Chapter 2: A Tail of Humility
Peter leapt down from the thick rock wall that surrounded the nursery ring, instantly missing the comforting heat, provided by the tiny lines of lava, that it had provided over the hour or so that he'd been sitting there. Heading east on one of the wide paved walkways that littered the underground domain of the dragons, he pondered much of what he'd just heard.
It had been three years since he'd left his nursery ring (this one in fact); however, something always seemed to draw him back. On feeling the urge to return, he'd always try to do so late in the afternoon, knowing full well that the young dragonlings could choose the subject matter at that particular time of day, something he remembered fondly. Dragon lore was always a popular choice, along with magic and myths. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd heard the legendary tale of George and the Dragon, probably at least fifty by now. Even so, he still ended up being spell-bound, with goose pimples running the length and breadth of his body, almost certainly just like the pupils in the class. Strolling purposefully towards the monorail station, instinctively jumping across the much bigger gaps in the floor in which rivers of dazzling orange and red lava flowed, helping to keep the entire area heated, he made sure not to let even a drop touch his brand new trainers.
Dragon families and relationships, unlike those of humans, appear to have no rhyme or reason. Some parents visit their children in the nursery ring every day, others just deposit the newly formed egg there, never to return. Some dragons are maternal, others not at all. Peter had never met his parents. In fact, as hard as he'd tried, he hadn't been able to find out a single thing about them. In the end, he'd given up trying, putting it down to them being that way genetically inclined, but on doing so he'd sworn to himself that if he were to ever meet the right dragon and be in the position of becoming a father, things would be very different, and he'd move heaven and earth to make sure that was the case. Like thousands of others, his earliest memories after hatching from his egg were those of the praeceptors or tors as the students liked to refer to them. The praeceptors act as tutors and mentors to the young dragons, only in a much more holistic way than up above on the surface. Their guidance not only covers the academic studies that dragonlings will learn during a fifty year compulsory attendance period, but also much more personal skills that include learning to fly, changing and maintaining shape, grooming, diet, family history, economics, relationships and social skills (both dragon and human). Given the complexity and sensitive nature of all of this, it's no surprise that most dragons tend to form really strong bonds with their tors, particularly if they have no recollection of their real parents. Quite often the youngsters come to think of their tutors as a parent or guardian figure.
A dragon's growth rate far exceeds that of a normal human being. Physically a dragon can reach full grown maturity by the time he or she reaches the ripe old age of ten years, with most two year olds having a far greater intellect than the average human adult. Peter reached his tenth year maturity celebration in the nursery ring without any fuss. He hadn't particularly excelled at any one thing, unlike most of the others in his class; he didn't really know what he was going to do when he left the nursery rings (not that many dragons do at that age, particularly given that they have another forty years of study ahead of them), and although he admired and respected his tor, he hadn't built up the kind of relationship with him that others in the class had. There were, however, two things that tended to stand out in his mind from that time in his life. The first was the friendship he had formed with two of his classmates, a friendship that was as strong today as it had been back then, some fifty two years ago.
Richie Rump was a beautiful, slim, sleek dragon. She'd hatched just a few months after Peter, and after only a matter of weeks they seemed to have formed an incredible bond of friendship. As dragons go, Richie was a real eye-catcher. While Peter was more short and round with a longer than average neck, small jaw and great big floppy undragon-like ears, more suited to a rabbit than a dragon, Richie was petite, shapely, perfectly formed with a gorgeous sparkling emerald green hue, except on her tummy, where the green gently blended into a lovely soft shade of yellow. What she lacked in stature, she more than made up for in grace, speed, determination and just outright effort. From an early age, Richie had always out-performed the rest of her class at anything physical. She was the first in the ring to master flying (although she had a sneaking suspicion that one of her best friends had been holding back on that front) and even now can out-fly dragons twice her size, matching them easily for speed and aerobatics. No slouch on the academic front either, most of the young dragons knew better than to challenge Richie to anything either physical or mental, because it was almost certain to end in humiliation, for the challenger anyway.
