The Dragonboy of Regnaville - Page 16

For an hour or more, he sat on the wall of the Pont d’Artigues, staring down at his feet and the River Os below.  Green fronds of lily floated in patterns on its silted surface.  Black dragonflies flitted across the reflecting water, occasionally landing on some flower head.  A group of barefoot children passed across the bridge behind him.  ‘Bonjour, monsieur,’ they said politely.  But when he didn’t reply, they collapsed into furtive giggles, collecting their louder outbursts in cupped hands.

Julian was fascinated by the darting insects.  They were what they were.  He wasn’t so simple.  His mind swirled in little whirlpools, deep and opaque, in an effort to understand.  His stomach churned, his whole body ached, his fingertips and toes were in constant pain from the curling of his claw-like nails.  His skin didn’t feel like his own.

He inhaled the scented air, closed his eyes and slowly slid forwards into the river.  Toppled like a rotten fruit from a tree.  The passing children couldn’t say if he fell or jumped, but they immediately called for help.  They caught the attention of some approaching pilgrims, who abandoned their sacks and walking sticks, clambered down the bank, and hauled the young man free of the entangling river weed.

 It had taken some time for Holger and Birgitta to realise their son was missing.  By the time they had retraced the grooves and furrows of their caravan wheels and reached the bridge, they found their son huddled on the bank.  His rescuers had tried to remove some of the mud and weed from his face, but he had coiled up in a ball, his hands covering his face.  The pilgrims stood in a circle round him, not knowing what further help to give.

Julian felt no gratitude towards them.  He found it difficult to speak.  He had already forgotten why they were there.  He had one thought and that was to hide the scales that were covering more and more of his face.   

The Dragonboy of Regnaville - Page 15

‘All right,’ said Clarice.  Julian felt the stab in his ribs and watched them out of the corner of his eye but didn’t move.  ‘Go up to the bars, Ysabel.  Go on.  I dare you.’

‘You too, Clarice.’

Cautiously, they drew closer and closer.  ‘What kind of man lives in a cage?’ said Clarice and they took turns with the stick.  ‘Put your hand in, Ysabel.’

‘Only if you will.’

‘Leave him alone,’ said some passing stranger.

But they carried on.  Abuse rolled off their tongues as they continued to torment him with their prodding.  ‘Monster.  He’s a brute.  A beast.  An ugly, oversized toad.  Look at his skin.  Like a slimy creature.  He’s a fiend from Hell.  An ugly, dirty…’  That was the moment Julian grabbed both their hands, pulled them hard up against the bars, then got them by the necks.  The breath had almost left them before he let them slump to the ground.  He stretched his shoulders, turned his head from side to side, clicking the joints in his neck and sat down again, the entire episode already beginning to fade in his memory.  The girls scrambled to their feet, stumbled and staggered home in shock.

There were different accounts from witnesses of the incident, but the family trundled out of town, the father of the girls hurling abuse and rocks after them.

Larressingle had been a happy place.  Pilgrims on their way to Santiago passed through, warmed by the sun, freely picking fruit from the wild apricot and peaches trees, and waving to the harvesters, bent-backed, their scythes sweeping back and forth like clockwork.  Despite his state of confusion, Julian was drawn to it.  As the caravan pulled out of sight of the castle and out of earshot of the villagers, Julian took hold of the bars of his cage and wrenched them apart.  As they crossed the river, he slipped out of the back of the caravan.

The Dragonboy of Regnaville - Page 14

‘Look at all those people,’ said Birgitta, optimistic as always.  ‘We can make some money here.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Holger.  ‘But is he ready?  Is he to be trusted?’

Julian wasn’t entirely sure what was happening to him in his drowsy, drugged state when they threw a blanket over his green dragon costume, consisting of fronds of fern tied to his arms, loops of viridian silk suggesting scales, a long, arrowhead tail and a carved, wooden dragon mask.  Nonetheless, once he reached the well, he got the general idea.  If anyone had noticed the three figures by the well, then turned and blinked, they would have been bewildered by the sudden disappearance of one of them.

The assembled crowd roared with laughter and applauded enthusiastically as the sun began to set, casting long shadows in the footsteps of Birgitta and Holger playing different roles: an old hobbling woman and a young maiden, an idiot boy and a dunderhead farmer, all trying to collect water from the well.  Two girls, Clarice and Ysabel, sat through the whole performance with their mouths wide open, shivered with anticipation when the booming roars of the dragon echoed inside the well, and almost fainted with relief when they saw the quaint costume.  Their sides ached with laughter when the knight was chased away by the dragon, who carried a bucket of water home, arm in arm with the fair maiden.

Unfortunately, their interest in the performance didn’t end there.  When Birgitta slipped the collar and chain over Julian’s head and led him to his cage, Clarice and Ysabel’s curiosity was not far behind.  They ran alongside at a safe distance.  Threw stones and veered past striking Julian with sticks.  Julian scowled but did nothing.

In the middle of the night, they crept from their houses down to the encampment of travelling entertainers, to the Dragonboy’s tent.   They found Julian in his cage, leaning forward, sitting on his small bench unable to sleep.  The mask, the tail, the looping ribbons of silk and the ferns cast to one side.  Without them, he was just a disturbed young man.  Too many pictures battling for supremacy, whirling around inside his head. 

‘Fetch a stick,’ whispered Ysabel.  ‘Poke him.’

The Dragonboy of Regnaville - Page 13

Over the days that passed, he became more morose.  Sometimes the medicine made him too sluggish to take part in their performances.  Some mornings he would smile wistfully at his mother when she passed a cup of goat’s milk between the bars.  Other times, he would knock it flying out of her hand, taking some of her skin with it.  He spoke very little, his tongue having been charred so much by the fire-breathing.  he had a sickly, pale greenish tinge to his skin, bloodshot eyes and a weary, slack jaw.  He was becoming more and more unpredictable as the reptilian part of his brain gained increasing dominance over the human part.

‘We must travel west and north,’ said Holger.  ‘Through Gascony and further north.  We can make our way to England.  Maybe there, we can leave the past behind.’

It was in Larressingle, however, that trouble caught up with them.

They had joined jugglers and clowns, musicians and poets inside the castle wall of new yellow stone.  They pitched their tents – one for Julian and one in which Holger and Birgitta got dressed for the parts they were to play.  An old tale, much loved, about a dragon that prevented villagers from drawing water from the well.  Holger and Birgitta had taken a walk round the area.  It was warm, welcoming place, full of smiles and friendly people.  They noticed a sturdy fig tree that might be used in their act.  Also, a well, entwined with blackberries – the perfect setting.  Opposite the saddlery, there was a low wall and, in sheltered corners, the tall stems of hollyhocks swayed gently in the south-western breeze.  One of the prettiest places they’d ever come across.  

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