OUTWITTING THE DRAGON LONGZE (STORY BY BOST, 2026- PART 2) 

That afternoon John set to the task of repairing Dragon Longze, he first rummaged among the heap of old iron and found there some heavy chains and a great collar that had been made in the days when men sang over their work and put their hearts into it, so that the things they made were strong enough to bear the weight of a thousand years, let alone a dragon.

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John fastened dragon Longze up with the chains, and when he had padlocked them all on safely, he set to work to find out how many rivets would be needed.

"Six, eight, ten—twenty, forty," said he. "I haven't half enough rivets in the shop. If you'll excuse me, sir, I'll step around to another forge and get a few dozen more. I won't be a minute."

And off he went, leaving the baby in front of the dragon's forepaws, laughing and crowing with pleasure at the very large purr of it.

John ran as hard as he could into the town and found the mayor and corporation.

"There's a dragon in my dungeon," he said; "I've chained him up. Now come and help to get my baby away."

And he told them all about it.

But they all happened to have engagements for that evening; so, they praised John's cleverness, and said they were quite content to leave the matter in his hands. In truth, they did not believe him, suspecting him of spreading a yarn (or a fib) for whatever reason. Dragons had been extinct for a millennium now; moreover, the townsfolk were a selfish lot, some were cruel narcissist, but the majority were all greedy, conniving (devious), wary lot (doubtful), and even cowardly. 

"But what about my baby?" said John.

"Oh, well," said the mayor, placing a conciliating (placating) hand over John’s shoulder, "if anything should happen, you will always be able to remember that your baby perished in a good cause."

So, John went home again and told his wife some of what had happened.

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"You've given the baby to the dragon!" she screamed (shrieked) at him. "Oh, you unnatural parent!"

"Hush," said John, and he told her some more. What John did not know however, was the fact this celestial dragon had certain innate abilities, one of which being his keen hearing; when Longze set his mind to it, he could hear even the fluttering of butterfly wings in the rushing air, the whispers of trees in the far off mountains or the foliage carpeting the wide open fields and, certainly he could hear the conspiratorial murmurs (undertones) of humans who held special interest to him. He’d therefore heard all that John had told his wife striving to conciliate (placate) her anger, as well, mollify her mounting dread in her heart. 

"Now," John had then sweetly kissed his wife’s forehead and said, "I'm going down. After a while you can then play your part, and if you keep your head, the boy should be all right."

So down went the blacksmith, and there was the dragon, just as he’d left him, still purring away to keep the baby quiet. The dragon Longze, despite all he knew, he had been quite amused at first by this altruistic, soft bundle of pliant (supple) infant swaddled in soft cloth, that reacted favorably to his purring. The baby incessantly cooed and gurgled, drooling, making odd sounds; furthermore, the baby was clearly unafraid, even smiling at him, a strange but lovable creature that it was. But eventually, dragon Longze’s interest began to fade (ebb) and his patience started to wear rather thin.

"Hurry up, can't you?" the dragon said, wanting to see what John would do next. "I can't keep up this noise all night."

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"I'm very sorry, sir," said the blacksmith, "but all the shops are shut. The job must wait till the morning. And don't forget you've promised to take care of that baby. You'll find it a little tiresome, I'm afraid. Good night, sir." John quickly climbed the stairs, not giving the dragon any chance to respond.

John did not go far however, once at the outside of the left ajar dungeon door, unseen, he quietly sat on his rump (rear end) and leaned his back to the wall. Though he would never admit it, his shoulders slumped wearily (despairingly) betraying the placid (tranquil) mask he wore on his face. He half-lowered his eyelids, pinning his gaze on the ground and quietly waited; he was prepared to keeping vigil, if necessary, all night long.  In truth, his innate instincts had absolute faith in this noble dragon; but his parental obligation had constrained him nevertheless to stay close,  per chance the dragon suddenly succumbed to anger or became erratic, and therefore, endangered his precious bundle.

The dragon Longze had purred till small hours, but then he got tired of it; moreover, he was annoyed, understanding the trick John had played on him. So now he stopped, and as soon as everything was quiet, the baby thought everyone must have settled for the night, and that it was time to begin to scream. So, it began.

"Oh, dear," said the dragon, "this is dreadful (awful) noise. Now, there, there…" He gently patted the baby with his claw, but it screamed more than ever.

" Humans are so guileful (sly, cunning) and even the best of them is detestable.” Jaded dragon Longze now grumbled.

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From the start, Longze had seen something in John that set him apart from the typical humans; though, his unique compassion and generosity of heart had made him vulnerable despite his robust physique and intrepid fortitude (grit, stamina. But now Longze was second guessing his original feel. Besides which, he felt increasingly more annoyed by all the deceit and the disrespect shown to him. Feeling suddenly tired, Longze yearned for a good night’s slumber (repose, sleep) to rest his weary bones."

The baby, meanwhile, went on screaming.

The dragon Longze could have squashed it and instantaneously, permanently put a stop to all that jarring noise; meanwhile, he could not help but wonder why John had left his clearly precious son in obviously precarious (vulnerable) position. Was John, adapting such a drastic measure (and by taking a sure gamble), wished to convey (express) his full confidence in his (Longze’s )benevolence, while establishing an innate bond, a bridge, between their species (genus)? Clearly, he was no ordinary mortal.

Age old beliefs now in doubt, “Things will never be the same for me after this," mused Longze. "Nevertheless, I must put a stop to this incessant noise before it seriously tests my patience. Hush, then—did 'ums, then." And so, the Dragon Longze tried to placate the baby as if it had been a young dragon. But when he began to sing "Hush-a-by, Dragon," the baby, not mollified, he screamed increasingly more.

"I can't subdue this incessant, raucous neonate (newborn); can’t keep it quiet," huffed the exasperated Longze; and then suddenly he saw a woman sitting on the steps. "Here, I say," said he, "do you know anything about babies?"

"I do, a little," eyeing the dragon suspiciously and not wishing to divulge more, said the mother. Betty had fought her husband on this, and defiantly entered the dungeon, and set on the steps at the very top, at first seething in rage, then observing the dragon’s tolerance and so, by degrees calming, she’d kept a sullen (fretting, morose), vigilant eye on the unfolding scene.

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"Then I wish you'd take him away, and let me get some respite," said the dragon Longze, yawning. "You can bring it back in the morning before the blacksmith comes."

She didn’t need to be asked twice; at once descending the steps, mother’s protective instinct emboldening her, she fearlessly drew near (quite close) to the dragon and picked up her son.

The baby cradled in his mother’s bosom, inhaling her familiar scent, abruptly then stopped all his ruckus (brawl, rumpus); thus, she quickly mounted the steps, and exited the dungeon. A frown (a scowl) registered on her lips, the moment her seething, rebuking gaze turned on her husband, who nevertheless dismissed it, and knowingly smiled. She could not maintain her ire for too long, and so, after exasperatedly exhaling the breath of relief, she nodded, and he happily follow her (in tow) to their bedroom.  

At daybreak the subsequent day, John went down and boldly, unapologetically, explained to the dragon Longze exactly how matters stood. He’d kept his word meanwhile, and first and foremost, diligently and competently repaired the Dragon’s injury. Then, however, electing to keep the locks and chains where they stood, furthermore, retrieving the iron gate with a grating to it, he set it up at the foot of the steps, therefore imprisoning the Dragon.

The dragon Longze was both irate (furious) and same time impressed with John’s deception and courageous acumen, understanding why he’d done as he did. He was after all protecting (upholding, preserving) the safety and welfare of his family, as well, the townsfolks; though being so discerning, Longze doubted townspeople would see it that way, nor will they ever truly appreciate John’s efforts that afforded them salvation and the purported (supposed) lasting security.

