| THE LORELEI SIGNAL |
.
| Written by Rhonda Porrett / Artwork by Marge Simon |
| Make a donation to this writer |
| A Breath of Ill Intent |
The dragon’s curse scrambled over charred saddles, broken arrows, and melted swords. Vetch chased after
the curse, burlap bag in hand, careful not to cut herself on the refuse of failed knights. Heroic fools, think they
could kill a dragon with mere mortal strength. Ha! You have to kill a dragon at its source.
The curse was quick, but Vetch was quicker. She captured the blue beetle then shoved it into the bag. Sweat
beaded her forehead, and she wheezed from exertion. Vetch rested on the carcass of a horse, shooing away
flies.
There was nothing glorious about killing dragons. The men in their armor with heads so full of bravado, riding
out to slay the dragon and win the accolades of the citizens, were ill prepared for what awaited them. If only
they had analyzed the reasons for a dragon’s existence, they would have known that swords and arrows
were useless against such powerful magic. But knights were men of action. From inside the bag, the beetle
produced a wavering, raspy drone. A thunderous screech answered its call.
The dragon was blue like the curse. It flew in circles around Vetch. The aroma of putrid flesh swooshed
through the air with each flap of its wings. Feathers covered the dragon’s body, except for shiny scales
shimmering on the underbelly and tail. The beast soared upward then dived. Flaming spittle sprayed down
upon the land.
Vetch stood, lifted the curse trapped in the bag to show the dragon. Another loud roar shook the air. “Who
created you?” she said.
The dragon landed on the ground. Its eyes were filled with fury, and smoke billowed from its nostrils. As long
as she held the curse, she was safe. “Who created you?” The beast hissed fire, close enough for Vetch to feel
the heat but not close enough for her to feel the burn.
Maybe the dragon didn’t have the power of speech, maybe it was conjured by an inferior magician using a
second rate spell. She opened the bag and reached inside. The legs of the curse tickled her fingers. The
dragon’s tail slammed into a boulder, pulverizing rock into flying rubble. Vetch lifted the curse out of the bag.
It was neither scary nor dangerous. The beetle fit in the palm of her hand. She removed a knife from her skirt
pocket, unsheathed the small blade with her teeth, turned the beetle upside-down, then split the hard
exoskeleton.
Black smoke fumed out of the blue shell, the breath of evil intent escaping its physical boundaries. The curse
was broken. The dragon howled, hacked up a wad of charcoal like a cat coughing up a hairball, then collapsed
into the rubble—defeated by an old woman.
Could a dragon conjured by a human die? Or was it just a broken thing, a tool, a weapon created for carnage
like the broken spears and arrows piled around the massive carcass? She returned the knife to her pocket
then inspected the dragon.
Its forked tongue, slick and black like a string of tar, spilled from the side of its open mouth. A forked tongue
meant the conjurer hid his or her ill intent under the guise of good will. She scrutinized the rest of the dragon:
feathers, scales, feet like the talons of a bird, no sexual organs, small head with a pointed snout, eyes
clouded over as the abnormally quick process of decay set in. The fearsome dragon reminded her of a big,
blue chicken
Although divining the location of the curse had taken two days, defeating an actual dragon was easy once
you knew the secret. The mystical beasts did not conceal their emotions, lie, or bribe the town elders to
escape punishment. Now came the hard part, finding the one who conjured the spell.
#
“The culprit has confessed,” the Honorable Sir Surgeman informed Vetch. “He is imprisoned and awaiting trial.
Your services are no longer required.”
They stood in the town square with cobblestones under their feet and blue sky overhead. Pigeons cooed and
women gossiped. A man balanced on a ladder, hanging a sign in the shape of a shoe over a storefront
window, and the aroma of cinnamon and apples wafted out of the bakery.
“May I speak with the prisoner?” Vetch said.
“For what purpose?”
“To hear it with my own ears.”
“I cannot allow his mind to be tainted before the trial by any outside influence.” Sir Surgeman’s strong,
resonant voice was in sharp contrast to his white hair and considerable limp. He was the most agreeable of
the town elders, tipping his hat to every woman he passed on the street and lifting his cane in salute to
every gentleman. “The prisoner is a simpleminded man.”
“A simple mind cannot conjure dragons,” Vetch said.
“The young man had in his possession a book which.... I’ve told you too much already. This information must
be kept secret until the trial. Why don’t you come? Your expertise in these matters is always appreciated.”
