the light; Barn began to walk along the deer tracks that intertwined with the paths. He thought for sure that he must be near the Hills, for rocks had started to sprout around him. Barn grew excited at the realisation: the Hills were close; the Hills meant caves; the caves meant dragons.
Barn had been an avid dragon enthusiast for all of three weeks, after he learned of the legendary tale of the lad in the village next to theirs. Darkpool had been a village that already gained more tourist traffic – much to the annoyance of Barn’s humble hamlet – Dankpond. But when Rupert had slayed the mighty dragon and rode off into the sunset with the (much younger) princess, the whole town celebrated the hordes of people who had come to see his humble beginnings. It was ridiculous, all of Dankpond agreed, to be able to become a member of the king’s council; it should not be decided on a man’s ability to wield a sword. It was a stroke of luck that the dragon happened to be sickly as Rupert attacked. No one else had even heard of a dragon sneezing!
Despite the negative uproar from neighbouring villages, Barn fancied the chance of becoming a royal knight. And, though no more princesses had been recently captured, he reckoned he had a sense of fairness and levelheadedness that you just don’t seem to see anymore. Barn was muttering to himself as he walked, dreaming of soft beds and lack of manual labour. His visions of grandeur grew as he came closer to where he supposed the caves should be.
“Well,” he thought aloud “might as well eat before the slaying.” His pack of bread and cheese was already in his hands. “No good fighting on an empty stomach.” Sitting upon the slightly less damp bit of root by a large boulder, Barn wished he had brought a blanket. Yes, a blanket or perhaps a cushion and this would be a picturesque place for a picnic. He sat and chomped his day-old bread.
“I can’t believe Rupert.” He swallowed. “He couldn’t even last in a fight against his father, how did he beat a dragon?”
“Technically, that was a Wyrm that he slaughtered. It was actually a horrid affair; we are all mourning her loss.”
“What?” Barn looked around frantically.
“Yeah, she really was the sweetest. Bless her, she had been really struggling recently, hay fever and all. She could barely get her words out without wheezing and sneezing. And of course she had no arms to blow her nose. But honestly, I never met a nicer lady. Oh we all miss her so much.”
“Ah.” He peered through the trees, searching, but he still couldn’t identify the voice.
“But let me not bring the mood down. What are you doing in these parts of the woods? There aren’t often many humans round here, I hope you’re not here to hunt another of us. Ha Ha.”
Barn sat frozen in a state of flabbergast; the creature that crouched in the shelter of a large rock was none other than a small, a very small, a positively minuscule…
“Dragon!”
A thin smoke tendril swirled threateningly from its nose.
“Excuse you! A dragon! Do you just think we are all the same? I happen to be a pygmy-wyvern.” The drag- wyvern huffed. “I don’t suppose you would appreciate being called an ape by everyone else.”
“No. I suppose not,” Barn paused,
“what is an ape?”
The wyvern seemed to snuffle in disapproval at his words; little tendrils of flames licked the damp leaves before stuttering out. It was quite unexpectedly cute, Barn thought; he had always pictured a giant scaly monster that destroyed anything in sight. The creature before him sat tail wrapped round its legs very politely. Its underbelly was a deep green that tapered up to navy along its ridges. Realising its beady eyes were staring, non-blinking in a disconcerting way, he cleared his throat.
“Um sorry, my name is Barn. Who are you?” The wyvern appeared to sit straighter and shook its wings.
“My name is Cophe. Pleased to meet you.” She reached forward a clawed wing in a salute.
Barn caught sight of a pile of junk tucked in by the boulder: old screws, a corroded metal bowl, lots of rusty scraps, and in the centre a single polished gold coin. Honestly, even Allard’s scrap pile didn’t contain that much rubbish.
“Is that your horde of treasure?” He half joked. Cophe’s brows furrowed, she backed towards the horde protectively. Her wings spread to hide it from view. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to offend. Here.” He fished around in his pack and brought out the very old and moderately tarnished spoon that had been languishing at the bottom for many a journey. “Is this the type of thing you want?” He offered the spoon to her, a cautious peace offering. “Why do you have this pile of rubbish anyway? Shouldn’t it all be gold?” She gave him a squinted stare before moving her wings in a shrugging motion.
“Well. It’s very difficult to get into the hoarding business. It’s the sort of profession that requires lots of resources and what with the lack of princesses in castles these days.” She sighed, smoke wafting up with each shake of her head, “my father always said you take care of the princess, and the money will take care of itself. He died of course. Slayed. The risk to reward just isn’t worth it these days.”
“I’m so sorry,” he looked at the floor, “that’s awful But I mean surely there’s got to be other ways of getting a hoard of gold. Look you already have a coin. That’s a start.”
“My father gave me the coin. He said it was important I had something to build from. I thought it would be a good idea to get into a different line of work, create a name for myself. It turns out cooking is just not my forte, after the third time I set fire to the kitchen they told me to leave.” Barn nodded his head in solidarity, thinking back to his master’s scorched ass. They sat in a contemplative silence; Cophe blowing small flames over her tail in a catlike motion.
“Wait!’ He leaped to his feet, ‘you could work at the smithy I work at! We no longer have a donkey to work the bellows. You can set fire to stuff, you’re very good at it apparently. And, if you are there then Allard will have to pay you. You can make a new hoard, and we have clean metal scraps that I’m sure he wouldn’t mind lending to your hoard.” Cophe paused her tail cleaning and tilted her head.
“Are you sure? Not many people seem to want to hire dragons. I’ve had quite a few harsh rejections, often involving pitchforks.”
“Well Allard has been really nice to me, and I set fire to his donkey.”
“Hmm. I suppose I do enjoy burning things.”
“Exactly!”
Barn slapped his knees in a “right then” motion before standing up, grabbing his bag and looking expectantly at Cophe. She looked towards her pitiful hoard, a sigh, before grabbing her gold coin and hiding it in a crevice. Before long they were both ready to make the journey back to the soon to be surprised Dankpond.
“So what exactly were you doing so far into our forest?”
“Don’t worry about it; just going for a walk, enjoying the fresh air, the gorgeous sunshine.”
They walked on, the rain pattering against the canopy of leaves above them.