A young dragon grows rapidly. Soon Scorchfire was fully fledged and ready to announce himself to the city of Seven Hills. Like any dragon hatchling, he had received with his mother’s fire a basic knowledge of the ways of dragons. He knew that to establish his domain, it was important to make the right first impression on the humans — to strike a good balance between imposing terror and leaving some hope for survival, so that the people would submit to being dominated by the dragon, yet would not be driven off the land completely. But, while all young dragons know what needs to be achieved, each one has to figure out how best to get this done, depending on the sort of people it has to conquer and on its own source of power.
Scorchfire planned an unconventional opening move. Having read, enjoyed and digested a classical textbook on rhetoric, he decided to compose and deliver a speech to the people of Seven Hills. He felt sure that he could come up with a speech so powerful, that it would cause the humans to fall groveling at his paws and serve him forever without a murmur of protest. The dragon rather enjoyed constructing his address by following the precise and demanding rules of classical rhetoric. He then practiced his oration, complete with striking dramatic poses and emphasizing the main points with bright jets of flame. At last, he was completely satisfied.
The dragon sat on a hill top and surveyed the city below. The golden sunlight of a mild autumn morning glittered on the harbor and glowed on the red tiled roofs. The main city square was filled with color and motion. Festive crowds thronged among the many booths and stalls. Strains of music drifted up on the light wind. It was market day at Seven Hills, and the people were out, enjoying the gift of a bright and mild day, rare so late in autumn. “Yes,” Scorchfire told himself, “today is perfect. They are nice and soft, not expecting any trouble. And they are bunched together, so they can all hear me at once.”
He took off and plunged towards the city, gathering speed. Even as he flew, he went in his mind over his brilliant speech, savoring in advance how each carefully crafted sentence would be seared forever into the minds of the listeners, how … CRASH! Lost in his reverie, Scorchfire flew right into the roof of a building. The tiles and the rafters gave way. He tumbled through the hole, then his fall was broken by the thick crossbeams. The dragon lay for a moment, feeling disoriented. Sore and crestfallen, he got up and climbed out onto the undamaged portion of the roof. He sat amidst a thick cloud of red dust, coughing up great sooty fireballs and rubbing his bruised wing.
Having cleared his throat, he looked down at the market square and the harbor. Scorchfire’s chagrin at his clumsy entrance gave way to a flush of pride. He certainly succeeded in striking terror into his audience. The tremendous crash, followed by the emergence of the flame-spitting dragon, veiled in blood-red dust, and looking twice its actual size, plunged the market square into panic. People ran around screaming, horses broke their reins and galloped away in blind terror. Down in the harbor, someone, in total confusion, hoisted a white flag on a mast.
Rapping his tail smartly to attract attention, Scorchfire began in a solemn voice: “People of Seven Hills, today your fate…” But no one listened, everyone was too busy panicking. Impatiently, Scorchfire walloped the roof with his tail, causing a shower of tiles to crash down. He tried again, even louder. “People of Seven Hills…”
Below, people were still dashing about, screaming and slipping on rolling apples and spilled beer. A flock of live chickens exploded out of a broken wicker cage. The sight of the foolish birds adding to the confusion by their mad flapping and squawking was the final straw! The dragon was furious. Where was the audience he had expected for his beautiful speech — the orderly mass of humans cowed into silence by terror and admiration, hanging onto his every word?
Abandoning all rhetorical flourishes, Scorchfire got straight to the point: "I am hungry!” he roared, spouting huge flames. “Stop this nonsense and bring me books, you idiots!" The crowd below dwindled rapidly. Some people had found shelter in nearby buildings; others had run out of the square and were pelting away along the streets. Alarm spread throughout the city: church bells clanged discordantly. Their peals were answered by horns and bugles — the city guard was mustering to come to the defense of Seven Hills.
The dragon realized that he had overshot the mark. He tried again, in a softer tone and without the flames: "I don’t want to eat any of you. Just bring me books!" No improvement. His attempts at a sensible conversation with this bunch of terror-addled yokels were not working out. Scorchfire decided to apply the most basic dragon raid technique: grab what you need.
The dragon took off, skimming over the abandoned streets. He was in a foul mood, keenly disappointed by his first direct contact with humans. These creatures, which had seemed so sophisticated and fascinating when encountered through their writing, turned out to be as panicky and dull-witted as their flocks of chickens. Now Scorchfire found it easy to comprehend how other dragons could view humans as nothing more than a source of nourishment.
