Lara's Wanderings

Her hands were old, but her mind was still young. By the year the dragon came, the village of Westgate had considered Oma old for the last thirty years, yet she didn’t die. She was just pig-headed and ornery that way.

Bernadette Wilhemina Muller was the name her mother forgot to give her. Her father had scribbled down something spelled kind of close in the house of worship’s record book. Because of that, no one was sure which name the goddess, Juno, thrice bless her name, would prefer. So she was called Barb until her first granddaughter was born. Since then, she had been known as Oma, which means Grandmother. 

Oma lived in one of the few human riverside villages nestled in the minuscule westernmost kingdom of Larkspur. She still did many of the same things she had done as a young maiden newly married to her dashing fisherman husband. No one knew which village she had been born in or how she had met her husband, but the stories she told of her childhood always made the children giggle. Her husband had the inconsiderate gall to become old, as humans do, in both mind and body. He spent his last twenty years blind, sitting on a chair outside their house, mumbling things, and listening to the people pass by. He had been over a foot taller than she, but she alone cared for him. Perhaps that was what had kept Oma fit and her mind young. He had selfishly died five years ago, but he wasn’t nearly as stubborn and willful as she was.

The day the dragon came to Larkspur, Oma was making her daily walk through the crowded cobblestone street to the Westgate market. At not even five feet tall, people bumped into her as they do with children. She had reached a stage in life in which she was getting shorter from age, and many dwarves were taller than she. Because everyone was speaking over her head as she walked, she only heard bits of conversations with the word dragon thrown in while the rest of their words seemed to be blown away by the wind.

“My ears are going bad,” she grumbled to herself. “I can’t overhear a proper piece of gossip as I should.”

The walk to the market was short. She lived alone in the wooden house her husband had built her near the edge of the great river, Pinewater, and the wattle and daub village had grown up around her like a creeping vine in spring. The market square with a circular marble fountain with a statue of water nymphs playing in the center of it was not far from her house.

Oma passed the fountain to make her weekly stop at the cloth merchant’s shop. She pulled out her knitting for him to buy at the sales counter. He was the grandson of her sister-in-law, bless her memory. He wore spectacles and had gray streaks in his brown curly hair. Strange how these children kept getting older.

“A sweater, a pair of socks, and a scarf,” he stated as he inspected the knitted items. “Oma, winter is coming. You can make more money if you do simpler hats and scarves. You knit fast enough to make a stack of them in no time.” Everyone called her Oma, regardless of being a blood relative or not.

“Hats and scarves bore me,” she grumbled as she glanced over a pile of newly dyed yarn balls in a waist-high basket.

“Alright, then, four copper coins,” he said, reaching for his money bag.

“Nope, I need ten. This sweater gave me a blister on my thumb,” Oma replied as she held up a thumb without looking at him. She liked the new teal yarns in his basket.

“Ten!” he exclaimed. “You are going to make me poor! I can’t make a profit with ten.”

“You’ll steal my last penny when I buy your yarn,” she said with a smirk as she piled three balls of yarn in front of her on the counter. She had played this game for years. She knew he would eventually cave in at eight coins. She would also get her yarn for a steal because of her old age.

She was ancient but didn’t mind it, except on days when she did, which was every day. She hated the body aches, the tiredness, and the odd ways sleep wouldn’t come when it should. Yet, at the market, she wore her age with pride. 

As she left the cloth merchant, she heard the grocer, her daughter-in-law’s brother whom she nicknamed Grocerman, talking to a traveler who might have been part ogre. 

“Is what they are saying true? Did it come from Coal Ash Mountain?” Grocerman asked.

The men were standing outside the shop talking over the basket of pears. Oma decided the pears looked nice and started to pick through them right between the two conversation partners. They ignored her and spoke over her head.

“They are like cockroaches there,” complained the traveler. “It’s possible it is one of the younger ones from there. I live as close as anyone dares to that herd, and one of these days, the younger males are bound to set out to create their own gold hoards. The females have already left to find their mates. They tend to leave all around the same time. I haven’t been home in a year, so they may all be gone by now.” 

“I thought they lived alone,” said Grocerman. “Does the king know?”

Far west of the village, the king’s white, turreted castle was perched on a mountain cliff at the mouth of the Pinewater river, overlooking the sea. Oma had lived through five human kings, two invasions by the dwarves and the goblins, a civil war, and the relatively long reign of the current king (who was an elf). She may not know what day it was, but she did know the current state of affairs in the kingdom of Larkspur better than most people since she had lived through it. 

