Although Magda was initially in awe of Bookworm, she felt none of the tongue-paralyzing shyness around him. The dragon and the girl really hit it off with each other. They read, they discussed, they pondered, they debated. Magda spent whole days up in the dragon’s cave, returning to her father’s house only at night and for Sundays.
Bookworm’s company worked a marvelous change in Magda. Her stuttering disappeared. She gradually grew confident around people. Magda became greatly respected in the town and was now addressed as “the Dragon Maiden.” She was asked to participate in all city council decisions that had anything to do with Bookworm.
The first year of Magda’s life as the Dragon Maiden was truly happy. Sure, once she got to know her hero on closer terms, she found that he could occasionally be cranky, obstinate and even unreasonable. But overall he was wonderful company. And what could be nicer than literary conversations and simple companionable reading side by side with a great dragon on a sunlit hill overlooking the city and the harbor?
The autumn of Magda’s second year as the Dragon Maiden was marked by an unusually long spell of stormy weather. Day after day, the gale lashed the hills and the sea with squalls of rain and sleet. Many old trees were toppled, and the rivers were rising dangerously. The horse ride from Magda's house to Bookworm’s cave became an ordeal, but it was all that much nicer to reach the cave, for the dragon radiated even, dry heat like a huge tile-covered stove.
One particularly blustery morning, Magda showed up at the dragon cave with an uncharacteristic frown on her face. Bookworm came out and watched as she put her brown mare, Acorn, and the pack horse, Bobtail, into the adjoining cave that was set up to be a horse stable. Bookworm had expanded his dwelling quite a lot since the days when it was a mere nesting cave. He carried the bags of supplies into the main cave and brought a kettle to a boil with a few fiery puffs. “Well, what have we got here? Last shipment was boring. I am ready for something fresh and exciting.” He rubbed his paws and began to unfasten the buckle on the leather book bag.
Magda’s frown deepened. She put down her mug of chamomile tea. “Bookworm, I am really sorry; I do not think this week will be good either. You see, because of the storms, no ship had been able to reach harbor for the past month. The fords are washed out. We have not had any carts come in with books, just local ones with beets and cider. For the last couple of weeks, everyone in town who had books contributed the best they could find. This week it’s mostly accounting ledgers and Latin grammar textbooks. The only other things anyone has left are the Bibles and psalm books, and you always say that dragons and religion don't mix, so we knew you would not eat those. Besides, it would probably be against the…” “Ledgers?!” the dragon roared, cutting short her apologetic speech. He bolted out of the cave. Knowing his temper, Magda was afraid he might fly down and go on a rampage through city hall. But as he emerged from the cave, the sight of the empty storm-lashed sea churning white-crested waves all the way to the horizon brought home to him the point that the city was not to blame.
Coming back to the cave, Bookworm picked through the book bag with great distaste. Finally, he flipped open one dog-eared school book. “Ugh! How you, humans, can digest this is beyond me! And look at these illiterate, ugly scrawls in the margins!” He bit into a page, then spit out the charred parchment and flung away the book. The dragon curled up on the floor, his golden eyes staring balefully at the rain, driven almost horizontally past the mouth of the cave. “Bookworm, would you like to play some word games? I brought my blankets with me, so I can stay overnight and keep you company,” Magda offered. “I am too hungry to play, and this stuff is too awful to eat!” he replied, crankily. Then, softening, he added: “But it will be good to have your company. Let me know if you want me to boil some water for your porridge…”
Magda woke up before midnight. The dragon was breathing evenly in the middle of the cave, his dark bulk barely illuminated by the red glow from his nostrils. Outside, the storm continued unabated. For some reason, Magda could not go back to sleep. She wrapped her blankets around her, went to the mouth of the cave and stood there looking out into the utter darkness, listening to the wild howls of the wind, the groaning of the pine trees and the roar of the surf. She was thinking about many things – the sea, the weather, ships, books, her memories of the splendor and terror of the fireworks she had seen as a child. And then, to her great surprise, she felt words welling up from somewhere deep inside her, weaving together into lines, rising and falling like the unseen sea below. She was composing a poem about Bookworm! The poem was about his winged shape growing across the sky whenever the great bell of Seven Hills tolled an alarm. It was about the fountains of fire cascading in the sky and turning the bragging warriors into fleeing rabbits. It was about the pages of books disappearing into the flames to be forever consigned to the dragon’s memory. For hours, she paced back and forth, muttering to herself. At last, she felt that her poem was finished. She repeated it to herself several times, then, exhausted, went back to the niche by the wall and fell asleep.
