Chapter Seven

SMALL MOUNTAIN OF A MAN towered over Steven as he shook his head to clear the continued ringing in his ears. His hat shook wildly back and forth with each movement and Steven put both hands on it to steady his head. In one hamfisted hand, the tinker held a frying pan.

“Well?” demanded the tinker. “What do you have to say for yourself?” Steven pointed a shaky finger at the tinker’s cart and donkey now coming into focus.

“I thought it was a dragon,” he said feebly. For a moment the man stared at him in incomprehension, then he chuckled, and then he let out a huge guffaw that echoed off the side of the mountain. He tossed the pan into the back of his wagon and reached down to offer Steven a hand up. When Steven finally stood, the tinker looked him up and down.

“Now aren’t you the sorriest excuse for a dragonslayer that ever wandered the mountains,” he laughed. “Come sit by the fire and warm yourself, man. Let me see if I can guess the story.” Steven sat on a rock opposite the tinker and accepted a warm cup of soup from the man’s fire.

“Thank you,” said Steven. “I’m awfully sorry to have disturbed you, but I’m Steven George the dragonslayer and I am trying to find the dragon that threatens our village to put an end to our fears.”

“Don’t, don’t tell me,” the tinker said. “Let me guess. There is a fair maiden from your village who is missing and no one thought to check in the next village where her lover lives? No? I have it. A mysterious fire burned a field of crops and threatened the home of a particularly foul old man who lives outside the village? No? Cattle or sheep were mysteriously slain and the carcass was found amid a charred circle? Ah! I got it! And you were elected to go out and fight the dragon, even though neither you nor anyone else in your village has ever actually seen a dragon.”

“Well, sort of,” Steven admitted.

“How did you get to be as old as you are and still be so naïve?” the tinker laughed. “Boy, you’ve been blindfolded, spun in a circle, and pointed the wrong direction!”

“I don’t understand,” said Steven. “I’ve always known I was the dragonslayer.”

“Think, did you own a piece of property that others wanted? Did you have a particularly beautiful wife? Did you offend a village elder?” asked the tinker all at one time.

“No. It’s not like that,” said Steven. “I was raised to be a dragonslayer from birth. My village always knew the time would come that we might need one because of the prophecy. When the sheep was killed, we knew that now was the time.”

“I see,” said the tinker. “This prophecy, has it been around long?”

“Yes. For ever so long,” Steven answered.

“And how many dragonslayers have there been before you?”

“None. I was chosen at birth for the task and raised by the village to do it.”

“Really?” asked the tinker. “And how exactly did the village know that it was time to raise a dragonslayer? Were there attacks previously?”

“I don’t think so,” Steven thought it out carefully. “I think the village just decided now was the time.”

“Let me tell you, Steven George the Dragonslayer,” said the tinker, “villages don’t just up and decide things. Someone in the village had to suggest the idea, and that someone had a reason to need a dragonslayer. It had nothing to do with the supposed slaughter of a sheep. Think who could have planned this for, what? Thirty years? And then you will know why you were sent out on this ridiculous chase.”

“Are you saying that there is no such thing as a dragon?” gasped Steven.

“Heavens no, man! I’d never suggest that. I knew a man once who…” The tinker broke off abruptly and considered the situation. “Well, now. Let me see. Here you are, miles from home and I’m about to just up and give you a perfectly good story. There ought to be something to trade for that.”

“I can tell a story, too,” Steven jumped in excitedly. “I know many good stories. Perhaps you’d like to know about my hat,” he said proudly.

“Hmmm,” answered the tinker. “Is it a good story?”

“Oh, very good,” Steven declared, searching his mind for a good story he could use to tell about his hat. He was sure he could come up with something before it was his turn to tell a story.

“It is an interesting hat,” the tinker mused. “I’ll make that trade. I’ll tell you the story of The Impossible Pot if you’ll tell me about your hat.”

“It’s a deal,” Steven said yawning.

