Maggie and the Dragon, Part III

I keep my promises. Part IV is already written and coming soon. I have the beginnings of Part V and some of a later installment, as well.


The same evening that Claudius the dragon was busy terrifying the inhabitants of Castle Roislin with his peculiar form of "diplomacy," Maggie Draper, sixteen years of age, was sitting by the fire in her father's cottage on the outskirts of the city Shamraeth. It was the closest cottage to town her father could afford, and it still had peat floors rather than the packed dirt or even wooden floors that were becoming so popular in the city itself.

Maggie was intently watching the surface of a great iron pot that had been hung over the fire she had built at the hearth. The pot was steadfastly not boiling. However, Maggie knew that the minute she turned her back, it would boil over and lose half the soup or else scald the bottom and she would be scraping burnt beans out of it all night. And Father will box my ears, she thought darkly. My ears definitely don't need a boxing. Her ears were already very noticeable, being long and slender and combined with her snub nose and wide, thin mouth, made her look very much like a goblin.

It may be useful to the reader to do a quick comparison of Maggie Draper and Princess Beatrice of House Estragon. As previously noted, Princess Beatrice stood tall, with long, golden hair and china-blue eyes. She was a devotee of both hawking and fine needlepoint, and was well-studied in geography, ancient history, and was fluent in three languages besides that of her native country, including the "zombie" language, Renasci. (It was not called a "zombie" language because zombies spoke it. Zombies tended to a language that was all "huurrrrhhhh" and "braaaaaaaains" However, Renasci was like zombies in that, against all odds, it kept rising from its "dead language" grave and devouring the brains of the populace--generally the clergy and the nobility. It was a snobby zombie, in other words.) As anyone could see, Princess Beatrice was extremely beautiful and accomplished, the daughter of an extremely powerful king. Also, she was a screaming bitch, which was obviously to anyone within an hour or so of meeting her.

Maggie, on the other hand, was short and darkly mousy and had the kind of thinness that prompted all the grandmothers in her area to come out with meat pies and croissants and on one occasion, a whole trifle, whenever she passed by. She had not had to alter her dresses at all since age ten, a fact that sometimes caused her considerable angst. She was lucky, because she could read and do sums (and often kept her father's books balanced), which was more than most girls of her social standing could do. She could also book, especially if the meal involved beans, but she was nowhere near as well or finely educated as Princess Beatrice. Maggie's father was a bean merchant who worked directly under a lord, and he was a rather unsuccessful merchant at that. (Incidentally, two years to the day after this infamous night, Maggie's father would trade several sackfuls of beans for a supposedly "magic" cow that could plow any field, no matter the size, in less than an hour. When he harnessed the cow, it certainly did plow the fields of Lord Legham's bean plantation quickly and then disappeared into the night with Maggie's father still clinging to the plow. They were never seen again, though people in Shamraeth whispered that a cow-shaped shadow, followed closely by a man-on-a-plow-shaped shadow, had crossed over the moon that very night. Strangely, Lord Legham also noticed that a few small bits of his second-best table settings seemed to have, in his words, "sprouted legs and scarpered.")

Maggie also had three much younger sisters, who rejoiced in the names of Millie, Mollie, and May. May was the youngest, at barely five years old. Maggie's father always looked surprised, at the end of the day, to walk into a cottage filled to the brim with shrieking women--so maybe his fate was a mercy. At least, wherever he went, he did not have to wait hours just for a chance to use the privy.

However, that evening the rest of the Drapers were away, at the bean plantation. Millie, Mollie, and May were still at the age where going to work at the plantation was a great diversion for them, and Mistress Draper had gone with them, though there was little chance she would do any field work other than overseeing the serfs that were pulling weeds. Maggie found all of it deadly dull and gladly volunteered for any and all housework in order to stay away. She also found Lord Legham's attempts to marry her off to his youngest, fattest, palest son Worcester to be extremely annoying. She couldn't even spell his name; it certainly was not spelled as it was pronounced. Plus, they were Ingilese, and thus outsiders. And finally, Worcester was fat, pale, and as uninterested in her as she was in him.

Suddenly, Maggie smelled smoke. Mild panic overtook her for a moment, but no--the soup was not burning. And besides, the smoke had a perfumed, almost pleasant smell to it. She turned her head.

There was a man sitting in her father's best sitting chair! She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out. The man smiled at her.

"Good evening, Maggie." His accent was hard to place; it was definitely not Kiseogan, or Kilberian, or even Ingilese. It was a mumbled, slurred mass of consonants and vowels, as if the whole alphabet had lost a drinking game. Once Maggie had worked out what had been said to her, she replied, "Hello," guardedly.