In the morning, Bookworm was in an even worse mood. He was really hungry, but he just could not choke down the school books. As for accounting ledgers, his comment was: "I'll be a lizard before I touch this sawdust!” Magda felt a bit guilty, stirring fresh porridge for herself. She was thinking of forgoing honey, to show her solidarity with the hungry dragon. Then, she had an idea. Magda pulled out the writing supplies she had brought the night before to play word games and wrote out her poem. She proffered the parchment scroll shyly to the dragon. “I composed it myself. Maybe it will sweeten the school books for you a bit.” Bookworm, curious, took the parchment and began to read. “This is good! Delicious!” he exclaimed. After reading the poem several times and then reciting it aloud, he ate the parchment and rubbed his belly. “Unbelievable! Did you really compose it yourself? When? How did you do it? What did it feel like?” The dragon's pupils were changed from irritable slits to great circles of excitement. Bookworm loved poetry more than any other kind of literature.
Bookworm had not met a poet before. He never traveled anywhere and somehow, during all the years of his life, Seven Hills had not produced a single person who could be called a real poet. Bookworm was a discerning reader and did not go for the pompous, imitative and clumsy stuff that so commonly gets churned out and called “poetry”. So, many of the people who considered themselves to be poets were of no interest to him. Magda, on the other hand, never imagined herself to be a poet, but that night she had been visited by inspiration and produced a delightful poem.
Blushing with pleasure and self-consciousness, Magda tried to answer the dragon’s questions. The truth is, she had no idea of how this all had happened. The poem seemed to have come upon her like a great wave in the middle of the night, and she tried her best to swim with it, like a fish being dragged along by an irresistible current.
After the initial excitement, the dragon became pensive, even withdrawn. Magda figured that effect of her poem had worn off, and he was hungry again. She tried to reach down to that deep place within her where the poem seemed to have come from, hoping to write another one for Bookworm. But real poems have the habit of coming only on their own terms, not at the beck and call of anyone's will or need. Magda was not able to put together even two lines of worthwhile verse.
By early afternoon the storm had finally died down. Magda took her leave of the dragon and went back to Seven Hills. The next morning several of the ships that had been waiting out the storm at various nearby harbors came into Seven Hills’ port. Magda got a nice large shipment of fresh books for Bookworm and rode up to the cave as quickly as she could.
When she reached the cave, she got a strange feeling that something was not quite right. The dragon was lying on the threshold of his cave, his head resting on his front paws, gazing out at the sea. He must have heard the horses on the path to the cave, but he seemed too preoccupied to notice. When Magda called out to him, he lifted his head, waved vaguely with his paw, then went back to his reverie. "He is faint with hunger, poor thing!" Magda said to herself. She seized one of the heavy book bags and dragged it towards Bookworm. "The ships came in! Look, these are good books, not ledgers!" The dragon sat up slowly and opened the bag. He riffled through the books, putting aside a thick tome of history, a courtly romance and a couple of philosophical treatises. Then, he pulled out a book of poetry. He started to read with great attention, perusing each page several times before he ate it. The book was in a language that Magda did not know, so she could not follow Bookworm as he read. "Well, what do you think?" she asked, as soon as he put down the book. On this occasion she was more interested in whether the book was sufficiently nutritious to build up the dragon's strength, rather than being genuinely curious about its literary merits. Normally, Bookworm loved to discuss books. But this time he merely mumbled, "Why can't I write like that?" and went back to his contemplation of the sea.
