*
Egon picked the constellations from the sky, remembering his childhood in Québec and his father naming the stars to him. Nights had been their time together. Under the cover of darkness and away from inquisitive strangers, they would escape in its thrall, their differences diminished when they were alone. He lit a cheroot and blew smoke at the heavens, wondering what had become of the old bastard. He enjoyed his little cigar down to the end.
How did I get caught up in such a strange plot? he thought. One day running the back of the house for the cirque, a good steady gig, the next hunting for missing girls and finding puppets. On a rescue mission with that egghead Mitchell with his history and mythology, and that other egghead Harper with his philosophy and obsession with that dirty old photographer. The world spins in crazy circles. His feet were wet, and he was cold and tired and not so eager to discover what might be inside the barn. Puppets gave him the willies.
The small entrance into the cote was fronted by a swinging gate, and he imagined those long-ago sheep and goats lowering their heads and butting it open. With one good push, it gave way and he stepped inside. The ripe smell of ammonia filled his sinuses and made him cover his nose. He trained the flashlight to the crossbeams dappled with swifts’ nests, and he nearly tripped over a bag of quicklime resting near the door. Running the length of the cellar, a black mass swelled from floor to ceiling, nearly taking up the entire available space. His instinct was to hurry out of that place as quickly as possible, but he was drawn toward the strange object. Metallic red and gold shimmered in the circle of light. Scales like snakeskin, but the size of dinner plates, were arranged in perfect symmetry. As he drew closer, he could see each one was decorated in delicate bands of green along the borders. Unable to resist, he ran his fingers along the scales, relieved to discover that they were made of paper covered with foil. Along the bottom and running down the spine was a jagged feathery plume. A dragon, like the ones he had seen in street performances for Chinese New Year, a long wormlike thing that took several men hiding under its skin to maneuver. A taloned foot rested under its belly two yards away and another one further along, and he realized that he was at the tail end of the beast.
“Maudite marde,” he muttered to himself. “That is a big feckin’ worm.”
Small clawed feet scrabbled on the wooden floor, and he worried about encountering a mouse or, worse, a rat. Nothing worse than a rat. He swept the light around the room and saw the stairway near where the dragon’s head must be. Between the monster and the row of goat stalls lay a passage barely wide enough to squeeze by. One hand on its side for balance, Egon inched along the walkway. Each step was made with trepidation, for the side of the dragon undulated under pressure. Egon stopped, pressed his ear against the shiny scales, wondering if it was breathing or if he was merely hearing the pulse of his own blood in his ear. From the floor above, muted voices rose and fell like the end of an argument. He wanted another smoke to calm the hell down.
The back of the dragon’s head looked like a flower. Ornate flames resembled bright yellow petals, and on the very top, two stylized horns curved like parabolas. Egon peeked around the fearsome head and saw at once the bright green eye, dead as marble, the long whiskered muzzle with nostrils widened to spray fire, two rows of dagger-like fangs, and a blistering red and yellow tongue.
“Fortune favors,” he said and wrapped his fingers around one pointed tooth. Cardboard and hollow.
The dragon sighed, a sudden intake of air and then a croaking exhalation that caused Egon to pull back his hand and reconsider. From head to tail, the beast’s body rippled and then repeated the motion tail to head. The jaws opened wide. It seemed a trick, a toy automaton sprung into action by some hidden lever or button that he had accidentally touched. He shone the light down the dragon’s throat, paint and paper, real and not real. Curiosity overruled common sense. Egon stepped inside the dragon’s mouth. The jaws snapped shut, and he was gone.
*