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The dragon Longze , meanwhile, had not been as helpless as he seemed; he had in fact considered breaking his bonds and leaving this contemptable town the moment John had left his side. Longze however had had a soft spot for this young hero, so he remained  as he were, supposedly restrained and imprisoned; as his curious nature propelled (drove) Longze to wait and see how things would unfold later on that day, anticipating correctly, that the mayor and the towns elite would seek to confirm proof of John’s claim.

Sure enough, afterwards John had gone straight to the mayor and said: "I've got the dragon suitably incarcerated (confined, secured) in the dungeon; rest assured, he will pose no further danger to anyone in town." But of course, they needed proof, so they followed him back to the castle, and went straight down to the dungeon.

"Noble preserver," elatedly cried the mayor seeing with his own eyes the absolute proof of John’s claims. "You’ve truly gone and done it! We will, hence, get up a subscription for you, and crown you in public with a laurel wreath."

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So, the mayor put his name down for six pounds, and the corporation each gave four, and other people gave their guineas and half guineas and crowns or two crowns, and while the subscription was being made the mayor ordered two poems at his own expense from the town poet to celebrate the occasion. These poems were very much more admired, especially by the mayor and corporation.

The first poem dealt with the noble conduct of the mayor in arranging to have the menacing dragon tied up. It also described the splendid assistance rendered by the corporation. And the second expressed the pride and joy of the poet in being permitted to sing such deeds.

When the subscription was finished there was more than five hundred pounds accumulated, a considerable sum, in the coffers, and a committee was formed to settle what should be done with it. Part of it went to pay for the elaborate banquet in honor of the mayor and the corporation; another bit was spent in buying commemorative, gold medals with impaled dragons on them, to pin on the corporate members’ chests; and the reminder that was left, was allocated to other committee expenses.

So, there was nothing left for the blacksmith John except the laurel wreath and the knowledge that it really was he who had saved the town. Nevertheless, after these frivolous expenditures, from thereon things had gone a little better for the blacksmith’s family. To begin with, the baby did not cry so much as it had before. Then the rich lady who owned the goat was so touched by John's noble action that she ordered a complete set of shoes at 3 shillings, 5 pence, and even made it up to 4 shillings, 7 pence, in grateful recognition of his public-spirited conduct.

Subsequently, endless hoards of tourists flocked to the region (town)  from quite a long ways off, and they  paid three and a half pence each to go down the steps and peep through the iron grating at the white dragon in the dungeon—and it was four pence extra for each party if the posted armed guard (assigned by the mayor) let off colored fire to see it by, which, as the fire was extremely short, was three pence-halfpenny clear profit every time. Meanwhile the blacksmith John's wife used to provide teas at tenpence a head, and altogether things grew brighter week by week.

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John from the first, had refused to take any part in all of this despicable and farcical entertainment (amusement); he would not benefit from funds derived from the humiliating carnival like atmosphere, that put the noble dragon on daily display. He felt deeply shamed and grieved most sincerely, for his earlier unwitting part in all of this duplicitous debauchery, and in due course, perpetuating this most demeaning, injurious depravity (corruption, degeneracy) of the noble dragon.

The dragon Longze, despite his boundless generosity of the heart, had eventually grown weary of this worst aspect of humanity, the rampant corruption, his unwitting exploitation and all the immoral display. And so, late one night, when John had pensively gone down to check on the captive dragon Longze, to visit with the poor creature and again, ask for his forgiveness: the dragon pre-emptively instead, had told him, a time had come for him now to abscond. He then with dignified air, though tentatively (hesitantly), asked John next, to release him from his bonds. What John did not know however, was this too was a test, and he had not disappointed Longze’s faith in him. 

Even though John knew this would land him in serious trouble, the blacksmith had been so beset with remorse that he without single moment’s hesitation, had immediately done as the dragon Longze had asked of him.

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“We shall not see each other for a long while; however, by your actions you have earned my lasting esteem. If you are ever in need, I shall return, to set things right by you. Farewell for now, my dear friend. “Dragon Longze then had reverently bowed his head to John and then suddenly poof, disappeared in thin air.

John had fully grasped it then, that he’d never really been in charge (command); and that he was the one who had been outwitted (outfoxed) instead, by the gentle natured celestial dragon who, with infinite patience, had sought all along to attain, a genuine spark of true benevolence from a single mortal being .

 

 

FIN

 OUTWITTING THE DRAGON LONGZE (STORY BY BOST, 2026- PART 1)

John had lost both his parents, due to a freak accident, a runaway carriage, at the tender age of six. His innate nature was willful and stubborn; and so, after his daring escape from the oppressive, state-orphanage, he’d pretty much grown up in the streets, relying solely on his own wits.  Barely nine years old, John had then attached himself to an old, excentric blacksmith that lived at the edge of town, and as his apprentice, he’d hence acquired a useful skill. After his mentor the blacksmith had passed away, John wanting to see the world, had travelled on foot, from place to place, eventually settling in a small border town, earning a meagre living, doing whatever jobs needed doing.

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John celebrated his seventeenth birthday, by treating himself to a cold draft, for the first time ever, at the local tavern.  The proprietor had cast him a cautionary look but took his coin and provided him with the local draft without saying another word. He had sat in the dark corner and quietly sipped, savoring the brew, as this was his right of passage, while his eyes stealthily scanned the room for any potential danger. He always kept his vigil, never trusting anyone; however now that he was in his late teens, his strong athletic physique and stalwart (fearless, valiant) bearing and unfriendly demeanor, deterred most ruffians (thugs, hoodlums) from approaching or targeting him. He had long straight white-blond hair, brilliant blue eyes and was most fair to look at; some might even consider him quite handsome. He’d been smitten with a local farm girl, at the outskirts of town, and that was the reason he’d extended his stay within this region.

There happened to be an old, old castle at the edge of town perched on a hilltop by the fast-flowing river. The castle had been abandoned long ago by the original owner Lord Densel Keroy, whose family had once lived there, for untold generations. After the Lord’s wife’s sudden death, he’d married a mysterious woman, some thought she was a witch, and from thence, things had taken a turn for the worse. One after the other, Lord’s three offsprings, close relations and then the extended members (kinfolk) had all, through succumbing to accidents, bad luck, illness or pestilence, perished. No one knew what’d became of the Lord or the reminder of his family; they had simply, one stormy night, under cover of darkness boarded the moored vassal (river boat) and sailed down the river. They were never seen or heard from ever again; moreover, for unknown reasons, Lord’s name or any reference of him, thereafter, had all been erased (wiped out) from the historical records (this included the town’s genealogy’ books). Deemed a cursed place, the once magnificent castle (along with its manicured grounds sporting fountains and statues and exotic trees and flowers) meanwhile, was simply abandoned and left to rot (decay, deteriorate).

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No one went near this old castle, save for John. The castle was by then so decrepit that most of its walls and towers and turrets and gateways and arches, some overgrown by ivy, lay crumbled or in ruins; a comparatively small segment (of the east wing) had remained intact, as a reminder of its once old splendor. John, unfazed by the supposed, curse and the ghostly hauntings (roaming), however, had noted the advantage to be had here; he saw, for instance, that there were two perfectly habitable, almost cozy rooms, within this sector, that was perfectly adequate for his immediate needs. And so, it was here, that John the blacksmith had set up his forge.

John the blacksmith, soon as he’d turned nineteen, had of course married his sweetheart Betty and his deep love and devotion for his beloved had never once wavered (faltered), despite some marital difficulties. She’d been spoiled by her father and had little understanding of the economics of life. Nevertheless, eight months prior, she’d born to him, a lively little baby boy, which he absolutely adored.

