Hugh Cook - The Werewolf and the Wormlord

He was lucky to escape with his life.

However, he showed no gratitude for such luck; instead, he cursed most obscenely as he struggled up the island’s rocks, still burdened with his pack, and dared himself into the dragon’s lair.

‘Who is it?’ said Qa, as Alfric entered the cave.

‘Myself,’ said Alfric.

‘Advance, myself, and be recognized.’

Alfric advanced, and stepped into a puddle, which proved to be waist-deep and exceedingly wet.

‘Aha!’ said Qa. ‘The puddle-trap! You fell for it!’

‘I have to admit I did,’ said Alfric, struggling out of his pack.

‘They usually do,’ said the dragon complacently. ‘If they’ve been particularly rude to me, I kill them then and there.’

‘And if not?’ said Alfric, throwing his pack well clear of the puddle.

‘Then I give them a second chance,’ said Qa.

‘That’s very sporting of you,’ said Alfric, hauling himself out of the puddle.

‘Oh yes,’ said Qa. ‘But it’s in keeping with my status. I’m an honorary Yudonic Knight, you know.’

‘That’s nice,’ said Alfric.

He was trying hard to remain polite, but this was a struggle; for, being exceedingly wet and very cold, Alfric had little time for dragonprattle. He looked around.

The cave was capacious, but not enormous. It was, in fact, not much bigger than the average haybam. There was a solemn drip-drop of water, some of it falling from the roof, but rather more descending from Alfric himself. These drips splashed into puddles and stirred faint echoes from the living rock of the cave. There was not much sign of treasure. A few oddments here and there, yes, but no sign of the unlimited wealth of which legend had so generously rumoured.

Here and there were piles of skulls carefully assembled into pyramids. Skulls? Alfric looked more closely. They were skull-sized rocks. Strange.

‘That’s strange,’ said Qa.

‘You read minds?’ said Alfric, startled.

‘No,’ said Qa. ‘I use my eyes. That’s how I saw.’

‘Saw? Saw what?’

‘The red light from yours. Your eyes, I mean.’

‘You must be imagining things,’ said Alfric; then slapped his arms vigorously against his chest, trying simultaneously to warm himself and get rid of some of the surplus water.

‘Oh, I don’t imagine things,’ said Qa. ‘I’m a trained observer, don’t you know.’

‘If you say so,’ said Alfric, squatting down on his hams.

‘I do say so,’ said Qa. ‘I saw you looking at one of my piles of rocks. You wouldn’t be able to do that if you were an ordinary human.’

‘And why not?’ said Alfric.

‘Because it’s pitch dark in here, that’s why,’ said Qa. ‘Then how can you see me seeing things?’ said Alfric. ‘Because I’m a sea dragon,’ said Qa. ‘Sea dragons can see in the dark. Not light, but heat. That’s what they see, I mean. Heat. But I didn’t see heat when I saw your eyes. No. I saw light. Red light. I can see it now. Anyway, enough of that. This debate isn’t getting us very far. Let’s get down to business. You’ve come to kill me.’

‘In theory, yes.’

‘In theory?’ said Qa. ‘What do you mean? You’re going to run away? It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?’

‘Well, yes and no,’ said Alfric. ‘As I said before, I have a proposition.’

‘Then what say you fetch your horse?’ said Qa. ‘We could eat it here. Share it between us. Have a barbecue. Awfully jolly, what?’

‘As I told you before,’ said Alfric, ‘I don’t have a horse.’

‘Really?’

‘I give you my word of honour as a Yudonic Knight.’ ‘You’re a liar,’ said Qa. ‘After I left you on the beach, I swam along the shore to look for your horse. I found it in the trees. That’s where they always leave the horse.’ ‘You did no such thing,’ said Alfric. ‘You’re just testing me. Consider me tested. I had no horse, and that’s the truth. I walked here with my pack.’

‘If you say so,’ said Qa, mimicking Alfric’s accents.

‘I do say so,’ said Alfric staunchly. ‘And now let me say, with the greatest of sincerity, that I am familiar with your poetry, and admire it greatly.’

‘Oh,’ said Qa, in surprise. ‘Do you?’

And, from the way the dragon spoke, Alfric knew that he really had its interest.

‘Yes,’ said Alfric. ‘I hold your poetry in such high regard that I’ve committed some of it to memory. Would you like me to recite?’

‘Please do,’ said Qa, with the most genuine of enthusiasms.

So Alfric cleared his throat and began:

‘Phenomenological stone.

No lapis lazuli but rock.

Your silence a rebuff to snakes.

In gutterals the wind

Gambles in dialects.

In marshland muds

(Cold codfish their taste, their scent

Deprived of ubiquity)

Stork critiques frog with a skewer.

You wait.

Phenomenological stone.’

‘Marvellous stuff,’ said Qa. ‘Marvellous stuff, though I say it myself.’

‘Such is your right,’ said Alfric generously. ‘After all, you created the stuff, so you’re in the best position to appreciate its intrinsic genius.’

‘So I am, so I am,’ said Qa. ‘But what about yourself? Do you really think you can appreciate it properly? Do you even know what it means?’

A note of suspicion had entered the dragon’s voice, warning Alfric that he had better be careful.

‘What it means?’ said Alfric, striving to keep his teeth from chattering with the cold. ‘Not exactly. But it speaks to me in a — a special way. When I hear those words, I feel as if I’m looking at the world through glass.’

All this and more said Alfric Danbrog. None of it was exactly spontaneous. In preparing himself for this mission, he had invaded a salon of poetasters in Galsh Ebrek, had studied the phrases by which the dilettanti flatter each other, and had invented some of his own just in case.

‘You know,’ said Qa, ‘you’re the first of my visitors who’s known about my poetry. I usually ask them about it. Before I eat them, I mean. But the results have been most disappointing. Till now.’

‘It is unfortunate,’ said Alfric carefully, ‘that poetry must struggle hard to preserve itself in the absence of the poet. For poetry can only come to full life through the genius of the voice of the original creator. I would be most privileged if I could hear you recite some of your verse.’

‘My pleasure,’ said Qa.

And, without further ado, the dragon began to recite:

‘Slush, said the sea.

Slush, slush.

Slush blashimmer.

Plash!

Then the sun pursued biology

And the world was dark.’

Alfric listened in respectful silence. Was there more to come? Apparently not. He wanted to scratch his backside, where wet cloth was crumpled against his skin. He was also experiencing the anal urgency of incipient diarrhoea. But he controlled his sphincter out of respect for the poet.

‘That was good,’ said Alfric. ‘That was very good.’ ‘Ah,’ said Qa.

‘But do you know what it means? Or do you find all my poetry ultimate ly incomprehensible?’

‘I–I’d hazard a guess that it says something about entropy. The heat death of the universe.’

The dragon’s eyelids flickered.

Had Alfric said the right thing or ‘I see that for once I have the kind of audience I deserve,’ said Qa.

‘True,’ said Alfric. ‘I’m a great fan of yours. Since that’s so, it’s always hurt me to think that much of your genius is going to die with your flesh. You’re going to die sooner or later. If you don’t mind me saying so, it’s probably going to be sooner rather than later. And, well, there’s no collected edition of your works extant. Most of what survives exists in autograph form only, and may soon perish unless properly published.’