River Mist Tales: A young dragon

Welcome traveler, no need for names here. River folk have a way of knowing what needs to be known. And soon you will too.

There’s tea in the pot, slices of spice cake, fresh apples and cheddar.

Don’t open the window when the crow taps, nor let the cats out, no matter what they tell you.

I’ll be working in the far alcove if you have any needs or she knocks upon the door with her basket of tales.

Enjoy her photographs and her 12-line tales, though she’s a bit loose with her truths.

Please come again. Here, you’ll always find comfort, refreshment and a bit of magic.

Until next time, may your wonderings be bold and your imaginings be wise.

dragonmug_cwm

 

 A young dragon

“You can wait in here for Lady Morgan, but don’t touch anything. Do you hear?” commanded Mrs. McCurdle wagging a short sausage like finger.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Lauren sitting down on the hard couch pushing aside several layers of coverlets, the ivy and leaf designs fading, some threadbare, barely more than a collection of strings themselves, lowering her eyes until she heard the click of the door latch, certain the scowling Mrs. McCurdle has stormed into another part of the house.

Standing, Lauren turned slowly around in a full circle, taking a memorizing glance at the layout of the room, before deciding the small desk at the far end would be as good a place as any to begin her search.

Remember she told herself, it’s a notebook or a bundle of stationery, or loose papers in a file folder, not a book, not a book.

Usually Lauren ignored dares but this particular dare could not be ignored, besides, she convinced herself, knowledge should be shared, and she was only taking a peek.

The desk was a clutter of odd wooden animal figures, ancient leather covered books, stacks of loose sheets of sketch paper, vases of dried flowers, half folded maps, small travel guides for places Lauren had never studied in school, candles, stones, shells knotted onto braided ropes, a crystal ball atop dolphin fins, and one oversized blue glazed ceramic mug.

She picked up the empty mug, turned it around, taking a closer look at the brown raised design when a sudden flutter of wings startled her and something flew close, wing tips brushing her cheek.

Dropping the mug onto the unstable pile of notebooks, Lauren turned away from the chaos of papers, pens, small books and maps sliding from the desk unto the carpet below, instead she looked for the small winged creature flying about the room, landing here, landing there.

Entranced, Lauren gave no heed to lamps falling over, pillows being knocked onto the floor, paintings tilting on the wall, her eyes were on the petite creature soaring around the room.

Following first with eyes only, Lauren found her courage and began scrambling, awkward and stuttering like a baby’s first steps, stumbling over fallen objects, bumping into chairs, eager for a glimpse, a touch, of the creature that had been hidden on the desk, wondering how it could be.

With her attention flying about the room, Lauren did not hear the carved oak door open, nor the demanding quick steps, nor, at first, the commanding voice speaking words unfamiliar and unknown, as a glinting blue and brown winged beast flew over her head returning to his home aside the oversized ceramic mug.

As Lauren spun around once more, her gaze following the rush of blue and brown, she faced a tall plain woman, who was smiling, holding the ceramic mug and speaking, “After you straighten this mess, you can explain to me why you were chasing a very young Welsh dragon around my library.”

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