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Many Thanks, B - you're always so supportive of my work - it's really appreciated. Big hugs! Hopefully we'll see you soon. x
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Once upon a time her daddy had bought her a book about dragons. It was a book filled with wonder. Tales of romance and adventure. Pictures of unbridalled beauty. As well as information about the capture and training of dragons. At the time she had thought that it was just a story book.
It was one of her favourite childhood possessions, one of the very few items that she had kept with her as she had grown up and left home. She had believed in the dragons in the book as a child. Believed that they really existed. Even when logic and grown up cynicism had been drummed into her she had still believed, deep down, that these magical, mythical dragons were real. Even though the world around her denied their existence.
What she didn't know, however was that this was not a common book. There were only ever three copies in the entire world. And now there were only two.
Still very confused, but trying her best not to show it, nor her disgust at the fetid smells arising from the man, she stated for the record, "You must be Mr. Myrddin." She stepped forward with her hand out, in the age old greeting. " I'm ...."
"Oh, I know who you are, Mizzzz Sheridan. I may run an ancient book shop, but I still occassionally pick up the funny papers," came the reply, whilst steadfastly ignoring the proferred hand. "Now, you said something of import - you, you, you," he stammered slowly, "called me a 'donkey fondler.'" He started to hyperventilate, great convultions started to wrack his body.
Stacy turned to face Arthur. "What's up with him? Is he having a fit? Heart attack? Where's his medicine?" When, strangely, she got no reply from him more than a slight shrug of the shoulder, she turned back to the strange old man. "I'm sorry - I didn't mean any harm - I ......" she blustered.
He took three deeper than previous breaths, seeming to reach a point of saturation, and then he exploded.
"BWAhhahahahahahahah!!!!!!" he laughed with every cell in his body. He hugged his sides, curling into a foetal ball, and sliding to the floor. ".....donkey fondler ..... bwah ....ha.....ha !"
Stacy looked on in amazement.
After a goodly thirty seconds of uncontrollable laughter, the convulsing abated, and he sat up to expose two rivers of tears running down his cheeks. He sniffed. He tried, not very successfully, to compose himself. In fact, he sniggered on and off for the next few minutes.
Arthur stepped past the gobsmacked Stacy and offered his hand to his boss. "Get up you old fart," he said, with a great deal of respect and love in his voice.
"See? That's as much in the realms of verbal sparring as I ever get around here. He may be good for reaching books on the top shelf, but not for anything requiring intellect," Myrddin sneered as he was picked up off the floor. "And most people who come in here just don't have the chutzpahs to insult me like that. Pity."
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"Dragons - one of my favourite subjects, actually. I think that I actually wrote the first book on the subject..... Not nearly as good as some of the ones that came later, but then, they all stole from me anyway. Just with prettier pictures. I'll tell you what - I don't actually happen to have the original, but, assuming that yours was destroyed along with your mountain home, I do have the only other copy. Just give me a minute." And so saying, Myrddin wandered back to the room at the rear of the shop.
"Can I offer you anything?" asked Arthur.
Stacy gave him a what-are-you-after stare. "No, I meant, may I get you a cup of tea or something while you're waiting?" he blushed. "Coffee, cream no sugar please." She hadn't got the hang of Tetleys yet. "Okay, I'll be back soon - feel free to look around," said Arthur, turning his back and following Myrddin to the rear of the shop.
And she did - picking up books in Greek, heiroglyphics, a signed copy of Magick Book 4, early sketches by Da Vinci, and various others. Then she noticed something glinting atop a bookcase. It was a leather helmet, the kind worn by knights before the advent of full body armour. Interwoven into it were golden circlets. "Wow", said Stacy, searching around for other artifacts above her. And she found a few. A great rams horn, complete with mouth piece. A scabbarded sword, that looked as if it had been made yesterday such was the glint on its blade. The word Albion was etched into the flat of the blade in an ancient font. A wooden box containing Otto Von Bismarks duelling pistols. A fencing sword with the monogram CDB on the handle. A white shield with a red cross on it, and next to that a 12 foot long lance, with the wickedest barbed point on it. A real killing implement. That one didn't take any prisoners.
"Hey, I like that lance - a lot!" Stacy said to no-one in particular.
The last thing she expected was for Arthur to come charging out from the room at the back like a bear, threatening to kill the motherfucker. Okay, perhaps not quite the last thing that she expected. Her skin turning yellow and purple diagonal stripes was probably THE last thing she expected, but it was quite far up the list, though not quite as high as, say, talking dinosaurs in pinstripe suits sauntering into the shop and asking if they had the latest Barney annual. You get the picture, I hope. She was pretty surprised.
"Just like Pavlovs dog!" Myrddin said, appearing at the door shaking his head.
"Is that the one that ate the meringue?" asked Stacy, having a blonde moment, though she did know slightly more about desserts than psychoanalysis.
"No, it's the one in the HMV adverts."
"Oh. How do you know his owners name then? And what's he got to do with Arthur?"
From: Scatland | Registered: Sep 2003
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"That's young Georges lance, you know," said the old man.