Recently, because of some unavoidable setbacks- first was the fire that had gutted their old home, then afterwards, his wife had succumbed to robbery, loosing all their savings- this unfortunately, had left John at present in dire straits; therefore, lacking the adequate funds for  a proper dwelling, he’d of course considered the dilapidated castle, especially since the two perfectly good rooms were rent-free.  So here John blew his bellows and hammered his iron and did all the work which came his way. This was not much, because most of the trade went to the mayor of the town, who was also a blacksmith in quite a large way of business, and had his huge forge facing the square of the town.

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The mayor Marcell employed twelve apprentices, all hammering like a nest of woodpeckers, and four supervisors (controllers, overseers) to order the apprentices about; he had a patent forge and a self-acting hammer, the mechanical (automated) bellows, and many more spiffy things, all handsome about him. So of course, the townspeople, whenever they wanted a horse shod or a shaft mended, went to the mayor.

John the blacksmith, meanwhile, struggled on as best he could, with a few odd jobs from travelers and strangers who did not know what a superior forge the mayor's was. The two rooms John and Betty had occupied, were warm and weather-tight, but not very large; so, the blacksmith John got into the way of keeping his old iron, his odds and ends, his fagots, and his two pence worth of coal in the great dungeon down under the castle. It was a very fine dungeon indeed, with a handsome vaulted roof and big iron rings whose staples were built into the wall, very strong and convenient for tying captives to, and at one end was a broken flight of wide steps leading down no one knew where. Even the lords of the castle in the good old times had never known where those steps led to, but every now and then they would kick a prisoner down the steps in their lighthearted, hopeful way, and sure enough, the prisoners never came back. The blacksmith John, brave as he was, had not the occasion to go beyond the seventh step, so he did not know or cared to know, what was at the bottom of those stairs.

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Beknows to John, when his wife was not doing the housework or nursing the baby, she would pensively sit on the steps or quietly shed some tears, for she was secretly very unhappy. She often ruminated on the happy, carefree days of old when she lived with her father in a stately (splendid) two-story farmhouse, in relative comfort and luxury, in the pristine setting of the countryside. She had two personal servants then tending to all the household chores and her, fulfilling her every whim. Additionally, they had seasonal workers that harvested the fields, they had three dozen sheep and, seventeen cows.

Then one day, while gathering wildflowers in the field, she’d chanced on John; he was so handsome, so dashing a young man, she had immediately been quite taken with him.  Young and reckless, they had married soon after. She with a wry smile on her lips recollected now, sitting quietly by the window, the time John used to come courting her in the summer evenings, as smart as could be, with a posy fastened in his jacket’s buttonhole. And now, her father had passed away, and John’s hair had lost its lustre (sheen); and though they’d survived many hardships, recently fairing worse, there’d been hardly ever enough to eat.

As for the baby, it cried a good deal at odd times but particularly at night; often, when Betty had settled down to sleep, it would always begin to cry, quite as a matter of course, so that she hardly got any rest at all. This made her very tired. The baby could make up for its bad nights during the day if it liked, but poor Betty couldn't. So, whenever she had nothing to do, she used to idly sit and cry, because she was tired out with work and worry.

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One evening the blacksmith John was busy with his forge. He was making a goat-shoe for the goat of a very rich lady, who wished to see how the goat liked being shod, and also whether the shoe would come to fivepence or sevenpence before she ordered the whole set. This was the only order John had had that week. And as he worked his wife Betty sat and nursed the baby, who, for a wonder, was not crying.

Presently, over the noise of the bellows and over the clank of the iron, there came another sound. The blacksmith and his wife looked at each other.

"I heard nothing," said he.

"Neither did I," said she.

But the noise grew louder—and the two were so anxious not to hear it that he hammered away at the goat-shoe harder than he had ever hammered in his life, and she began to sing to the baby—a thing she had not had the heart to do for weeks.

But through the blowing and hammering and singing the noise came louder and louder, and the more they tried not to hear it, the more they had to. It was like the noise of some great creature purring, purring, purring—and the reason they did not want to believe they really heard it was that it came from the great dungeon down below, where the old iron was, and the firewood and the two pence worth of coal, and the broken steps that went down into the dark and ended no one knew where.

"It can't be anything in the dungeon," said the blacksmith John and smiled reassuringly, then using the small strip of cloth he wiped the sweat off his face. "Besides, I shall investigate it proper, when I have to go down there anyway, to fetch more coals in a minute."

"There isn't anything there, of course. How could there be? But you will still be careful, won’t you dear?" said his wife concealing her trepidation (anxiety, unease). And they, being so considerate (and loving) of each other, tried so very hard to reassure the other, that both very nearly did believe it.

Then John took his shovel in one hand and his riveting hammer in the other and hung the old stable lantern on his little finger and went down to get the coals.

"I am not taking the hammer because I think there is something there," said he, "but it is handy for breaking the large lumps of coal."

"I quite understand," said his wife Betty, who had brought the coal home in her apron that very afternoon, and knew that it was all coal dust.

So, John went down the winding stairs to the dungeon and stood at the bottom of the steps, holding the lantern above his head just to see that the dungeon really was empty, as usual. Half of it was indeed empty, except for the old iron and odds and ends, and the firewood and the coals. But the other side was not empty. It was quite full, and what it was full of was Dragon.

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"It must have come up those nasty broken steps from goodness knows where," said John to himself, with a frown on his lip, as he tried to creep back up the winding stairs. Facing this unexpected danger, his anxious thoughts had been more about the safety and welfare of his wife and child.

But the dragon Longze was too quick for him—it put out a mighty big claw and caught him by the leg, and as it moved it rattled like a great bunch of keys, or like the sheet iron they make thunder out of in pantomimes.

"No, you don't," said the dragon in a grumbling voice that revibrated in the air.

"I beg your pardon," said John, stockily, “I meant you, no disrespect.”  His fearless eyes looked straight at the Dragon, though he was helplessly trapped under the claw of the dragon. Truth be known, he was inwardly awed, staring at this magnificent creature; he’d never seen a dragon before, he’d always been told that they had long been extinct. Subsequently, John shrugged his shoulders, resigned to his fate, and mumbled:  "Alas, here's a nice end for a respectable blacksmith!"

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The dragon Longze seemed very much struck by this remark.

"Do you mind saying that again?" said he, quite politely.

So, John said again, very distinctly: "Here—is—a—nice—end—for—a—respectable—blacksmith."

"I didn't know," said the dragon. "Fancy now! You're the very man I wanted."

"I’m at your disposal." John refused to beg for mercy and so had boldly ejected: “Go ahead, incinerate me.” He’d secretly hoped, that after his demise, the dragon would then go back satisfied, to whence he came from, and that his wife and child be safe.

"Oh, I didn't mean that.”  said the dragon Longze, "Though, I should like you to do a job for me. One of my wings has got some of the rivets out of it just above the joint. Could you put that to rights?"

John exhaled in relief and said, “I might, sir," rather politely, for he always was polite to any potential customer, even if he be a dragon.

"A master craftsman—you are a master, of course? —can see in a minute what's wrong," the dragon went on. "Just come around here and feel my plates, will you?"

John tentatively (timidly, cautiously) went around when the dragon took his claw away; and sure enough, there was a part where the dragon's wing was hanging loose, and several of the plates near the joint certainly wanted riveting.

The dragon Longze seemed to be made almost entirely of iron armor—a sort of thin strip of rust color beneath the blue-silver plates, it was from damp, no doubt—and under it he seemed to be covered with something furry.

All the blacksmith welled up in John's heart, and he felt more at ease.

