‘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.’
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