Facing the Dragon A Novella, Page 3

  Max’s eyes flew open as Anna disappeared from his dream. He could still feel the touch of her against his skin, and his arms felt empty and heavy against the ground. He glanced down at himself, startled to see that he had changed form in his sleep. He had never done that before. He rolled onto his back with a groan. Would Anna never leave him in peace?

  As Helen had predicted, Quentin could be seen walking towards along the path that led to the cottage exactly one week later. Max was chopping wood outside the cottage while Helen sat outside as she spun yarn on a spindle.

  “So Edith was right,” Quentin said as he approached Helen. “You have welcomed a stranger into your home.”

  “Quentin,” Helen said with a nod. “This is Max. He has been helping me with repairs and other chores.”

  Quentin turned to stare at Max. He was a handsome man, with thick, brown hair, dark blue eyes and high cheekbones, but his jaw was slack, and his face was flushed from too much drink. Max pulled himself up to his full height, and laid the ax over his shoulder as he returned Quentin’s stare. Quentin looked away and frowned at Helen. “Edith worries for your safety,” he said.

  “Nonsense,” Helen said briskly. “You are concerned about I am paying Max. But you can rest easy. Max has demanded no payment from me.”

  Quentin’s gaze swung back to Max. “Why not? What does it benefit you to stay and help Mistress Helen with tasks that others can assist her with. What are you after?”

  Max took a moment to reply. “I am not after anything,” he finally said, “but it is interesting that you believe a man can only offer assistance when he expects something in return. Perhaps I find myself at a loose end, and helping a woman who has no other means of assistance gives me pleasure.”

  “She has her family,” Quentin snapped.

  Max took a step closer towards Quentin, who took a small, involuntary step back. “The house and shed were both in need of repair when I arrived,” Max said, “and since this is the first time I have seen you, I can only assume that you have other, more pressing matters to attend to.”

  Quentin flushed. “My wife and children come first, of course,” he said.

  “Of course,” Max said.

  Quentin turned towards Helen. “Despite what you think of me, Helen, I am only concerned about your safety. You have taken in a stranger, who, for all we know, is running from the law. Do you know where he comes from? Or his purpose in being here?”

  Helen glanced at Max for a moment, and he could see her considering her response. She had never asked him anything about himself, and he had never offered. She looked back at Quentin. “I know a good man when I see one,” she said, “and Max is a good man.” She gestured with her hand. “He has repaired my shed and rethatched my cottage. He has rebuilt my walls and worked in my gardens. I am not interested in his secrets.”

  Quentin looked shocked. “You care nothing for his past? He may be a murderer.”

  Helen smiled wryly. “I suppose anything is possible. Why, Quentin, for all I know, even you might be a murderer.”

  “What? That’s absurd,” Quentin snapped.

  “Yes,” Helen said calmly. “And so is the idea that Max is going to kill me for whatever coins you suppose I have. I am very …,” Helen paused for a moment, “… grateful for your concern. But your interference is not necessary. Good day, Quentin.”

  Quentin scowled, and for a moment Max thought he was about to strike Helen. He shifted the ax on his shoulder and leaned a little closer, and with a furtive glance in his direction, Quentin relaxed his pose and forced a smile. “Of course, Helen,” he said. “Good day.” He threw one more narrowed glance Max’s way, then turning around, stalked down the path. Helen stared after Quentin as he walked away, before slowly turning to look at Max, catching his gaze. He looked at her for a moment, then with a slight nod, lifted the ax from his shoulder and turned back to the pile of wood.

  Edith’s pinched features were seen more frequently at the cottage as the weeks went by, although she never stayed very long. Sometimes she dragged her children along with her, the oldest girl carrying a baby awkwardly on her hip while the others trailed behind. Max could sense Helen’s pleasure when she saw her grandchildren, but it was never long before their mother was pushing them out the door once more, ignoring their pleas to stay just a little longer. As always, Edith would pause on the threshold of the cottage, her eyes searching for Max. He could feel the cold disapproval emanating from her, and could smell her displeasure at the sight of him. He would meet her gaze dispassionately, and she would quickly turn away, hurrying down the path.

