Genevieve Cunningham

         Raining again. Cold, drenching rain. It was a winter rain that drummed upon the roof with a soft roar, and seethed outside the walls in torrents that reminded one of glittering silver teeth. Inside the ancient, partially unsound room, the feeble fire struggled with the shadows cast by the rain clouds. It might have seemed an equally matched struggle, save for the fact that the rain was strong, the fire more tremulous. An obvious distinction to those observing both.

         It was Sir Reycott who sat, more or less sprawled, in that room. The room was awkwardly attached to the ramshackle inn of that village, which hardly deserved to be described as one. There may have been noise and chaos in it then, but where Reycott sat it was quiet.

         No. It wasn't quiet. There was the old man off in the corner, the one with dirty hair—known by all, having lived in that village all his life. And he was droning, as usual. He did so incessantly. It was something he never tired of doing, even when nobody listened; but Reycott, knight of the Order of Soccrest, was his preferred victim. He told him what to do; what he should not have done—what was wrong with everything; what should be done. No scrap of gossip was safe from him.

         It had come to the point where, after so many years of patiently enduring it, Reycott did not even notice or hear the old man anymore. In this kind of silence, then, which built walls around him, the knight was enclosed, and lost in valleys of thought.

         Knight? Or rather what was left of one? The dozen other knights who served under him in this branch of the order had fallen away from their oaths, himself included, though he knew of and thought of it not. They were slovenly...gluttonous...corrupted with laziness...excessive in cursing and misuse of beer. Yet they did no truly serious harm to anyone but themselves. 

         And now this Sir Reycott sat, unassuming and ungraceful, in the hard-backed chair near the fire. Who could say when he had last worn his helmet? His dark, slightly graying hair was in disarray; his leather calf-guards were well broken in, but grimed and unmaintained. His boots were the same. The leather jerkin and belt were cracked in places, and familiar with their covering of dried mud. The linen shirt underneath must have been white at some point in its existence. As for the mostly clean face, set with a dignified and regal nose, wrinkles were just beginning to show in the high forehead, and at the corners of his brown eyes. He might have looked young otherwise. His scabbard did have a sword, but as to armor...he was randomly wearing a piece here and there, as if he had been in the middle of taking it off and become distracted; the rest was scattered somewhere in that room.

         Still raining. In the middle of his thoughts, the voice of the old man broke through and was suddenly audible. "You may think you have them all under control. But you don't. The knights, the other knights I am speaking of! They..."

         And then Reycott lapsed into a daze again and could hear the old man no more. What he had heard had not even made its way into his thoughts.

         The crash of an over-turning chair sounded faintly from the adjoining inn.  Sir Reycott did not hear it, but the old man started up, only to rave on once more.

         Yes, this particular branch of the order of Soccrest, under Reycott's command, was crumbling, and the vows forgotten. These vows had been for self-restraint, in order to have control over their own actions and words; to take only the necessary amounts of food and drink; and to retain spirituality, as well as physical strength. (The strength, at least, was not lacking; but it was not being used in the desperately needed outlet.) In addition to these, the vows were for protection of the weak and innocent; obedience to their elders and betters; and to be ever vigilant and alert.

         These last two they certainly were not, and in all misfortunes, Sir Reycott was a perfect example.

         The rain poured on, and the fire burned low. Sir Reycott rose and stretched.

         He was awakened abruptly by a thudding down below. Reycott had retired from the rain-battered room to the poorly chambers above, there removing the rest of his armor and laying his sword beside him on the stiff wooden structure built into one wall; a structure that had been intended to be a bed by some ascetic soul.

         The thudding continued, and increased, and the door shook in its flimsy frame. He rolled over on the straw, sat up, and his feet hit the floor with a dull bump. In the early morning dark he scrambled for his sword belt, allowing his eyes to adjust to the shadows. Before a moment had passed, though, he lunged towards the stairwell and descended with a clattering of boots. Youth may have passed him by; but his agility and nimble movements were proven by the fact that he neither stumbled nor faltered in the dark. The thudding had not paused since it had woken him.

         As he moved quickly forward in the darkness, he managed to wrestle his blade from the sheath, and fling the door open; he half expected to see a group of drunken villagers from the inn.

