George And The Dragon (Part One)

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

“George - get your fat arse out of bed this minute!” Hermoine Piggles yelled up the stairs of their ramshackle wattle and daub cottage for the third time in ten minutes. “It's nearly 'alf past six, you idle git – quick, I 'ave a spot of good news.”

“Oh, mam!” George grunted, pulling the blankets over his head. “It's Sunday morning, surely I'm entitled to a lie-in on Sunday mornin'.”

“We're goin' to church, so get up, 'ave a bit of breakfast and get in the bloody bath. Now!”

“Yes, mam, I'm comin',” George said, grudgingly climbing out of bed. The last time he had refused to get up his mother had chucked a bucket of freezing cold water over him, and it had taken nearly three weeks to dry his sodden mattress out. “Why are we goin' to bleedin' church? It's a three mile walk to Bumble 'Ollow, and I'm tired,” he said as he descended the creaky stairs, rubbing his eyes. “We never go to church except at Easter and soddin' Christmas. I 'ate church, it's borin', it's so borin' I usually drift off to sleep. Besides, all that talk of eternal 'ellfire and damnation if you don't do exactly what the choirboy shaggin' 'ipocrite in the pulpit says makes me wanna puke – and don't complain about me callin' the vicar that, I'm only repeatin' what you say about the dirty old swine.”

“You stop cussin' and blindin', my boy!” the old harridan growled, “or I'll wash your mouth out with Fairy fucking Liquid and tan yer worthless 'ide, as big as you are. We're goin' to church 'cos all the vicars in Ingerland are makin' a declaration straight out of 'Is Royal 'Ighness's mouth. It's rumoured that Princess Consuela 'as been kidnapped and carried off by a 'uge scaly dragon, and King Algernon is offerin' a 'umungous reward to any man 'oo can slaughter the beast and return the princess un'armed. Plus 'er 'and in marriage, I suppose, that's the usual deal when some fool – I mean some 'ero - kills a wicked old dragon and rescues a beautiful princess. The king's soldiers will be choosin' one or two likely idiots – I mean 'eros – from each parish, and I'm gonna make sure you're at the front of the queue in your Sunday best. If there are no volunteers the king's men will pick a few potential dragon slayers at random, and knowin' your luck you'll be one of 'em, so you might as well volunteer.”

“Me?” George said through a mouthful of porridge. “You must be bleedin' jokin'. Anyway, there's no such thing as dragons, everybody knows that.”

“There is so! Your dear departed, thoroughly useless, ale swillin' father saw one once flyin' over the lane beyond the bottom pasture – it breathed fire and burned 'is best cow to ashes where it stood while 'e was walkin' it to market. My Arthur ran away in terror, and 'e didn't come back for nearly a fortnight 'cos 'e was scared of what I'd say 'cos 'e 'adn't got the money for the cow.....

Anyway, Princess Consuela is supposed to be a real corker, so you'd better 'ave a shave and scrub your dangly bits and put your best clobber on. I've seen 'er picture in the paper many a time - she's incomparably stunnin', she's drop dead gorgeous. 'Alf Spanish she is, with lovely long black 'air. I'd drool over 'er myself if I was that way inclined, which I'm not, unfortunately. But if I 'ad my time again I'd be a right lezzie, I'm tellin' you, 'cos your father was crap in the sack like most men, and it stands to reason that only a woman really knows 'ow to please a woman.”

“Mam, the pictures in the papers are official royal portraits, which are invariably totally unrealistic - they're painted to appease the egotistical monarchy no matter 'ow repulsive they are. It's a shame photography 'asn't been invented, 'cos then we'd know what Consuela really looks like. She might be a great, fat sweaty porker with spots and boils and a face like a badger's bum'ole for all you know.”

“Don't you let the royal troops 'ear you sayin' that, or they'll 'ave you 'ung, drawn and quartered!” In which case you'd be completely useless to me rather than mostly useless. Anyway, if she's a big, fat ugly bint she'll make an excellent match for you.”

“Oh, mam.....”

*************************

The church was so full that George and his mother had to stand at the back amongst a tightly packed throng of malodorous peasants, most of whom spent the service letting off turnipy farts and sniggering. The Reverend Tony Bonce delivered a painfully extended sermon overflowing with fire and brimstone, relentless Old Testament blood and thunder and a fair bit of smiting. He revelled in the Book of Revelation and all the horrors therein, and he made a particular point of relating the story of the great red dragon and the woman clothed in the sun. The dragon, he said, the old serpent called Satan, was planning on coming to Earth soon to destroy the sinners in the nastiest possible way, though funnily enough he neglected to mention the fate of despicable nonces. Three hours later, after an ear-splittingly load rendition of Kumbayah (which was decidedly odd, because the song wasn't written until the nineteen thirties) he arrived at the king's declaration.