Peter's other friend was called Tank. Although relatively naive (just like most of the dragons in the nursery ring) Peter thought Tank was the most caring, thoughtful and considerate dragon in the whole world. A huge mountain of a dragon, Tank's huge bulk could easily fit Peter's squat little frame underneath one of his giant wings. Had he more speed and dexterity he might have been groomed to be a professional laminium ball player, he was certainly the right shape and size for it, but whenever the subject was brought up, Tank always managed to wriggle out of talking about it. What his friend did have though, was a great affinity for nature, always knowing even more than the tors seemed to about anything related to plants or animals, much to their utter amazement. Always the first to jump in and stand up for his friends, Tank never ran from an argument or confrontation, not that Richie ever found herself in a position to need his help. Peter though, well that was a different matter altogether. Teasing and taunting were commonplace for him, some of which would end up going too far, but Tank was always ready to step in and help his friend. It always seemed to be the same culprits but the tors preferred to step back and let the young dragons deal with it themselves, classing it as part of their development process. This protection was just one of the reasons Peter supposed that the bond between himself and Tank had grown as strong as the one between him and Richie. The three of them were inseparable in much the same way then as they are now.
The second thing Peter remembered vividly from that period in his life was the dragon in human guise that often came along to watch lessons (much as he himself had done today) and see how the dragons were getting on. Even though Peter had no family to speak of, he always thought fondly of that particular dragon, and although they had only ever exchanged a few polite words, he always got the impression that the dragon was keeping an eye out for him in some way, shape or form. He always appeared in the human guise of an old man with long, straggly, grey hair flowing down past his shoulders, a captivating walking stick made of light coloured oak, and an air of importance. Whenever Peter thought back, the walking stick always stood out. If you had a million walking sticks to choose from, and had to go through them all, this was the one you would have. It seemed somehow... special.
Never sticking to a routine, the old man would show up at the nursery ring, much as Peter had just done, but would also turn up at Lava Falls and watch the young dragons practice their aerial manoeuvres and impromptu laminium ball matches.
The last time Peter had set eyes on him was on the day the whole class graduated. Traditions vary from nursery ring to nursery ring across the entire planet, but they all have them. Peter's nursery ring at Purbeck Peninsula was no different, with the entire class of young dragons finding themselves atop the highest cliff at Lava Falls on this very special day. Watched by the entire staff, the youngsters gathered in their human forms, just over a mile above the roiling lake of super-heated lava, bubbling ferociously away beneath them. Peter could vividly recall trying not to choke on the acrid fumes as the heat and steam buffeted his face, even at that distance. He could also recollect glancing over his shoulder at the staff from the nursery ring and, just out of the corner of one eye, catching sight of the old man, who, when their eyes
met, gave Peter a wink and a smile. With little chance to dwell on it at the time, he was suddenly caught up in a mad rush of graduating dragons running at full speed off the cliffs in their human forms. Pulled over the edge clumsily, he ended up diving head first off the cliff, a very scary feeling in his human form, even though it was comparatively tame compared with the kind of flying that most dragons were used to.
The idea behind this particular tradition was that the youngsters would leap off the cliff in their human guises, and on the drop down would transform back into their natural dragon selves, flying up into the air to celebrate. Changing shape halfway through a drop like this would be taxing for an experienced adult dragon. Thus, there was a definite element of danger to the whole thing. Peter remembered the effort he had to put in to effect the change to his dragon form. The sheer exhilaration that he'd experienced once he'd completed the change and zoomed up into the air, after being only metres away from the vicious looking boiling lava, was unlike anything he'd ever felt, up to and including this very day.
After a few minutes of flying around to celebrate, the whole class had flown down to meet the staff for a final meal that had been prepared and laid out on the cliff top. As they did so, Peter sought out the old dragon, hoping to have a friendly chat, but much to his surprise and disappointment, he was nowhere to be seen. That was the last time he'd seen the old man. He often found himself wondering what the old dragon was doing now, and if like Peter he still visited the nursery ring from time to time. Looking back, Peter assumed the old man/dragon must have been taught at the Purbeck Peninsula nursery ring, and that's why he liked to return, much like Peter. What other reason could there possibly be?
From his tenth year onwards, lessons at the nursery ring, as far as Peter was concerned, became vastly more interesting. Up until then, their education had consisted of the kind of things humans would learn: maths, languages, history, science, economics, geography and a broad range of religious and human studies (everything about the human world that had not already been covered). They had also covered dragon basics, such as flying, grooming, mating, diet, dragon beliefs and the founding principles. But things were about to get more interesting, in the shape of dragon lore, self defence, moral standing, spatial awareness and mantras in all their shapes and forms.