Those affairs typically had nothing to do with the ancient serpentine dragons in the east. Dragons were a problem in other countries, but bored wizards, clumsy politics, and not-so-honest trade were all that Larkspur worried about.

“For a few centuries, the males will live alone until they gather a large enough hoard to attract a female to him,” said the traveler. “They breed like any living thing. The female will then eat the male and have her eggs on the gold hoard. She will stay with that hoard the rest of her life even after her young have moved away.”

“Do they ever die?” asked Grocerman.

The traveler shrugged. “I don’t know. I have never heard of anyone finding a dragon that died of old age. Usually, if they die, it’s because of being killed somehow; at least, that is all I have heard.”

Once the conversation moved to the traveler’s reason for being there, Oma moved on. She was a good listener, and she especially liked hearing about dragons. 

“The pears were too green anyway,” she mumbled as she entered the bakery.

The rest of the day, she followed her usual routine, using her weekly earnings from knitting to buy her daily needs before going home to knit and care for her tidy home. A painting of her and her husband as young newlyweds hung over the fireplace where she cooked. She had comfortable armchairs around a wooden table in the living area. The house had only two other rooms: her bedroom and the room her three sons had shared. 

She knew she would be interrupted daily by visitors who often ate her food and warmed themselves by her fire. Sometimes they were family. Sometimes they were townspeople. Sometimes they were odd visitors from her past, and they were not always human. Sometimes her visitors brought fish they had caught that day or extra apples from the apple tree. They came because something about her and her tiny home felt safe and peaceful. In front of her guests, she complained to her husband in the portrait over the fireplace that they would eat her out of house and home, but the guests laughed. Her skills of conversation made them feel valued and special.

Unfortunately, none of her visitors that day talked about dragons, just dull stuff like love triangles and village politics.

Two days later, a day of outstanding purchases convinced her to stop her routine, sit at the central fountain, and eat her morning roll. She listened to the children kick a ball to each other, the pop-up sellers in their tents singing their appeals to customers, and the mothers trying to soothe their wailing babies as they made a purchase. 

“Oma, have you heard about the dragon,” asked an old man twenty years her junior. She called him Little Lucas, but his name was Hans. He looked identical to his grandfather Lucas, so Oma called him Little Lucas, mostly to annoy him.

“No, I haven’t, Little Lucas,” she replied, wondering if this was the beginning of one of his jokes. She hoped, though, that it was real news.

“Are you talking about the Worm from Coal Ash Mountain?” asked a passing woman. She was the daughter of her second daughter-in-law’s sister. Her name was Linda, but Oma called her Lin-lin.

“Yes,” said Little Lucas. “He has been traveling down from the mountains eating sheep from the villages for weeks. He has issued a demand for a gold tribute from each village to keep him from eating their people.”

“He picked poor towns for gold,” said Lin-lin. “We have very little.”

“He is going from village to village doing this,” said Little Lucas. “If we comply, he will move on.”

Oma grunted disapprovingly. “He will not move on far,” she replied. “His lair is probably nearby, and he will be a plague on us from now on. That is the way with dragons.”

“Have you seen a dragon, Oma?” asked Lin-lin. “How do you know about them?”

One of the children missed the ball, which rolled to Oma at the fountain. Oma stood up and kicked the ball back to the children. “I have heard many tales and many travelers over the years, but I have not met a dragon before, no.”

“There isn’t a choice,” said Little Lucas. “Who could we send out to fight the beast? We have no knights, and the king will not hear about this for weeks.”

“By then, we will not have enough livestock for winter,” said Oma. “Humph, I will give that beast a talking to.”

The older man and the young woman glanced at each other with concern.

“You will be eaten on the spot,” said Little Lucas. “We want you around much longer. Don’t do anything foolish, please.”

“No,” said Oma, standing up slowly. “I will wait for the king and his knights to take care of it, but dragons respect the old and elderly for their wisdom. The most aged among them are treated like kings, and the young pay them homage. I will not be eaten.”

“But you are not a dragon,” said the Lin-lin.

Oma smiled with a twinkle in her grey eyes. “No. I’m not.”

With that, she walked home to drop off her groceries and continue with her usual routines. She asked her visitors about the dragon. There was always plenty to say. The dragon was progressing toward Westgate out of the many villages among the terraced hills and gentle mountains of that wine country. It was noted that he was a young dragon, only 500 years old, and gathering gold for his hidden hoard located in the hills in their vicinity of Larkspur. No one wanted a dragon to settle into Larkspur. The whole reason other races had invaded Larkspur was because they had managed to be wealthy enough to live well and poor enough to be ignored by the dragons. This dragon had already gathered the gold from five villages. The dragons became the central and only issue discussed. Dragons were massive and domineering that way.