“I believe I will, Sir Surgeman. May I inquire as to the nature of your injury?”
“Ah, an unfortunate accident. I fell from my horse about six months ago. It still gives me considerable pain.”
He tipped his hat and smiled. “Good day, Madame Vetch, and thank you again.”
Vetch did not return the smile. Years of training in the dark arts and wisdom that came only from age gave her
a sense she was being lied to. But why would a town elder get involved in something as scandalous as
conjuring dragons? She should leave. Bad things were fermenting beneath the calm exterior of everyday life
in the town of Dingerland.
Curiosity and a yearning for the truth made her stay.
#
Vetch watched the trial from a bench in the gallery of a courtroom crowded with people. The five town elders
sat at a long desk on a raised stage. Maroon cloth draped the desk, and plaques depicting a noble eagle,
peaceful dove, and wise owl hung high on the wall behind the elders. In the middle of the room stood the
accused. The young man’s nose, ears, and feet were disproportionately large in comparison to his gaunt
body. An unfortunate fellow in looks as well as luck.
“Where did you get the book?” one of the elders, a woman, asked.
“Found it.”
“Where?”
The accused shrugged. “Don’t remember.”
“Did you conjure the dragon?” Sir Surgeman said.
The man shrugged again.
Sir Surgeman addressed the spectators in the room, “The elders will discuss this matter in private before
rendering a-”
“He’s innocent!” Vetch blurted out.
“Madame Vetch,” Sir Surgeman leaned back in his chair, “the dragon slayer.” Spectators in the room
whispered to each other. “Would you like to say something in the accused’s defense?”
She lifted her short, lumpy figure out of the bench and stood next to the tall, unsightly man. Subdued laughter
assaulted her ears at the strange pairing. “Conjuring a dragon,” Vetch said, “is a skill that takes years to
master. This man states he found the book only six months ago, not long enough to learn the craft.”
“Perhaps the accused lied about when he found the book,” the female elder said.
“Burn him!” a woman standing near the doorway screamed. “Murderer! My son, a great and noble knight,
died trying to kill the dragon and save the town.”
Sir Surgeman raised the palm of his hand. “My dear woman, your testimony has been taken into account.
Please, these proceedings must not devolve into chaos. We, the elders, understand your pain at such a great
loss.”
“What about motive?” Vetch said. “It has not been proven that the accused harbored any strong desire for
destruction, vengeance, death.”
“The accused has remained silent during much of our questioning,” a dark-skinned elder said. “It is possible
the young man before us felt inadequate when confronted with the strength, the heroic qualities of the
knights. Jealousy is powerful emotion.”
“There has been no testimony to support such a finding. Postpone the judgment, and I will gather information
for his defense.”
“Burn him,” the wild-eyed woman cried, “just as the dragon burned my son.”
“Making a dragon requires an intellect far beyond the capacity I’ve seen in him.” Vetch glanced at accused to
gauge his reaction. His expression remained emotionless at the insult.
“I believe,” Sir Surgeman said, “the dragon’s forked tongue is indicative of a dual personality. It is possible
the accused is pretending to be unsophisticated to escape punishment.”
Vetch widened her eyes for effect. “How did you know the dragon had a forked tongue?”
“A logical assumption.”
She spoke loudly for everyone to hear, “An assumption?”
Sir Surgeman’s left eye twitched. “I have been entrusted with the title of elder for fifteen years, sat in
judgment of many trials: robbery, murder, treason, rape, fraud…and witchcraft. Ignorance is a common ploy
used by criminals to escape justice.”
Vetch nodded. “I apologize. You, of course, are not on trial.” She scrutinized the people in the courtroom. Did
they know? Did Sir Surgeman know that she knew?
She must be careful. Accusing an elder of such a serious crime without proof could get her put in jail. Or
burned at the stake. “I urge all of the elders to reason carefully on this matter.”
“Due to the nature of this crime,” the dark-skinned elder said, “there can be no delay in justice. Madame
Vetch, we must refuse your request for more time to prepare a defense for the accused. Has he not the
power of speech to defend himself? The good citizens of Dingerland need closure on this matter.”
The elders filed out of the room, and guards escorted the accused back to prison. The next day, the verdict
was posted on a sheet of parchment secured to a signpost in the town square. Vetch elbowed her way to the
front of the mob to view the decision. She rose up on tip-toes to read the verdict.