Mantras were the one subject guaranteed to put a glint into a young dragon's eye. All had heard what they could achieve, but only a few had ever seen examples in real life. None had ever cast a mantra themselves because they were too young, although Tank might have a few secrets in that department. Mantras could do pretty much anything from healing humans, dragons, animals and plants, to repairing machinery of any kind. Common everyday uses for mantras included being used to effect a dragon's change from its natural form (solitus) to the surface disguise of a human (mutatio). That particular mantra takes years to perfect and it requires the utmost concentration to hold that form for a sustained period of time. This was basically what the next forty years in the nursery ring would hold, learning to swap forms and more importantly maintain the unfamiliar human guise indefinitely, without any flaws or imperfections. Once the young dragons had mastered that, they would learn how to make subtle changes to their guises, which would let them blend in on the surface, in whatever role would be assigned to them. Of course they would be taught other mantras and magical abilities along the way, but transforming into a human shape would almost certainly be the most important.
Recalling his very first mantra lesson with great clarity, the thought of sitting on that cold marble floor in the courtyard caused him to shiver uncontrollably. The tor had demonstrated how to use the mantra properly, with the students standing around, expected to repeat the process. Their class was never a particularly quiet place even when it was supposed to be, but on that day, in that class, you could hear the sizzling of flames dribbling from nervous nostrils across the room, as the dragonlings all watched each other to see just who would be brave enough to go first.
A small dragon by the name of Tempest was the first to try. Usually shy and retiring, it was something of a surprise that she'd plucked up the courage to have a go. Sitting in the middle of the courtyard she took a deep breath, unrolled her parchment and, closing her eyes in concentration, recited the mantra. Even though they were all supposed to be getting on with the exact same thing, the other students couldn't take their eyes off the young, female dragon.
The single most important aspect of casting a mantra successfully is channelling the concentration and belief behind the words. This will nearly always determine whether or not a mantra will succeed or fail. It also determines just how effective a mantra will be. For example, a healing mantra being used on a deep, open wound, if used by an experienced healer, will heal the wound, destroy any infection, and remove any scar tissue. The exact same mantra used by someone less experienced, and not directing the same sort of concentration or belief into it, may not have the same effect. It may fail to close the wound properly, leave an infection, or it may heal it all up, but leave a massive scar. The difference between total and faltering concentration and belief is staggering; the results can lead to the mantra not working at all, working less effectively, or sometimes producing unpredictable side effects.
All the dragon students had been taught this, many times over, but most had not really paid attention; they were too excited about the prospect of performing their first mantra. That was why the tor had chosen this particular one and why, if the students had looked closely at their tutor, they would have noticed the beginnings of a smile forming at the bottom of his huge, prehistoric jaw, something that this most serious of dragons rarely allowed to happen.
Tempest, although she tried, clearly hadn't put enough belief and concentration into her mantra, and was just starting to learn the true meaning of unpredictable side effects.
Demonstrating the mantra some five minutes earlier, the tor's tail had, starting at its tip, shrunk until it was no longer visible. This was the mantra's purpose and what should have happened if used properly. Known only to the tor was the fact that this particular mantra was unbelievably specific and amazingly sensitive to incorrect pronunciation or not enough channelled belief. A look of utter horror and humiliation was etched across Tempest's face at the moment, as not only had her tail begun to grow bigger, but it had also split into three parts, each of which were now growing and snaking across the airy courtyard of their own accord. Students occupying the area directly behind the stricken student were dumbstruck momentarily. That soon changed as they were forced to dive and roll out of the way of the ever expanding tails and flee back into the adjacent indoor teaching area, or try and make a dash to get round the front of the horror stricken Tempest.
Looking back on the whole thing, Peter thought it absolutely hilarious, but at the time it seemed anything but. Eventually Tempest's tails stopped growing, but not before each had split into three again, leaving the poor dragonling rooted to the spot in the middle of the courtyard with nine tails embedded firmly in the broken marble floor.