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"You could certainly do with a rivet or two, sir," said he. "In fact, you want a good many."

"Well, get to work, then," said the dragon. Longze could not detect any usual nuance (tone) of prejudice in John’s vernacular, nor could he sense the typical, intense fear in latter’s heart; therefore, rather intrigued by this unique individual and wanting to experience more of his mettle (valour, bravery), plus, unable to resist intimidating him, Dragon Longze said: "You mend my wing, and then I'll go out and eat up all the townsfolk, and if you make a really smart job of it, I'll eat you last. There!"

"I don't want to be eaten last, sir," said John.

"Well then, I'll eat you first," said dragon Longze.

"I don't want that, sir, either," said John.

"Go on with you, you silly man," scoffed the dragon, "you don't know your own silly mind. Come, set to work."

John drew closer- gave the dragon a bit of a nip or a dig under his rivets—took note of the damage…assess what it would take to fix it … fire and smoke. Then he hesitated; he seemed to be rather ambivalent (indecisive) about his next move.

"I prefer not to tackle (handle) this job, sir," finally John ejected, "and that's the truth. I know how easily accidents could happen… Then you’ll blame me, suspecting me of being deliberately malicious.”

"You may carry on without fear; I will not harm you even if you cause me hurt. “Dragon Longze, noting the blacksmith’s lingering qualms, assured John. “I’ll take all that you said under advisement; now, if you please delay no more, rivet me, and I'll eat you last”. Longze was inwardly laughing up a storm, noting the flicker of terror and calculation simultaneously registering in those human eyeballs (cornea, orbs); subsequently, all of it immediately being replaced with the stubborn, defiant fervour (commitment, zeal).

"I know you wouldn't do it on purpose, sir," said John pensively, "but any gentleman will give a jump and a sniff if he's nipped, and one of your sniffs would be enough for me. Now, if you'd just let me fasten you up?"

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“You are way too brazen; I give you that! " The Dragon Longze silently derided; then looking straight at John, outwardly objected: “But that would be so undignified."

"We always fasten a horse up," said John, "and he's the 'noble animal.”

"It's all very well," said the dragon, "but how do I know you'd untie me again when you'd riveted me? Give me something in pledge. What do you value most?"

"My hammer," said John. "A blacksmith is nothing without a hammer."

"But you'd want that for riveting me. You must think of something else, and at once, or I'll eat you first."

At this moment the baby in the room above began to cry. Its mother had been so quiet that it thought she had settled down for the night, and that it was time to begin.

"Whatever's that?" said the dragon, starting so that every plate on his body rattled.

"It's only the baby," said John.

"What's that?" asked dragon Lonze. "Something you value?"

"Well, yes, sir, rather," said the blacksmith John, trying his best to conceal his rising inner dread. He’d so hoped the baby would for once sleep peacefully through it all, and the Dragon would not be aware of their (his wife and son’s) existence.

"Then bring it here," said the dragon, "he’ll be an apt collateral (guarantee); you shall tie me up, I’ll keep an eye on it, till you've done riveting me."

"All right, sir," John reluctantly acceded, "but I ought to warn you… Babies are poison to dragons, so I don't deceive you. It's all right to touch—but don't you go putting it into your mouth. I shouldn't like to see any harm come to you."

The dragon was beginning to lose patience; he inwardly scoffed: “Likely story; you think me so ignorant? But to reassure you, hmm, very well, I’ll simply play along.”

The dragon Longze condescendingly purred and said: "All right, I'll be careful. Now go and fetch the thing, whatever it is."

So, John ran up the steps as quickly as he could, for he knew that if the dragon got impatient before it was fastened, it could heave up the roof of the dungeon with one lurch (motion, toss, heave) of its back and kill them all in the ruins.

Upstairs he found his wife with eyelids closed and in deep slumber, curled up in a ball, lying in bed besides the baby; for despite the baby's cries, she’d been so utterly spent with all that worry that sleep had abruptly claimed her. His sad eyes for a short spell lingering on Betty, John then leaned forward and gently picked up his son. The baby affectionately cradled in his arms, John hastened back to the dungeon and, showing great faith in the creature, he then gingerly placed his precious boy in front of the dragon's front paws.

11- JOHN'S BABY BOY PLACED IN FRONT OF lONGZE.

"You just purr to it, sir," he said, "and it'll be as good as gold."

So, the dragon Longze did just that, and his purring pleased the baby so much that he actually ceased (discontinued, stopped) his crying.

 

(END OF PART ONE- THE STORY CONCLUDES IN PART TWO)

 

                                                                                        ~

THE GHOUL WHO WAS THWARTED (Revised by BOST 2025)

 THE GHOUL WHO WAS THWARTED 

(Revised by BoSt 2025)

In ancient times in Northern lands, there was a brilliant, tall, stout, handsome, long shoulder length blond haired, blue eyed, young man called Endre Bjorn who had successfully passed the State military examination in Capital, and had been ordered to go, by a specific date, to report for duty at frontier Telon Province.

As it was the rainy season, he was dressed appropriately with his belongings wrapped in waterproof skins and loaded on horseback. Following the main highways, he rode and whenever possible, galloped with eagerness to reach his destination in time.

On this day the weather had not been particularly cooperative. Gusting winds and sudden downpours hindered his progress all along the way. Dusk was fast approaching, and he was nowhere near a town or an inn where he could pass the night in relative, dry comfort.

01- ENDRE BJORN

The buildup of ominous clouds above persuaded him to veer off onto a side road leading to a small village nestled in the woods. He needed to seek (shelter) immediate accommodations before darkness blanketed the earth. He spotted a peasant, returning from the fields at the end of the day’s work loaded with fresh fodder for the animals and inquired as to a possible night’s lodging.

The peasant shook his head, “It’s not that we are inhospitable, but there are only impoverished families in this village. You are certain not to find any room in any of the huts.”  Then in conciliatory mood he directed the stranger to an old, dilapidated Temple still standing just outside of the village. At least there he could spend the night somewhat sheltered from the harsh elements.

Endre Bjorn thanked the peasant and rode away.  He eventually came upon the badly neglected structure, half buried in vines, runners and rampant vegetation. With some difficulty he pushed open the creaking door and stepped in. At once his lungs were assailed by a musky smell and dust lay inches high everywhere. Thick cobwebs hid most of the surfaces. In the niches he saw barely visible statues of gods so decayed through years of neglect that he could not distinguish one from the other.

The suffocating air forced Endre to go outside.  He gasped and gasped then looked about him when he could breathe bit more easily. As night cloaked the premises he fetched a candle from his bundle and lit it. Going around the main temple structure he came upon a portion of the second story that was precariously attached, barely hanging on to the main structure.   Following the trellises off to the side he found a protected alcove under an old flight of stone steps that ended abruptly, going nowhere.

“This will do for the night.” He grumbled under his breath then, fetching his knapsack, spread it out under the stone steps. He tied his horse to an old tree and placed some fodder before him. Next he took his flask from the saddle and wet his dry throat. He leaned back and began washing down some dry rations to satiate his sudden grumbling tummy. The rains came and went until the dark sky cleared of the ominous clouds which were replaced with scattered puffs that parted periodically to let the waning new moon peep through.

Endre Bjorn, rather exhausted from travel, had just closed his eyes in sleep when a rustling sound in the temple startled him awake. What’s more, a sudden icy breeze swept over his face making him shudder involuntarily.

The moonlight just then revealed a chalk-faced woman dressed in a dirty old style, long white gown coming out of the temple. She stole past quietly as though she were afraid of being seen.