“Tomorrow,” said the tinker. “You are about to go to sleep tonight. You must have come far.”

“Two hundred twenty-eight thousand eight hundred seventy-three steps,” Steven recited as he prepared his bedroll by the fire. Then he added, “That way,” pointing back down the road he had come by.

“You don’t say,” said the tinker, genuinely amazed. “I didn’t know the world went on so far. Well, there are a good many more steps ahead of you than behind,” he chuckled. Then pointed up the road they were headed and added, “this way.”

EXT MORNING THE TWO travelers set out together talking of the road and the adventures that could be found on it. The tinker questioned Steven about his village and said that he had never found a way to cross the river that far downstream with his wagon, so had never journeyed so far as Steven’s village. But when Steven mentioned the town of Lastford, the tinker knew all about that and the melon festival. He had been there many times.

They passed the journey more leisurely than Steven had been walking of late, but the company was so good and the prospect of a story that included a dragon so compelling that Steven did not mind the slower pace as the donkey toiled up the mountain. They stopped in the mid-afternoon to make camp so the poor animal could rest. Steven proved his skills of survival by trapping a squirrel and preparing it on a spit for dinner. The tinker prepared a pot of vegetables on the fire as well and Steven sprinkled a pinch of the wisewoman’s herbs over all. It was a fine feast for the two men as they sat in the gathering evening. At last, the tinker belched loudly, stretched his hands so that all his knuckles cracked at set out to tell his story.

The Unmendable Pot

NCE UPON A TIME a long time ago and very far away, there traveled the roads a famous tinker named Armand Hamar. He was skilled like no other tinker that ever lived. If there was a pot that was broken, a roof to mend, or a ditch to dig, Armand Hamar could fix it, mend it, or dig it. It was said once that when the Queen of Arabie had broken her favorite mirror, she sent away for Armand Håmar and refused to see anyone until he had mended her mirror and she could see herself first. So good was his repair that no seam showed where he sealed the mirror together.

When the Prince Lukas Leonard Hector Quentin von Melicia was to be married to Lady Hyacinthe Annabelle Arianna of Sendebois he called upon Armand Hamar to create the most marvelous wedding gift the world had ever known. He entrusted the project to Armand with the words that it was to be useful, beautiful, and one-of-a-kind, promising to pay a fortune for the right gift.

Armand Hamar considered this for a long time trying to decide what a simple tinker could make that was not only useful, but beautiful and one-of-a-kind. Fortunately he had been given a year’s notice for the creation as the wedding day had been set for the following Midsummer Eve.

Now it was a well-known fact that Lady Hyacinthe was a terrible cook. Prince Lukas had been sick for two days after his first dinner with her, but she had other charms and the prince was willing to overlook the culinary deficiencies of his bride-to-be.

Armand was clever and thought it would be a wonderful thing if the newlyweds had a new kettle. This would certainly be useful. Even the worst cook needed a kettle to cook in. But how would he make a common kettle beautiful and unique?

It happened that Armand was a sand-scratcher. You’ve undoubtedly seen the type. When they are thinking, and even when they are talking, they are constantly scratching pictures in the sand with a stick, with their finger, or if they particularly don’t want to be noticed, even with their toe. And while Armand puzzled over his dream pot he scratched out pictures with a stick, then scrubbed them out with his foot and scratched again. As he lost himself in thought, he suddenly looked at the pictures he had scratched in the sand an answer came to him.

He could make a pot that was beautiful. Rather than being a simple black kettle, he would scratch pictures in the metal. He experiemented with various rocks and other metals and finally came up with a combination that would cut into the iron of the pot and leave a shining silver scratch deep enough that it would not polish out with the first scrubbing that it got. And thus it was that Armand Hamar invented the art of engraving. But what would he engrave on the pot that would be unique and beautiful?

