Dragons of the Mind: Seven Fairy Tales

Dragons of the Mind: Seven Fairy Tales

Katherine E. Lampe

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Katherine E. Lampe

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Table of Contents

I: Cat, Sack, Boots

II: The Harper on the Hill

III: Gifts of a Generous Heart

IV: Missing Pieces

V: Mary McHenry’s Suitor

VI: Whiskers and Fur

VII: Dragons of the Mind

Acknowledgements

I: Cat, Sack, Boots

Lying at the mouth of the alley with blood crusting on his face and multi-coloured lights beating against his eyelids in time with the pounding in his head, all Mark could think was that he had really, really wanted a dog.

One of those big, smart dogs—a husky or a lab. He could imagine playing Frisbee with it Sunday afternoons at Waterfront Park, like the buff, bronzed guys who never seemed to wear anything but sneakers and baggy running shorts. He’d seen the way girls looked at those guys, at the sweat gleaming on their shoulders as they tossed the disc, at the powerful muscles bunching in their calves and thighs as they leapt to receive a toss or ran to tackle their smiling animal companions. The girls always made much of the dogs, but Mark knew it was just a front for striking up conversations with their owners. No one ever hounded those guys for spending time in the park when they should have been working, or for growing their hair so long that it fell into their eyes, giving them an air of boyish charm. No one ever claimed those guys were losers.

You don’t want a dog, his friend Jody replied. Especially not that kind of dog. Dogs are work, Marco. Big, smart dogs are lots of work. They have to be walked; they have to be entertained. All the time, not just on weekends. People who live in cities shouldn’t have big dogs like that. You can’t keep them cooped up in a tiny apartment. They need space.

I could walk a dog. He imagined taking it down the streets of the Ukrainian District, just around the corner and across the Boulevard from the run-down old brownstone where he lived in a three-room walk-up under the eaves. The Ukrainian District was full of stately old homes with weird Gothic architecture, where old men sat on the porches in the summer evenings drinking iced tea and young mothers puttered in postage-stamp flower beds, keeping one eye out for the children playing in the yard. There were lots of pretty girls in the Ukrainian District, too. If he had a dog, a girl might talk to him. He’d seen it happen. A girl calls out from the porch, What a beautiful dog! What’s his name? and practically before you know it you’re going out for coffee.

I know you, Marco. At Jody’s voice the lovely image shattered into fragments. You’d get tired of it. You might do all right while summer lasted, but when that first big storm hit, that would be it. You’d hole up inside, and the dog would go crazy and pee all over everything. Then you’d get mad and sulky because you’d made a mistake and the poor dog would end up back at the pound. It’s better not to go there at all.

I go by Mark now, he said, because it annoyed him that she couldn’t remember, and because he knew she was right and he couldn’t argue with her.

Oh. Right. Mark, then, she said with a frown. She didn’t approve of the change. It wasn’t just that she’d known him since they were both five and couldn’t get used to it. Jody was a quick learner when she wanted to be. But she couldn’t accept the name, because, as she had told him at the time, it hadn’t been his choice. He’d only started going by Mark because Daniella had made such a fuss about his name being so ethnic. She’d never been comfortable with anything alien to her middle-class, WASP upbringing; her parents just didn’t understand. She would have liked Mark to change his last name, too, but he wouldn’t budge on that. Going from Marco to Mark, though, that hadn’t been so hard. And whatever Jody thought, he planned to stick with it even now that Daniella was out of the picture. He was used to his new name and changing back would just be too much trouble.

What you need is a cat.

A cat? Aghast, Mark stopped dead in the shelter parking lot. What do you mean, a cat?

A cat. Jody tugged at his arm to get him going again. He thought about resisting, but instead found himself following meekly along. Whiskers, tail, nine lives.

Dogs have whiskers and tails.

But they don’t have nine lives and any pet of yours is going to need all the help it can get.

She could say things like that. They’d known each other forever; in fact, their parents were still next-door neighbours in the suburbs. He’d spent more afternoons than he could count eating oatmeal cookies and reading comics in her mother’s kitchen. Jody had been the one to explain things to him when he had girl problems—at least, as much as anyone could explain that kind of thing—and he’d done his best to explain boys to her. She was his best friend. It had never gone beyond that. There had been that one time, when they were sixteen. She’d come over the fence at midnight, in tears over some recent dating disaster, and he’d held her until his t-shirt was soaking, although he had really wanted to snark that at least she had dates to turn into disasters. Her mouth had been really close and suddenly he’d found himself thinking about kissing her. But it would have been like kissing his kid sister, so he didn’t. Anyway, she probably would have laughed at him.

Getting a pet had been Jody’s idea. She’d never liked Daniella, but she had been kind enough not to bring that up when Mark’s erstwhile fiancée dumped him for a young lawyer in an expensive suit. Jody had really been there for him, from his first boozy three a.m. announcement of the catastrophe to the harrowing afternoon Daniella had actually brought the lawyer to the apartment to help her move her stuff, and all through the ups and downs of his precipitously single new life. So when she said that a pet was what he needed to really take his mind off his lingering misery, he was quick to agree.