Endre quickly swallowed his fear. Lying perfectly still he pretended to be asleep and covertly watched her with half-closed eyes. Curiously, the woman drew a rope from her sleeve and looked at it for a time before instantly vanishing into thin air.  This confirmed she was an apparition, most likely a ghost of one who had hung herself. He got up quietly and traced her steps. 

Sure enough, she went into the village and when she came to a certain house she slipped into the courtyard through a crack in the door.  As he was keen to find out her reason for haunting this premise, Endre abandoned propriety and leapt over the wall after her. Standing before him was a modest three roomed house. Crossing the rather empty courtyard, he reached the rear room where a lamp was burning dimly. Endre looked through the window into the room, and there he spotted a young woman of about twenty sitting on the bed, sighing deeply. Her kerchief however was soaked through with tears. Beside her in a crib lay a little child fast asleep.

The woman repeatedly looked up toward the beam of the ceiling. She appeared in great dismay, one moment she would weep and the next she would gently, lovingly, stroke the child. Endre, following her gaze positioned himself so as to see more clearly the object of her attention.  His eyes avidly searched the high ceiling and finally he spotted the dark apparition dressed in white, sitting up on the beam. Momentarily she glowed. He could see clearly now as she, with an eerie smile, passed the rope around her neck and then, eyes bulging, tongue sticking out, she mimicked being hanged.  Egging on the poor woman on, the ghost hissed with hostility one moment then in the next beckoned alluringly with a hand gesture.

Each time the young woman looked up as though drawn by an irresistible command, remained focused as if mesmerized, then snapped out of her reverie only when the child wiggled or gurgled.  This went on for some time.

Unexpectedly the young woman in a resolute voice addressed the Ghost: "You say it would be best for me to die. Very well, then, I will die; but oh, I cannot bear to part with my baby!" Once more cupping her face, she burst into heart-wrenching tears, but the heartless ghost merely scoffed and threatened her. In an undecipherable communication the apparition next reached out softly in order to coax her.

When the exhausted young woman finally yielded to all that pressure and in resignation declared: "Enough, do not torture me any more… I’ll do as you wish, I will die. Just leave my baby in peace."

Endre for a time was lost for what to do. He could make noise or force his way in to stop or at least impede the evil apparition’s aim. The very real consequence of being chastised for impropriety or charged as trespasser however, made him hesitate.

“But can I just stand by and do nothing?”  As he struggled to find the right course of action, the young woman meanwhile had gone over to her chest of clothes, put on new garments, and painted her face before the mirror. Then she drew up a bench and climbed up on it. She undid her girdle and knotted it to the beam. She had already stretched forth her neck and was about to tie the other end around her neck when the child suddenly awoke and began to cry.

To Endre’s relief, the woman aborted the suicide, climbed down and, taking the baby to her bosom, stroked the infant's head and chest as she rocked her body slowly back and forth. Tears streamed from her eyes like a string of pearls and fell onto her child. She wept and wept.

 The irate ghost meanwhile heartlessly growled and hissed at this delay. She was so close to reaching her objective.  She had haunted this young woman for many months wearing away her resolve. In a short while the child had again fallen asleep, and the woman once more began to look aloft. Then she rose, again climbed on the bench, and was about to lay the noose about her neck when Endre, risking all, began to call out loudly and drum on the windowpane to stop her. Then, with one hard punch, he broke through the pane and climbed into the room. The shocked and frightened woman fell to the ground unconscious while the ghost vanished into thin air.

Fortunately for him there was no other about. Endre picked up the unconscious woman and gently laid her on her bed. Then gently slapped her cheeks tried to bring her around.  As she was about to regain consciousness, he drew away to a distance, intent on leaving. Suddenly however, something hanging down from the beam, like a cord without an end caught his eye. Knowing that it belonged to the ghost of the hanged woman he reached for it and tugged at it. Wrapping it into a coil he placed it in his inner pocket. 

By this time the young woman had gained her full faculties. She trembled with fright at the perceived danger from an intruder.

Endre Bjorn with a placating smile and in a soothing voice tried to reassure the young woman: "Forgive this intrusion. I mean you no harm, but I could not just simply stand by and have you throw your life away.  Your child needs you to take good care of him! You have but one life to lose in this world!"  Convinced that she was now calmer, he left her and went outside.

His thoughts, nevertheless, turning to the vindictive ghost and expecting retaliatory trouble from her, he headed straight for the Temple where he had left his sword right by his baggage.

He never made it to the Temple however, as halfway there, he encountered the angry ghost looking even more menacing, waiting for him in centre of the road.

Barring his way, the ghost growled: “You have interrupted my plans and have thus wronged me terribly. I was the former wife of that faithless man; one so callously cast me aside in favour of that woman because of my inability to give him an offspring. His cold and cruel ways drove me in the end to suicide where I am now condemned to roam the Earth and suffer this vile existence for all eternity. He happens to be away for a long time, and I used this opportunity to affect my revenge on him. She was blameless yes, but …” The phantom appeared for a moment or two truly remorseful but then quickly rebounded and again glowered (looked daggers). “As you have interceded, there remains little for me to do now. Unfortunately I cannot depart without that thing I left behind me in my hurry. I know you have it, and so I demand you return the item that rightfully belongs to me."

Endre Bjorn showed her the rope, "Is this the thing you mean? I’m sorry for what has happened to you. But why exact revenge on an innocent being? Your grievance is with your husband not her. I fear if I were to give it back to you may once I’m gone try again to snuff out an innocent life.  And that I cannot be party to."

With these words he wound the rope around his arm and said: "Now be off with you!"

The ghost in her desperation now grew furious. Her face turned greenish-black, her hair fell in wild disorder down her neck, her eyes grew bloodshot, and her tongue hung far out of her mouth. She stretched forth both hands and tried to seize Endre, but he struck out at her with his clenched fist.

Ghoul fought back fiercely and at one instance her long razor-sharp talons (fingernails like pincers) succeeded in inflicting a deep cut right through the cloth in Endre’s arm and from the deep slash oozed blood which stained his sleeve crimson. Endre did not wince (flinch, recoil) instead, he cooly, dipped his finger at the wound and flecked (splattered) those few drops of blood targeting her face and, since the ghosts cannot endure human blood, with a shrilling hiss she ceased her attack, jumped back (moved off) a few paces to safe distance. Her fury unleashed, growling she next hurled threats and vile abuses at him. Fortunately, just then, announcing the daybreak, the cock in the village had begun to crow. Then the ghost let out an ear deafening shrill cry and disappeared before the first rays of the morning sun hit her.

In the meantime, the farmer-folk of the village having been apprised of the happenings, had rushed forth to thank Endre Bjorn. It seems that after he had left the woman, her husband had unexpectedly come home early and despite her effort to conceal it, recognizing her still lingering, traumatized state, had asked to learn the reason for it.  Subsequently, for the first time ever, he had learned of her long-suffering ordeal and, what had transpired that very night. Her husband and the busybody neighbours, hence, had set out together in haste to intercept and (forgiving his, albeit unintentional, impropriety) thank the stranger for thwarting the evil ghost’s design.

When they came upon Endre, he was still beating the air with his fists and talking wildly. So they called out to him and he told them what had taken place. The rope could still be seen on his blood drenched arm; yet it had grown fast to it and surrounded it in the shape of a red ring of flesh.

Later that morning, dismissing all the fuss, and refusing any reward, Endre, anxious to resume his journey, quietly packed his belongings, then swung himself into his saddle and galloped into distance.

His heart was at peace, knowing that now that things had come to light, the husband and the villagers would effectively deal with the pesky, evil ghoul, if she dared, to ever try harming the innocent young woman again.  