  The summer rushed by, and in the autumn, Max helped Helen bring in her small harvest of vegetables. He cut fresh straw for the hen houses and clean reeds for the floor of the cottage. He chopped wood for the fire and stacked it in the woodshed, the pile reaching as high as the roof, ready for the winter. Soon, there was nothing more to be done. Once the winter rains arrived, Helen would have little need of Max’s assistance, and Max did not relish the thought of wintering in his muddy, earthen lair. He took Helen aside when the first frost lay on the ground.

  “I’m going to town for the winter,” he said, “but I will be back in the spring.”

  Helen touched her hand to his arm, then pulled away. “I’ll look for you when the rains end,” she said.

  It was a dark, wet day when Max turned himself away from the forest and headed south along the coast, towards the port town that clustered around a small bay. In a few hours he was striding along the wide road that led to the town gates. The town had been built on a low hill that overlooked the bay. A dozen ships lay at anchor within the protected waters, their sails lowered, while a few more had been hauled onto the land where they would be repaired over the winter. Smaller fishing boats lay at the water’s edge, where fisherman worked on their nets or caulked their vessels.

  As soon as Max passed through the lower gates, he was assailed with the smell of rotting fish and stale ale. The narrow street was slick with mud and slime, while on both sides raucous shouts and laughter rang from the bawdy houses that lined it. A door opened and a man fell onto the ground a few feet from where Max walked, while in the doorway stood a woman dressed only in a chemise, her disheveled hair falling over her shoulders. She placed her arms on her hips as she glared derisively at the man groaning in the mud, but when she glanced up and saw Max, her mouth curled into a leer. “Come ‘ere, luvey,” she said, beckoning her finger, but Max just gave her a grin as he strode past without pause. The woman cursed behind him, and he waved his hand in the air before turning the corner.

  The next day, Max was back at the harbor. A few discreet enquiries had led him to The Green Bell, a tavern that seamen were known to frequent – a good place to discover news of a missing sailor. He took a seat in a dark corner where he could watch the clientele as they came and went. A man entered, pausing at the entrance. He was short and stocky, and his bald head shone in the dull light of the fire that blazed against the wall. He glanced around the room, his gaze passing over Max. It returned a moment later, and Max held up his mug of ale in invitation. A long moment passed as the man stared at Max, but then he gave a slight nod, and wending his way between the long tables that ran the length of the room, made his way over to Max and sat down in the chair opposite. A white linen shirt covered his chest, the sleeve of which had been rolled up to his elbow, revealing a long scar that ran along the length of his arm to his wrist. His left eye was milky, but the other eye was dark green. Both were fixed on Max.

  “Waiting for someone?” the man said.

  Max leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. “Perhaps I’m waiting for you,” he said.

  The man leaned back with a slight grin. “P’haps you are. Buy me an ale and we can find out.”

  Max waved at the barman and indicated two more drinks, then turned back to his companion. “I’m looking for information,” he said. He watched as the man’s eyes narrowed slightly. Max placed his hands on
the table, palms down. “For a mother who lost her son,” he continued. The man relaxed slightly, but his eyes remained wary. “Clement Mercer,” Max said.

  Two tankards of ale were slammed down on the table, and Max threw a penny at the waiting barmaid. He watched as the girl turned away, then turned his gaze back to his companion.

  “I don’t know that name,” the man said.

  “He joined an expedition to the spice islands eight years ago,” Max said. “He has not been heard of since.”

  The man leaned back in his chair and took a long draw from the tankard. “Many’ve tried to reach the spice islands, guv’nor” he said. “I need more information than that.”

  “There isn’t much more.” Max took a sip of ale. “His father was a merchant, and he had a brother who was lost at sea. That is all I know.”

  The man shrugged. “Might as well look for a lady of quality in a brothel,” he said.