As he flew, the dragon’s flaring nostrils drew in the damp air, sorting the many mingled scents: seaweed, wood smoke, manure, human foodstuffs, garbage, pitch… Ah, there it was: the unmistakably appetizing scent of parchment and ink. He landed on the cobblestone pavement by a sturdy house. Its open second-story window was the source of the tantalizing smell. Stretching his neck, he peered into the room. Sure enough, the walls were lined with shelves filled with books, rolled up maps, large seashells and gleaming navigational instruments. The table in the center of the room was also piled with books and strewn with quills and parchment. A pool of ink spread around a broken bottle on the floor.
Scorchfire’s forked tongue flicked over his snout. He stretched out his paw towards the nearest books. Then he noticed a human being in the room: a square-shouldered, bearded man stood by the table. The man had been in the process of putting on his sword belt, but was frozen in shock at the sight of the scaly black head peering at him. In the next moment the man regained his senses. “Be gone, spawn of evil!” he yelled, drawing the blade. Scorchfire snorted out flames. The man screamed — his beard was on fire. Letting go of the sword, he dropped down and rolled on the floor. A second later, having put out the flames, the man leapt back to his feet, his eyes full of the battle spirit, and lunged for the sword. Scorchfire was about to blast him again, but suddenly noticed that the man smelled strongly of ink. “Perhaps he writes books!” flashed through Scorchfire’s mind. The dragon felt a surge of curiosity: what kinds of books? What were they about? If he killed this man, he would never find out how his words, his thoughts might taste.
Standing up on his hind paws, Scorchfire stuck his head into the room, seized the sword with his teeth and spit it out into the street. “Get out of here!” he growled at the man. “I am hungry and I want these books,“ he added, snapping his fanged jaws menacingly. The man stood his ground, glaring at the dragon. “Out!” roared Scorchfire, setting fire to the bearskin rug right next to the man’s feet. The man turned and fled.
Stretching up and reaching deeper into the room, Scorchfire dragged the stack of books from the table. Grabbing as many as he could carry, he took off.
Back in his cave Scorchfire surveyed his pile of loot with satisfaction. The first raid had gone well. Of course, the town was stirred up and he would have to be vigilant. Based on his store of dragon knowledge, he was aware that the first dragon raid is often followed by an attempt of the plundered town to get rid of the invader. But the pile of books smelled so inviting. “Just a page or two. They cannot get from there to here all that quickly,” he said to himself soothingly. He picked up the nearest tome and opened it.
“I, Borealis Terhand of Seven Hills, hereby faithfully record the voyages of The Polestar in which I had taken part. The first time I went to sea I was about twenty years of age. I had been working as a book keeper and warehouse master for the merchants who owned The Polestar. They placed increasing trust in me, and eventually decided to send me to trade on their behalf with the Reindeer Herders, up in the far North. I was a young lad then, full of curiosity and thirst for adventure. I gladly agreed to go. I had been told that the Reindeer Herders possess great magic and can fly in their sleds through the air covering great distances, and that they can make rainbows appear in the night sky. This was something I desired to see with my own eyes. I had also heard that they are dangerous and inhospitable. Yet on this journey I learned…”
In a short time the dragon was completely engrossed in the book. It was different from everything that Scorchfire had consumed so far. The royal library in Scorchfire’s nest hoard consisted mostly of classical Roman literature. It included poetry, drama, history, textbooks and philosophical treatises. Borealis Terhand had far less literary education and experience than the authors and translators of the hoard books. His book described his own experience as first a passenger, later a crew member, and finally the captain of The Polestar. The grammar was far from perfect, the style choppy, the language at times coarse. Instead of jewel-encrusted binding and lavish illumination, this book was bound in unadorned leather and had simple sketches of ships and people, landmarks and maps. In plain, terse words Captain Terhand recorded the mundane details about the cargo he took on board, and talked about the terrifying encounters with pirates. He described the climates and the peoples of the far away lands he had visited. He spoke of the personalities and the day-to-day life of his crew: about the hard work, the funny or tragic adventures, the battles with storms, and the boredom of the long calm days at sea, about the loyalty, treachery, courage, cruelty and generosity of men cooped together on the ship for months at a time. He did not say much about himself, yet reading his book Scorchfire got a clear sense of the man. Scorchfire decided that he liked this plainspoken, observant, and honor-bound captain.
Borealis Terhand, on the other hand, did not like Scorchfire. It is hard to tell what had outraged him more: the brazen invasion of the dragon into his home, the singeing of his beard, or the fact that the scaly brute had stolen a bunch of books, including the only clean copy of the first volume of his own Voyages of The Polestar. Borealis Terhand stood in front of the Mayor and the city council of Seven Hills, waving the charred remains of the bearskin rug like a battle flag. “We must find the beast! We must destroy it! We will not have peace until that scaly head is cut off and set on a spike, to be fodder for the crows!” he declared. His words set off a wave of shouting: “Death to the viper!” and “Terhand is right!”