Only two weeks later, a tall knight in full silver armor rode his regal white stallion through their humble village. Oma was purchasing some cheese from Grocerman when the knight stopped near her and dismounted. He opened his helmet’s mask to reveal a dashing elf warrior. His blond hair framed his sky-blue eyes.

“I need some cheese and bread for my journey,” the knight announced to Grocerman.

“Are you here to fight the dragon?” asked Oma.

“I am,” said the knight with a proud smile. “I will come back through with his head next week.”

Oma nodded, “Well, may you have elfish luck on your side.”

“Thank you,” said the knight as Grocerman handed him his supplies, “but I won’t need it.”

Oma watched as the knight mounted his horse again and rode off. She shook her head and continued with her shopping.

“Oma!” called her great-grandson, Axel. He looked just like her husband had at that age. All of her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren took after her husband with complete and thorough unfairness. “Oma! A bunch of us are going to ride out and watch the knight kill the dragon. Do you want to come? We are taking Hans’s wagon.”

“I would love to come!” replied Oma with the kind of enthusiasm of a woman a quarter of her age. 

She left her shopping with Grocerman and climbed into the wagon with the teenagers. All of their parents considered themselves too mature for such ventures but hoped for some juicy bits of news when the teenagers returned. 

The wagon ride rattled Oma’s bones, but the aches and pains were worth the excitement. The group was comprised of seven enthusiastic young men and three daring young women. The knight had taken the main road up the river past the following three villages, and then he turned south into the hills where it was said the dragon was making his hoard. The teenagers from Westgate took a farm road directly there and stopped the wagon on the highest hill about half a mile away. They arrived at their viewpoint about the same time as the knight reached the cave.

“Oma, can you see from here?” asked Axel.

“If I can’t, I wouldn’t want to be any closer to a dragon’s breath,” said Oma.

The teenagers chuckled and discussed the knight’s chances and the best ways a knight should engage a dragon in battle, as though each one of them was an expert. 

The knight bravely rode directly to the cave opening and shouted in a booming voice, “Sir dragon, I command you to show yourself. I challenge you to combat to end your torment of these poor villagers.”

Oma snorted. “He’s brave, I suppose.”

“How would you do it?” asked one of the girls.

“With less bravado and a little more respect,” said Oma.

The knight waited, and the dragon did not appear. 

“Don’t turn around,” said Oma. 

The teenagers glanced at her. “Why?” asked one of the boys.

The knight repeated his demand and waited fifteen minutes more. Finally, he turned his horse to leave. As soon as his back was turned, yellow eyes shone out of the darkness of the cave. The teenagers and Oma sucked in a breath and held it.

The knight did not suspect anything as the iridescent green monster crawled rapidly and silently from the cave behind him. Before anyone shouted out a warning, the dragon opened his crocodile-shaped snout and breathed a stream of flame hotter than any bonfire the observers had ever seen. Had the dragon been aiming for the horse, it would have been dead, but the dragon targeted the knight. The horse, still badly burned, leaped forward in a mad sprint, leaving the charred knight behind. The dragon grabbed the arm of the darkened armor and dragged it into his cave. 

Oma and the teenagers sat stunned for a minute before Axel silently turned the wagon around to go home.

“That monster has no honor,” growled the teenage boys.

“The game of chivalry has no meaning for those being hunted,” replied Oma. 

“But dragons are supposed to be smart,” replied one of the girls.

“It is smart,” said Oma. “That is why he won.”

“If it is a mere animal, we could hunt it like a bear,” said one of the boys.

Oma shook her head. “No, it isn’t just an animal. They are ancient and very wise. Even a young one like this would know many languages and many tales about the history of the world.”

“How can they know these things?” Axel asked from the driver’s seat. “They live in a cave.”

“When other warriors come, which they will,” said Oma, “we may see the magic and wit the dragons are known for. They have many ways to learn things, both practical and magical.”

“Kind of like you,” said one of the girls. 

Oma raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Perhaps.”

The following week, another knight came through. This human knight with rugged good looks did almost the same thing as the previous knight. This time, his horse was able to drag him away from the dragon in its run. Still, if the knight had not died from the flames, he did die from being dragged. The knight’s dead body was placed on the undertaker’s wooden cart and returned to the king’s palace. The whole village came out and silently watched the fallen warrior pass as the mule pulling the cart plodded rhythmically on.