The lesson for the classmates had ended there that day, with them being dismissed and sent off to Lava Falls to practice their aerial combat techniques. Everyone, with the exception of one or two of the bullies that occasionally picked on Peter, was aghast at what had befallen Tempest, with very little flying taking place, most preferring to sit on the cliff side and speculate on the aforementioned events. That night Tempest was missing from her dormitory, with nobody in authority having the faintest idea of her whereabouts or wellbeing. The next morning, all of the students except Tempest sat waiting nervously for the tor to arrive for that day's lessons. To their surprise, in he walked with a big beaming smile broadcast across his face, followed closely by a very healthy and happy looking Tempest.
Missing pieces of the puzzle soon began to fall into place. The tor had undone all of the tail trouble in only a matter of moments after the students had left the previous day. Proceeding to repair all the walls and the m
arble flooring in the courtyard, he then treated Tempest to a slap up meal, persuading her to stay in alternative accommodation that night, just to make the students sweat that little bit more. The entire scenario had been designed to show the students what could potentially happen if mantras were not used with enough conviction and belief. You might have the world's supply of mana (the magical supply of an individual's natural energy) to power the mantras, and you might be able to pronounce the text faultlessly, but without the right conviction and belief behind them, they could be almost worthless. Peter was certain that none of the students that witnessed the events of that afternoon would ever forget the lesson it was designed to teach them.
Reality flooded back as the walkway he was on started to widen and fill up with dragons of all shapes and sizes. Focused firmly on not bumping into any of them, he marvelled at the surrounding area, wondering just what the humans on the surface would make of the secret world just beneath their feet.
Purbeck Peninsula was one of the oldest dragon enclaves in Britain, second only to London itself. Based beneath the south of England in a region that covers the area from the east of Bournemouth through to the west of Swanage, as far south as the most southerly point of the Isle of Wight, and as far north as Wimborne Minster, Purbeck Peninsula dates back over three thousand years. It draws its name from the fact that its centre is located directly beneath the beautiful Isle of Purbeck, and because the underground area on which the community is built is surrounded by unusual layers of molten lava, making it almost inaccessible from other dragon communities.
It was originally built with only one point of access underground, from the north, which is remarkable in itself as most dragon towns or cities across the world have at least five or six main entry points, because despite their knowledge and power, dragons still acknowledge that they are susceptible to natural disasters and unforeseen circumstances. Although there is only one underground point of access to Purbeck Peninsula, like all dragon-inhabited areas there are hundreds, if not thousands, of secluded entrances to the surface. Most of these are tiny, located in either shops or private residences, with slightly larger ones existing in more out of the way spots on the surface, so that unsuspecting humans don't stumble across them accidentally. Those around Purbeck include caves, abandoned mines, secretly activated entrances in various ruins, two or three rather creative underwater access ways, and some very interesting ones based around a series of puzzles.
With only one main underground route into Purbeck Peninsula it was no surprise that the monorail station was a terminus. However it wasn't just any terminus: the place was huge, even by dragon standards. No mean feat.
Cresting the brow of the hill, the winding path that Peter was on dipped sharply, allowing him to take in the sight of the busy, bustling terminus from above.
Directly opposite, across from where he stood, embedded into the rock face of the hill on the other side of the monorail station and overlooking the whole complex, was the main office that controlled the monorail carriages as they pulled into and departed from Purbeck, making sure everything ran to schedule and that each car alighted onto the right platform after coming down the single line and out of the gargantuan tunnel that fed the station. The individual carriages glided to a halt at the exact individual berth, or platform depending on how you looked at it, on one of the eighteen branch lines that spread out to form the station proper. Passengers disembarked from one side of the car before arrivals filed on from the other side, to depart. Monorail carriages would only be at a rest for a matter of moments, before powering silently back towards the gaping tunnel in the direction that they'd only just arrived from. It was a magnificent achievement, not just here, but across the entire globe: the perfect exercise in dragon management and individual movement, allowing things to run almost to the second.