That is where serendipity came to play; for as Armand traveled the lesser mountains of the east, he witnessed a most amazing sight. Armand Hamar saw a dragon. In that day and age dragons were more common than they are now, not having been so widely hunted, but none-the-less to see one and to live to tell of it was a rare occurrence indeed. Armand saw the sparkling creature flying far overhead, leaving a trail of smoke in the sky behind it. He marked the direction it had gone and set out to find the dragon.

Now Armand had no plan to kill the dragon, nor to harm it in any way; but he thought that if he could get close enough to capture the image in his mind he would be able to engrave the image on the wedding kettle. So he journeyed many days into the heart of the mountains where occasionally he would catch a glimpse of the creature or see its trail in the sky.

At long last, Armand found the hidden lair of the great dragon. He could smell the sulphurous reek of the smoke mixed with the cooking smell of some animal that had been freshly killed and roasted with the dragon’s fiery breath. Armand took the blank kettle on which he intended to engrave the image and crept closer to the lair.

The sight he saw nearly stopped his heart, for he saw not the aerial serpent that he had seen overhead, but instead a beautiful maiden tending a cooking spit. The smell of the roasting meat soon overwhelmed the smell of sulphur and Armand found himself drawn closer and closer to the maiden. She was dressed in a jeweled gown that sparkled in the firelight much like the sparkle of the dragon he had seen in the sky. Enticed by the cooking and the beautiful woman, Armand crept closer still.

It was inevitable that he would be noticed sooner or later, and sooner it was. The maiden looked directly at him with a piercing eye and demanded to know what he was doing spying on her.

“Fair lady,” Armand said, “I thought I had tracked a fearsome beast to this lair and had no intention of spying on a worshipful lady as yourself.”

“And you came to slay this beast?” demanded the damsel.

“Oh no!” declared Armand. “I came to capture its image to turn this poor kettle into a work of art. I saw only the beauty of the creature and had no desire to harm it.”

“What?” sneered the lady. “Not even to rescue a damsel in distress?” This stopped Armand short and he had to consider how he answered her. He had no desire to offend the lady, but was both a peaceful man and a bit of a coward.

“Were I to find a lady in distress, fair maiden, I would do my best to server her needs,” Armand said, “for it would be unkind of me to ignore her. But here I find a damsel who seems to need no saving, and were I to have my choice, I would abandon my desire to engrave the dragon on my poor kettle and engrave her image alone.”

“Do you think I am lovely, then?” she asked.

“Lady, you are the fairest that the world has ever seen. You are the twinkling starlight. You are a burst of flowers and the song of a lark.”

“You are laying it on a bit thickly,” she smiled at him, “but I accept your compliment. Come and dine with me.”

And so Armand Hamar joined the lady at her table set with golden plates and ate of the succulent roast she had prepared. They chatted companionably through the meal and each found the other to be enjoyable company. The lady had long lived alone in the mountains, disdaining the company of men, but found herself occasionally lonely. Armand commiserated saying that his life on the road as a tinker had also left him without companionship. After the meal had ended and they talked far into the night, the maiden seated herself on a rock overlooking a calm and sparkling pool.

“You would engrave an image on your kettle,” she said. “I shall sit here and we will chat while you work.” Armand was thrilled and began at once to sketch with his tools on the black iron pot. He worked the metal with a skill that surpassed that of any craftsman known in the world. The glittering image of the lady of the mountains (as he had begun to think of her) took shape on the kettle, sparkling in the slivers of metal that he worked loose from the kettle. All night he worked and when dawn had streaked the eastern sky with light he knelt before the maiden and offered her the newly engraved pot.

She was delighted with the image and wanted it for her own. Armand explained that he had journeyed so far to capture the image for a wedding gift for the prince and his bride. This did not please the woman and she began to seethe. Armand thought that he had begun gradually to smell sulphur again. But he knew he could not deny this lady anything that she asked of him.

“Lady, this poor piece of workmanship is unworthy of you, but if you would have it, I would gladly give it to you. Indeed, I have failed my task,” he told her.

“Failed?” asked the lady. “How failed?”

