Still Alive!

Scherzad, whose lonely life normally inspired a profound love of conversation, found himself tongue-tied and stammering in surprise, hearing a dragon speak. He had no working model of how to talk to a Dragon—and firmly decided he did not want to develop one. “I…I…I’m…” seemed to be the extent of his verbal ability.

“Do you have a tongue?” boomed the dragon, clearly piqued at the exchange.

Scherzad was an expert at placating the powerful—his survival instinct cut in, and in a nanosecond (they had nanoseconds then, they just didn’t know their name yet) he recognized the irritation underlying the dragon’s question and chose a course of action calculated to save his neck for a moment longer. Stammering ceased. “Yes, sire, your eminence---that is, I don’t know how to properly address one so majestic…”

“You may call me Bob.”

“Bob, sire? I mean, is that a title, or a family name? I don’t mean to pry, but you must admit it is a bit unusual. Though quite appealing as names go,” he added hastily.

The dragon seemed to preen a bit, actually placing his hideously clawed front foot to the side of his neck and lifting his massive chin slightly. “That is the name I have chosen for myself. After long reflection, I have decided it fits me wonderfully. It has a strong sound to it, and I love the way my jaw snaps when I say it....Bob.

“What is your name, lowly human?”

“I am called Scherzad, sire. And I am very pleased to make the acquaintance of such an esteemed person as yourself. I did not choose my name. It was given to me by my parents. I’ve never been sure why. The story I heard, growing up, was that my parents took one look at their new, squalling, red-faced son, looked at each other and said “Scherzad,” simultaneously. I am not sure if it’s a curse, a descriptive, or a title.

"I am scribe to the village leader in a town far below here. I have come to these mountains to find my muse and become a famous author. I write stories, tales—when my duties permit me time.

"I thank you for preserving my belongings—and for your hospitality and the favor of a flight to these impressive heights. I had never thought to visit Mount Oriade in my lifetime, and appreciate the opportunity you have granted me. I find your home a fascinating place, full of…interesting treasures. I have no wish to impose upon your time further, and will be going now, by your leave.”

“Scribe Scherzed, you talk a blue streak,” the dragon said, his mouth unfortunately hanging open. Scherzad nervously backed away—then hurriedly moved forward again when his back began to crisp from the heat pouring off the boulders.

“Explain to me the words: scribe, muse, and stories-tales. And make yourself comfortable. You are going nowhere.” It was said with no threatening inflection, but Scherzad knew finality when he heard it. He moved to a cooler spot, crossed his legs as he sat, and made ready for his last conversation on earth.

“A scribe, sire…Bob, is one who writes the words, dicta, records, etc, of those humans wishing to preserve or transmit their thoughts and accomplishments. I write for the leader, the hoi polloi, anyone who pays me to do so. Most of the people in my village cannot read, and even more of them cannot write legibly. So I perform that function for them.

"And in my spare time I write for amusement—things that come into my head, that may or may not be true but are fun to read about. Those are stories, or you can call them tales. They are meant only to entertain and do not have any official use.

"A muse is one of the unseen immortals who can grant mortals the inspiration for the content of those tales. My insurmountable problem is that, since almost no one can read, my stories just lie there on my desk---or in today's case, in my pack---unwanted and unappreciated.”

The dragon…Bob…placed a contemplative fore-digit, with a claw the length of a forearm, to the side of his head just below the bump of horn. He was silent for a moment, then whipped his head around toward Scherzad, setting the poor man trembling. “I think I would like to hear more of these 'tales,' Scribe Scherzad. If you will teach me to read, I will be able to see if I like them as much as I am imagining I would like them. I am guessing that the flimsy flakes I found in your pack contain those 'tales?'”

“Yes, Bob, those are the renderings of my tales. However, it would not be necessary that you learn to read before enjoying them. If you would allow me, I could read them to you. Then you would know if they were worth taking the considerable time learning to read would require.” Scherzad saw the opportunity to live a mite longer and snatched at it with both hands. And, quite frankly, he was so desperate to share his creations that even a dragon would be a welcome audience.

“Yes, that sounds like a good suggestion. You may amuse me with your tales, while I consider what to do with you when you have finished reading. Please proceed.”

While Scherzad digs out his stories, places his water close to hand for wetting his very dry mouth, and the dragon settles more comfortably into the icy draft from the tunnel mouth, we’ll break for a word from our sponsor—who just happens to be a dragon himself.