As Peter ambled casually down the slope of the path overlooking the station, he was struck by the speed with which the blurring silver monorail carriages moved so elegantly. Outside the station, the cars themselves could move in excess of six hundred miles an hour, while obviously going much slower than that while in the station. Even so, it was still all pretty much a blur... that's how fast things were flowing. If any human had been standing there watching, heaven forbid, their limited senses, compared with those of a dragon, would barely have been able to comprehend exactly what they were seeing. Huge LCD screens were displayed across the entire complex, updating nearly every second, the words and numbers on their screens distorted beyond belief by the speed. Dragon passengers in all their forms, big, small, dragon and human shaped, all managed to digest the information and make their way on time to where they had to be. It wasn’t the biggest monorail station in the world, but one of the most standout in terms of natural beauty, creativity with what was already there, and sheer efficiency in terms of getting beings where they were supposed to go at the right time. It was absolutely outstanding.
Unlike most dragons, Peter couldn't remember a time when the monorail hadn't been around. Having been up and running for over sixty years now, it connected every dragon community on the planet via a series of subterranean tunnels, some of which had previously been used to allow dragons to fly between said communities, though most were newly carved, especially for this modern miracle of transport. Throughout his time studying in the nursery ring, the tors and other accompanying adult dragons had taken them on class field trips, using the relatively new form of transport to show the young dragons faraway places, enhancing their understanding of different cultures, both above and below ground. They would also, on the journeys to and from these faraway places, learn a little about dragon history in the form of a series of facts about the monorail itself, such as how it had taken over two hundred years to complete, about the state of the art techniques used to develop it and keep it operational and about the geothermal power across the planet that it harnessed to keep it running. During those particular lessons, it was inevitable that at least one of the tors would drone on about how in his or her day, they had to fly everywhere and not be pandered to by some fancy new transport system. It made him smile just thinking about it.
Getting closer to the station, Peter spotted a speeding silver carriage zip out of the tunnel and crisscross the different lines, heading for the platform that his transport was due to depart from. Breaking into a jog, much to the disdain of the other dragons around him, he arrived at the platform just as the silver monorail car he'd picked out docked. Electric doors opened with a WHOOOSH! Passengers exited from the opposite side to Peter, while the doors on his side remained closed for a couple of seconds longer. Without warning, and with the same accompanying WHOOOSH, the doors slid back inside the carriage, allowing all the passengers to board.
'Nice and orderly, or dragon-like,' thought Peter. 'Absolutely nothing like the chaos on the surface,' he laughed to himself.
Once inside, he plonked down on one of the long, garishly red, sofa-like seats that ran the length of the carriage on either side, and waited for the monorail to leave the station. The seating had been designed to accommodate dragons in both their human and natural forms, easily accomplished in carriages that were thirty feet tall and nearly four hundred feet long. Most dragons boarded in their human guises, but for those that stuck with their natural forms, nearly every other seat in the carriage had a rather large, adaptable hole in the back, for their tails to fit through. Occasionally, exclusive, first class carriages could be spotted on different lines, provided for privileged, private parties willing to part with a lot of money, rumoured to be staffed by dragons that would cater for your every whim. These exceptional carriages were easily spotted at a station or junction because, instead of sporting the usual bright shiny silver, they were instead decorated entirely in black, making them appear sought after, rare and unusual. Thirty seconds or so after boarding, the doors to Peter's carriage slid closed, allowing the monorail car to negotiate the intricate series of points, before accelerating into the gaping mouth of the
dark tunnel on its way out of Purbeck Peninsula.
Through the windows of the carriage, Peter could see the dark rock face whiz by at speed on one side, while on the other, dragons of all shapes and sizes walked side by side along the trail that had been the main entrance to the Peninsula for hundreds of years. The pathway ran parallel to the monorail for some fifteen miles or so, before splitting up and winding off in several different directions. Dragons came from across the domain just to walk that path and witness the sheer beauty of staggering underground formations of rock, crystal and lava, as well as learn about its intriguing history. The path itself had been the base of the tunnel that dragons used to fly along, long before the monorail itself had been constructed.
From easily identifiable to a messy blur, in the blink of an eye, that's what had happened to the shapes of the landscape outside the window as the monorail had increased speed even more. Try as he might with his heightened senses, every time he came this way, he still couldn't make out any of the details. Eventually he gave up, just as the winding path branched off in a different direction.
Peter's destination was the beautiful city of Salisbridge, some fifty miles or so away in southern Wiltshire, England. Having worked and lived there since leaving the nursery ring and integrating fully into the human society he had sworn to help guide and protect, Peter couldn't think of a more beautiful place to call home. Had he been travelling between the two destinations above ground in a car, the journey would have taken well over an hour. On the monorail, it would take a little under eight minutes.