Guilty. To be burned at the stake for the public to view. The crowd murmured in approval. All five elders signed
the parchment condemning an innocent man to death.
#
Vetch entered the prison. She was escorted to a cell with a beam of light streaming in through a barred
window. The guard left her alone with the condemned. He was not much more than a boy.
The young man sat on the floor and held a grasshopper in his hand. “It sings to me.”
“And what does it sing?” she asked.
“A song about a plant growing at the edge of a volcano. The plant has many seeds. Some seeds are blown in
the wind to new places, some fall into the volcano. I don’t understand the song. Even the grasshopper is
smarter than me.”
“Why didn’t you defend yourself?” Vetch said.
“I get nervous in front of so many people. It’s like my tongue doesn’t work sometimes. Besides, it’s meant to
be this way.”
A singing grasshopper. A faulty tongue. It couldn’t be. Even witches and wizards would not tamper with such
laws of nature. “What is your name?”
“Adam.”
“Adam,” she whispered, horrified by the reality of the breathing, speaking, feeling person before her. Person?
Sir Surgeman entered and stood beside Vetch. He gazed affectionately at the man behind bars. “He is
beautiful.”
“What have you done?” Vetch said.
A spider crawled on the wall of the cell. Adam captured the creature, put it in his mouth, then chewed without
thought to the strangeness of his actions. He winced, spitting the mangled spider out.
“Imperfect though,” Sir Surgeman said. “He is a prototype.”
“To conjure something of this magnitude would require a,” she looked at his cane, “sacrifice.”
“My little toe.”
“Why would you create such a being, only to condemn it to death?”
“As I said, he is imperfect. Adam is a mere shell meant to do my bidding, as was the dragon. The dragon was
a diversion. All the high-minded knights left to save Dingerland, and the townsfolk were consumed by
admiration and grief for the foolish fellows. The dragon’s been the talk of the town, leaving me and my
companions free to experiment without their meddling.”
“Did you use chicken’s blood to conjure the dragon?” she asked.
“Yes.”
A blue beetle and chicken’s blood to create a dragon. A grasshopper and a toe to create…. Vetch stared at
the unthinkable behind bars. Was he a mere shell, a tool whose usefulness had past? “If I kill the
grasshopper?”
“It will save us the trouble of burning the man.”
“Why?”
“Because I can,” Sir Surgeman said. “Don’t act so innocent. You’ve felt the rush of power, the pleasures of
bending the forces of nature to your will. You were a great conjurer once, perhaps the greatest until I created
Adam. Join us. We can create armies, a new breed of people. I will vouch for your character if you are ever
charged with a crime.”
Vetch knew better than to trust someone with a forked tongue. She would be the perfect scapegoat. “I have
paid dearly for my past.”
“A new era is evolving, an era where conjurers, magicians, witches, and wizards will no longer be persecuted.
The other elders and I have the ability to change laws, but it takes time. The citizens need to be educated.
You will be admired,” Sir Surgeman said. “You can practice in peace.”
Peace, what a strange word. Vetch hadn’t known peace since she was condemned to community service. It
had been ten years since she last conjured a dragon—and what a splendid beast it was. A female named
Suzy Lou with a shrill, gut-wrenching shriek and a desire for demolition. The dragon also had the power of
speech and nimble fingers for playing backgammon. What fun she and Suzy Lou had destroying the House of
Elders in the big city. How boring life had been since Suzy Lou’s demise and her conviction. Vetch had only
received a sentence of community service because no one had died during the attack.
To be free to create again, how wonderful! “Yes, I will join you. But first I need to get my books and the
things I’ve hidden so the authorities would not confiscate them. I will return to Dingerland tonight.”
Sir Surgeman tipped his hat amiably as if they were merely passing on the street rather than consenting to
break the law. “Of course.”
#
The snake was quick, but Vetch was quicker. She caught the reptile then shoved it into a bag.
Vetch built a bonfire while singing a song to the three animals housed inside three burlap bags. The song was
about the enigma of life, judges being judged, and townsfolk blinded by revenge. “Serve me well, my precious
ones, tonight we gorge ourselves on the guilty.”
She took the pocketknife out of her skirt, unsheathed it, then cut the tip of her finger. Removing a snapping
turtle from the first bag, she smeared a drop of her blood onto the head. Her lips touched the turtle’s shell. A
breath of ill intent escaped her lungs. “You shall be a fortress, impenetrable, unyielding, deaf to the pleas of
those blinded by self-interest.” She put the turtle on the ground.
