Part III: Wawel de la Konklav
“You know you can’t put it off forever.”
It was a hot Wednesday afternoon, and Fowlsing and Zmei were situated on a pair of wrought iron seats in the town square. A nearby fountain bubbled happily, showering the table between them with occasional curtains of mist.
Zmei was starting pointedly at Fowlsing over the spine of a book she was repairing.
“I’m not kidding, Folwsing.” She jabbed a thimbled finger at his face. “Your dekonaj are nearly three months past due. They’re going to send someone.”
Folwsing frowned and shifted uncomfortably. He was aware, of course, that tradition compelled every dragon in the region to contribute to the Dragon Conclave’s communal hoard. Apparently, though, during his hibernation, that tradition had tightened into a set of hard and fast rules, and a dragon’s dekonaj were no longer a loosely observed formality. The Conclave might overlook the tumultuous first few months after a hibernation ended, but Zmei was right. Six months had passed since Fowlsing’s hibernation had ended - six months without a single contribution. There were going to be consequences soon.
“….and what exactly is the problem? Wealth shortages?” Zmei was still talking.
Fowlsing snorted. His father had taught him the art of sniffing out treasure hundreds of years ago, and the old dragon had refined the art to pinpoint accuracy. Treasure didn’t have a smell, exactly, but a sort of brightness, a weight, that only a dragon could sense. It was there in the weathered castles and vaulted manors of the old world, and it was here in the new world, in frenetic stock exchanges and fevered art auctions. A dragon always knew where to look, and Fowlsing’s den was overflowing with treasure. No, wealth shortages weren’t the problem.
…But he didn’t want to tell Zmei the real reason he hadn’t visited the Conclave yet.
“They’re not going to send anyone,” he muttered, sinking lower in his chair. Zmei raised her eyebrows, shrugged, and returned to her book mending.
In fact, Zmei’s prediction was spot on. Two weeks after her warning in the town square, the Conclave did send someone.
Fowlsing had been creeping through the tall grass in the meadow outside his cave, enjoying the cool evening air. He was in dragon form, a pair of binoculars and a long-range camera hanging around his neck. There had been a bleating noise outside his den the last few nights, and he was secretly hoping that he would catch a glimpse - or, better yet, a photo - of his first mountain goat.
There was a sudden, violent rustling in a nearby cluster of asters, and Fowlsing leapt forward, fumbling frantically with his camera. To his shock, it was a dragon’s head, not a pair of goat horns, that shot out of the flowers with a loud bleat. In the confusion, Fowlsing took several photos, leading to multiple bursts of the camera’s flash and a several confused moments of bleating, cursing, and tripping over various rocks and bushes.
Finally, the newcomer managed to right himself. He looked decidedly waspish, his enormous cheeks puffed out in indignation, his spiny crests flared out in fiery red.
“BleeeaaaayyyyyYOU ARE OVERDUE TO REPORT TO THE DRAGON CONCLAVE.”
Fowlsing was still attempting to untangle his tail from a honeysuckle bush - and reconcile that a Conclave member, not a goat, was standing in his backyard.
“Wawel,” he finally managed, giving his tail a final tug. “How nice to see you.“ As an afterthought, he added, “I thought you were a goat.”
Wawel huffed in irritation, sending a silvery puff of smoke curling into Fowlsing’s eyes. Wawel’s movements were quick, jerky; he was constantly in motion, his eyes darting around the meadow, his tail flicking impatiently. Involuntarily, Fowlsing thought of the fat pigeons in the town square, always poking around hopefully for spare crumbs.
Finally, Fowlsing sighed and resigned himself to an uncomfortable conversation. “Listen, Wawel, I know my dekonaj have been really late. I’ll fly a contribution over to the Conclave later this week, okay?” He hesitated, then decided not to apologize. He wouldn’t. Not to the Conclave.
Another silvery puff of smoke. “YOUR CONTRIBUTION WILL NOT BE NECESSARY.” Apparently, Wawel only had one volume level, and it was “yes.”
Fowlsing narrowed his eyes. This was unexpected. And suspicious. From what he’d heard, no one got out of the dekonaj. “What do you mean, ‘not necessary?’” A thought occurred to him. “And if you’re not here for my contribution, why did you come?”
Wawel was already tromping away in a trail of flattened grass. “YOU ARE HENCEFORTH CONSIDERED EXEMPT FROM ALL FUTURE DEKONAJ,” he shouted back across the meadow. “THE CONCLAVE THANKS YOU FOR YOUR ASSISTANCE.” And then, with a great cyclone of wing flaps, Wawel was gone, flitting jerkily skyward and into a low bank of clouds.
For a moment, there was nothing but the rustling grass, the chirruping evening insects, and Fowlsing’s own growing sense of uncertainty. He watched Wawel’s retreating form for a moment longer, then turned and ran for his cave.
© 2021 Rebecca Robbe