Only the occasional vein of molten lava illuminated the inside of the carriage now that they were away from the pedestrian walkways. The monorail designers had wasted little time in deciding that only the bigger underground caverns or areas would be illuminated, leaving the vast majority of travel through the solid rock cuttings in near total darkness, punctuated by the odd monorail car heading in the opposite direction, something even a dragon could miss if they blinked or sneezed at the wrong time. Peter let his head fall back onto the comforting fabric of the seat, and wondered just what it would be like for an ordinary human to experience a monorail journey. It could of course never happen; aside from the security implications, the incredibly high G forces would all but destroy their weakened charges from the surface. Dragons were built to withstand all but the highest G forces, experiencing them over and over again when flying, hence their ability to perform amazing aerial feats such as tight turns at speed, pulling out of death-defying drops, barrel rolls and just flying at around five hundred miles an hour. But he guessed that if a human were with him now, able to withstand the forces, it would feel as though they were riding the biggest and scariest rollercoaster, only with sooooo much more ooomph.
Dragons' physical characteristics were taken very much into account during the monorail's construction, meaning that routes through the rock strata could take the most direct route nearly all of the time, only changing direction for insurmountable obstacles like gigantic lava flows, large veins of problem metals or potentially explosive pockets of dangerous gas, thus meaning that the monorail would travel in a straight line for much of a journey, before suddenly veering off on all sorts of random twists and turns, drops and ascents, just to avoid a potentially problematic area. For the most part, dragon passengers barely noticed. Humans would never have been able to survive it intact.
Slowly the monorail car started to decelerate, Peter's cue that they were approaching Salisbridge station. Abruptly the dark tunnels were replaced by the soft orange glow of the platforms. As smooth as always, the carriage pulled up perfectly, just above the platform, and the doors whispered their usual whoosh, opening to allow departing passengers off. Making his way along the platform, and up some very worn marble stairs, the soft sound of the monorail departing whispered to him before he'd even reached the top.
In front of him, the station opened out into a vast courtyard, with various distinct walkways heading off in a dozen different directions. Although small compared with the likes of London, Glasgow and Purbeck stations, the painstaking detail with which the Salisbridge station had been decorated put all the others to shame. Surrounding the courtyard, twelve soaring, black and white marble pillars, matching the dazzling floor, supported the cavernous ceiling above. Carved intricately into each pillar was a legendary figure from history, with their natural dragon form on one side and their human guise on the other. A sparkling golden fleck, almost as if gold leaf had been mixed with the marble, allowed the characters to shine like stars in a black and white night. Eye-catching didn't begin to cover it. Each time Peter travelled through here, a sense of history and a thrill of excitement ran through him, almost as if he himself were a part of it. Stupid really. You couldn't get much further away from that, than him.
On reaching the top of these particular stairs, Peter always came face to face with a pillar on which a very familiar hero was etched... George, from the George and the Dragon tale that he'd once again heard recounted, less than an hour ago. Stopping for a few seconds to take in the magnificence of the carving, the same sense of familiarity that he always got washed over him, before he decided it was time to move on. As in previous times, he wondered if somehow he weren't linked to the story in some way, as at times, it appeared to be all around him. Ludicrous really, he knew. Dragons didn't believe in fate or destiny. They were a much more practical race, dealing with the present as it unfolded before them, much less concerned with the past or future.
Peter's fanciful thoughts seemed to be blown away as his highly attuned senses started to come under attack in a variety of different ways. The sickly scent emanating from some of the Mediterranean plants dotted around the courtyard made his nose tingle and itch. Most underground areas used plants from warmer climates, which he supposed were better suited to the humid conditions. A loud WHIRRING noise from one of the five or six vendors that plied their wares around the edge of the courtyard, nearly day and night, caused Peter to jump slightly. Peeking to his right, he could see that the vendor in question had just primed his machine to start making fresh charcoal doughnuts, in time to attract the attention of the passengers just reaching the top of the staircase. As the dough whizzed around and around in the noisy mixer, Peter watched mesmerised as different coloured tiny chunks of charcoal dripped from above into the gooey mixture, before it slinked its way into a funnel, and then plopped out into the hot fat as a doughnut shape at the other end. It continued to wind its way through the river of bubbling, hot fat, until it was suddenly flipped over, allowing the other side to cook, while Peter's mouth watered in anticipation. All the time the dragon vendor eyed him with a knowing gleam in his eye that almost said, “Gotcha!”
