Dragon Market

Short story for those who don't mind weird with their fantasy.

This is the only story I can remember having written about a dragon, and it’s one of the handful I’ve written in first person. It’s odd in every sense. The painting is a detail from Tiepolo. The title given is the dragon’s eye, but it ought to be the serpent, Satan.

The warm spring sun disappears behind a veil of thick, dirty fog and I shiver, wishing I’d worn a jacket. Something about the buildings is unfamiliar, but it might just be the gloom. I’m not particularly familiar with this part of town either; it has an odd reputation, put about by the market people no doubt, the sly, shifty market sellers whose gaze is slippery as sea serpents. Suits them nicely, the rumours. Keeps the police away.

Nobody comes here unless they have a special purchase to make. The cages, crates, and boxes are full of livestock, wildlife, but they make no sound, and the silence is eerie. Eyes stare at me, big and round or narrow and cruel. Tufts of hair poke between wooden slats, blue and pink wattles shake, and vivid plumes stream like banners through cage bars. Hooves stamp, long nails scratch. Attracting my attention? Perhaps. But today I am here for something else. Something special.

I peer through the rags of mist for the lad I want a word with. Whenever I’ve come to the market I’ve noticed him. Difficult not to, really—given what he’s selling. I see him now, skinny and hunched, in a far corner where the shadows already pile as high as the roughly stacked crates. I pick my way past the rows of watching eyes and the knuckles grasping cage bars, wrinkling my nose at the smell.

He turns as I approach, a strange light in his eyes but not of surprise. It’s almost as if he’s expecting a customer. He’s holding the end of a chain in his right hand. It chinks softly as he gives it a yank.

“Last one,” he says. “You interested?”

He steps out of the growing shadows and raises his face to mine. He looks, at a first, casual glance, to be around twelve years old, and I wonder vaguely why he isn’t at school. A second, closer inspection reveals the pinched features and deep, hard eyes of an adult. Slightly troubled, I put the question out of my mind.

“You can pat him if you want,” he says. “But just on the shoulder. The spines are sharp.”

The child is neither proud nor pushy. Indifferent. I can imagine him stifling a yawn. The dragon on the end of the chain simmers. It lowers its head to stare down at me disdainfully through veiled, yellow eyes, a thin filet of smoke rising from each nostril.

“Isn’t he rather hot?”

The creature’s head and sinuous neck are glowing red. The boy shrugs.

“A bit.”

“Then I won’t, thanks.”

“Market’s over. I’m clearin’ off in a minute.” The kid looks away, as if searching for other potential customers. I follow his gaze, but the unseasonal fog is thickening, and the rare buyers are indistinct. “Do you want to buy him or not?”

My turn to shrug.

“Depends. Is he any good?”

The kid’s eyes open wide in fake astonishment.

“He sings so sweet you’ll want his song to be the last thing you ever hear.”

He grins in a rapacious way and loses any resemblance he might have had to a child.

“Let’s hear him then.”

The boy jerks on the chain attached to a collar around the dragon’s neck, and the beast turns its slow, stupid gaze on him.

“Sing!”

It sits up on its haunches, green darkening to deep blue at the tail tip, raises its glowing red muzzle, and sings to the invisible sky, a song so sweet, the stall holders stop packing up to listen. Even the beasts in their cages, the leathery birds, the furry lizards, the one-eyed ape, and the eight-footed horse, are all listening. I can tell because the silence is electric, a concentration of alert, watchful expectancy. When the song is over, I wipe away a tear and get out my wallet. I hand over the price the boy is asking, don’t even try to bargain. Even death and oblivion would be acceptable if I could drift off listening to that song.

“What’s he eat?” I ask. “Just meat?”

The kid gives me a sly look and the familiar shrug.

“Whatever he can get.”

I take the chain, the leather wrist-strap hot from the boy’s hand.

“Git up,” the boy says and the dragon hoists itself slowly to its feet, settling its wings neatly on its back. I give the chain a tug and the beast lurches into movement, the claws click-clacking on the pavement. I look back and the boy’s still there, watching. The obscure sky that was already gloomy and threatening is now almost black. Fingers of fog settle on the boy’s shoulders. I can barely make out his features, just the grin.

I turn into the next street where I’ve been told there’s a butcher who specialises in low-price cuts, offal, bones, the cheap stuff you buy in bulk. I’ll need to have it delivered, fill the freezer. Probably have to buy a second freezer. I stop after a few paces. Even though I don’t know this part of town that well, the street doesn’t feel right; it’s different from the way I remember it, too narrow and dark. Buildings seem to meet overhead, like a cave. I look up but can see no sky, nor even where the sky ought to be. Fog drips from the eaves, and the air is too chill for late spring.

I try to turn back, but the dragon stops and sits down. I tug on the chain. The links chink mockingly.

“Git up!” I say, imitating the boy’s imperative tone. The beast stares at me with its yellow eyes. The horns and the dozens of spiky protuberances on its head glow an incandescent orange in the dense shadow. It shuffles its haunches. “Git up!”

The dragon rises ponderously, and its wings lift, spreading, a deep green leather pall. The claws at the wingtips scratch the black stone at either side the street, and it stretches its neck, the glowing red head swaying like a beacon in the gloom above me. It begins a rhythmic rocking from side to side, accelerating, like a cat preparing to…

Suddenly I know why the sky is always black, the light dim and treacherous at the end of the market, when the boy is there with a dragon to sell. I curse myself for never wondering why he always seems to be enveloped in fog, dragging a chill wind with him. I curse myself for never noticing that the dragon he has for sale is so similar to the last one, every one he has ever had. I know now what that sly look meant.

From the market place, somewhere behind me, lost among the darkling buildings and the dreary fog, a voice is raised in a piercing cry. The boy is calling. I drop the chain and back away, but the street is a funnel and the end has closed. They all know, all those taciturn market people. No one will come if I scream.

The long neck flexes. I cringe against the wall at my back. The mouth with the so, so sweet voice opens. From the market place, the cry of command rises to a shriek. The neck thrusts, and the jaws open onto an inferno. I see down into the belly of the beast, where the song boils and giggles. The yellow eyes disappear behind a curtain of flame, and my ears are full of the sound of my scream, silent as a market full of fabulous beasts.