It was only a short time before a series of knights came through to fight the dragon. Some were human knights, and some were elvish. There was even a brave dwarf knight. The king had promised gold and awards for the dragon’s head. Each knight who came through the village to face the evil reptile was severely injured or killed. Only the lucky dead even made it onto the undertaker’s cart. Dragons like all kinds of shiny things, including armor.

Oma and the teenagers watched most of the encounters, but fewer of the teenagers came out with Oma and Axel each time. The encounters were very similar, with minor variations. Some knights openly challenged the dragon. Some tried to set traps with meat or gold. Some knights even tried to go into the dark cave itself. The dragon just waited for them to make a foolish mistake and burned them alive. 

The dragon continued his progress down the river, asking each village for a tribute. He had successfully taken the gold from ten towns and had utterly destroyed three. The refugees from the destroyed villages were welcomed in any town that they escaped to. Like many of the villages, Westgate created a food and clothing pantry for those in need. 

Autumn was quickly cooling down and the world was changing colors like a child’s kaleidoscope when it shifts from green and blue color flakes to red and yellow ones. The smothered or burned crops and lack of livestock were foretelling a hard winter. The dragon’s presence was felt throughout the kingdom, even in the villages where the dragon had not collected tribute yet. It takes a lot of food to feed a dragon, and he hunted all over the kingdom. Some villages were already gathering up a tribute just in case they were next, and this meant less funds for the maintenance of the town roads, schools, and public areas.

After twenty knights had come and gone, the king sent a call out to hunters and adventures. He even promised his daughter in marriage to the brave man who would cut off this ancient Worm’s head. All sorts of men came through the village. More of these survived their attempts, but some never returned at all. 

By this time, only three teenage boys and Oma went to watch the encounters. These interactions were more interesting. Since these warriors had no formal training in warfare, they approached the task like hunters, bandits, or tricksters. All the hunters tried a variety of traps with ropes, chains, pikes, springs, or levelers. They were clever inventions, but the dragon was patient. He would smell the hunters and the traps. Then he would use his tail, flaming breath, or tossing out small boulders to spring the trap. If none of those worked, he would slowly leave the cave and inspect his surroundings to piece together the areas around his cave that had been disturbed. Very few of the traps were big enough to actually catch the dragon, even if he fell into them. The hunters were always surprised at the dragon’s size. 

Because the hunters used traps instead of trying to fight the dragon, many survived their encounters to lie about their attempts to the villagers and save face. Oma counseled the teenagers to let the hunters have their stories and not contradict them. It was an embarrassing thing to fail at a noble quest.

One adventurer approached the task very differently, which greatly impressed Oma. He prepared a massive feast on a hand wagon that he dragged out to the dragon’s cave.

“‘Oh great and powerful dragon,” cried out the adventurer after leaving the feast and cart before the cave. 

The dragon said nothing. 

“I have come to pay you homage, ancient one. I bring a gift to gain your goodwill. Take this gift, mighty king of the dragons, and spare my family from misfortune.”

The dragon slowly emerged from the cave. “Do you fear me, mortal?”

“I do,” he said as he bowed down in the dirt. “I am prepared to use my influence to create a cult of worshippers to serve you, but we do not know your name, fearsome master.”

“You may call me Cingetorix,” said the dragon, slowly emerging from his cave towards the offering. His eyes were narrow and wary. “Many of the dragons of the past were worshiped and given offerings, which is only right. If you try to deceive me, you will not escape with your life.”

“I am but your humble servant,” said the groveling man. “I ask only for me and my family to live in your favor.”

Oma and Axil sat forward in the wagon, and the teens held their breath. Food had been used before in traps, but there was no trap here.

“The food is poisoned,” mumbled Oma to herself. “You are a clever one and have done better than most. Still, that is too obvious for one as ancient as a dragon.”

The teenagers glanced at Oma before watching what would happen next.

Cingetorix fully emerged from the cave for the first time the observers had seen him entirely. His girth was as round as Oma’s house, and his shape was long and thin, like a shimmering grass snake with the protruding arms and legs of a common lizard. His massive bat-like wings were folded on his back so that he fit through a deceptively small cave opening. On his crocodile shaped head, his golden cat-like eyes were expressive and intelligent.

The man on his knees opened his mouth into an honest gape of terror at the creature before him. 