Concentrating so hard on the doughnut, Peter had only just begun to realise that the sickly sweet scent of pollen had all but been replaced by a much more pleasant smell. His highly sensitive nose had detected the delightful aroma of lemon, cinnamon and slightly burnt charcoal. Leaving the doughnut maker, much to his disappointment, Peter inquisitively headed over to the next vendor, just in time to see a spindly-framed dragon toss a giant pancake into the air, before expertly bringing it down on to the sizzling hot plate in front of him, all with more than a hint of showmanship.
His nostrils now felt overwhelmed as the courtyard filled up with passengers, and every vendor did their very best to entice them into buying some of their wares. Gorgeous aromas wafted over from the vendors cooking on the other side of the courtyard. Through the crowd, Peter could just make out magnificent multicoloured bread coming out of an oven, which he assumed was the fresh candy floss and toffee apple smell he was currently inhaling. Spying the adjacent vendor frying mouth-watering strips of dark brown meat in a skillet with all sorts of wonderful fruit and vegetables, creating a silky sweet, barbecue smell, made his stomach rumble loudly, having not eaten all day. Taking an age to try and choose between the tasty treats, he finally settled on the pancake over everything else. Once the experienced vendor had
cooked him a fresh one, and with it firmly wrapped in a cardboard cone, ignoring all the delicious foodie smells he cut his way through the throng of passengers to the narrowest of the walkways and started following its incline. After two or three minutes of swift walking, he found himself in near total darkness, the path's twists and turns cancelling out any of the remaining light from the station. Not bothered in the slightest by all of this, because of his superb dragon vision that he could change at will, enhancing it to see in the dark as clearly as if it were a sunny day, Peter arrived at the secret underground entrance to the house he owned. Sliding through a small gap in a wall, while wolfing down the last remnants of his pancake, he made his way up a set of very narrow, stone steps. Having done this journey many thousands of times in his relatively short life, he slipped through an even narrower gap at the top of the stairs, glad that he didn't have to do this in his dragon form. Not even his tiny dragon frame would have been able to negotiate this.
Facing a solid block of impenetrable stone, in total darkness, he raised his left hand up along the wall beside him. With his thumb and forefinger he found two indentations, and at exactly the same time, he forced his digits into both, squeezing down as he did so. A soft 'click', only noticeable because of his enhanced senses, followed by the turning of tiny gears further back down the passage, echoed in the darkness. As if by magic, but more likely awesome engineering, a huge chunk of the wall silently slid upwards and out of sight. Ducking his head ever so slightly, Peter moved on through into a dusty old cellar, where cobwebs hung down from wooden beams crisscrossing the ceiling, while clouds of fluff adorned light coloured dust sheets littering the room, underneath which all sorts of different shaped belongings sat. Off in the far corner, a black, ornate, metal staircase, wound tightly up to the ceiling, where it just... STOPPED! The ceiling itself was totally intact, and if anyone had bothered to climb the Victorian staircase, they would have had nowhere to go. It didn't perturb Peter though. He dodged past all the dusty objects and squeezed onto the first rung of the staircase, just as the solid, outside rock wall slipped back into place. Circling around three times on the staircase, he stopped just before his head touched the ceiling. Reaching down to a rust-covered black flower that was part of the intricate Victorian design, he twisted the petals anti-clockwise, before craning his neck up to look at the ceiling. He was rewarded with a small hole getting gradually bigger from above. Poking his head through, he climbed the remainder of the rungs, emerging into a very ordinary, very small, modern day sitting room. Stepping out from the corner of the room, he skirted around the light brown piano, before reaching past its keys, and yanking hard on a tall glass Galileo thermometer that sat atop it. The brightly coloured glass balls inside crashed violently together as the thermometer went from vertical to horizontal in an instant, the result of which would surely see them break. Surprisingly, they didn't. As the glass vessel sprang back to an upright position, the whole piano slid around ninety degrees on the wooden floor, to sit snugly in the corner of the room on top of the concealed opening. Anyone entering the room the conventional way would be none the wiser.