The Mayor let the gathering expend some of its energy on shouting, then rang a heavy silver bell, bringing the council to attention. He spoke solemnly. “Until this day, our city has prospered through both the courage of our seamen,” at this he inclined his head towards Borealis, ”as well as through the prudence and careful thinking of our council. Let us remember the wise saying: ‘Sail around the island, do not plow through it.’ We are not the first town to be attacked by such a creature, and we know that others have bought peace by paying a tribute to a dragon. Many of us were in the market square today and heard that the dragon demanded books. And you yourself, Borealis, had told us that the creature did not try to eat you, but only took books from your house. Books would not be too high a price to pay…”
“We cannot cower and kowtow to this viper! Yes, Your Honor,” Captain Terhand turned towards the Mayor, “It may be books this time, but when have you ever heard of a dragon who is content with books? It is just testing our resolve. Next time it will be cattle, gold, and then human flesh!”
“But what will you have us do, Borealis? We are a town of merchants and sailors, not warriors. Our fortification had served us well against armies, but what use are they against a flying monster? Our city guard is brave, but small. They are archers, not knights. None of our men have any experience fighting a dragon, nor do our blacksmiths know the secrets of forging the lances and swords that can cut through dragon hide.”
“What we need then,” the captain of the guard spoke up, rising to stand next to Borealis Terhand, “is a supply of such weapons, and a champion to lead us: a knight who knows how to slay dragons.”
“Where can we find one?”
“The White River kingdom!” exclaimed one of the councilors. “I trade with them, I know they had a maiden-snatching dragon up there for years. Last spring a knight errant showed up and killed the dragon. He is now the king’s son-in-law and, from what I heard, wishes that he had never… Well, never mind. I just think he will be happy to have a good excuse to get back into the saddle, so to speak.”
After a short deliberation, the council decreed that Seven Hills would offer a large pile of gold to the White River king in return for his son-in-law’s help with getting rid of the dragon. “Very well,” said the Mayor, seeing that this was the unanimous opinion, “as soon as we are safely past the storm season, we will outfit ships and send an envoy to them. In the meantime, we might as well try the books!”
The Mayor knew that this was the season of treacherous and deadly autumn storms, so it was not safe for a ship to put to sea for at least another month. He was still hoping for a peaceful resolution.
“No, we will not wait and let the monster strike again! Our honor is at stake.” Captain Terhand’s voice boomed again. “The Polestar is not afraid of storms. I will go!” There was renewed debate, for this was a risky thing to do. In the end Captain Terhand’s bold proposal carried the day. He was respected in Seven Hills as a skillful seafarer. So if he was willing to risk his own neck and convince his crew to do the same, the city council was willing to put up the gold for the venture.
The next day The Polestar sailed off. The ship was laden with treasure and carried an official letter from the Seven Hills city council offering even more gold in exchange for dragon-killing services.
That afternoon, Scorchfire was having a pleasant nap in his dry and cozy cave after reading about The Polestar’s narrow survival in a particularly hair-raising storm. He was awakened when a gust of wind Bookworm bent down brought up a strange sound from the town below: the mournful sound of bells, all pealing slowly in unison. The dragon opened his eyes a slit, gave a fiery yawn, then poked his head out of the cave. The weather outside matched the storm he had been reading about in the book: Scorchfire had never seen a gale as bad as this one. The wind blew with such violence that it carried foam, sand and seaweed all the way up to the cave, high above the sea. As the wind changed direction, it brought in the sound of the crashing waves below, then the groaning of the pine trees, then once more the tolling of the bells. The dragon lay curled up for a while, basking in his own warmth. But the heavy lament of the bells sounded unusual and ominous. “Vigilance!” Scorchfire reminded himself. What are these humans up to? This strange signal had to be investigated. He dragged himself reluctantly out into the howling storm and took off. The wind buffeted him, almost inverting his wings, but the dragon was able to maintain his direction. He first surveyed the coast and the forest near his cave, then took course towards the city.
No, it did not look like anyone was mounting an attack against him: he saw no knights in armor. In fact, there were no humans to be seen anywhere. False alarm. But instead of turning back towards his cave, the dragon continued on his way. He landed on the cobblestones in front of the same house where he had gotten his books the previous day. He was curious to learn more about the ink-stained man: what had he been writing? Was he perhaps Borealis Terhand himself?