Something definitely was not right. Over the next few days Magda gradually understood the situation. Her own act of composing a poem made a deep impression on the dragon. He became possessed by a passionate desire to be not only a reader and connoisseur of poetry, but a poet in his own right. He decided that more than anything else in life, he wanted to write a good book of poetry.
Bookworm had read a lot of great poetry in many languages and from many cultures. He, more than anybody else, should have been aware of the elusive nature of talent and inspiration. It is impossible to simply wish oneself into being a poet. But all his book-derived wisdom was of no avail to him; he suddenly found that nothing mattered to him except this desire to write poetry.
At first, Magda was mostly bemused. But she soon became anxious. Bookworm lost all interest in any books other than poetry. And when he was reading poetry, he no longer derived real pleasure from it. Rather, he read it with a mixture of jealousy: "Why can't I write like that!" and over-wrought attention to the poet's technique: "What can I learn from this to make me a poet?" Needless to say, this attitude made it hard for him to derive any sustenance from the books he was consuming. Moreover, this obsession with poetry made him lose sleep. The dragon began to waste away. He looked haggard and even his golden crest lost some of its luster.
Magda was beside herself. She tried reasoning, distracting, cajoling and pleading. She wept and blamed herself for having set Bookworm on this destructive course. Bookworm himself could see that he was in trouble. Dragons are notorious for being unable to let go of whatever catches their imagination. Usually, this means something like hanging onto a golden hoard or nursing some ancient grudge regardless of the consequences. As for Bookworm, he seized onto the idea of becoming a poet with all his dragon might, and now could not let go of it, even though it was proving to be his undoing.
One day, Magda sat shivering next to the listless dragon, as he stared over the sea. She suddenly realized that he no longer radiated the stove-like heat. She stretched her hands towards his flank. His scales were barely tepid. "Bookworm?" she called out, trying to suppress the quaver in her voice. His dull eyes barely focused on her. "Would you boil a bit of water for me?" "I can't" he answered, with lifeless resignation. "I have lost my fire,” he continued in a flat tone. “I cannot breathe flames and I cannot fly. I have nothing but embers in my belly. A few more days… And the worst is that now I will never write my poem…"
Bookworm had previously made Magda promise not to tell anyone that he was wasting away because he could not be a poet. Now Magda sobbed and begged Bookworm to let her ride to Seven Hills to try to get help. But the dragon was too ashamed of his condition: “It is bad enough that you have to see me come to the end of my days as no more than a shriveled earth-worm. I will not have anyone else remember me like this!” Tiring of Magda’s incessant crying and begging, he sent her home.
Magda's father, of course, had noticed early on that his daughter looked haunted and her eyes were red-rimmed. He kept asking her about her own life and about Bookworm. She had been giving him evasive answers. But on this day she broke down and, weeping, told him the whole story about Bookworm's desire and inability to write poetry. Out of deference to her promise, she omitted only the fact that Bookworm lost his fire. Instead, she said that it looked like he was very ill and getting worse. Vitius listened with great concern. When she finished, he said: "I have never heard anything about medical treatments for dragons. But if he were a man, I would say he is suffering from acute melancholy. There is too much black bile in his liver and not enough blood in his veins. I would insist that first he get a good night's sleep — I would prescribe Valerian root and Verbena elixir for that. Then, I would suggest that he go away from his usual routine, leave his home for a while. Perhaps his family could take him away to visit relatives in the countryside. When he got stronger, a pilgrimage trip might do him good. But first he has to start sleeping again… Can you think of any way to make a sleeping elixir for a dragon?" he asked Magda.
"I am not sure… He does not eat our foods, so all your herbs are not going to help him."
Magda’s old nursemaid, who until then seemed to be dozing by the fire, spoke up. “I used to sing lullabies to you, lambkin, when you were little and would not sleep,“ she told Magda. Vitius brightened: "Perhaps we can write a bunch of lullabies on pieces of parchment and feed them to him. It's worth trying at any rate."
