The Last of the Eggstone Collies

© Elizabeth Jane Andreoli 1997

CHAPTER 7

Far away on the island, in the pearly mists of the early morning, Francis worked steadily on his translation of Mudjanda's prophecies. There were subtle changes is the text that puzzled him. In one breath, Mudjanda referred to the fire-breathers as an abomination - a terrible evil. Yet in the next, he seemed to say that something good could not happen without them. A new word appeared, that Francis roughly translated as "prosperity". The words rambled on and on, spinning together a web of good and evil, and coming to an odd conclusion that seemed to make no sense. The fire-breathers hatched. They caused havoc and destruction.

Somehow, dogs were the catalysts that caused a change in their nature. From then on, they were of great benefit - even though they must be constantly guarded. Yes, said Mudjanda, yes, they had to be watched and guarded by their old adversary - the Dog. But this was a good thing. Even a great thing. And again and again, he made it clear - the Dogs knew what to do. They had always known. They would always know, as long as fire-breathers still existed in their altered state.

There was a wider pattern here, mused Francis. A deeper knowledge. Something so simple, yet so profound that it escaped him. What was it that he had missed?

As the sun rose, the now familiar music throbbed joyfully in the air. Golden light flooded the little room where the saint sat, casting no shadow. For there were other subtle changes taking place. Francis was aware that his physical frame was fading, day by day. He no longer needed food or sleep - although the habit of many centuries made him lie down for a few hours every night in dreamless contemplation. The paper on which he wrote his translation was hazily visible through the fine bones of his hands. Only his mind, clear and sharp, still bound him firmly to things of this world. If this was death, he mused, then it was a kinder thing than he had been lead to expect. A gentle process of dissolving with no pain, and no regrets. But somehow, he must hold fast to the living world until he found that vital clue that would help his friends in their battle.

Mudjanda's words took on a richness and rhythm like the un-rhyming verse of Medieval Dog that George loved so much.

"In the valley mists. On the mountain heights,
The breathers of fire: The wearers of flame
Shall sport and spawn and play.
The deep places of darkness shall not hide them.

The spinners of fire shall revere them.
And the dogs shall watch and wait and plan.
Appointed guardians. Trusty servants.
Keepers of knowledge ..."

This must be a description of dragons in their altered state, thought Francis. How could it be that they would leave their holes and burrows to roam freely in the sunlight? And what were the "spinners of fire" whom the dogs served? Or did the dogs serve the dragons? Questions, questions. He almost envied George his physical quest among things that could be seen and touched and fought. This quest amongst the twists and turns of a long-dead mind was a lonely and wearisome business.

Again, the narrative turned to a description of a dragon's playground in verdant pastures under the sun. On and on it rolled, painting a picture of peace and richness - with the figure of a dog ever present; on guard against catastrophe. A bleak reminder of how things had been, and could be again. A sombre, warning note crept into the prose. "Never forget," warned Mudjanda. "They must be soaked in crystal springs, lest their heat overwhelm them."

Was this the simple clue to it all? Francis worked on, hardly daring to hope.

"Their fire will never be quenched!" warned Mudjanda, "And yet it may be dampened down and held within. Let the spinners of fire heed my words! Wash out the evil! Wash out the darkness! ..."

Francis dropped his pen and let the shout of the ancient prophet recede from his mind. For a while he sat in silence, listening to the ordinary sounds of his sunlit world. A deep contentment flooded through him. Of all the creatures that swam or flew or walked or crawled, only the dragon seemed to fit nowhere. Only the dragon was a creature of spite and malice - slithering in darkness - maiming and killing without mercy. And yet the dragon could be altered to slot into the pattern of the universe, like the last piece of a jig-saw puzzle pressed into place. Not blotted out and destroyed, but changed in nature to join in, to become useful in some way. There were still questions in his mind. He did not understand the spinners of fire, and doubted deeply the instinctive knowledge of his watch-dog Toby, but at least he had found the weapon that was needed. Water.

There was nothing that he needed to take with him. He no longer required food or extra clothing. His knowledge, he carried in his head.

With his robes fluttering about him like a trick of the light on the insubstantial surf, he set his sandalled feet upon the sea, and walked quietly off, across the ocean, to find and help his friends.

Goto chapter

Modified:3/8/97

Created:25/7/97