The shutters of the house were closed against the battering wind. The ink and parchment-scented room upstairs was dark, but light leaked from the windows on the first floor. The dragon bent down, flung open the shutters and the mullioned windowpanes, and peered in. His appearance was greeted by cries of terror and the sound of furniture crashing. A group of humans rushed out of the fire-lit room, creating a jam at the door. The first-floor room had no books in it, just a hearth, table, benches and racks of pots and dishes.
Bong! A frying pan crashed against Scorchfire’s forehead, bouncing off the hard scales. “May God rot your belly and shred your wings!” screeched a woman’s voice. Crack! A piece of firewood splintered against the dragon’s head crest. Scorchfire, surprised rather than injured, stared at the solitary human who had not fled the kitchen. A gray-haired woman with a haggard and tear-swollen face was glaring at him. “You sent my son to his death! You sent his ship to its doom! Now you are here to gloat! Well, go ahead, kill me too!” The shrieking continued, as more firewood flew at Scorchfire’s head. The dragon met the pieces of wood with a stream of fire, and they fell smoldering to the floor. He knew that the proper dragonly response was to incinerate the reckless woman next. But he was still curious about the man who smelled of ink. So, he deigned to answer the old woman: “I did not kill anyone so far, and I did not sink any ships. I came to find out who was the inky man I saw here, and to get more of those Borealis Terhand books about The Polestar.”
Scrochfire’s reply drove the woman completely berserk. “You, Devil’s Bookworm! Don’t you touch my son’s name with your forked tongue!” Hurling more firewood at the dragon, she let loose a stream of swearing so potent, that it is best not to repeat it on these pages. Scorchfire observed the raving woman with interest, for she reminded him of the harpies described in a book he had read. “It is because of you that he is out there in this storm!” she was shrieking, “The Polestar is there in this storm! Her crew is there! If they are not all at the bottom of the sea already, they soon will be! We will never see as much as a shred of her sails again!” Having used up the firewood, she punctuated each word by pelting the dragon with eggs and onions. Finally, finding nothing within reach, she sank onto a bench and wailed as if her heart was being torn from her breast.
As the result of his recent reading, Scorchfire had acquired some understanding of seafaring. He could easily see that if a ship was out in such a storm as this, it most likely would not come back. Ignoring the barrage of curses and the omelet that was now baking along the length of his snout, he swiveled his ears thoughtfully. “So, it was Borealis Terhand whom I saw here. I do not wish harm to him, or to The Polestar. I want him to come back and write more books,” he said half to the sobbing woman, half to himself. “Perhaps I can find the ship and carry Borealis Terhand back, so he can do more writing. Do you know when they left and what course they were planning to take?” he added.
The woman raised her head and stared at him with her blood-shot, half-mad eyes. “He will never abandon his crew,” she croaked hoarsely, “Oh, there is nothing you can do…” Scorchfire shrugged and was about to close the shutters of the kitchen, as if they were the covers of a book that he had consumed. “Wait!” the woman shouted. “Try, at least try… They left today, at dawn. They were to sail north along the coast; they were heading for White River kingdom. …Save him! Save all of them…” She rushed towards the window, stretching her arms imploringly. Scorchfire considered for a moment, then spoke curtly. “I will leave at once. I need provisions. Go, get me a good book upstairs.”
Scorchfire flew over the raging sea for hours. He kept just above the heavy fog of spray and within sight of the coastline, while scanning the heaving water. It was hard work, maintaining a steady course amidst the insanity of the wind. The dragon’s muscles were aching, his body was shrouded in steam. It was time to rest. From Borealis Trehand’s sketches of the coastline, he knew that he should soon pass over a rocky island, called the Seal Fortress. Ah, there it was. The dragon found a sheltered spot among the rocks and snacked on a few pages of the book he was carrying. The meal made him sleepy and it was tempting to just curl up and close his eyes. Instead, he sighed and took off again. Before long, he finally saw what he was looking for: a small jagged shape outlined against the white crest of a wave. Scorchfire plunged towards the struggling ship. She was badly battered: much of the rigging had been torn and she had lost one of her three masts. Hovering out of reach of the foaming crests, Scorchfire could barely see her deck through the thick gray spume that filled the air and the churning water that kept washing over it. He could make out three men, clinging to the steering wheel, trying to maintain control of the ship.
Scorchfire shot out a jet of flame and the men looked up. “I read Borealis Terhand’s book! I want to help,” roared the dragon over the howling of the storm. “You are not far from The Seal Fortress. You can wait out the storm there. I can guide you.” Scorchfire could see the blurred pale patches that were the men’s upturned faces. Would they trust him enough to follow him? “Follow my light. This way!” He flew upwards, so he could locate the distant peak of the island above the seething gray mist and, setting course for it, shot out another jet of flame. He looked down. The ship, shuddering under the blows of the waves, was slowly changing direction, trying to follow his course.