Peter's small terraced house comprised a sitting room, a small kitchen, a bathroom on the ground floor, a sixty foot long, narrow garden, and three bedrooms, one of which was a study (up in the roof). A former railway cottage built around the early nineteen hundreds, it was situated close to the modern day station, and was only a ten minute walk from the centre of town. It had always been owned by one dragon or another, hence the concealed passage to the secret world below. As long as intelligent humans have roamed the earth, dragons have sought to live side by side with them, blending in with them in an effort to help fulfil their sworn pledge to guide and protect them. Throughout history, homes bought by dragons have often had access to the domain below, nearly always hidden, more often than not in a completely obscure fashion that nobody would ever stumble across by accident: from revolving wardrobes, to hollow bottomed washing machines, fridges to climb inside, to showers that drop you into a slide so sheer, you wouldn't stop screaming for days, to clandestine garden entrances guarded by all manner of unusual animals.
With their natural affinity for all things mechanical and armed with a variety of mantras, virtually nothing is beyond a dragon when they set their mind to it. Putting an updated spin on things has become the main challenge over the years, so that things blend into their contemporary surroundings. The piano, for example, had been in Peter's house for many decades, not really unusual at all, whereas the lever that had originally started off atop it had been an old fashioned candelabrum, that most certainly would have looked out of place now, so replacing it with something more modern (the Galileo thermometer) allowed it to blend in and go virtually unnoticed should any unexpected visitors decide to take a closer look. Specially crafted by an expert in modern mantra mechanics, based in Purbeck Peninsula, it was fitted by one of the designers that routinely update dragon abodes across the country.
Glancing at the rocket shaped clock on the opposite wall, it told him he was close to running late.
'Hmmmmm,' he thought. 'Better get a move on or I'm gonna be late for training.' With that in mind, he raced up the stairs to his bedroom and quickly changed into his hockey kit.
A keen hockey player and a member of the local club, he was a stickler for attended training on a Tuesday evening at seven o'clock. Having thrown on his shirt, shorts, socks and loosely laced up his Astro trainers, he grabbed his shin pads off the side, picked up his stick bag from behind the bedroom door, and just before heading downstairs, caught the faintest hint of his reflection in the full length mirror. Pausing briefly to admire the complex mantras that held his false human form in place, he couldn't decide what he was most proud of. The long wavy black hair that adorned his head, straight out of the eighties, that over the course of time he'd have to use another mantra to add just a touch of grey to? The light line of stubble around his chin that he liked so much, the 'run of the mill' face with no really distinctive features, it was all rather difficult to choose. Of medium height, not at all skinny, but certainly not overweight, he decided he looked good in his hockey kit... it suited him, and felt like a second skin... well, third actually. Nodding his head at his reflection, he bounded down the stairs two at a time and headed for his car. Five minutes later he pulled into the car park of the sports club, situated just outside the city limits away from any residential areas, at this very moment standing out like a lighthouse in a storm, with its brilliant bright floodlights blazing across the countryside for all to see. Consisting of a large two storey pavilion overlooking an Astroturf hockey pitch and grass rugby and lacrosse pitches. Picking a space in the large tarmac car park that serviced the pavilion he grabbed his gear and headed towards the changing rooms and sports pitches which were located on the opposite side of the building. Inside, the pavilion consisted of one long bar and dining area on the ground floor that looked out onto all three sports pitches, with a members only lounge, a committee room, the chairman's office, a storage area and a small bar with a balcony used only for private parties, all upstairs on the first floor. Walking past the dark reflective windows, part of him couldn't wait for the training to be over, so that he could wander into the bar in the hope of finding his two best friends. Not only was Tuesday the night for hockey training, but for lacrosse and rugby training as well, which meant that Richie would be here playing lacrosse, and Tank would be taking on all challengers at rugby. Things really didn't get any better than this.
Training went reasonably well, with Peter larking about some of the time with different members of the second XI (his team), before heading to the bar afterwards and spending over an hour catching up with his two best friends. By the time he got home it was late, leaving him with barely enough time to shower before sliding into bed and drifting off to sleep. His final thoughts before he dropped off had him wondering just what the following day at work had in store for him.