The dragon was out, again. It was the time of year when dragons think it fun to make more dragons.

    Within the cottage at the foot of the faerie glen, Mr Copernicus pulled on his boots and reached for his hat. He watched as Mrs Copernicus busied herself with the kitchen knives. She had a fine collection of kitchen knives, some of them blessed with faerie magic, and sure to cut through anything.

    "Wife," said Mr Copernicus, gathering together such spells and potions that might quieten a rampant dragon, "Spartacus is off with his hormones, again. I'd best be digging out the flycycle and heading after him. But I'm thinking that this time when I get the rascal back home we'll be taking a trip to Mr Triceratops, the vet, that Spartacus be arranged good and proper." He made snip snip motions in the air with his fingers. "It'll be kindest thing in the long run, I'm sure."

    "Be careful, dear," said Mrs Copernicus, waving aloft her best knife. "The dragon rut is not somewhere to tread lightly, potions or no. I hear there's terrible things afoot at the dragon rut."

    It was a fine spring evening beyond the Copernicus cottage. The air about the faerie glen was heady with the scent of rhododendrons. Frogs sang of love, and pheromones wafted in the gentle breeze. To the west, into the setting sun's disc, the departing dragons were little more than dark streaks against the reddening sky.

    Mr Copernicus watched them leave as he pumped air into the wings of his best flycycle. It was a long way across the sea to the dragon fields, and the flycycle would need all the air it could take to keep it aloft. As he took to the sky and circled above the town, he saw many of the townsfolk pumping air into their own flycycles. "Dragons," he muttered. "Who needs them?"

    And then he grinned.

Over lands of snow and mountains of fire, and a sea that seemed endless and flat, Mr Copernicus pedalled the flycycle. The dragons flew high above him, gliding silently with the jet stream at the roof of the world where the air was thin and cold. Before him the dark, jagged peaks of the Dragonlands grew from the sea; behind him the townsfolk bobbed like motes of dust following in his wake. As the dawn sun rose at the start of the second day, he saw the steam rising from the dragon fields and heard the dreadful cry of the rut.

    "There," he said to no one but himself, as he settled the flycycle to land gently upon the first outcrop of the Dragonlands. "As fine a journey as I've ever had."

    He looked to the skies filling with folk jostling for position to land. He recognised Mrs Blunt from number forty-two. And there was Mr Carapace, the butcher, and Father Careworn, the priest. He recognised all the old faces, the regulars who made the journey each spring in pursuit of their errant dragons.

    "Cheryl out again, is she, Mrs Blunt?" said Mr Copernicus.

    Mrs Blunt paused in chaining her flycycle to a rock. She rubbed a sleeve at her moistened brow. "Aye, burned her way through tungsten steel, she did, and that was after we'd doused her flame with 2-magi-iodide. I don't know what we'll do if she comes back with a litter. The last lot ate Mr Blunt's grandmother. I suppose it was the sulphurous smell about her that attracted them to her so. And they burned down Mr Blunt's garden shed, whilst he was still inside."

    "I suppose I'm lucky, in a way, Spartacus being male. Though he does limp for six months after the rut and that becomes irksome to see." Mr Copernicus paused and measured his words. "Will you be needing some help with your tent, Mrs Blunt? It'll be no trouble, I'm sure."

    Soon, Mr Carapace had a fine barbeque going, and Father Careworn drew out six bottles of the finest single malt. Mrs Sold from number six coaxed tunes from an old fiddle, and Mr Undersized from the post office encouraged folk to join him in his jig. Brother Edwards from the monastery flew in with kegs of mead, and Brother Edwards rode a large flycycle. The air was alive with the buzz of music and the hiss of faerie laughter. And the terrible thud of the dragons hidden beyond the hill.

    "Damn dragons," said Mr Copernicus, a sausage roll to his lips and a merry flush to his cheek. "Listen to the noise from them. You'd think by now they'd have learned to control their urges."

    Mrs Blunt blushed. "Now, Mr Copernicus, is that your hand I can feel on my leg?"

    "I remember the day Spartacus hatched. He leapt out of his egg and swallowed the cat. Urges, I said to Mrs Copernicus, primal urges, they can't stop themselves, see, being dragons and not with a hint of civilisation like us." Mr Copernicus gazed into Mrs Blunt's eyes. His hand rode higher towards Mrs Blunt's thigh. "And Mrs Copernicus doesn't understand primal urges. She's never been one to give in to them."