"George .... Pavlov? The man who owns the dog?" asked Stacy, getting more and more flustered.
"No - forget the fucking dog. George. He's well known in these parts, as the patron saint of England. St George is still venerated in a large number of places, by followers of particular occupations and sufferers from certain diseases. George is the patron saint of Aragon, Catalonia, Georgia, Lithuania, Palestine, Portugal, Germany and Greece; and of Moscow, Istanbul, Genoa and Venice (second to St Mark). He is patron of soldiers, cavalry and chivalry; of farmers and field workers, Boy Scouts and butchers; of horses, riders and saddlers; and of sufferers from leprosy, plague and syphilis. He is particularly the patron saint of archers, which is strange considering that he is most known for using that very lance you see before you to slay a dragon and save the life of a fair maiden."
"Oh, that George."
"Truth be told, it's actually a load of shite. That's the story for the tourists. More lies perpetuated by the Christians. But what he actually was, was a Roman soldier who was decapitated for complaining about the persecution of Christians, and a whole host of legends has arisen around him ."
"So, you mean it's a fake?" asked Stacy.
Myrddin nodded slowly.
"So why do you keep it?" she asked.
"It is a genuine lance, and has killed many a rider in battle - it just wasn't St. Georges." Myrddin leant forward and whispered in her ear, "I've been hoping for a long time that someone would say just exactly what you just said." He continued before Stacy could utter the Huuh? that was forming in her head, "Cos I'm just a nasty old bugger sometimes, and I need these small things to brighten up my interminally long days."
From: Scatland | Registered: Sep 2003
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"Anyway - dragons. How urgent is your quest for knowledge?" asked Myrddin.
"Well, I think it's more of a calling than a quest," answered Stacy as honestly as she could. "I feel the need to find out all that there is to know about them. So I thought I'd start with a copy of the book that I knew, but I couldn't for the life of me find one, which is how I found my way here. But you knew that, didn't you?"
"And this has something to do with your man friend, doesn't it. And your fight with the metamorph," stated the old man, ignoring the question..
"Well ......"
"Now, search your soul and tell me truthfully."
"I can't deny that the fight with Kant piqued my interest again, and that part of me wants revenge, even though I saw her die. But I've always had a fascination about dragons, it was just put on hold for a while when I joined the police."
"If you had denied your need for revenge then this conversation would have ended here. So, you just want to kill them all, is that it? Is this a bored little rich girl thinking that she can do whatever she wants just because she's got more money than half the countries in the United Nations? Not that morality is in any way a field in which I am an expert."
"What, only half of them? Not at all. Money's not important to me. If my accounts were public then you could see the good I'm trying to do with it. I'm not denying that I'm spending some on myself and my friends - but there's a lot more to it than that. And no, I don't want to kill any dragons, let alone all of them. I respect them, they're beautiful, magical creatures."
"And they kill people, as you yourself have seen first hand - what about the revenge you wanted a moment ago?"
"That was revenge on Kant, not on all dragons. I know she wasn't actually a dragon, she just used the form to further her evil desires, because it was the most perfect form to use," Stacy said, giving Myrddin a look which could be read as "do I look fucking stupid?"
"So, what price are you prepared to pay for the best education that money can't buy?" Myrddin asked. "And you shut up Arthur, just stay out of it," he said over his shoulder, causing Arthurs mouth to shut before any words had formed.
"Well, Mister Myrddin, since you've already claimed to read the funny papers you'll know that I can buy just about anything I want - and everything has a price. So cut the BS and tell me what it'll cost me," Stacy said in a mixture of kitten playfulness and tiger rip-your-balls-off-ness.
"Ah, my dear Mizz Sheridan has spunk ...."
"Not for a couple of weeks she hasn't had," Stacy chimed up, to a snigger from Arthur.
"... and doesn't wish to play games. Dear me. Cut to the chase, I suppose would be the colloquial terminology," Myrddin said, in a faux-sad voice. "My price is...." he started, pretending to think about it for a few seconds. Stacy folded her arms and started whistling under her breath and tapping her foot. "..... a blow job!" Myrddin said, triumphantly turning to see the look on her face. Arthur put his hands over his eyes and shook his head, obviously embarrassed.
Stacys expression didn't change, but she stopped tapping, and then a few seconds later, whistling. She looked him square in the eye. "No problem whatsoever..."
From: Scatland | Registered: Sep 2003
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"..... I'll be back in about ten minutes," and so saying she turned and made for the door.
"But.... ?" stammered Myrddin.
"I'll just go back and procure the services of one of those skanky crack ho's that I passed on the way here. I'm sure they'll be only too glad to get away from shivering to death in a public doorway for a few seconds. Do you want a relatively clean one, or are you not fussy - I'm guessing the latter. But that'll only cost me a couple of bucks - I thought you could come up with something better than that. Oh, and I'll need another of these invite things to get back in again," she said over her shoulder, picking up a business card from the pile on an ancient writing desk as she passed.
"I wouldn't do that Miss Sheridan," said Arthur.