He really had wanted a dog, though.

Instead, he found himself examining the wire cages full of cats and thinking they weren’t so bad. Some of the kittens were pretty cute. You couldn’t take a kitten for a walk, but if you could get a girl to come up for a drink, she’d probably think more of you for having a kitten. It was probably a better pet for a writer, anyway: one that would point to a certain ruthlessness hidden behind a sensitive exterior. Yeah, girls liked that stuff. They really dug the guys who were all soft-eyed one minute and sharp claws the next.

Not a kitten, Jody said.

Not a kitten? But…. Mark tore himself away from a little black one that was chewing his fingers through the bars of its cage.

Getting a kitten would be just as bad as getting a dog. They really need attention when they’re that young, Mark. Otherwise they destroy things and claw the furniture. No, what you need is a cat. One old enough to be fairly independent. One like…this one.

Jody’s eyes fell on the single occupant of a cage a third of the way down the row.

Mark swallowed. That one?

The animal in question was a rangy orange tomcat that looked very much as if it had seen better days. Its tail was crooked, maybe from having been broken. Both ears were notched, and most of the whiskers were missing from the left side of its face; the stubble of the ones that remained appeared to have been chewed. It was lounging in its litter box, chin draped over the edge, an insolent expression in its half-closed eyes. Touch me, the expression seemed to say. I dare you.

Jody nodded. He’s perfect.

And so, an hour later, Mark found himself back at his apartment in possession of a new roommate. He opened the top of the cardboard carrier the shelter had supplied and stifled the urge to stand back. For a while, nothing happened. Then the notched ears appeared, followed shortly by the whole cat, which leapt directly onto the most comfortable chair and posed expectantly.

Uh…hey, Cat, Mark said weakly.

The cat stared at him.

You want some food? I bet you want some food. Mark moved nervously into the closet that his landlord called a kitchen, all too aware that he was being intimidated by a creature a foot high and less than two feet long, including the crooked tail. Jody picked out a selection. I got some canned tuna, some Tender Vittles…. Deciding that he couldn’t manage a can opener in his present state, he tore open a package of vittles and dumped it into a plastic cereal bowl. He filled a second bowl from the sink, and by that time the cat had wandered in. It glanced at the bowl of food and up at Mark. It glanced at the bowl again, and this time it condescended to accept the offering. Its feeding was remarkably dainty.

Mark felt as though he had passed some sort of test.

Yeah, well, your box is in the head—that’s this door, here. I put it between the toilet and the tub, so maybe you can have some privacy. He was babbling like an idiot. I guess you can find that, right? Or I could show it to you. Jody had told him that was one advantage of a cat; you just had to show it where to go and there it went. No? Well, I’m going to get some work done. Just in the living room. The first room.

The cat kept eating. Mark escaped into the corner of the living room he had set up as a kind of office and took refuge behind his desk. He opened the file that contained the bits and pieces of the novel he had been working on for the last year and a half and stared at his cheap monitor, wondering what he thought he was doing. He hadn’t written a word since before Daniella left. The two stories that had actually been published seemed a very long time ago, and he wondered if moving to the city to pursue a writing career had been a horrible mistake. Daniella had certainly seemed to think so, even though it was the cachet of dating a writer that had attracted her to Mark in the first place. Probably she’d been imagining literary soirées in black tie and the instant name recognition that comes with routinely making the bestseller lists. Faced with the combined realities of creative process and poor cash flow, she’d begun nagging him to get a real job, and when the money from his grandfather had run out he’d been forced to. It had made her marginally happier, but the words had dried up soon after. He knew some people could work full time and still find the energy to write into the wee hours, turning out page after page until their great novels were completed. When Mark came home from eight hours clerking in the investment office, he felt as though his soul had been drawn out through his nose. Sometimes he wondered if he’d ever write a word again.

The cat sauntered in from the kitchen and jumped onto the desk, where it positioned itself in the center of a stack of old story notes and began ostentatiously washing its face. After a minute, it paused and craned its head around towards the monitor, so exactly as if it were actually reading that Mark chuckled in spite of himself.

Then the cat spoke.

Writer, huh? Ye gods and little tin fishes! Well, I guess it’s better than the pound.

It was a minute before Mark remembered to breathe.