By the time they reached the relative calm in the lee of the Seal Fortress, another mast had broken, and Scorchfire helped the sailors to cut the lines and free the ship of the now useless and dangerous piece of timber. But at last, The Polestar was safely anchored in a small bay. The crew, gathering their last strength, made it to the solid ground. They spent the next day huddled together for warmth next to Scorchfire’s hot flanks. Once the storm had abated, The Polestar limped back to Seven Hills. The seas was still shrouded by heavy fog. But Scorchfire was able to guide them, using his flame like an air-borne lighthouse.
In the meantime, a crowd of silent people was keeping a seaside vigil in Seven Hills. The families and friends of The Polestar ‘s crew did not have any hope of seeing the missing sailors ever again, but still they stood huddled together, unable to abandon waiting and to admit their bitter loss.
Suddenly, a flash of what was unmistakably dragon fire flared on the misty horizon. The people on the shore screamed and ran for cover. But once again, Borealis Terhand’s mother did not run. The old woman stood still, her arms clutched to her chest, her eyes trying to pierce the fog. And then, as if called into existence by her piercing gaze, the outline of a ship appeared amidst the hazy whiteness, slowly growing more solid.
By the time The Polestar had dropped anchor and the crew rowed in dinghies to the shore, the square was once again thronged with people. This time, the crowd was cheering in wild jubilation. A few people were waving books in the direction of the dragon, though they still were skittish when he swooped low over their heads for a landing.
After the first embrace, Borealis Terhand’s mother let go of her son and pushed her way through the crowd to where the dragon sat on the sand a little way off, his hungry attention already on one of the books that had been brought for him. “Most noble dragon,” the old woman bowed low to him. “Forgive me! Forgive me for all the foolish, foul words I said to you in my grief!”
“You do have a way with words, to say nothing of eggs!” the dragon replied. His golden eyes looked at her with unexpected good humor. “What is it you called me? Bookworm. Hmm.. Bookworm.” He repeated the word a few times, rolling it around in his mouth, as if tasting it with his forked tongue. “I like it,” he declared. “It fits better than ‘Scorchfire.’ From now on, that’s what I want to be called: ‘Bookworm.’”
“Long live Bookworm!” shouted the old woman.
”Long live Bookworm! Long live Bookworm!” The rest of the crowd picked up the chant.
And so it was, that Seven Hills got a dragon named Bookworm for its neighbor and protector. Or, from Bookworm’s point of view, for its owner.
Bookworm became a great help to Seven Hills. Whenever he heard the bells of the city tolling to warn the people of some calamity, he would fly in from his cave, ready to lend a set of strong paws, a pair of powerful wings and two jets of fire. The citizens of Seven Hills even cast a special bell for the city hall tower to summon Bookworm when disaster struck. The bell was called “Big-belly Nelly.” It was very heavy, requiring four or five men to swing the clapper. Its sound carried reliably to the dragon’s cave even if there was a strong wind blowing in the opposite direction.
Even more importantly than being large and strong, the dragon was sharp-eyed and resourceful. Also, as he consumed books, he accumulated a great store of useful knowledge on an amazing variety of subjects. Bookworm was able to enjoy and digest books written in any human language. Initially, his diet consisted primarily of books written in the language of Seven Hills, but also lots of works written in ancient Greek and in Latin. Gradually, the scope of his reading expanded. Seven Hills instituted a special “book tax” on all the commerce in the city. The merchants were obligated to procure a certain number of books with every large shipment of goods. Whenever they traded with distant countries, they ordered books for him, along with their shipments of furs, carpets, amber, spices, or silks. Bookworm was familiar with the delicate sweetness of the lavishly illustrated books of Persian poetry and with the pungently rich Indian legends, written on crunchy dry palm leaves. He beguiled his palate with the salty silkiness of the Japanese stories of courtly love and intrigue. He filled his belly with the satisfying heartiness of Icelandic sagas. He was especially fond of eating Chinese books, even though they left him feeling hungry two hours after the meal. He loved the savory contrast between their complex, often unexpected flavors and the vegetarian blandness of the paper on which they were written.
As the result of all his reading, Seven Hills could avail itself of the help of a dragon who knew how the ancient Romans built roads and supplied their great cities with water, how the Scandinavians navigated safely in the stormy Northern sea, and how the Chinese defended themselves against the hordes of barbarians.
CONTINUED IN THE NEXT CHAPTER