“I will accept your homage and worship,” replied Cingetorix. He seemed pleased by both the flattery and the honest terror of the man. “Eat with me as my first priest. I grant you the best morsel of your fine feast, and it will be your first of many priestly portions as was the custom in the days of old.”

The color left the face of the man in the dirt. He glanced around, trying to think of a way to escape. 

Oma nodded solemnly. “You cannot refuse, you poor soul. Clever, clever dragon. You both suspect and guard against the chances of losing a valuable servant.”

The man finally rose and took a step towards the food as the dragon watched him closely. Suddenly, the man turned and ran.

“No!” exclaimed the observers.

Cingetorix blew a stream of flame and charred the man in his steps. The dragon turned and charred both the feast and the cart. He pushed the remnants of the feast out of the way and only took the cooked man into the cave. The teenagers sighed and returned to Westgate to give the report, yet again, of the dragon’s victory.

It was the end of the harvest when Cingetorix flew into Oma’s village. The townspeople had the sense to run into the nearest buildings and shut the door on the giant winged serpent, all but Oma, who was too old to run. The dragon took no notice of her, though. The iridescent green monster landed in the market square and stood on his back legs to gaze over the buildings’ tops and see the entire village.

“Good people,” announced Cingetorix. “I come in peace to gather my fortune. Give me your gold, and I will leave you in peace. I know it takes time for you to gather a worthy gift for me, so I will give you three days. Leave it on the grassy hill south of your village by the river. Such a gift worthy of the ancient kings will be much appreciated, but if you withhold your generosity, I, too, will withhold mine. Good day to you all.”

With this, he extended his green bat wings with the sun dimly shining through the membranes onto Oma. He flapped the wings and flew away as easily as he had come, blowing away a layer of dust on the entire market square.

“At least he left the village cleaner than when he had come,” mumbled Oma as she looked back through her basket to remember what else she needed to buy that day.

After a silent ten minutes, the village people came out of hiding and gathered around the mayor’s palace on the south side of the market square. They demanded action. The mayor’s palace was not much of a palace, but it was a slightly nicer two-story house with an excellent balcony that overlooked the square for official speeches. Today, the graying mayor did not feel so grand and chose to stand on the ground floor porch of his house with the four stately members of the town council. It probably would have been better if they were on the balcony just in case a riot broke out, but they were as single-minded and lacking sense as hypnotized moths around a harvest night bonfire. The mayor nervously consulted the anxious town council. Finally, he stepped forward, lifted his hands for silence, and spoke to the crowd.

“Good townspeople, fear not. I, your loyal mayor, and your faithful council members will send a letter to the king. We will take all suggestions for other actions through tomorrow. If nothing is done, we will give the dragon his demands and prevent any calamity.”

The crowd erupted in shouts and debates. Oma shook her head and went home. She left her few groceries on her dining room table and began to make a large dinner. It was her custom to make a large dinner, because, usually, someone came over at that time. If no one did, the leftovers would become her lunch for the next few days.

As she anticipated, Axel came over with his sister Gretchen. “Oma,” he announced, “I am going to go face the dragon.”

Oma turned around from the fireplace suddenly, launching a ladle of hot stew toward her guests. 

“No, you are not!” She announced so firmly that her great-grandchildren jumped in surprise.

“We have to do something, though,” said Axel. “If I do nothing, we can’t possibly raise enough gold, and we will get eaten. If I face him, I might get eaten. If he spares us and eats all our livestock, we die of hunger during the winter.”

“You will still not face the dragon,” said Oma more calmly. “You speak truthfully, but you are at the age in which the dragon will not give you any chance at all. After dinner, go home. Tomorrow, we will go to the river and devise a plan.”

Axel agreed to do nothing until the next day, and they were able to eat their meal in peace. Once he left for home, Oma cleaned up the dishes angrily. She pointed her ladle at the portrait of her and her husband over the fireplace. 

“Do you hear what your great-grandson wants to do?” She told her husband’s young smiling picture. “You pulled me out of the river, married me, abandoned me here, and now are going to have me watch all these babies get eaten up or starved to death. Are you going to do anything about it?” 

The portrait remained smiling and silent.

“You can’t just wait for someone else to do it like you always do,” Oma returned to cleaning off the table and washing the dishes in a bucket. “We have seen nearly every person in this village be born for the last three generations, and many of those have already died of old age. Every one of them is my child. Every one of them is too young to know what it is like to live under the arrogant shadow of a dragon. From the mayor to the tiniest baby, they are all new to this. None of them, not one, is capable of facing that dragon. He is an old, clever trickster. I know Cingetorix. He is the youngest and most arrogant of his siblings, and he is out to prove himself the most superior, as males do. He’ll want to make a name for himself. Just because he is not as ancient as his mother nor as greedy as his uncle, who refuses to breed and lose his gold, there is still none in this kingdom, not human, dwarf, or elf, who is as old and greedy as him. He still knows the tricks of those who would hunt him. Are you going to face him?” she said as she turned back to the portrait.