         Instead he saw only a small crowd of old men who were well known in that place, and they stood surrounded by the dawn that was in the east. The foremost waved a bony hand at Reycott, and emphatically nodded his grey head.

         "The one we need! Sir Reycott, yes, good old Reycott. Lazy young man, sleeping so late"—(a grunt from Reycott himself)—"but good old Reycott!"

         Reycott sheathed the old weapon and turned to go, but his arms were cheerfully seized by the closest old men, and they pulled him out and into the street.

         The rain had stopped only an hour or two before, and the mud was excessive.  The sky was a somber grey, and there was nothing that did not drip with chill rain droplets. Shadows of darkness still lay about and sheltered the icy winter puddles that swirled with mud.

         The dim morning light was not to last for long, for new rain clouds were sweeping in. Thunder rumbled softly from afar; a wind began to blow; and Reycott, cold and confused, wished greatly for a cloak.

         Regaining the independence of his arms, he stepped back from the others.

         "Cease your cackling, fathers, and enlighten me as to the present reason for your madness."

         In response to this there was a great shaking of heads, and varied shows of indignance.

         "Madness!" ventured one, grimly. "If there is a man here who can be such, it is the crazy young Reycott." A kindly meant chuckle of agreement went around, and the one who had spoken continued. "Tis not hard to see that his mind is hardly here with us these days, but he is a beloved knight, lost though he be."

         Reycott brushed away this last wise and perceptive remark, and insisted that he be told why he had been so rudely awakened. There was a scattered exclamation among them, until the one who had stood first before the door began to circle around Reycott; and as he did so, he narrowed his eyes and stared hard. Reycott folded his arms and half-glared impatiently. Finally the old man completed his circling, stopped dead in front of the others, and pronounced loudly, "Both his ears are there!" Guffaws broke out, accompanied by knee-slapping.

         Reycott had not moved from his stance. A resigned expression flooded across his face.

         When the laughter had died away, the same old man stepped forward again. "You're too young to be deaf yet," he said. "But I see your mind seldom dwells here anymore. Do you not hear? Anything?" He stepped in and set a hand on the knight's shoulder. "Listen." Reycott did so, although he had no idea what he was supposed to be listening for. There was complete silence. After a few moments more of waiting, Reycott sighed with exasperation, and turned again to leave. The old man detained him. "No! Listen!"

         With the last of his temperance, Reycott stood still, and listened. Within moments, all who stood there heard a noise that caused the ground beneath their feet to tremble; and even the air seemed to waver. The roar came again; deep-throated and mournful. Twice more it came, and then ceased.

         The expression on Reycott's face turned from frustration to disbelief, and he made no move towards his chambers now.

            "Ah, you hear it then," said the old man, almost sadly. "And only one thing can it be. One of the town boys saw it from a distance. It has been roaring quite consistently for the past three days, and you, my friend, are the only one not to have noticed." As if to match his words in their solemnity, rain began to fall again, large droplets. They struck the ground heavily. "Each time," the man continued, "the dragon gets closer. Come, Reycott! You are the only one who would, more or less willingly, go to meet it. You are the only knight who would care enough to not let our town be destroyed, our people killed. We know this!"

         The old men had gathered around tightly, and were now patting his shoulders, and plucking at his sleeves, and talking loudly at him. He managed to brush them off, and stepping out of the circle, he shut his eyes. Their voices died to a murmur.

         "All right. All right! I will go and rid you of this pestilence." A chorus of cheers broke out at his words, and the entire group began to drag him in the vague direction of the dragon. Reycott dug his heels into the soft mud in the road, and shook the old men off. "Slower, fathers!" he said. "Half my gear is back the other way. I can't go to meet the brute like this."

         There was a pause, and then the group, happily chattering, took hold of him again and pulled him back toward the inn.

         Once in his chambers, gnarled hands took up his armor and plates and such, and began to slap them on and tighten them as best as the old fingers could. Reycott could hardly do anything himself. The last straw was when one of them thumped his helmet down hard over his head. He saw stars for a moment as the visor crashed into place. Pushing through them, he left the building, stepped out into the now steady rain, and loosened his sword in its sheath as he strode along. The rain was at his back, and behind him the men gathered to watch before he disappeared from sight. They were nervous about coming any farther themselves.