    Mr Copernicus felt the tremble in Mrs Blunt's grip as she lifted his hand from her leg. She slapped his wrist, playfully, he felt, and placed it back upon the grass to the side. She made a show of adjusting her skirts. Mr Copernicus breathed heavily as the valley of her cleavage deepened, taut, inviting as she stretched lower.

    Mr Copernicus loosened his collar. "More sherry, Mrs Blunt?"

    "Ooh, I'm sure I'll be drunk if I do."

    "Fortification, Edna, one can't go grappling with dragons without proper fortification."

    "You say that every year, Horace." She wagged a finger. "I think you want me drunk just to have your wicked way with me."

    Mr Copernicus grinned. "As if I could do such a despicable thing, Edna. As if honour would allow it. That would put us no better than the dragons."

    Day lapsed into evening. Drowned by laughter and song and mirth and merriment, the sounds of the dragon rut were all but forgotten. Father Careworn lost his gowns, and Mrs Sold led him by the hand into her tent to save his embarrassment. So substantial must have been his embarrassment, Mr Copernicus noticed that he stayed the entire night.

    Brother Edwards shouted Conga! and within moments a long line snaked about the makeshift encampment. Mr Copernicus watched the hypnotic sway of Mrs Blunt's hips and grew warm about the ears. Her scent swirled about his head. He licked at his dried lips.

    And, when the night's toil finally slowed them and they became mellowed by the free flowing wine, they rested. The fists that shook at the dragons beyond the hill turned to quiet, lame ones, lest someone should suggest they go over there and actually do something about them. Brother Edwards pointed out that it was biologically unsafe to stop a dragon once it was on with the business of reproduction, and this thought was well received.

    Thus it was that when the night was done and the returning dragons flapped lazily overhead, Mr Copernicus woke in Mrs Blunt's arms. The dawn was a distant rumour to the east. The air was cool but the duvet bed they shared warm and comfortable.

    "Same time next year, Mrs Blunt?" said Mr Copernicus.

    Mrs Blunt barely stirred from sleep at his side. "Aye," she mumbled. "Or perhaps you could come by next week? Mr Blunt won't notice. He's not been interested in anything since his shed burned down. Sits staring into space talking only of incinerated lupines, he does."

    Mr Copernicus grinned. "Now that would be a fine idea, Mrs Blunt. A fine idea, indeed. Tuesday, then. I've nothing planned. And I'm sure Mrs Copernicus won't suspect a thing. She's never suspected anything before. She's not the suspecting sort."

    Mr Copernicus coughed behind his palm. "No, dearest, the little rascal was too fast for me. Searched and searched, I did, all about the rut. But he was nowhere to be seen, and you'd think something as huge as Spartacus would stand out by miles."

    "Perhaps, if he gets out next year, I should come and help you look," said Mrs Copernicus, sharpening the larger of her carving knives against the kitchen stone.

    Mr Copernicus glanced away. "No, Gwyneth, I'm sure you'd not like that. Oh, but it was a terrible sight, the rut. Truly terrible. They were thrashing and gouging and… thrashing, I'm sure you'd not like to look upon it. "

    "Never mind. Oh, but I've made an appointment with Mr Triceratops for next Tuesday."

    "Yes, well, I've been thinking about that," said Mr Copernicus. "It does seem a little harsh. I mean he's only doing what nature intended now, isn't he? He's only being the dragon that he is, the scamp."

    Mrs Copernicus shook her head. "You say that every year, Horace. If I didn't know better I'd say that you enjoy chasing about after him on that dratted flycycle of yours."

    "Don't be silly, dear, it's such hard work, all that chasing, and, well, more chasing. It's a thankless task that I'd be well without." Mr Copernicus leaned the flycycle against the garden fence and rubbed a sleeve dramatically at his brow. "Besides, there's no telling if Spartacus will be back by Tuesday, so I think we'd best cancel Mr Triceratops. There's no point in wasting everybody's time now is there?"

    Mrs Copernicus paused in tending to her knives. Her tone grew sharpened like her blades. "Ah, but I didn't say the appointment was for Spartacus, now, did I dear?"

    She smiled sweetly, and made snip snip motions in the air with her fingers.

    Mr Copernicus's hands strayed instinctively, protectively toward his groin. The morning sun gleamed upon the knife blade.

    Surely it would indeed cut through anything.

First published September 2003 by Alien Skin Magazine






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