Out of the next bag came a blackbird. A drop of her blood fell onto the feathers. Vetch breathed on the bird.
“You shall be escape, my dear one. A song for the oppressed, and an ear for the truth. You are reason and
the swift fist of justice.” She set the bird on the branch of a nearby tree. It did not fly away.
The snake slithered out of the last bag into her hand. Its tail curled around her wrist. Her blood and breath
touched the reptile. “You, dear one, are mayhem and fear.” The serpent moved up her arm and onto her
shoulder. She squeezed three more drops of blood from her finger onto the flames then spit on the bonfire.
Her creations would be able to breathe fire in addition to having the power of speech.
The first star twinkled in the sky. Vetch sat on a log and ate a snack of fruit and dried meat. She shared bits
of food with the newly formed curses, listening to bullfrogs croak in the pine-scented forest. Her eyes closed,
and her head drooped until her chin touched her chest.
The ground shook, and she awoke with a start. Out of the trees stomped a terrifying dragon with the hard
exterior of a turtle. It bit trunks of trees in half, pushed boulders with its impervious shell, and swung its
clubbed tail to make craters in the earth. Vetch clapped with glee.
Flapping in the night sky was a dragon covered in feathers, its black body blotted out the stars as it flew. The
breathtaking beast landed next to the bonfire.
“Where is your brother?” she asked.
They glanced at each other, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Behind you,” the feathered beast said.
Vetch spun around to see the third dragon close enough for her to touch. Its fangs were bared and dripping
venom. She trembled in adoration. “Magnificent!” The frightening beast moved swiftly and silently to join its
siblings.
“Tonight the town will suffer,” she said. “We will free Adam, burn the courthouse, and become hated
criminals. Sir Surgeman must not survive.”
“Your will is our will,” the fanged dragon hissed.
She knelt on the ground and spoke to the vulnerable curses, “Hide from all humans. In the deepest hole, the
highest tree, and the murkiest pond. Be careful.” Vetch climbed onto the neck of the winged dragon. “To
Dingerland and the Elders.”
She soared through the air, the happiest of hags in the whole land. Her cloak billowed in the wind. She
cackled and the dragon, black as night, shot an inferno of red flames from its jaws. Sir Surgeman was wrong.
He was not the greatest conjurer ever.
He wasn’t even close.
the curse, burlap bag in hand, careful not to cut herself on the refuse of failed knights. Heroic fools, think they
could kill a dragon with mere mortal strength. Ha! You have to kill a dragon at its source.
The curse was quick, but Vetch was quicker. She captured the blue beetle then shoved it into the bag. Sweat
beaded her forehead, and she wheezed from exertion. Vetch rested on the carcass of a horse, shooing away
flies.
There was nothing glorious about killing dragons. The men in their armor with heads so full of bravado, riding
out to slay the dragon and win the accolades of the citizens, were ill prepared for what awaited them. If only
they had analyzed the reasons for a dragon’s existence, they would have known that swords and arrows
were useless against such powerful magic. But knights were men of action. From inside the bag, the beetle
produced a wavering, raspy drone. A thunderous screech answered its call.
The dragon was blue like the curse. It flew in circles around Vetch. The aroma of putrid flesh swooshed
through the air with each flap of its wings. Feathers covered the dragon’s body, except for shiny scales
shimmering on the underbelly and tail. The beast soared upward then dived. Flaming spittle sprayed down
upon the land.
Vetch stood, lifted the curse trapped in the bag to show the dragon. Another loud roar shook the air. “Who
created you?” she said.
The dragon landed on the ground. Its eyes were filled with fury, and smoke billowed from its nostrils. As long
as she held the curse, she was safe. “Who created you?” The beast hissed fire, close enough for Vetch to feel
the heat but not close enough for her to feel the burn.
Maybe the dragon didn’t have the power of speech, maybe it was conjured by an inferior magician using a
second rate spell. She opened the bag and reached inside. The legs of the curse tickled her fingers. The
dragon’s tail slammed into a boulder, pulverizing rock into flying rubble. Vetch lifted the curse out of the bag.
It was neither scary nor dangerous. The beetle fit in the palm of her hand. She removed a knife from her skirt
pocket, unsheathed the small blade with her teeth, turned the beetle upside-down, then split the hard
exoskeleton.