The portrait continued to sit silently.

“Lazy old fool,” she exclaimed at him. “If you hadn’t been so selfish to die first, you could have dealt with this instead of leaving it to me. Drat and double drat!”

Oma threw down the ladle she had been washing and using to point at him, breaking the head off of it. “If you aren’t going to do it, so help me, I will. I am too old to live forever, and I won’t let these babies get eaten by a runt of a Worm!”

She grabbed her basket and her hat and dashed out of the house, leaving the washing unfinished. Oma walked along the river, picking nuts and berries as she went until she reached the hill where Cingetorix had instructed the town to leave the treasure. After months of observation, she knew he did not return to his cave until after he received a tribute.

Cingetorix was an iridescent green, but as the sun set, that iridescence helped make him invisible on the tall grassy hill. Oma had to get quite close to the hill to see the coiled-up beast sunning in the last rays of light on top. His arms, legs, and bat-like wings were hidden until he uncoiled his top to face his visitor. He doubled the height of the hill. His yellow eyes fixed on her right away with an unblinking curiosity like a cat. 

He had both smelled and heard Oma coming and was curious about who would be so foolish to face him without gold or an offering of livestock. He smelled no gift, only a single puny person. When Oma appeared before him, panting at the effort of the hike, Cingetorix was even more surprised.

“Were you out looking for me, or did you come to me by accident?” He asked as he tilted his head puzzled.

Oma shrugged and continued walking towards him.

“Are you to be sacrificed to me to eat?” he asked. “Usually, I am given young virgins rather than half-dead hags.”

“Is that how you were taught to speak to your elders?” snapped Oma shaking a finger at him and then turning to find a place to sit. “I had expected a dragon to have better manners than that.”

Cingetorix was stunned and reared back like she had slapped him. “My elder?” The dragon chuckled. “You could never hope to be as old as a dragon.”

“Psha” exclaimed Oma as she found a small boulder and sat down on it. “All dragons are born and therefore younger than humans at some point.”

Cingetorix nodded. “True, but you are not as old as me. I am five hundred years old.”

“Quite young for a dragon,” said Oma, straightening her skirt. “And I am older still. I have come as the village wise woman to speak to you.”

“Is this true?” asked the dragon, uncoiling himself further. He began to really study her beyond his first impression of a wrinkly old hag. “Are you so old and wise as that?”

She was small, but fit enough to walk without a cane. Her white hair was tied back in a tidy bun with a purple ribbon so that her hair had a tinge of lilac color. Her clear grey eyes rarely met his but held no fear. She looked human by her ears and eye shape. Her tan tunic dress was covered with a white apron and a purple knitted shawl. For a poor villager, she was tidy and clean. He could not find anything interesting about her.

“I am not,” said Oma. “I am not as old as that, but I am as old as the hills and the river.”

The dragon tilted its head, puzzled. “Are you not human then? How old are you?”

“I am old enough to have forgotten my age,” she replied, and this was true. Her children and grandchildren often had to remind her how old she was on birthdays.

“How then can you prove to me your age?” asked Cingetorix. “I was indeed taught to honor and respect my elders, but I could tell their age and experience. You must also know that the consequence of lying is severe too.”

“You are a horrid youth,” said Oma. “Which of your elder dragons have you demanded that they prove their age? Was not their word enough? Why would I lie about being old? Not only have you come for the river treasure but to insult me as well.”

The dragon was becoming angry at her, but the word “treasure” caused all of that irritation to evaporate.

“The river treasure?” asked Cingetorix. He tilted his head in the opposite direction, puzzled.

Oma smirked at seeing the gleam of greed shining from the monster’s eyes. “Of course, that must be why you are here,” said Oma, calmly straightening her apron. “These poor villages don’t have nearly enough treasure to draw a dragon, like yourself. Everyone knows that a dragon searches for a hoard of wealth and then guards it for the rest of his life. A young one like yourself is probably seeking to create a hoard that would be the envy of your elders. There is no better place for such a task than here.”

 Cingetorix completely uncoiled himself and was creeping down the hill around the old woman, fully engaged in what she said. “Of course, that is why I am here.” He replied with cunning. “It is not a well known treasure, though.”