The End

 

THE ISLAND OF THE NINE WHIRLPOOLS

(The Book of Dragons -1901- by E. Nesbit)

The dark arch that led to the witch's cave was hung with a black-and-yellow fringe of live snakes. As the Queen went in, keeping carefully in the middle of the arch, all the snakes lifted their wicked, flat heads and stared at her with their wicked, yellow eyes. You know it is not good manners to stare, even at Royalty, except of course for cats. And the snakes had been so badly brought up that they even put their tongues out at the poor lady. Nasty, thin, sharp tongues they were too.

Now, the Queen's husband was, of course, the King. And besides being a King he was an enchanter, and considered to be quite at the top of his profession, so he was very wise, and he knew that when Kings and Queens want children, the Queen always goes to see a witch. So he gave the Queen the witch's address, and the Queen called on her, though she was very frightened and did not like it at all. The witch was sitting by a fire of sticks, stirring something bubbly in a shiny copper cauldron.

"What do you want, my dear?" she said to the Queen.

"Oh, if you please," said the Queen, "I want a baby—a very nice one. We don't want any expense spared. My husband said—"

"Oh, yes," said the witch. "I know all about him. And so you want a child? Do you know it will bring you sorrow?"

"It will bring me joy first," said the Queen.

"Great sorrow," said the witch.

"Greater joy," said the Queen.

Then the witch said, "Well, have your own way. I suppose it's as much as your place is worth to go back without it?"

"The King would be very much annoyed," said the poor Queen.

"Well, well," said the witch. "What will you give me for the child?"

"Anything you ask for, and all I have," said the Queen.

 

"Then give me your gold crown."

The Queen took it off quickly.

"And your necklace of blue sapphires."

The Queen unfastened it.

"And your pearl bracelets."

The Queen unclasped them.

"And your ruby clasps."

And the Queen undid the clasps.

"Now the lilies from your breast."

The Queen gathered together the lilies.

"And the diamonds of your little bright shoe buckles."

The Queen pulled off her shoes.

Then the witch stirred the stuff that was in the cauldron, and, one by one, she threw in the gold crown and the sapphire necklace and the pearl bracelets and the ruby clasps and the diamonds of the little bright shoe buckles, and last of all she threw in the lilies.

The stuff in the cauldron boiled up in foaming flashes of yellow and blue and red and white and silver, and sent out a sweet scent, and presently the witch poured it out into a pot and set it to cool in the doorway among the snakes.

Then she said to the Queen: "Your child will have hair as golden as your crown, eyes as blue as your sapphires. The red of your rubies will lie on its lips, and its skin will be clear and pale as your pearls. Its soul will be white and sweet as your lilies, and your diamonds will be no clearer than its wits."

"Oh, thank you, thank you," said the Queen, "and when will it come?"

"You will find it when you get home."

"And won't you have something for yourself?" asked the Queen. "Any little thing you fancy—would you like a country, or a sack of jewels?"

"Nothing, thank you," said the witch. "I could make more diamonds in a day than I should wear in a year."

"Well, but do let me do some little thing for you," the Queen went on. "Aren't you tired of being a witch? Wouldn't you like to be a Duchess or a Princess, or something like that?"

"There is one thing I should rather like," said the witch, "but it's hard to get in my trade."

"Oh, tell me what," said the Queen.

"I should like some one to love me," said the witch.

Then the Queen threw her arms around the witch's neck and kissed her half a hundred times. "Why," she said, "I love you better than my life! You've given me the baby—and the baby shall love you too."

"Perhaps it will," said the witch, "and when the sorrow comes, send for me. Each of your fifty kisses will be a spell to bring me to you. Now, drink up your medicine, there's a dear, and run along home."

So, the Queen drank the stuff in the pot, which was quite cool by this time, and she went out under the fringe of snakes, and they all behaved like good Sunday-school children. Some of them even tried to drop a curtsy to her as she went by, though that is not easy when you are hanging wrong way up by your tail. But the snakes knew the Queen was friends with their mistress; so, of course, they had to do their best to be civil.

When the Queen got home, sure enough there was the baby lying in the cradle with the Royal arms blazoned on it, crying as naturally as possible. It had pink ribbons to tie up its sleeves, so the Queen saw at once it was a girl. When the King knew this, he tore his black hair with fury.

"Oh, you are silly, silly Queen!" he said. "Why didn't I marry a clever lady? Did you think I went to all the trouble and expense of sending you to a witch to get a girl? You knew well enough it was a boy I wanted—a boy, an heir, a Prince—to learn all my magic and my enchantments, and to rule the kingdom after me. I'll bet a crown—my crown," he said, "you never even thought to tell the witch what kind you wanted! Did you now?"

And the Queen hung her head and had to confess that she had only asked for a child.

"Very well, madam," said the King, "very well—have your own way. And make the most of your daughter, while she is a child."

The Queen did. All the years of her life had never held half so much happiness as now lived in each of the moments when she held her little baby in her arms. And the years went on, and the King grew more and more clever at magic, and more and more disagreeable at home, and the Princess grew more beautiful and dearer every day she lived.

The Queen and the Princess were feeding the goldfish in the courtyard fountains with crumbs of the Princess's eighteenth birthday cake, when the King came into the courtyard, looking as black as thunder, with his black raven hopping after him. He shook his fist at his family, as indeed he generally did whenever he met them, for he was not a King with pretty home manners.

The raven sat down on the edge of the marble basin and tried to peck the goldfish. It was all he could do to show that he was in the same temper as his master.

"A girl indeed!" said the King angrily. "I wonder you can dare to look me in the face, when you remember how your silliness has spoiled everything."

"You oughtn't to speak to my mother like that," said the Princess. She was eighteen, and it came to her suddenly and all in a moment that she was a grown-up, so she spoke out.

The King could not utter a word for several minutes. He was too angry. But the Queen said, "My dear child, don't interfere," quite crossly, for she was frightened.

And to her husband she said, "My dear, why do you go on worrying about it? Our daughter is not a boy, it is true—but she may marry a clever man who could rule your kingdom after you, and learn as much magic as ever you cared to teach him."

Then the King found his tongue.

"If she does marry," he said, slowly, "her husband will have to be a very clever man—oh, yes, very clever indeed! And he will have to know a very great deal more magic than I shall ever care to teach him."

The Queen knew at once by the King's tone that he was going to be disagreeable.

"Ah," she said, "don't punish the child because she loves her mother."

"I'm not going to punish her for that," said he. "I'm only going to teach her to respect her father."

And without another word he went off to his laboratory and worked all night, boiling different-colored things in crucibles, and copying charms in curious twisted letters from old brown books with mold stains on their yellowy pages.

The next day his plan was all arranged. He took the poor Princess to the Lone Tower, which stands on an island in the sea, a thousand miles from everywhere. He gave her a dowry, and settled a handsome income on her. He engaged a competent dragon to look after her, and also a respectable griffin whose birth and upbringing he knew all about. And he said: "Here you shall stay, my dear, respectful daughter, till the clever man comes to marry you. He'll have to be clever enough to sail a ship through the Nine Whirlpools that spin around the island, and to kill the dragon and the griffin. Till he comes you'll never get any older or any wiser. No doubt he will soon come. You can employ yourself in embroidering your wedding gown. I wish you joy, my dutiful child."

And his carriage, drawn by live thunderbolts (thunder travels very fast), rose in the air and disappeared, and the poor Princess was left, with the dragon and the griffin, on the Island of the Nine Whirlpools.

The Queen, left at home, cried for a day and a night, and then she remembered the witch and called to her. And the witch came, and the Queen told her all.