Black smoke fumed out of the blue shell, the breath of evil intent escaping its physical boundaries. The curse
was broken. The dragon howled, hacked up a wad of charcoal like a cat coughing up a hairball, then collapsed
into the rubble—defeated by an old woman.
Could a dragon conjured by a human die? Or was it just a broken thing, a tool, a weapon created for carnage
like the broken spears and arrows piled around the massive carcass? She returned the knife to her pocket
then inspected the dragon.
Its forked tongue, slick and black like a string of tar, spilled from the side of its open mouth. A forked tongue
meant the conjurer hid his or her ill intent under the guise of good will. She scrutinized the rest of the dragon:
feathers, scales, feet like the talons of a bird, no sexual organs, small head with a pointed snout, eyes
clouded over as the abnormally quick process of decay set in. The fearsome dragon reminded her of a big,
blue chicken
Although divining the location of the curse had taken two days, defeating an actual dragon was easy once
you knew the secret. The mystical beasts did not conceal their emotions, lie, or bribe the town elders to
escape punishment. Now came the hard part, finding the one who conjured the spell.
#
“The culprit has confessed,” the Honorable Sir Surgeman informed Vetch. “He is imprisoned and awaiting trial.
Your services are no longer required.”
They stood in the town square with cobblestones under their feet and blue sky overhead. Pigeons cooed and
women gossiped. A man balanced on a ladder, hanging a sign in the shape of a shoe over a storefront
window, and the aroma of cinnamon and apples wafted out of the bakery.
“May I speak with the prisoner?” Vetch said.
“For what purpose?”
“To hear it with my own ears.”
“I cannot allow his mind to be tainted before the trial by any outside influence.” Sir Surgeman’s strong,
resonant voice was in sharp contrast to his white hair and considerable limp. He was the most agreeable of
the town elders, tipping his hat to every woman he passed on the street and lifting his cane in salute to
every gentleman. “The prisoner is a simpleminded man.”
“A simple mind cannot conjure dragons,” Vetch said.
“The young man had in his possession a book which.... I’ve told you too much already. This information must
be kept secret until the trial. Why don’t you come? Your expertise in these matters is always appreciated.”
“I believe I will, Sir Surgeman. May I inquire as to the nature of your injury?”
“Ah, an unfortunate accident. I fell from my horse about six months ago. It still gives me considerable pain.”
He tipped his hat and smiled. “Good day, Madame Vetch, and thank you again.”
Vetch did not return the smile. Years of training in the dark arts and wisdom that came only from age gave her
a sense she was being lied to. But why would a town elder get involved in something as scandalous as
conjuring dragons? She should leave. Bad things were fermenting beneath the calm exterior of everyday life
in the town of Dingerland.
Curiosity and a yearning for the truth made her stay.
#
Vetch watched the trial from a bench in the gallery of a courtroom crowded with people. The five town elders
sat at a long desk on a raised stage. Maroon cloth draped the desk, and plaques depicting a noble eagle,
peaceful dove, and wise owl hung high on the wall behind the elders. In the middle of the room stood the
accused. The young man’s nose, ears, and feet were disproportionately large in comparison to his gaunt
body. An unfortunate fellow in looks as well as luck.
“Where did you get the book?” one of the elders, a woman, asked.
“Found it.”
“Where?”
The accused shrugged. “Don’t remember.”
“Did you conjure the dragon?” Sir Surgeman said.
The man shrugged again.
Sir Surgeman addressed the spectators in the room, “The elders will discuss this matter in private before
rendering a-”
“He’s innocent!” Vetch blurted out.
“Madame Vetch,” Sir Surgeman leaned back in his chair, “the dragon slayer.” Spectators in the room
whispered to each other. “Would you like to say something in the accused’s defense?”
She lifted her short, lumpy figure out of the bench and stood next to the tall, unsightly man. Subdued laughter
assaulted her ears at the strange pairing. “Conjuring a dragon,” Vetch said, “is a skill that takes years to
master. This man states he found the book only six months ago, not long enough to learn the craft.”
“Perhaps the accused lied about when he found the book,” the female elder said.
“Burn him!” a woman standing near the doorway screamed. “Murderer! My son, a great and noble knight,
died trying to kill the dragon and save the town.”
Sir Surgeman raised the palm of his hand. “My dear woman, your testimony has been taken into account.
Please, these proceedings must not devolve into chaos. We, the elders, understand your pain at such a great
loss.”
“What about motive?” Vetch said. “It has not been proven that the accused harbored any strong desire for
destruction, vengeance, death.”