  “Perhaps,” Max said. “But I will pay for any information I receive.”

  The man stared at Max for a long moment, then smacked his hand on the table. “Dugan O’Reilly,” he said. Max nodded.

  “Max Brant.”

  In a matter of days, Max was being given a warm welcome into the homes of the local gentry of the town. With his handsome good looks and charming manners, he also had no lack of female admirers. It was soon noted amongst the upper classes that although he was not extravagant, he was well dressed and did not lack for coin, and it was not long before more than one young lady was being brought to his attention as a most appealing prospect for a wife. Max endured the attentions, but the women seemed dull and spiritless, and although he danced and smiled, he felt no remorse when he parted from their company.

  Once each week, Max left the wide boulevard and neatly cobbled streets, and headed towards the stinking morass of the harbor. The Green Bell was the only tavern he frequented in the area, and it was only for one reason: Dugan O’Reilly. O’Reilly, Max learned, was the first mate on the Blue Emerald, a small trading ship that spent the warmer months plying the waters along the coast. But despite O’Reilly’s best efforts, he had discovered nothing about Clement Mercer.

  “What you want to know about this boy for?” O’Reilly asked Max one day.

  “I would like to give his mother some peace.”

  O’Reilly cocked his head slightly, fixing Max with a penetrating stare. “She’s your mistress?”

  Max smiled wryly. “No. She did me a good turn. I wish to repay her kindness.”

  “By telling her her son is dead?”

  “If that’s the case, then yes.”

  A few weeks into the new year Max was waiting for O’Reilly once more at The Green Bell. He watched as O’Reilly stepped into the tavern, casting quick, furtive glances around the room before heading over to the corner where Max waited. He slid into the chair and leaned towards Max. “Lizzie’s House of Paradise has some new girls,” he said. “Let’s go have some fun afore word gets out.”

  “New girls?”

  O’Reilly leaned even closer. “Aye. Some as young as fourteen.” He made a motion with his hands over his chest. “Small and firm, eh.”

  Max closed his eyes. Fourteen. Three years younger than Anna. He opened them again. “No.”

  “No? Come on, guv’nor, you need to loosen up a bit.” He gave a sly grin. “I’ll get Lizzie to pick out the youn’est and sweetest for you.”

  Max leaned forward, his eyes narrowed as he looked at O’Reilly. “I said ‘no’. My tastes do not extend to unwilling children forced into service. If I want a woman, she won’t be one found in a whore-house.”

  O’Reilly leaned back, his eyes narrowed as he stared at Max. “Working girls not good enough for you, eh? Or perhaps you already have a bit on the side.” Max frowned and pushed himself to his feet, but paused when O’Reilly spoke again. “Well, well, well,” he said softly. “I think you’ve a sweetheart somewhere, don’t you, guv’nor. A young un, I’m guessing. But instead of being with her, you’re drinking with O’Reilly at The Green Bell.” For a moment Max stared at O’Reilly, then turned and headed for the door, which he pushed open forcefully as he stepped into the cold air. He breathed in deeply and the flames within him hissed and sparked. Turning towards the harbor, he made his way along the lane that led to the edge of the town.

  Max changed his form as soon as he was beyond the town walls, not caring whether anyone saw him or not. O’Reilly had no idea what he was talking about, he thought angrily to himself. He pushed forward towards the hills, driving himself as fast as he could go, but the wind whipping past his head did little to cool his temper. There was a rustling between the trees and he dived, driving himself with such force that the small deer was ripped apart by the power of his impact, dying before it even knew it was in danger. The fresh, hot blood spilling into his mouth helped calm him a little, and he took to the air again, flying in ever widening circles, over the ocean, then over the land. He was a far distance from the town when he spied a shelf of rock near one of the taller peaks. He headed towards it, and landing, lay down on the cold surface. He was expected at one of the homes in town that evening, a thought that made him grimace. He had no desire to return to the town, don his clothes, and paste a smile on his face, pretending he was scintillated by the company. Instead, he wanted to see the stars, feel the dark expanse of heaven around him, and relish the cool night air flowing over his burning heat. He wanted peace and quiet, not the chattering of empty words. He closed his eyes, and within minutes was asleep.