“Before you all toddle off home I need to tell you about King Algernon's declaration,” the vicar said. “The lovely Princess Consuela has been abducted by a vile dragon, it's dragged her off to its lair somewhere in the badlands. The King is offering a million gold pieces and the princess’s hand in marriage to any man who can slay the dragon, bring back its head and return the fair princess unharmed. Anyone interested in this frankly hopeless endeavour should form an orderly queue at the back of the church where the king's troops will make their selection. That's it, folks – y'all have a super afternoon.....”

“Come on, George, quick!” Mrs. Piggles said. When they got outside most of the men in the parish hurried home as fast as their legs would carry them, and when the old woman ushered her corpulent son to the rear of the church there were just half a dozen soldiers, Simple Simon, the village idiot, who was munching on a dung beetle infested cow-pat, and an anorexic midget called Brian Teeth who worked in the village bakery.

“Is this all the brave men this sorry shit pile 'as to offer?” the commander of the soldiers muttered.

“Apparently so,” Mrs. Piggles said. “I'm Hermoine Piggles, by the way, and this is my clever, 'ard workin' son George. Simple Simon's no good to you, 'e's the village idiot and 'e don't know 'is arse from 'is elbow. And Brian Teeth ain't much better – just look at 'im, a bad tempered pigeon would see 'im off, never mind a bleedin' dragon. My boy, though, 'as completed 'is National Service and 'e can slaughter any dragon with 'is bare 'ands, no problemmo. Oh, and 'e 'as a CSE in Food 'Ygiene and a National Diploma in Rescuing Princesses In Distress From Nasty Friggin' Dragons.”

“Mam, shut up.....”

“You shut up, George! Look at 'im, 'e's a fine upstandin' young man, surely 'e'll do.”

“I suppose 'e'll bloody well 'ave to,” the commander said, trying not to laugh. “'E's a bit fat, mind, I don't know if we'll be able to find any armour to fit 'im. Put 'im in in the back of the cart with the candidates from Brindly Bottom, men.”

“Can't I go 'ome and 'ave me dinner first?” George said. “It's pork butts and spuds, me favourite, and I'm absolutely starvin'.”

“No, you bloody well can't!” the commander replied. “You can eat slops like the rest of the king's men.”

“Why doesn't the king send a load of soldiers to fight the dragon?” George said as he was frogmarched away.

“'Cos it's too fuckin' dangerous, you daft fat twat! The soddin' dragon is as big as three double decker buses standin' in a row with another three balanced on top, only double decker buses 'aven't been invented yet, so it's a bit of a lame comparison. If you sent a thousand soldiers after the dragon it'd incinerate the bleedin' lot of 'em, no messin'.”

“Mam! I wanna go 'ome!”

“See you, Georgey boy - take care. And don't dare forget about your poor old mother when you marry into the royal family and become incomparably wealthy!”

*************************

George was transported in a horse drawn cart with a number of other men to the town of Sore Nuts some sixty miles away on the edge of the badlands, and the cart was one of many headed in the same direction. Just outside the ramshackle settlement was a large military fort where the men were unloaded and each given a chunk of rock hard bread and a bowl of cold, stinking broth comprising of potato peelings and lumps of maggoty mutton. “Don't bother complainin' about the grub,” the soldier who fed them said. “It's standard military issue, it's what we all get, so there's no favouritism.” After they had eaten the men were split into groups and kitted out with battered armour, knackered old swords and rusty lances, many of them with broken shafts.

“We're gonna 'ave a job finding' anythin' to fit you, fatso,” the man in charge of handing out the equipment chuckled. “Stand over there while I send somebody into the armoury to 'ave a look.” Half an hour later George was given a rusty suit of armour that he could just about squeeze his belly into, though the helmet didn't fit and the pieces intended to protect his upper arms and thighs were way too small. “I'm afraid that's all we've got, porky,” the soldier said. “Get yourself a sword an' a lance, then go over to that far corner of the yard and join the queue, the carts are transporting Ingerland's finest 'eroes into the 'eart of the badlands to parry with the dragon as we speak.”

George sat in the back of a cart containing twenty five potential dragon slayers. They travelled a long way through the night up into the bleak foothills, following a winding track, and most of the men eventually fell asleep on a thin layer of straw on the floor of the cart under the filthy sacking provided by the soldiers. The cart crossed a high rocky plain and eventually descended into a steep sided valley clothed with pines. “This is as far as we can take you, lads,” one of the soldiers said as the dawn was breaking, poking his sleeping cargo. “As far as we know the dragon's lair is roughly thataway. Just follow the valley up into the mountains; it might be ten miles away, it might be more, it might be less – I dunno, I've never been there and I don't bloody well intend to. Any deserters caught tryin' to cross the border back into Ingerland without the dragon's 'ead and the princess will lose their own 'eads, no messin'. Good luck, all of you, and I sincerely mean that. May you die bravely.....”