“The accused has remained silent during much of our questioning,” a dark-skinned elder said. “It is possible
the young man before us felt inadequate when confronted with the strength, the heroic qualities of the
knights. Jealousy is powerful emotion.”
“There has been no testimony to support such a finding. Postpone the judgment, and I will gather information
for his defense.”
“Burn him,” the wild-eyed woman cried, “just as the dragon burned my son.”
“Making a dragon requires an intellect far beyond the capacity I’ve seen in him.” Vetch glanced at accused to
gauge his reaction. His expression remained emotionless at the insult.
“I believe,” Sir Surgeman said, “the dragon’s forked tongue is indicative of a dual personality. It is possible
the accused is pretending to be unsophisticated to escape punishment.”
Vetch widened her eyes for effect. “How did you know the dragon had a forked tongue?”
“A logical assumption.”
She spoke loudly for everyone to hear, “An assumption?”
Sir Surgeman’s left eye twitched. “I have been entrusted with the title of elder for fifteen years, sat in
judgment of many trials: robbery, murder, treason, rape, fraud…and witchcraft. Ignorance is a common ploy
used by criminals to escape justice.”
Vetch nodded. “I apologize. You, of course, are not on trial.” She scrutinized the people in the courtroom. Did
they know? Did Sir Surgeman know that she knew?
She must be careful. Accusing an elder of such a serious crime without proof could get her put in jail. Or
burned at the stake. “I urge all of the elders to reason carefully on this matter.”
“Due to the nature of this crime,” the dark-skinned elder said, “there can be no delay in justice. Madame
Vetch, we must refuse your request for more time to prepare a defense for the accused. Has he not the
power of speech to defend himself? The good citizens of Dingerland need closure on this matter.”
The elders filed out of the room, and guards escorted the accused back to prison. The next day, the verdict
was posted on a sheet of parchment secured to a signpost in the town square. Vetch elbowed her way to the
front of the mob to view the decision. She rose up on tip-toes to read the verdict.
Guilty. To be burned at the stake for the public to view. The crowd murmured in approval. All five elders signed
the parchment condemning an innocent man to death.
#
Vetch entered the prison. She was escorted to a cell with a beam of light streaming in through a barred
window. The guard left her alone with the condemned. He was not much more than a boy.
The young man sat on the floor and held a grasshopper in his hand. “It sings to me.”
“And what does it sing?” she asked.
“A song about a plant growing at the edge of a volcano. The plant has many seeds. Some seeds are blown in
the wind to new places, some fall into the volcano. I don’t understand the song. Even the grasshopper is
smarter than me.”
“Why didn’t you defend yourself?” Vetch said.
“I get nervous in front of so many people. It’s like my tongue doesn’t work sometimes. Besides, it’s meant to
be this way.”
A singing grasshopper. A faulty tongue. It couldn’t be. Even witches and wizards would not tamper with such
laws of nature. “What is your name?”
“Adam.”
“Adam,” she whispered, horrified by the reality of the breathing, speaking, feeling person before her. Person?
Sir Surgeman entered and stood beside Vetch. He gazed affectionately at the man behind bars. “He is
beautiful.”
“What have you done?” Vetch said.
A spider crawled on the wall of the cell. Adam captured the creature, put it in his mouth, then chewed without
thought to the strangeness of his actions. He winced, spitting the mangled spider out.
“Imperfect though,” Sir Surgeman said. “He is a prototype.”
“To conjure something of this magnitude would require a,” she looked at his cane, “sacrifice.”
“My little toe.”
“Why would you create such a being, only to condemn it to death?”
“As I said, he is imperfect. Adam is a mere shell meant to do my bidding, as was the dragon. The dragon was
a diversion. All the high-minded knights left to save Dingerland, and the townsfolk were consumed by
admiration and grief for the foolish fellows. The dragon’s been the talk of the town, leaving me and my
companions free to experiment without their meddling.”
“Did you use chicken’s blood to conjure the dragon?” she asked.
“Yes.”
A blue beetle and chicken’s blood to create a dragon. A grasshopper and a toe to create…. Vetch stared at
the unthinkable behind bars. Was he a mere shell, a tool whose usefulness had past? “If I kill the
grasshopper?”
“It will save us the trouble of burning the man.”
“Why?”