The man grinned at her, chomping down on the strange, smoking stick he had in his mouth. Maggie was familiar with pipes; Lord Legham smoked one. This was not a pipe. Plus, Lord Legham's pipe smoke was a muddy color and heavy enough to immediately settle near the floor; this smoke was light and dissipated quickly, leaving nothing but its exotic smell behind. He was also wearing strange clothes, all in somber black. He didn't seem to be wearing the leggings customary to most men, as his trousers reached his shoes, which were of unfamiliar make as well. He even had a thin red cravat on, but it was much too thin to provide him any warmth. He must be Carolingen, Maggie thought. Carolingens were known for their strange dress; the Chateau Couture in Grenouville, Carolinge's capital city, was certainly known for its inventive and daring designs, even going so far as to make ball gowns that bared a woman's shins! However, that thought made Maggie relax. Kiseogans and Carolingens were allies, mostly due to a mutual all-consuming hatred for Ingilese.

He's probably here for Father, Maggie thought. Master Draper often dealt with foreign merchants, because his own mother had been foreign, and Lord Legham figured that the foreigners would bargain in good faith more often if the face across from theirs was as alien as their own. (And most of the time, he was right. Master Draper's only successful sales or barters came from his foreign dealings, which is why Lord Legham kept him on.)

Maggie smiled at the intruder. "Father is down at the plantation, sir, but I am sure he will return soon."

The man took his cigar out of his mouth and smiled in return. "I did not come for your father, Maggie. I came for you."

Maggie felt her mouth drop open. No one has ever called on me before, she thought. Am I in trouble? Is he a priest? If so, what kind? And don't they wear robes all the time? Another, more horrible, thought struck her. Surely he's not a suitor? I hope not. He's too old, and all he'd get for a dowry is all the beans he could eat.

"I understand," the man said kindly. "Everyone is always surprised at my first visit."

"Who are you?" Maggie demanded.

"You could call me your fairy godfather," the man replied.

Maggie was unimpressed. Behind her, unnoticed, the soup began to boil over. "Isn't it usually a fairy godmother?" she asked. "And there's no balls going on that I know of, so I don't know why you would show up. Plus, I refuse to wear glass shoes. They would be terribly uncomfortable and I'd probably trip and break them. Plus, fairies don't exist."

The man chuckled. "Well, at least you are a sensible girl. I usually have to deal with the hard-core romantics who think there's something beautiful and noble about getting lost in the woods and mistreated by stepmothers, or taking a century-long nap, or anything else of that nature." She's not starry-eyed. I like her already.

Maggie blinked at him. He seems to be saying...but no, those stories can't be true..."What do you want from me?" she asked.

"Want from you?" the man repeated. "Nothing. I'm your fairy godfather, remember? I give gifts. And the gift I am giving you is one of adventure and intrigue. You are going to save the whole kingdom."

"I am? Me?" Maggie asked, flabbergasted. "But I'm not even a knight, or any kind of hero--"

"But you will be," the man cut in. "Minstrels far and side will sing of your deeds." And of that effing dragon, he thought but did not add.

Sensible as Maggie was, she still was intrigued. "What am I going to do, command an army or--"

The man interrupted her again. "If I tell you, it might not come to pass. And that would be a terrible thing." Even if it's not for the reason you think it is. "I came to warn you, so that you would know the immensity of the situation." And I wanted to see what you were made of. Let that overgrown lizard deal with the likes of you, ha. "I must be going," he said, rising from his chair. He started for the door, puffing away on his cigar (for cigar it was, even if Maggie didn't know that).

"Wait," Maggie said. The man stopped and turned around, raising an eyebrow. "Who are you, really?"

He grinned around a mouthful of cigar. "My name is Lionheart. But for you, I am your fairy godfather, your...deus ex Mafia." He grinned even more broadly, but it faded as he looked at Maggie's confused goblin-face. Lionheart sighed. Kids those days, he thought, not learning their zombie languages. Time to get back to the future. "Arrivederci," he said, and blinked out of existence, leaving nothing but the smell of his cigar and a handful of pink sparkles. Maggie could hear his voice, fading out like a badly-tuned radio (though she wouldn't have known what one of those was either), shouting at someone--"You know how I feel about pink! I'm gonna make sure you sleep with the fishes!"

Wow, thought Maggie. Visited by Lionheart himself. Or an impostor, her brain sensibly supplied. Probably just someone having a laugh, like those "conjurors" that show up every year at the fair. It's all smoke and mirrors. Plus, there's no such thing as an immortal time-walker. Right. So how did he get in the house without me noticing? And how did he disappear, just like that?

Just then, the smell of burnt beans hit Maggie's nostrils. She whirled around, her heart sinking. The pot held only about half its previous contents, and beans were lying blackened and smoking on the logs.

"Oh eff," Maggie said, to no one in particular.