         As the town receded behind him, he could hear the dragon's occasional roars grow louder; but still they were mournful, and not aggressive.

         A dragon. Reycott shook his head as he thought to himself. One of those had not been seen in these parts for nigh sixty years. The last time he had seen one was back in the city of Merriot, ten years ago. This city, which lay eight hundred miles away, had appealed to the Order of Soccrest to liberate them from such a beast.  As it was, those desperate supplications were rare. And that mission would mark the last of the great conquests that Soccrest would embark upon.

         But ten years...it was a long time.

         The trees began to thin out.

         Reycott noted that he felt no fear. But then, he felt no fear of anything, anymore. Indifference had had its way with him, though he might deny it. He sighed to himself as he sloshed along through the tall, wet grass that lay pooled with rainwater. Mud splattered up at him, to form a new layer on the already spattered leather leggings.

         A roar shook the ground again, and rang in his ears. Now, now Reycott felt the dragon's presence. It was very close. He drew his sword, tightening and releasing his grip on the hilt as he tested the weight; a habit he had had since he was a boy. He didn't even realize that he was doing so.

         Perhaps he was moving faster than he had thought.  However it was, he suddenly came to a halt as he left the shelter of a few trees, and there was the dragon before him. But even his past experiences with dragons had not prepared him for the sudden reality of this one. He gazed up at the huge animal. It was, in fact, lying on its side, throat exposed, head way up in the grey sky, and the rain rattling off its hide. The thick skin was a mottled brown-grey, with the only sign of color being a translucent reddish around its feet and head. The tail, a good thirty feet in length, lifted and slapped down on the rain-soaked ground; muddy water sprayed upward, to mingle and coalesce into the falling drops.

         The dragon roared again, deafening all sound in Reycott's ears. It did not move otherwise, although Reycott knew that it saw him. Now it snorted, and steam drifted in the rain.

         Reycott had stood there a long time before he shook himself. Well. It was time for him to do what he had come to do. Lifting his sword tip, and not allowing himself to truly consider what he was about to carry out alone, he took one step forward.

         In that instant, a light so blinding and so brilliant that it knocked the wind out of him exploded in his sight between him and the dragon. Reycott could not see. He fell face forward on the ground, and slammed into the mud. His helmet fell off and rolled onto the soggy grass beside him.  He heard it roll, but he could not see anything. Yet he could not have collapsed into unconsciousness, he thought groggily to himself, for he still was aware of the rain falling around him.

         But the white light was everywhere. To open his eyes was to invite pain. He remained on the ground then, hands clenched with fistfuls of mud in the wet grass. Water trickled down his neck, and dripped from his hair, and thunder rumbled. The sword was beneath him, and under water.

         When his ears did perceive something other than the rain, it was not a roar, but a voice. A strong, clear, young voice; and hesitation in speech was foreign to it. The voice rolled out now, deep and authoritative.

         "Reycott," it said, and it was the voice of a man. "Sir Reycott, get up."

         Reycott tried, with immediate obedience, but the light was too bright; he fell back down.

         "Get up," repeated the voice, more kindly. He pushed with his hands, taking his sword with him, and stumbled to his feet. He still could not see, and it was just as useless when he tried to open his eyes. It was then that the blinding radiance dimmed mercifully. It faded from the ground, and from the sky, and from the dragon, but it was still before him, its rays coming from a figure in white. The figure was unusually tall, but Reycott could not make out much of it. He shielded his eyes with one arm, and gazed forward. The light was still reaching out in rays, and a body was not clearly visible; only the outline of a face could barely be seen. Flowing hair framed it, and a hard jaw. The light seemed to come from two places: the eyes and the heart. Because of the glow that came from the eyes, more features Reycott could not see. He stood in a sort of trance. The only lucid thought that was in his mind was the remembrance of stories told of angels, and spirits. His eyes followed the right arm of the being, which was held outward; in this hand there was a long spear.

         "What have you come for?" the figure spoke.

         Reycott was silent, still gazing at the light. Finally he found his voice, and was surprised, somehow, that he could still use it. "I was sent to drive away, and kill if need be, this dragon."