“Because I can,” Sir Surgeman said. “Don’t act so innocent. You’ve felt the rush of power, the pleasures of
bending the forces of nature to your will. You were a great conjurer once, perhaps the greatest until I created
Adam. Join us. We can create armies, a new breed of people. I will vouch for your character if you are ever
charged with a crime.”
Vetch knew better than to trust someone with a forked tongue. She would be the perfect scapegoat. “I have
paid dearly for my past.”
“A new era is evolving, an era where conjurers, magicians, witches, and wizards will no longer be persecuted.
The other elders and I have the ability to change laws, but it takes time. The citizens need to be educated.
You will be admired,” Sir Surgeman said. “You can practice in peace.”
Peace, what a strange word. Vetch hadn’t known peace since she was condemned to community service. It
had been ten years since she last conjured a dragon—and what a splendid beast it was. A female named
Suzy Lou with a shrill, gut-wrenching shriek and a desire for demolition. The dragon also had the power of
speech and nimble fingers for playing backgammon. What fun she and Suzy Lou had destroying the House of
Elders in the big city. How boring life had been since Suzy Lou’s demise and her conviction. Vetch had only
received a sentence of community service because no one had died during the attack.
To be free to create again, how wonderful! “Yes, I will join you. But first I need to get my books and the
things I’ve hidden so the authorities would not confiscate them. I will return to Dingerland tonight.”
Sir Surgeman tipped his hat amiably as if they were merely passing on the street rather than consenting to
break the law. “Of course.”
#
The snake was quick, but Vetch was quicker. She caught the reptile then shoved it into a bag.
Vetch built a bonfire while singing a song to the three animals housed inside three burlap bags. The song was
about the enigma of life, judges being judged, and townsfolk blinded by revenge. “Serve me well, my precious
ones, tonight we gorge ourselves on the guilty.”
She took the pocketknife out of her skirt, unsheathed it, then cut the tip of her finger. Removing a snapping
turtle from the first bag, she smeared a drop of her blood onto the head. Her lips touched the turtle’s shell. A
breath of ill intent escaped her lungs. “You shall be a fortress, impenetrable, unyielding, deaf to the pleas of
those blinded by self-interest.” She put the turtle on the ground.
Out of the next bag came a blackbird. A drop of her blood fell onto the feathers. Vetch breathed on the bird.
“You shall be escape, my dear one. A song for the oppressed, and an ear for the truth. You are reason and
the swift fist of justice.” She set the bird on the branch of a nearby tree. It did not fly away.
The snake slithered out of the last bag into her hand. Its tail curled around her wrist. Her blood and breath
touched the reptile. “You, dear one, are mayhem and fear.” The serpent moved up her arm and onto her
shoulder. She squeezed three more drops of blood from her finger onto the flames then spit on the bonfire.
Her creations would be able to breathe fire in addition to having the power of speech.
The first star twinkled in the sky. Vetch sat on a log and ate a snack of fruit and dried meat. She shared bits
of food with the newly formed curses, listening to bullfrogs croak in the pine-scented forest. Her eyes closed,
and her head drooped until her chin touched her chest.
The ground shook, and she awoke with a start. Out of the trees stomped a terrifying dragon with the hard
exterior of a turtle. It bit trunks of trees in half, pushed boulders with its impervious shell, and swung its
clubbed tail to make craters in the earth. Vetch clapped with glee.
Flapping in the night sky was a dragon covered in feathers, its black body blotted out the stars as it flew. The
breathtaking beast landed next to the bonfire.
“Where is your brother?” she asked.
They glanced at each other, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Behind you,” the feathered beast said.
Vetch spun around to see the third dragon close enough for her to touch. Its fangs were bared and dripping
venom. She trembled in adoration. “Magnificent!” The frightening beast moved swiftly and silently to join its
siblings.
“Tonight the town will suffer,” she said. “We will free Adam, burn the courthouse, and become hated
criminals. Sir Surgeman must not survive.”
“Your will is our will,” the fanged dragon hissed.
She knelt on the ground and spoke to the vulnerable curses, “Hide from all humans. In the deepest hole, the
highest tree, and the murkiest pond. Be careful.” Vetch climbed onto the neck of the winged dragon. “To
Dingerland and the Elders.”
She soared through the air, the happiest of hags in the whole land. Her cloak billowed in the wind. She
cackled and the dragon, black as night, shot an inferno of red flames from its jaws. Sir Surgeman was wrong.
He was not the greatest conjurer ever.
He wasn’t even close.
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