Jason Hightman - The Saint of Dragons

“Where are you taking me?” Simon managed to say.

“Don’t worry now,” said the horseman comfortingly. “You’ll be safe.”

That was all he said and the horse galloped onward, down the coast, through muddy forests, empty fields and past lifeless piers, with the dark ocean calling after them.

Simon had no chance to yell for help. They did not go near any houses. Even if he was able to call out, Simon wasn’t sure he wanted to. Once the shock wore off a bit, he started to think this was the most exciting thing that could have happened. If this was his father after all, what exactly did he have to tell Simon?

They reached a long, empty dock. There were no buildings around, just a big sailing boat that looked as if it had been made a long time ago. The horse trotted over the wooden pier and stopped at the boat with a snort of exhaustion.

“Rest now,” said the man, and Simon thought he was speaking to the horse. “There’s a place to sleep on board,” he went on.

“You’re talking to me?” said Simon in amazement. “I can’t just … I’m not going to …”

“You know who I am,” said the man. “And I’d like to stand here all night and tell you the story of my life, but it’s not safe here. We’ve got to move on.”

He led the horse on board. Standing on the dock, Simon looked around. He could make a run for it, but he doubted he would get very far. He didn’t even know which way to go; the fog had obscured everything around them.

“Are you coming?” said the man, annoyed, and he put out his hand for Simon to take it.

“I didn’t know I had a choice,” said Simon.

“You have a choice if you want to get eaten out there,” was the reply.

Not sure what he meant by this, but knowing that indeed he meant it, Simon turned to look behind. He heard a rattling in the bushes and, fearing that it was the dangerous men from the lighthouse, he reached out and took the man’s hand. He was pulled aboard the ship and they set sail.

The thing was, Simon thought he might be able to trust this man somehow. Without knowing why, the boy was willing to go with the unknown.

It was too foggy to see the cliffs as the boat drifted away, but Simon could see the giant light beam from the Lighthouse School, slicing through the darkness. It got smaller and smaller as the night went on. Ebony Hollow was being pushed away and, with it, Simon’s old life.

Part of him was sorry to see it go. He had few friends, but the Lighthouse School was his whole world. He had no idea where he was headed.

He had a moment to think about his schoolmates, the lighthouse keeper, and to wonder just for an instant about the name of the girl at the novelty shop, but as that thought flitted away, he felt ready for whatever came his way.

The man behind Simon coughed. “Well,” he said, “if you’re not too tired, we may as well get some work done.”

He went inside the cabin.

Simon turned back, not sure he wanted to follow. But the time for regrets had passed. Simon went in.

In the tight quarters of the galley, Simon found the man hard at work, making something to eat. “First things first. I hope you like eggs,” grunted the man. “That’s all I’m cooking.”

“I’m not very hungry,” said Simon.

“You ought to eat whenever you can,” the man replied. “You never know when you won’t be able to.”

Simon was confused. Is he ever going to explain himself? He went to sit at a tiny table, not knowing what else to do. The ship lurched a bit and Simon fell, embarrassingly.

“Don’t tell me the tide knocked you over,” said the man. “The water’s calm as can be tonight.”

“I’m fine,” said Simon, and he started to realise the man might be insulting him.

“You’re small,” the man added, sizing up Simon’s frame, and he seemed touched by that. “I didn’t think you’d be small.”

Simon decided to be direct.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Then he added a threat. “My father is waiting for me back there. He isn’t going to like this. He’s a very … he’s a very wealthy businessman. Very powerful.”

“Businessman? Is that what you were hoping?” said the man disdainfully. “Would’ve expected more imagination from you. But you can stop the empty threats. Or at least use a little foul language – put a bit of punch in it, so you don’t sound like such a prep-school toughie.”

He broke eggs into a bowl. “Old Denman, your lighthouse keeper, he might’ve been hurt out there tonight, protecting you. He’s done a good job looking after you all these years – wish I could have thanked him properly. He knew the enemy might come looking sometime, with its spies out all over the world. He’s a good man, a good warrior. I hope he’s all right.”

The lighthouse keeper, working for this man? Nothing made any sense. Simon decided just to listen.

“I don’t want to scare you off, but this isn’t like playing war in the woods. You need to be sharp. Pay attention. Listen and learn every step of the way. There is a hallowed place for each one of us after death, but I don’t plan to get to mine for a very long time, so you’d better not hasten my passage. Certain people have a mission in life and there’s no changing it, halting it or reasoning with it. It’s just the way it is.”

Maybe the man was insane. He acted like it. This fancy way of talking about his work, whatever that was, and the way he grunted his words. He did not look very clean, either. His clothes were ragged and dirt-ridden. He seemed distrustful of everything. He was like a homeless man, Simon thought. His eyes did not seem crazy, though. They seemed kinder than his voice. Did he think he needed to be harsh with Simon?

“Eat.”

Simon followed his orders. Scrambled eggs. Plain, unsalted, but they tasted good. Turned out Simon was hungry. How late was it now?

“You’re going to need all your strength,” the man said again, gobbling his own meal with a wolfish hunger. “And all your skills. Do you have any skills?”

Of course he had skills, Simon thought. What skills would this man find useful?

“I can do … woodworking,” Simon tried.

“Don’t need it.”

“I can read French.”

“French?”

“I speak fluently. My teachers say I’m very good.”

“Probably not helpful. What else?”

“I don’t know. I can pretty much operate the lighthouse. I had to cook sometimes in school, so I know a little about that. And I’m good with horses.”

“Good, I suppose that’s something,” the man said. “That school had the best fencing instructors in the country – you never took fencing?” The man’s eyes shot over to Simon.

“Fencing was going to be next year. This year I took art.”

“Art.” The man sighed. “Didn’t you take anything practical? What about archery?”

“Since when is archery practical?”

The man almost smiled. “Depends on your line of work.” He looked at Simon for a long moment, taking him in. “Denman must’ve kept you away from all this sort of thing. We never thought you’d come into this.”

“Do I get to know your name?” said the boy.

“My name is Aldric St George,” he answered. “And I am your father.”

He seemed proud of the fact. But it also seemed to be a warning.

“You’ve said that before.” The boy eyed him. “I don’t suppose you have any proof.”

“Proof?” The man looked angry. “We’ve got the same eyebrows, the same nose … You hear it in your voice, you see it in the way you move – the proof is in your blood, boy! You are a St George!”

Simon tried not to react to the man’s thundering.