Magda galloped back to the cave and arrived there at dusk. The cave was almost dark, but she could see the dim outline of the dragon, lying with his head resting on his paws, gazing out at the sea. "Bookworm?" she asked, afraid that there would not be a reply. But the dragon stirred and turned his head slowly towards her. "Bookworm, I brought you a present from my family. They sent you some lullabies. Would you like to try them? I used to love listening to them when I was little. I would really like to read them to you." Bookworm turned back towards the sea. "You know that I do not have any fire. You cannot read in the dark," he answered tonelessly.
"I brought a lantern," Magda replied, ordering herself to be calm and not start crying again.
"You may read them, if you wish," he said wearily. Magda lit the oil lantern and began to chant the simple words in the most soothing voice. The dragon stretched out his paw and she placed the parchment in it. He chewed the pages listlessly, but steadily. His breathing gradually deepened and he fell into a deep sleep.
He slept through the night and most of the next day. He looked a little better after the rest. At least, his eyes focused on Magda when she spoke. Magda started cautiously, "Bookworm, I have heard from my father that sometimes it is good for people to get away from their everyday cares, to go on family visits out in the countryside. Maybe it is the same with dragons. I've been wondering: do you have any relatives you would like to visit?"
"Dragons don't visit relatives,” Bookworm replied flatly, turning back to his habitual contemplation of the sea.
Magda was taken aback for a moment, but then tried another tack. "How about just taking a sight-seeing trip? Or maybe even a pilgrimage? Visit the birthplace of someone you venerate, like Homer or Virgil. You never know, it might be inspiring,” she added deviously.
Bookworm was silent for a long time, and Magda’s hopes sank. Then he spoke. "I have read," he said pensively, "about the Springs of Inspiration. A few old legends mentioned them. I am not sure whether they really exist or are mere poetic images. But if I were to travel, I would look for them. Perhaps drinking from these springs would inspire me to become a poet after all." Before Magda had a chance to seize on the topic, he sighed heavily and closed his eyes. "The truth is, I don't have enough fire left to fly from here to the market square in Seven Hills, let alone go searching for these springs. And the way I am now — how would I get food for myself? How would I defend myself? The first knight errant who comes across me will have my head in his saddlebag. No, I would rather go in peace, in my own cave. It is too late."
"Wait, wait, Bookworm! We can think of something!" Magda leapt to her feet and paced up and down the terrace in front of the cave. "Here, I have it! We can get some gold from the city council to buy you books on the way, and a bunch of armed guards to keep you safe…"
"No!" the dragon exclaimed, and even lifted his head in agitation. "I told you, I will not let anyone down there know what has become of me. It is bad enough that you see me this way..." He dropped his head in exhaustion.
"Wait, how about this,” Magda persisted. "I will go with you. And you can ride in a cart, Bobtail and Acorn are strong enough to pull you. We will cover you and I will say it is just a load of coal or beets in the cart, if we meet any knights. I will buy you books along the way. We will get the gold somehow; I will think of something. For starters, my father will give me what he has…"
"You will go with me? To search for the Springs of Inspiration?"
"Yes, I will go with you anywhere you wish!" answered Magda, unhesitating.
“Why?” Bookworm asked, with genuine surprise.
Magda’s surprise at his question was just as genuine: “What do you mean why? You are my friend. I want to help you.”
Bookworm was used to the word “my” going in only one direction in his dealings with the world of humans. He thought of Seven Hills as “my city” and he thought of Magda as “my reading companion.” Deep inside, he would refer to her as “my friend”. But it never occurred to him that a human being may also apply these words to him. He knew that this was not something a dragon should permit. And yet, perhaps of his weakened state, her words did not provoke anger in him. Quite the opposite, he felt a warm and pleasant feeling, rather similar to the satisfying warmth that a good book could produce in his belly, though this particular sensation was a bit higher, in his chest.