“Ah,” said Oma. “You are right. In fact, the tale was probably lost entirely from the memory of most people. Those as old as us would remember when this river was just a brook in the valley of a great chasm. At the bottom of the chasm near the brook are many caves that wind deep into the earth. The dwarf king of Coal Ash Mountain had traveled here often in the spring to trade with the elves of the woods beyond the river to the north. Each time they passed by, both coming and going, they deposited treasure in a cave for a future need.”

“The dwarf kings had long moved on from Coal Ash Mountain to the Silver Mountains in the northeast when my father gathered his hoard there and before my mother came to gather her hoard from him. That would be a thousand years ago,” said Cingetorix thoughtfully, but then he caught himself. “You remember this, though? So they abandoned their treasure when my father conquered the mountain. He had broken open the springs wide both to give him plenty of water to drink and to drown the road to his mountain cave.” The dragon glanced back to the hilltop and the river beyond. “Here it lies now at the bottom of this river created by that mountain stream.”

Oma nodded. “It is a difficult task if you are too young to remember those days. The river is long and deep, with many caves. Dragons are not as good at swimming as they are at flying. You may need to leave this task until you have aged a few hundred years more.”

 Cingetorix snorted and climbed back up the hill to look out at the dark river reflecting the bright full moon.

“You may be lying,” the dragon said more to himself than to her. “In fact, she must be lying. Humans live to a hundred years and no more.” Cingetorix glanced back at the old woman whose eyes were closed like she was asleep. “Then again, she never said she was completely human. She could be part elf or some other being.” The dragon stamped all four feet in a marching motion like a child having a tantrum. “But a treasure from the ancient dwarf kings would be wealthier than any dragon my age has found in hundreds of years. Can I risk dismissing her lies without checking first?” He then paced a circle around his hill.

Oma woke up with a start, and Cingetorix was immediately next to her.

“Are you lying to me about the treasure?” asked the dragon, trying to read the old woman’s expression.

“Yes, I am,” Oma replied without hesitation. The dragon reared back again, surprised even more. Oma continued. “You are too young to risk your life on a tale that a stranger tells you. If you were old enough to remember those days, as I am, then you would know all of this already and have an idea which cave to search. How can I tell you the right cave when there are many here alone.”

The dragon sat down with a sigh of frustration. “I should eat you for your impertinence.” said the dragon.

“And break your own laws,” said Oma. She stood up slowly, and her joints popped. “I am your elder, and for that alone, you should spare my life. If I were a dragon, I would have eaten you for your rudeness to me and for taking over my territory. I cannot do these things, so I must endure you as you must endure me. Take my advice, though, forget that I was here, and continue with your original plan. It is much better for the young to build wealth slowly and not let greed destroy them.” With that, Oma began to walk away slowly into the darkness.

 Cingetorix watched her go with narrowed eyes and complex emotions whirling inside his head. Part of him said he should eat her as he would have done with any human who had bothered him so much. Part of him wondered if what she said about her age was true. It was one of the most sacred of dragon laws to respect one’s elders. A youth who challenged an elder for her hoard would not escape with his life. He must win the hoard or die. If a young dragon disrespected any elder, it was within the rights of that elder to kill the youth. Even to meet with an elder dragon, a youth was expected to bring a gift of gold. 

Part of him could not believe that a mere human would claim to be older than him. Then again, how did she know about dragon laws? How did she know about the caves at the bottom of the river? How did she know about the ancient dwarf kings when humans had stopped thinking about them long ago?

Part of him wondered whether the treasure was true or not. Ultimately, he tried to figure out her motive for lying to him. She asked for no favors or gifts and did not try to harm him in any way. He could easily find her by smell and kill her for lying. If she knew dragon law, she must know that he would be able to find her.

Then why did she tell him and then say she was lying? 

“The old woman must be senile and losing her senses. Her memories of the past might be mixed up with the present. She may not even remember her true age,” thought Cingetorix. “I will just go to the river to check to see if her story is true. I can swim, and there is no harm in that.”

 Oma did not return to her house when she finished with the dragon. Instead, she went to the mayor’s palace in the market square as the sky had stray rays of light peeking over the horizon. The middle-aged merchant who rose to that position knew her as all in the town did. When she knocked on his door, he welcomed her into his sitting room, offered her a seat by the fire, and asked about her health.

“I live,” she stated bluntly, sitting in an armchair across from the mayor. “Now, what will you give me for killing the dragon?”

