Edgar, the dragon slayer – part 3

Flash 30

• Part 1
• Part 2
  

A quest, I think. That’s exactly what my mother said. It unnerves me when she’s right.
“I weren’t always from London, ye know,” says the dragon. “I used ta be from the Forest Of Dean.”
“The Forest Of Dean?” I ask incredulously.
“Well it’s got caves, innit? And a forest. It’s where the rest of me family lives. It’s our natural habitat, ye know?”
“There’s more of you?”
“A few. I ain’t seen ‘em in five ‘undred years, though…”
“That’s all very interesting,” I say, “But what has this got to with the quest?”
“Flippin’ impatient, you are,” says the dragon. “Ain’t you ever ‘eard of the art of tellin’ a story? Anyway, I used ta live in the forest with me mum and dad and me aunties and uncles and brothers and sisters and cousins but they kicked me out.”
“Why did they kick you out?”
“All trumped up charges, obviously”
“Obviously… what did they say you did?”
“They accused me of stealing this book that belonged to me uncle. He’s like the dragon king. I didn’t do nothin’ though but they couldn’t find the bloomin’ thing and so they banished me from the forest. I been stuck livin’ in basements and sewers. And trust me the sewers were pretty bloody grim five ‘undred years ago.”
“Why is the book so important?
“It’s got all kinda dragon secrets in it,” says the dragon.
“Right,” I say. “And let me guess you want me to find this book, prove your innocence and in so doing get you back in with your family?”
“Yer smarter than ya look,” says the dragon, with a toothy grin.
“Where is the book” I ask the dragon.
“I ‘aven’t got a flippin’ clue,” says the dragon. “Don’t ya think if I knew, I’da found it and taken it back by now.”
“Who else might want the book?” I ask the dragon.
“Well there’s the trolls. They’re always tryin’ ta sneak past us and take our treasure.”
“Did you think of checking with them?”
“Of course,” he says. “Thing is, I got some unpaid gambling debts with some really mean trolls. If I go down there it ain’t gonna be pretty.”
“Let me guess, these so-called trolls live somewhere ridiculous like Norwich and I’m going to have to go cross country on a wild goose chase.”
The dragon laughs. “Nah, mate. They’re trolls. They live under London Bridge.”

How could I not have guessed this fact? Not only are their dragons in the sewers of Camden but there’s a… a… what’s the collective noun for trolls… a conglomeration of trolls living under London Bridge. Next thing he’s going to tell me there are fairies living on Old Compton Street.
“Hold on,” I say. “If the trolls have had your book for 500 years, why haven’t they attacked and destroyed the rest of the dragons?”
“Trolls, Eddie, trolls,” says the dragon. “They ain’t exactly big readers. It’s probably taken them the ‘ole five  ‘undred years to read the prologue.”
“So you lost at gambling to a bunch of illiterate, bridge dwellers? Never mind. Fine, I will go and get your book, ok? Is there a way to call the trolls out?”
“Just take some cheese an’ a mirra. They can’t resist dairy or their own raflecshins and whatever you do don’t mention me name.”
“What is your name?”
“Aslef,” says the dragon. “Aslef, the mighty wing.”
“Alright Aslef,” I say. “Wish me luck.”
“G’luck, Eddie,” he says and with that he flaps his wings and is gone.

I do what any self-respecting man would do. I ring my mum. I have already made the decision not to tell her about the actual agreement my father made with Aslef. If she leaves him, he will attempt to come and live with me, since he is completely incapable of taking care of himself. And then he’s going to die either way because I’ll strangle him. My mother is nonplussed. In fact she is fascinated as I relay the story.

“Trolls,” she says. “That’s fascinating. I’ve always wanted to meet some trolls.”
“What are you talking about, mother?”
“Your father and I have been arguing about the size of trolls for the last twenty-six years. As far as I’m aware a troll is about 3 feet tall but your dad is convinced that they’re gigantic and ever since Harry Potter backed that up in those films, he’s been insufferable. Now I can finally prove him wrong.”
“What do you expect me to do, mum? Take photos of them. They’re hardly going to pose, smiling, while I steal their book, are they?”
“What photos?” asks my mom. “We’re coming along.”
“You most certainly are not,” I say.
“Do you think I’d let you face trolls alone,” says my mother. “I have experience. I’ve been arguing with your father’s roadies for years. They’re practically trolls. It’ll be great.”
“And what help exactly is dad going to be?” I ask.
“You know I can’t leave him at home,’ says my mum. “Last time he dyed Marilyn black and then flew to Los Angeles. I found him onstage in the Hard Rock Café with a homeless person.”

I meet my parents at London Bridge Station. My father has fashioned himself a suit of armour out of some of my mother’s pots. There is a colander on his head and he is carrying a curtain rail as if it were some kind of lance. My mother has brought along a hand mirror and a wedge of brie. I have never wished I had siblings more at any moment in my life. Only someone who had actually grown up in my house with my parents would understand the sheer bizarreness of this situation and be able to sympathise with the mixture of pride and absolute mortification I feel right now. My parents may be insane but at least they’re supportive… even when I’m hunting trolls at the behest of the dragon who has kidnapped my girlfriend.