  Max was brushing Anna’s hair, watching as the silky tresses ran over his fingers. She was sitting on the bed, her back to him, and as his fingers brushed against her neck, he saw her shiver ever so slightly. He pushed the hair aside, gently spilling it over her shoulder, and leaning forward, bent down to kiss her neck. She sighed slightly, then turning her head, looked over her shoulder at him. Her eyes caught his and they stared at each other for a moment, before she turned around completely and his lips were on hers. Her hands slipped around his waist as his fingers wound into her hair and clasped her head, holding her close. She pulled back slightly, and ran her fingers down his face. Darling Anna, he whispered, stay with me forever. She smiled sadly, then rising to her feet, walked towards the open window. Max hadn’t noticed it before, but he saw now that it was long, reaching almost to the floor. The shutters were open, and outside the sky was dark. Anna paused and glanced over her shoulder at him, then turning back to the window, stepped through. No, Max shouted, jumping to his feet. He tried running to the window, but his feet were caught in thick mud that reached to his knees, slowing him down.

  Max awoke with a start, his heart pounding as he sat up on the hard rock. He had transformed while he slept again, and he fell back to the rock with a groan. He could still feel the touch of her fingers against his cheek, and he closed his eyes, trying to recapture the feel of her fingers on his skin, but already the dream was fading, nothing more than a memory. He rolled onto his side and stared out into the dark. In the distance he could see the faint light of the town, barely a smudge on the horizon. Beyond that lay the ocean, and beyond that, Anna. He growled softly to himself. Anna had not wanted him, and he certainly had no desire for her. She was a shrew, he reminded himself. Rude and selfish. And just seventeen. He rolled away from the view and stared at the rocky cliff that rose above his ledge, willing himself back to sleep. But sleep would not come, and when the dawn finally lit the sky, he rose silently into the air, eager to get away from this spot.

  Winter finally passed, and the first signs of spring began to appear. Max met O’Reilly once more, but learned nothing new.

  “I will be back when the frost returns,” he told O’Reilly. “Look for me here on the first day of November. As you know, I will pay well for information.”

  “We sail again in a few weeks,” O’Reilly said. “I will ask around whenever we make port.”

  Helen was outside when Max arrived back at the cottage, working in the garden
as he made his way up the path. She straightened her back and watched as he drew closer.

  “You’re back,” she said. She looked at him appraisingly as he returned her gaze.

  “As you see.”

  “Well, you seem to have survived the winter. Come inside, and let’s get you something to eat before you start working.” Max followed her into the cottage, taking a seat on a bench while she ladled some soup into a bowl. “I’ll pay you, of course,” but Max was already shaking his head.

  “No. Share your meals with me, and that will be payment enough.”

  She looked up at him and met his gaze, then nodded. “Thank you,” she said. Max smiled, and swallowed some soup.

  Max quickly settled back into the routine of before, spending the daylight hours doing chores and repairs for Helen. He found himself a new lair, a cave deeper in the hills, with a time-hardened earthen floor and a high, stone roof. As before, Max made sure that Helen only saw him in human form, only once hinting at his true nature. He was sitting with Helen in the kitchen one day, eating bread and fish stew when she turned to him with a questioning glance.

  “Max?” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  He looked up, surprised. “What do you mean, Mistress? I’m helping you.”

  She smiled. “And I appreciate it. But why are you here at all? Do you not have a home? Family?”

  Max took another bit of bread and chewed slowly. “I have a home. Across there.” He indicated the ocean, visible through the open door.

  “You lived with your parents?”

  “No. I have a home of my own.” Max lifted his eyes to look at her. “You see a young man, Mistress, but the truth is I am far older than I appear. I left my mother’s home when I was fifteen, over twenty years ago.”