         "Yes. But what have you come for?"

         Reycott did not answer, for he was pondering what that reply meant. There was silence.

         "Do you know who I am, Reycott?" Again, silence.

         The voice of the figure rolled out through the rain, which did not seem to touch it. "I am an angel, Sir Reycott."

         Reycott spoke then. "The dragon's?"

         "No. Yours."

         Reycott did not know how to respond. He fell on his knees, but the angel did not tell him to get up.

         "Reycott," the voice went on. "You are not to kill this dragon. For this dragon is only here because of you. Do you not remember anything that you were taught before you entered the order of Soccrest? Yet how could you, when you have broken every vow, every oath that you took." Reycott bowed his head. "You, as leader of the other knights, have failed. They have failed. Since you did nothing to stop it, you are guiltiest of them all. They follow you, as they did the order of Soccrest; but what is left now of your branch? It has deteriorated into a nothingness. There is no Soccrest in the village. There are no worthy knights. They are defined by every kind of vice. Yet that was not how they used to be, nor is it what they, and you, were created for." The angel took the spear in his other hand, and pointed at the dragon.

         "Do you not remember, Reycott? The old lessons taught are truth. When a knight has shamed his order, himself, his footsteps will be followed by a dragon. It will be his bane, his penance. You have called this dragon upon yourself, your knights, and your village. It will cause damage and destruction, but not of its own accord, of yours. Unless you return to the village changed; unless you turn from every vice and dire habit and re-take the oaths in your mind and soul. Never turn from them again. Do not lead your men astray; that is an outright abuse of your authority."  

         The angel came soundlessly closer until he stood a mere two feet from the knight. This time it was the presence of great power, and not the light, that overwhelmed Reycott; the very power seemed to push at him—not physically, but within. It steadily pressed at his heart and mind, from what seemed like all directions. Yet it was not a forceful or invading power; it did not incite fear or the desire to flee. It only asked for a response.

         Still kneeling, Reycott bent his head in due reverence. He looked up when the angel spoke, but could see little other than a white glow.

         "Pledge in my witness," the angel said. "Pledge that you will re-take the oaths which you once made and thus are bound by."

         There was a moment of deep quiet.

         Finally Reycott lifted his eyes to the radiance. "I pledge, that it may be so," he said, in the ancient tradition. When he had said this, he could feel the head of the spear touch his right shoulder, and then remove. 

         The brilliant light that came from the angel began to abruptly recede. "Re-take the oaths in your mind and soul. Never turn from them again."

         Reycott knew that the angel was leaving. "What is your name?" he said quickly.

         "Samuel," said the angel, and all the while the glow was becoming smaller. The light vanished, and compared to how it had been, all now seemed dark. The wind whistled softly, and the rain drizzled on.

         With a snort of effort that sent more steam billowing into the air, the dragon rose to its feet, and its full height. It had been quiet for the duration that the angel had stood there. Now it looked down at Reycott with a meaningful gaze, and Reycott was not afraid. But a new awareness had opened his eyes. He looked back at the dragon, bowed to it, and turned away. He retrieved his helmet from the ground. Then he strode off through the steady rain towards the village.

         As he walked, he recited the oaths, oaths that had been hidden away and forgotten in the far corners of his mind. They took root in his soul, never to be removed again. From that day on his branch of the Order of Soccrest would return to its former glory and purpose; his knights would re-take their vows and remember their former ways with him.

         Soon the village was in sight. The curtain of rain shimmered between it and Sir Reycott, and his strides lengthened. The old men were still waiting there for him, standing about nervously, and their eyes opened wide at his returning so soon. They gathered around him respectfully, sensing a difference in him that they did not understand yet, and the rain dripped from his hair, and his hands.

         "The dragon?" they asked. "Is it...gone?"

         He answered gravely. "It will be."

 

 

Copyright 2006, Genevieve Cunningham

Genevieve Cunningham graduated from high school this year at the age of seventeen, and lives in Pennsylvania. Besides writing poetry, short stories, and novels, her other loves include her friends, horses, J.R.R. Tolkien, Starbucks, laughing, singing, and long walks at night under the stars.