The digs will do for now, the cat said. We’ll talk about the food quality later. And just so you know, if you try to have me ‘fixed,’ I’ll rip your nuts off and see how you like it. Gotta beer?

~~~~

Mark woke with the sun in his eyes. Turning away from the window, he caught a glimpse of the clock perched atop the pile of file boxes that served him for a nightstand. The fact that it was eleven in the morning did not immediately register. Then it did.

Shit! He jumped out of bed and was halfway across the room before he remembered that it was Sunday: No work. About that time, his brain caught up with his body and his vision went black at the edges. He staggered back to the bed and fell onto it, bending double to put his head between his knees.

God, what a dream! It remained remarkably clear, rather than fading or devolving into incoherence the way dreams usually did, but it was certainly a dream. One didn’t run out to the corner liquor store because a cat had a hankering for draught-style Guinness. One didn’t have long, maudlin conversations about life with one’s cat—or if one did, the cat certainly didn’t answer with pointed observations of its own!

Maybe there was no cat. Maybe he hadn’t even been to the shelter yet. Maybe it was all symbolic of how out of control his life had become. Maybe it was a warning that if he didn’t stick up for himself, things would only get worse. Yeah, of course that was it. He resolved that when Jody came to take him to the shelter, he’d stand his ground and insist on getting a dog, like he wanted. Or maybe he’d refuse to get a pet at all. It wasn’t his idea. Jody might even be proud of him. She was always telling him that he needed to live his own life, not just go along with other people because it was easier than thinking for himself.

Filled with a heady sense of fresh purpose, Mark got up, strode boldly to the bedroom door and jerked it open.

The cat was sitting in a patch of sun in the middle of the living room rug. Waiting for him.

He took a deep breath. Okay, there was a cat. That didn’t mean….

It’s about time you got up, the cat said. Man, I thought you were going to sleep all day. Even cats rouse themselves once in a while. About breakfast: I take my coffee black and my eggs over medium. Don’t bother with toast.

The room spun, and Mark reached for the doorjamb.

I’m crazy. That’s it. Daniella’s leaving sent me right over the edge. I’m crazy, I’m crazy, I’m cra--

Listen, I’ve been thinking. I’m really grateful to you for springing me from the pound, and I’d like to make it up to you. I’ve got some ideas that I really think could work. How would you like a nicer pad, better clothes…what are you mumbling about?

I’m crazy, Mark explained. My fiancée left me, and I went around the bend. That’s why this is happening. Except it’s not happening. It’s only in my head. Maybe I should call someone to take me away. He stumbled farther into the room, and scrabbled underneath the sofa for the phone, which retreated there like a badger to its den whenever not in use.

Put that down. You’re not crazy.

I’m having a conversation with a cat.

And your point is?

Mark couldn’t think of anything to say to that. He leaned against the sofa and stared at the cat, the phone forgotten until it began to beep insistently at him to dial or hang up, you asshole. He hung up.

It’s just not something I’m used to.

Well, get used to it, pal. I’m not about to keep quiet just to make you more comfortable, and I hate one-sided conversations. Are you going to feed me or what?

Numbly, Mark stumbled into the kitchen where he brewed coffee and fixed eggs to the cat’s specifications. He couldn’t quite manage over medium—the yolks broke and got hard—but the cat ate them anyway. Mark’s own breakfast consisted of staring at a slice of dry toast until it got cold, then throwing it away.

Nice, said the cat. I’m sure that will keep your strength up. Have some coffee.

Mark did. It tasted like stomach acid.

Now, about my plan. Who’s the power in this town?

Uh…the mayor?

The cat made a noise that sounded suspiciously like laughter. That moron? No, I mean the real power. The guy who runs things.

Mark shrugged helplessly.

You ever heard of Boss King?

The name rang a bell. Something he’d read in the paper, maybe. Wait. You mean LaVelle King?

Don’t use that name if you know what’s good for you.

Wasn’t he indicted last year? Some kind of conspiracy charges?

Tax evasion. And he got off. But it’s still a sore spot, so I wouldn’t mention it.

Mention it? Who to? Why are we talking about this?

Because, dope, Boss King is THE power in these parts. He owns half this dump of a city, and what he doesn’t own he has a finger in. Get in good with him and well…the sky’s the limit. You’ll be set for life.

Get in good with…he’s a thug! A gangster!

He’s a businessman. The thugs and gangsters work for him.

You’re splitting hairs. Whatever it is you’re thinking, I don’t want anything to do with it.

Oh, so you really want to spend the rest of your miserable life in this pesthole? I ate a dozen roaches this morning, and those were only the ones I could catch.

That was an image Mark could easily have done without.

Miserable?! Listen, cat, my life isn’t miserable. And who said anything about spending the rest of it here? I’ve got my own plans. I don’t need yours.

You coulda fooled me. You’re stuck in a nothing job that you hate. Your girlfriend left you for some rich jerk-off with varnished hair. What have you got? Oh, your novel. That’s really going to help. You haven’t written a word in six months, and, from what I saw last night, what you have written is a load of self-referential crap. What is it with writers? They have no lives and they think they can tell stories.

Hey! It really didn’t help that everything the cat said was something that Mark had thought for himself more than once.

Look, kid. The cat jumped up into the kitchen counter, knocking over Mark’s coffee cup, which was, thankfully, empty. Whoops! Sorry. Meant to do that. The notched ears twitched, and the orange eyes widened in a calculated demonstration of sympathy. Mark looked away, determined not to be manipulated.

Kid, I don’t mean to harsh on you.

Yeah. You coulda fooled me. Mark was an exceptional mimic when he wanted to be.

"Ouch. Well, maybe I deserved that. It’s just that I see