The dragon lifted his head once more, and a trace of the old strength rang in his voice. "Then let us get ready for the journey. And do not worry about gold: I have plenty."
"You have gold?" Magda looked around the cave, yet saw nothing but the shelves of the book larder.
“It’s in the trash pit. We will have to dig it out,” Bookworm replied. He sat up slowly. Magda was delighted to see his eyes growing more focused and interested. Clearly, the thought of a journey was beginning to get hold of him.
They went out to the trash pit that had been dug into the limestone a few paces away from the cave entrance. Together, they began the tedious task of hauling out the trash accumulated over more two centuries of dragon housekeeping. There were lots and lots of empty, charred book bindings and occasional half-eaten books. Now and then they came across a dented helmet, a rusty breastplate or the hilt of a broken sword. Bookworm had had his share of encounters with the knight errant types who sought to gain glory and fortune by ridding a town of the fire-breathing monster. Usually, the traveling heroes had the sense to start by visiting the town they were proposing to liberate. In the case of Seven Hills, they would ride away, shaking their heads in disbelief that the citizens firmly and ungratefully refused the gallant offer. But occasionally a knight would have the idea of making his great deed a pleasant surprise for the townspeople, or would be just too impatient to get to the fighting to bother with introductory visits. In those cases, Bookworm had to deal with the intruder himself.
They had been digging for a couple of hours, getting to the bottom of the pit. And there it was — a glimmer of gold and jewels. The dragon noticed the girl’s astonishment. "My mother built for me a nesting hoard, back when I was still an egg," he explained.
"Aren't you going to be sorry to part with your mother's gifts?"
"No,” he waved a paw dismissively. “We, dragons, do not go around hanging on to our mother's tails as we grow up. For us, it's ‘Out of the shell, you are on your own.’ We don't get all sentimental about this stuff."
The physical work of hauling out trash and the excitement of getting ready for a journey worked up an appetite in both the girl and the dragon. They went into the cave for lunch. Magda noticed with great satisfaction that Bookworm picked a fresh copy of one of his favorites, "The Odyssey," and, selecting various passages about voyages, tore into them with some of his old enthusiasm.
After they ate, Bookworm told her what he had picked up from the various legends and references in poetry about the Springs of Inspiration. The general location of each spring may have been known fairly well at one time, but gradually the directions and the descriptions of the landmarks grew hazier and became entangled in contradictory legends. By the time the stories about these springs got written down in books, their very existence seemed uncertain. Also, according to the ancients, the springs did not stay put, but wandered from place to place, sometimes slowly, over the course of the centuries, sometimes in a matter of hours. In order to get the effect of the magic, one had to get the water from the spring oneself. If water was passed from hand to hand, it lost its mgaical powers. Bookworm believed that there might be nine Springs in the world altogether. Of these, there were only three that they could reach without having to cross a sea or a desert: Bird Spring, Ice Spring, and Salt Spring. Bird Spring was described as the most accessible. Magda and Bookworm decided to try looking for it first.
Magda went back to Seven Hills elated. While the success of the journey seemed uncertain, she had hope that traveling would provide at least a temporary reprieve from Bookworm's illness. And who knows, perhaps one way or another it would cure him altogether. Magda’s father and nursemaid were more ambivalent. They were, of course, heartened when they heard that Bookworm had perked up at the idea of traveling. But they were also extremely anxious once they found out that the plan was for Magda to go on a long journey as the sole nurse and companion to the convalescent dragon. However, they did not try to talk her out of her plan. The alternative to the journey seemed to be allowing Bookworm to waste away in his cave, pining for poetic inspiration. So they helped Magda buy supplies and pack. Then, with many prayers that the journey be safe and not too long, they gave Magda their blessings.
Next evening, a heavily laden cart pulled by two mares creaked along the rough country road going south. It was accompanied by a solitary figure wrapped in a heavy, hooded winter cloak. Bookworm and Magda were on their way to look for the Springs of Inspiration.
CONTINUED IN THE NEXT CHAPTER