“I have failed in that my commission was to create a gift that was useful, beautiful, and unique in all the world,” he explained. “While a kettle is useful, and the engraving is beautiful, I fear that as soon as it is seen it will be copied by every weekend artist in every village of the kingdom. Little kettles with engraved women on them will be sold at stalls in markets by talentless people who can only copy and sell. It will cease to be unique.” Armand was saddened to know that he spoke the truth in this, for such was the time in which he lived.

The maiden was moved by this story, and indeed by Armand Hamar himself. She considered his plight for some time and then offered him a trade.

“I have found you desirable and wish your company more frequently,” she said. “I shall propose a trade.”

“But command me, my lady, and I will obey,” said Armand, so besotted was he of the woman by now.

“You have consented to give me this pot. I will give it back to you and make it unique in a way that cannot be copied, if you will agree to spend seven years in my company,” she said.

Armand considered this for the heart-beat of a hummingbird and replied, “Only seven years, lady? For your companionship alone I would spend seven times that with you.”

“Careful what you pledge, Tinker,” she winked at him. “You may find seven years to be more than you can stand!”

Nonetheless, the two agreed to the lady’s terms. She would make the kettle unique and Armand would stay with her for seven years.

What happened next, the poor tinker could not have imagined had he lived twice his years. The lady took the heavy kettle in her hands as though it were a feather and threw it into the air. Armand watched the kettle fly to an impossible height, his eye fixed on the black pot against the morning sky. In a flash the dragon he had seen before was chasing the pot across the sky with flames shooting from its nostrils encasing the pot in fire. The sheer pressure of the inferno bursting from the dragon’s breath kept the pot afloat for an impossible time, and then both dragon and kettle settled softly to the ground in front of the tinker.

As he watched the fiery dragon shifted back to the visage of the fair maiden. Armand Hamar was speechless, but the image of the maiden turned dragon turned maiden again was second to the miraculous pot that now sat before him. The image of the lady he had so carefully engraved glowed against the black iron of the pot. As he turned it in different directions he could see the image of a dragon take shape behind her, and then fade again. This, indeed would be difficult for any weekend craftsman to copy.

Armand Hamar was not seen again in the valleys and villages of men for seven years, and only seldom thereafter. But on the wedding day of Prince Lukas Leonard Hector Quentin von Melicia and Lady Hyacinthe Annabelle Arianna of Sendebois, a parcel arrived which they opened with their wedding gifts. Inside was the most beautifully engraved kettle the kingdom had ever seen. The image of a woman seated on a rock that was engraved on it, subtly shifted to the image of a dragon. But that was not the most remarkable thing about the pot.

This pot required no fire to cook its food. Anything placed in the pot was cooked to perfection without fire. Lady Hyacinthe never again served inedible meals for the pot carried the heat of the dragon’s breath and the culinary skills of the maiden. In all the ages before or since, there has never been seen another like it.

Steven was enrapt. He had a thousand questions for the tinker, but top on his mind was that there was, somewhere, a picture of a dragon that he could look at and see what he was to fight.

“What happened to the impossible pot?” he asked the tinker. “Is it still at the castle?”

“Oh no, no,” said the tinker. “Even the most remarkable things are considered common to people who are not steeped in their stories. Some years later, a scullery maid, thinking she was cleaning up properly, plunged the pot into a tub of cold water.”

“What happened then?” Steven asked. The tinker pointed at the small frying pan they had cooked bacon and eggs in for their dinner. He had turned the pan over on the flames to burn the residue of dinner out of it. The pan glowed on the flames. The tinker wrapped a leather strip around his hand and took hold of the pan by its handle. Without warning he plunged it into a bucket of water Steven had fetched earlier to give to the donkey.

There was an earsplitting crack as steam rose from the instantly boiling water. The tinker withdrew his hand and Steven saw that it held only half a pan.

“Cold water and hot iron don’t mix,” the tinker said solemnly. Steven could only imagine the world’s loss as he drifted off to sleep that night.

Chapter 6
Chapter 8