"For the sake of the twice twenty-five kisses you gave me," said the witch, "I will help you. But it is the last thing I can do, and it is not much. Your daughter is under a spell, and I can take you to her. But, if I do, you will have to be turned to stone, and to stay so till the spell is taken off the child."

"I would be a stone for a thousand years," said the poor Queen, "if at the end of them I could see my dear again."

So, the witch took the Queen in a carriage drawn by live sunbeams (which travel more quickly than anything else in the world, and much quicker than thunder), and so away and away to the Lone Tower on the Island of the Nine Whirlpools. And there was the Princess sitting on the floor in the best room of the Lone Tower, crying as if her heart would break, and the dragon and the griffin were sitting primly on each side of her.

"Oh, Mother, Mother, Mother," she cried, and hung around the Queen's neck as if she would never let go.

"Now," said the witch, when they had all cried as much as was good for them, "I can do one or two other little things for you. Time shall not make the Princess sad. All days will be like one day till her deliverer comes. And you and I, dear Queen, will sit in stone at the gate of the tower. In doing this for you I lose all my witch's powers, and when I say the spell that changes you to stone, I shall change with you, and if ever we come out of the stone, I shall be a witch no more, but only a happy old woman."

Then the three kissed one another again and again, and the witch said the spell, and on each side of the door there was now a stone lady. One of them had a stone crown on its head and a stone scepter in its hand; but the other held a stone tablet with words on it, which the griffin and the dragon could not read, though they had both had a very good education.

And now all days seemed like one day to the Princess, and the next day always seemed the day when her mother would come out of the stone and kiss her again. And the years went slowly by. The wicked King died, and some one else took his kingdom, and many things were changed in the world; but the island did not change, nor the Nine Whirlpools, nor the griffin, nor the dragon, nor the two stone ladies. And all the time, from the very first, the day of the Princess's deliverance was coming, creeping nearer, and nearer, and nearer. But no one saw it coming except the Princess, and she only in dreams. And the years went by in tens and in hundreds, and still the Nine Whirlpools spun around, roaring in triumph the story of many a good ship that had gone down in their swirl, bearing with it some Prince who had tried to win the Princess and her dowry.

And the great sea knew all the other stories of the Princes who had come from very far, and had seen the whirlpools, and had shaken their wise young heads and said: "'Bout ship!" and gone discreetly home to their nice, safe, comfortable kingdoms.

But no one told the story of the deliverer who was to come. And the years went by.

Now, after more scores of years than you would like to add up on your slate, a certain sailor-boy sailed on the high seas with his uncle, who was a skilled skipper. And the boy could reef a sail and coil a rope and keep the ship's nose steady before the wind. And he was as good a boy as you would find in a month of Sundays, and worthy to be a Prince.

Now there is Something which is wiser than all the world—and it knows when people are worthy to be Princes. And this Something came from the farther side of the seventh world and whispered in the boy's ear.

And the boy heard, though he did not know he heard, and he looked out over the black sea with the white foam-horses galloping over it, and far away he saw a light. And he said to the skipper, his uncle: "What light is that?"

Then the skipper said: "All good things defend you, Nigel, from sailing near that light. It is not mentioned in all charts; but it is marked in the old chart I steer by, which was my father's father's before me, and his father's father's before him. It is the light that shines from the Lone Tower that stands above the Nine Whirlpools. And when my father's father was young, he heard from the very old man, his great-great-grandfather, that in that tower an enchanted Princess, fairer than the day, waits to be delivered. But there is no deliverance, so never steer that way; and think no more of the Princess, for that is only an idle tale. But the whirlpools are quite real."

So, of course, from that day Nigel thought of nothing else. And as he sailed hither and thither upon the high seas he saw from time to time the light that shone out to sea across the wild swirl of the Nine Whirlpools. And one night, when the ship was at anchor and the skipper asleep in his bunk, Nigel launched the ship's boat and steered alone over the dark sea towards the light. He dared not go very near till daylight should show him what, indeed, were the whirlpools he had to dread.

But when the dawn came, he saw the Lone Tower standing dark against the pink and primrose of the East, and about its base the sullen swirl of black water, and he heard the wonderful roar of it. So he hung off and on, all that day and for six days besides. And when he had watched seven days he knew something. For you are certain to know something if you give for seven days your whole thought to it, even though it be only the first declension, or the nine-times table, or the dates of the Norman Kings.

What he knew was this: that for five minutes out of the 1,440 minutes that make up a day the whirlpools slipped into silence, while the tide went down and left the yellow sand bare. And every day this happened, but every day it was five minutes earlier than it had been the day before. He made sure of this by the ship's chronometer, which he had thoughtfully brought with him.

So, on the eighth day, at five minutes before noon, Nigel got ready. And when the whirlpools suddenly stopped whirling and the tide sank, like water in a basin that has a hole in it, he stuck to his oars and put his back into his stroke, and presently beached the boat on the yellow sand. Then he dragged it into a cave and sat down to wait.

By five minutes and one second past noon, the whirlpools were black and busy again, and Nigel peeped out of his cave. And on the rocky ledge overhanging the sea he saw a Princess as beautiful as the day, with golden hair and a green gown—and he went out to meet her.

"I've come to save you," he said. "How darling and beautiful you are!"

"You are very good, and very clever, and very dear," said the Princess, smiling and giving him both her hands.

He shut a little kiss in each hand before he let them go.

"So now, when the tide is low again, I will take you away in my boat," he said.

"But what about the dragon and the griffin?" asked the Princess.

"Dear me," said Nigel. "I didn't know about them. I suppose I can kill them?"

"Don't be a silly boy," said the Princess, pretending to be very grown up, for, though she had been on the island time only knows how many years, she was just eighteen, and she still liked pretending. "You haven't a sword, or a shield, or anything!"

"Well, don't the beasts ever go to sleep?"

"Why, yes," said the Princess, "but only once in twenty-four hours, and then the dragon is turned to stone. But the griffin has dreams. The griffin sleeps at teatime every day, but the dragon sleeps every day for five minutes, and every day it is three minutes later than it was the day before."

"What time does he sleep today?" asked Nigel.

"At eleven," said the Princess.

"Ah," said Nigel, "can you do sums?"

"No," said the Princess sadly. "I was never good at them."

"Then I must," said Nigel. "I can, but it's slow work, and it makes me very unhappy. It'll take me days and days."

"Don't begin yet," said the Princess. "You'll have plenty of time to be unhappy when I'm not with you. Tell me all about yourself."

So, he did. And then she told him all about herself.

"I know I've been here a long time," she said, "but I don't know what Time is. And I am very busy sewing silk flowers on a golden gown for my wedding day. And the griffin does the housework—his wings are so convenient and feathery for sweeping and dusting. And the dragon does the cooking—he's hot inside, so, of course, it's no trouble to him; and though I don't know what Time is I'm sure it's time for my wedding day, because my golden gown only wants one more white daisy on the sleeve, and a lily on the bosom of it, and then it will be ready."

Just then they heard a dry, rustling clatter on the rocks above them and a snorting sound. "It's the dragon," said the Princess hurriedly. "Good-bye. Be a good boy, and get your sum done." And she ran away and left him to his arithmetic.

Now, the sum was this: "If the whirlpools stop and the tide goes down once in every twenty-four hours, and they do it five minutes earlier every twenty-four hours, and if the dragon sleeps every day, and he does it three minutes later every day, in how many days and at what time in the day will the tide go down three minutes before the dragon falls asleep?"