The mayor sat back in his armchair, surprised. His wife was coming into the room with a tray of refreshments and burst out laughing.

“Are you asking for yourself or one of your great-grandsons?” asked the mayor.

“I ask for myself,” said Oma. “I am poor and want a reward for my effort.”

The mayor and his wife looked at each other. It was a poor village where the mayor couldn’t even afford servants. The mayor shrugged.

“I just posted a notice in the town square, to the neighboring villages, and to the king that I will pay a thousand gold coins to the one who kills the dragon. We have nothing more we can give anyone than that. That is the full tribute we have raised for the dragon so far because we have no more than that in the treasury.”

Oma nodded and stood up. “I will come with my grandsons to collect at sunrise tomorrow.”

The mayor stopped her from leaving. “I mean that to be the reward for the dragon to be killed, Oma. I can’t just give it to you as a gift.”

The old woman smiled at the mayor like he was a silly child. She knew that the reward was everything in the village treasury, but she also knew they would be fine and collecting taxes next month. “The dragon will be dead by sunset.” With that, she left the house.

The mayor stood stunned with his wife as they watched her leave.

Not even an hour later, word spread throughout the village to come to the river to watch the spectacle. All of Westgate could not get there fast enough. Other villages also lined the riverbank. When the mayor dismounted from his horse, he saw Oma calmly sitting on a rock by her house, watching the river with a crowd of villagers around her. The mayor surveyed the choppy waters of the boatless river, puzzled at what was happening. The fishermen had quickly abandoned their morning’s work, and merchant ships had found the nearest harbors. Suddenly, the dragon burst through the surface of the water and gasped for air. It breathed hard while flying in the air for about five minutes before circling around and diving under the waves again.

“What is happening here?” asked the mayor.

Little Lucas came and greeted the mayor. “The dragon is diving down to the bottom of the river, searching the deep caves for something. He has been doing this for nearly an hour.”

The dragon burst out of the river fifteen minutes later gasping for air again. “There is one more cave,” he muttered to himself as he dived back into the river.

“Oma, is this your doing?” asked Axel.

“Yes,” said Oma, and she told him of her meeting with the dragon.

“How did you know about the caves, Oma? Did you lie to him?”

Oma smiled slyly. “Just because I am old now does not mean I was always old. I was young once, and I did many things. I know more about the world than you realize.” She would say no more than that to anyone who asked.

The crowd waited a long time for the dragon to reemerge again. After thirty minutes, the ground shook violently, and air boiled out of the river. Some people ran for shelter as the earthquake continued causing dead branches to fall from trees and rocks from the hills to tumble down. The rumbling lasted for nearly five minutes and suddenly stopped.

Oma stood up and turned to the mayor. “The dragon is dead. I will collect my gold tomorrow.”

The village silently watched her walk home in awe. 

The dragon never emerged from his watery grave in the deepest of the underwater caves, but Oma did not receive her gold. The city council greeted her respectfully the next morning and explained that the dragon had killed himself. There was no evidence that anyone had a hand in killing him. Oma threw a fit and told them all that she did. The town leaders still would not give up the gold.

“Nearly as bad as the dragon,” grumbled Oma as she left the town hall.

Word of Oma’s deed reached the king by the hand of one of her grandsons, yet the king, too, apologized and explained that he had to have the dragon’s head to issue any reward. In the end, Oma only received a long parchment that expressed the king’s gratitude which was sealed and signed by his hand.

Oma grunted at reading the wordy paper and put it away with her land deed and her husband’s will in the junk drawer of her kitchen dish cabinet. She would tell visitors that she lost it if they asked to see it.

From that day on, she was known as the sorceress of Westgate village. The story of Oma’s actions grew and morphed as people told the tale to all who would listen. The title of sorceress was only natural since no mere old woman could have possibly defeated an ancient dragon without some powerful magic. She was known to take weekly walks into the hills and to pay for her groceries once a week with a single gold coin. No one had ever found the dragon’s hoard, even though the king had issued a reward for it. The Westgate villagers had noticed Oma’s periodic gold coins, but no one discussed it. Whenever someone asked, the villagers would shrug and say, “Well, that is what sorceresses do. She probably turned a rock or coal into gold.” 

Some of the Westgate teenagers tried to find where Oma was getting her wealth, but the dragon’s cave was empty except for bones. A few strangers visited the cave and tried to find Oma’s treasure as well, but they could not figure out her tricks. Oma was old enough to know even a dragon’s secrets, or so they say.

THE END