Dragoncrown

Jonathon the jeweler awoke to the mournful howling of the Dragon’s Lament. He usually hid beneath his covers during the frightful chorus, but that day something was different. Something in the howls or behind the howls shook his bones and jerked him right up in bed as if he had been yanked by a noose. Even though his Warming Blanket slid off the bed with the jerk, his wife, Arlen, lying beside him, snored on. She was far too tired from caring for their seven children to be wakened by a mere seventy-seven Dragons all howling together. The little smile on her plump face was something Jonathon seldom saw while she was awake. In the daytime, she was far too busy with the chores and problems attendant in caring for their children to bother with a relaxed smile.

Jonathon bent to kiss Arlen’s cheek but was stopped by a thump out in front of their cottage that rattled the bedroom window. There was a strange thrashing of the bushes, and his pet lark fluttered and chattered about in his cage. Jonathon watched in awe as the ancient oak outside the window majestically rose into the air. The rising was accompanied by the squeaking, groaning and popping of the tree’s roots protesting as they were pulled from the ground. The oak tilted slightly and flew with a swish of leaves to land with a splintering thud behind their cottage.

Jonathon felt himself rise as the bed and the whole room lifted briefly just before the roof above him gave way. With a shattering report, one corner slowly lifted up and away. Beams burst. Ceiling plaster crumbled and rained down upon him. One large slab smacked him squarely on his upturned forehead.

Arlen woke with a start. She glanced up, took a look at Jonathon, and yelled, “The children!” She leapt from the bed and made for the children’s rooms.

The ceiling gaped between two huge hands that gripped it. They dug into the hard plaster like it was mush. The whole ceiling of the bedroom folded upon itself upward into the morning haze, exposing a huge angry face with wild bloodshot eyes that pinned Jonathon to his bed. Through flabby, snarling lips inside a great hedge of a beard came a voice that sounded like a cross between a bear’s growl and a cow passing wind. “Hey, you little rat, gimme my money!”