"What, don't you think I can handle myself in a city like London?" she asked over her shoulder.
"No - we're no longer in London."
"Excuse me?" she asked, turning round to face the two men. "You have GOT to be kidding."
"No, I'm not. Feel free to have a look out of the door - but if you leave you won't get back in for a long time," Arthur explained.
"Well, okay," Stacy said, dubiously.
She walked back over to the door and slowly pulled it open. There before her, as promised, was no longer the Victorian mall with the quaint little black and white tiling. She stared instead into a night of snow drifted hills, lit only by the light from the myriad stars above. And a rectangle of light extending out from the shop doorway complete with her outlined silhouette.
She stuck her head out of the door and looked around. Apart from a chill wind in the face, she could see that it wasn't an illusion, and there was no sign of civilization anywhere. She wondered if the shop retained its Victorian quaintness wherever it went, but when she turned her head to look at the fascade all that she could see was the outline of the door in the winter landscape.
She closed the door behind her as she pulled her head back into the shop.
She turned round to face the two men waiting behind her with 'told-you-so' faces ready.
"I guess it is going to take me slightly longer than ten minutes to find those girls again," she said apologetically.
Both men smiled at her attempted humour.
"So, where exactly are we?" she asked.
"Wales," the men said in stereo.
"Don't be silly - they're big blue things that swim in the sea like big dolphins. We must be in Holland, or one of those other Scandinavian countries," she added.
Myrddin was the first to recover his composure enough to talk. "Tywysogaeth Cymru, or the Principality of Wales is one of the four constituents of the United Kingdom, along with England, Scotland and Northern Ireland. It's people are Welsh, and they have a separate language all of their own, although most of us speak English these days. We are proud of the fact that we did not get overrun by the Angles and Saxons that overran our only mainland neighbour, England, and are, hence, more purely British than they are. Mongrels. 90% of the land area is hilly, and suitable only for rearing mangy sheep. We are mainly known these days for male voice choirs, rugby union and the export of Tom Jones, the late Richard Burton and more recently Catherine Zeta Jones. Oh, the shame of it."
Arthur had almost recovered as well. "Unfortunately I don't think we have such a thing as a current atlas in stock that we can sell you."
They both let the Scandinavian issue slide.
[ November 01, 2006, 07:20 AM: Message edited by: Ghost of Numf El ]
From: Scatland | Registered: Sep 2003
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"We're almost at our destination," said Arthur. "Decisions need to be made. Miss Sheridan, how serious are you about all of this? Are you willing to live and breathe dragons for the next year without access to the outside world?"
"Yes, I am," came the sharp reply.
"Good, then there is a price to be paid for the passage and introduction. The price for the education must be negotiated with the Dragon Master, it has nothing to do with us," said Arthur.
"Damn, things are going too fast - I don't have time for that blow job any more," Myrddin lamented. "I know! Your payment wil be a curl of hair!"
"But," said Stacy, running her fingers through her long straight blond hair, "my hair isn't curly."
Myrddins eyes brightened, and a smile spread across his wrinkly fizzog. Slowly and repeatedly he pointed down.
Stacys eyes followed, until she was looking at her own crotch. "Oh," she said.
A resigned look crossed her eyes, and she held out her hand. "Scissors?" she asked. Looking up she noticed a look of embarrassed shame pass over Arthurs face as he handed her a small pair of nail scissors.
She turned around, away from from the two men. Shoulders hunched as she leant over.
Zzzziipp.
Snip.
Zzzzzipp.
Stacy straightened up and turned around to face the men. Arthur was resolutely looking out of the window. She held out the scissors to him, forcing him to engage in the proceedings. A slight nod of her head vindicated Arthur of what was happening. He smiled slightly in thanks, still obviously embarrassed, but at least he met her eye. She smiled back.
Then she turned her head back to the small wizened man.
"Do your worst," Stacy said icily, opening out her hand for him to remove the small curl of hair from her palm. "I know how precious a magic you can work with that."
"Do you now?" he asked, victorious in his dealings. "Oh good, a natural blond." He took a small envelope from his inside pocket and placed the curl in gently, closing it, and returning it once more to his pocket. Women! It was almost too easy for a man of his cunning.
There was a slight jarring as the shop settled into place.
"Have we arrived?" Stacey asked, still icy.
"Yes, you may go," Myrddin said as Arthur went to open the door.
"You can do better than this," Stacy said quietly to Arthur as he passed her. "Not any more I can't," he said with resignation as he found the door handle and turned it. "Once upon a time maybe, but I would die out there now." "I'm sorry to hear that," Stacey said as she walked past him. "Goodbye Arthur, I hope we meet again."
When she turned to look there was nothing there - the shop had vanished.
"And goodbye to you too, Merlin. Have fun with the hair you old scrote." She was owe Harbi a lot for this one - thanks to her forewarning she wouldn't end up as the wizards love slave in her sleep. She put her hand down the front of her jeans and pulled out a small plastic bag. In it were the remains of the clippings she had picked up from the dog groomers that morning. She threw it away.
"What was that?" she heard from behind her.
She turned to her fate.
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