It is quite a simple sum, as you see: You could do it in a minute because you have been to a good school and have taken pains with your lessons; but it was quite otherwise with poor Nigel. He sat down to work out his sum with a piece of chalk on a smooth stone. He tried it by practice and the unitary method, by multiplication, and by rule-of-three-and-three-quarters. He tried it by decimals and by compound interest. He tried it by square root and by cube root. He tried it by addition, simple and otherwise, and he tried it by mixed examples in vulgar fractions. But it was all of no use. Then he tried to do the sum by algebra, by simple and by quadratic equations, by trigonometry, by logarithms, and by conic sections. But it would not do. He got an answer every time, it is true, but it was always a different one, and he could not feel sure which answer was right.

And just as he was feeling how much more important than anything else it is to be able to do your sums, the Princess came back. And now it was getting dark.

"Why, you've been seven hours over that sum," she said, "and you haven't done it yet. Look here, this is what is written on the tablet of the statue by the lower gate. It has figures in it. Perhaps it is the answer to the sum."

She held out to him a big white magnolia leaf. And she had scratched on it with the pin of her pearl brooch, and it had turned brown where she had scratched it, as magnolia leaves will do. Nigel read:

AFTER NINE DAYS

T ii. 24.

D ii. 27 Ans.

P.S.—And the griffin is artificial. R.

He clapped his hands softly.

"Dear Princess," he said, "I know that's the right answer. It says R too, you see. But I'll just prove it." So he hastily worked the sum backward in decimals and equations and conic sections, and all the rules he could think of. And it came right every time.

"So now we must wait," said he. And they waited.

And every day the Princess came to see Nigel and brought him food cooked by the dragon, and he lived in his cave, and talked to her when she was there, and thought about her when she was not, and they were both as happy as the longest day in summer. Then at last came The Day. Nigel and the Princess laid their plans.

"You're sure he won't hurt you, my only treasure?" said Nigel.

"Quite," said the Princess. "I only wish I were half as sure that he wouldn't hurt you."

"My Princess," he said tenderly, "two great powers are on our side: the power of Love and the power of Arithmetic. Those two are stronger than anything else in the world."

So, when the tide began to go down, Nigel and the Princess ran out on to the sands, and there, in full sight of the terrace where the dragon kept watch, Nigel took his Princess in his arms and kissed her.

The griffin was busy sweeping the stairs of the Lone Tower, but the dragon saw, and he gave a cry of rage—and it was like twenty engines all letting off steam at the top of their voices inside Cannon Street Station.

And the two lovers stood looking up at the dragon. He was dreadful to look at. His head was white with age—and his beard had grown so long that he caught his claws in it as he walked. His wings were white with the salt that had settled on them from the spray of the sea. His tail was long and thick and jointed and white, and had little legs to it, any number of them—far too many—so that it looked like a very large fat silkworm; and his claws were as long as lessons and as sharp as bayonets.

"Good-bye, love!" cried Nigel, and ran out across the yellow sand toward the sea. He had one end of a cord tied to his arm.

The dragon was clambering down the face of the cliff, and next moment he was crawling and writhing and sprawling and wriggling across the beach after Nigel, making great holes in the sand with his heavy feet—and the very end of his tail, where there were no legs, made, as it dragged, a mark in the sand such as you make when you launch a boat; and he breathed fire till the wet sand hissed again, and the water of the little rock pools got quite frightened, and all went off in steam.

Still Nigel held on and the dragon after him. The Princess could see nothing for the steam, and she stood crying bitterly, but still holding on tight with her right hand to the other end of the cord that Nigel had told her to hold; while with her left she held the ship's chronometer, and looked at it through her tears as he had bidden her look, so as to know when to pull the rope.

On went Nigel over the sand, and on went the dragon after him. And the tide was low, and sleepy little waves lapped the sand's edge.

Now at the lip of the water, Nigel paused and looked back, and the dragon made a bound, beginning a scream of rage that was like all the engines of all the railways in England. But it never uttered the second half of that scream, for now it knew suddenly that it was sleepy—it turned to hurry back to dry land, because sleeping near whirlpools is so unsafe. But before it reached the shore sleep caught it and turned it to stone. Nigel, seeing this, ran shoreward for his life—and the tide began to flow in, and the time of the whirlpools' sleep was nearly over, and he stumbled and he waded and he swam, and the Princess pulled for dear life at the cord in her hand, and pulled him up on to the dry shelf of rock just as the great sea dashed in and made itself once more into the girdle of Nine Whirlpools all around the island.

But the dragon was asleep under the whirlpools, and when he woke up from being asleep, he found he was drowned, so there was an end of him.

"Now, there's only the griffin," said Nigel. And the Princess said: "Yes—only—" And she kissed Nigel and went back to sew the last leaf of the last lily on the bosom of her wedding gown. She thought and thought of what was written on the stone about the griffin being artificial—and next day she said to Nigel: "You know a griffin is half a lion and half an eagle, and the other two halves when they've joined make the leo-griff. But I've never seen him. Yet I have an idea."

So, they talked it over and arranged everything.

When the griffin fell asleep that afternoon at teatime, Nigel went softly behind him and trod on his tail, and at the same time the Princess cried: "Look out! There's a lion behind you."

And the griffin, waking suddenly from his dreams, twisted his large neck around to look for the lion, saw a lion's flank, and fastened its eagle beak in it. For the griffin had been artificially made by the King-enchanter, and the two halves had never really got used to each other. So now the eagle half of the griffin, who was still rather sleepy, believed that it was fighting a lion, and the lion part, being half asleep, thought it was fighting an eagle, and the whole griffin in its deep drowsiness hadn't the sense to pull itself together and remember what it was made of. So the griffin rolled over and over, one end of it fighting with the other, till the eagle end pecked the lion end to death, and the lion end tore the eagle end with its claws till it died. And so the griffin that was made of a lion and an eagle perished, exactly as if it had been made of Kilkenny cats.

"Poor griffin," said the Princess, "it was very good at the housework. I always liked it better than the dragon: It wasn't so hot-tempered."

At that moment there was a soft, silky rush behind the Princess, and there was her mother, the Queen, who had slipped out of the stone statue at the moment the griffin was dead and now came hurrying to take her dear daughter in her arms. The witch was clambering slowly off her pedestal. She was a little stiff from standing still so long.

When they had all explained everything over and over to each other as many times as was good for them, the witch said: "Well, but what about the whirlpools?"

And Nigel said he didn't know. Then the witch said: "I'm not a witch anymore. I'm only a happy old woman, but I know some things still. Those whirlpools were made by the enchanter-King's dropping nine drops of his blood into the sea. And his blood was so wicked that the sea has been trying ever since to get rid of it, and that made the whirlpools. Now you've only got to go out at low tide."

So, Nigel understood and went out at low tide, and found in the sandy hollow left by the first whirlpool a great red ruby. That was the first drop of the wicked King's blood. The next day Nigel found another, and next day another, and so on till the ninth day, and then the sea was as smooth as glass.

The nine rubies were used afterwards in agriculture. You had only to throw them out into a field if you wanted it plowed. Then the whole surface of the land turned itself over in its anxiety to get rid of something so wicked, and in the morning the field was found to be plowed as thoroughly as any young man at Oxford. So the wicked King did some good after all.

When the sea was smooth, ships came from far and wide, bringing people to hear the wonderful story. And a beautiful palace was built, and the Princess was married to Nigel in her gold dress, and they all lived happily as long as was good for them.

The dragon still lies, a stone dragon on the sand, and at low tide the little children play around him and over him.

But the pieces that were left of the griffin were buried under the herb-bed in the palace garden, because it had been so good at housework, and it wasn't its fault that it had been made so badly and put to such poor work as guarding a lady from her lover.

I have no doubt that you will wish to know what the Princess lived on during the long years when the dragon did the cooking. My dear, she lived on her income—and that is a thing that a great many people would like to be able to do.

THE END.