Part 3
559 Words
THREE
George's father looked up from the boot he was piecing together. "Dragon watching again, hmm?"
Not wanting to talk about his horrible failure any more, George simply nodded. He considered helping his father with the boot's fellow, but he was too weary for the kind of precision it required. Instead, he spread a piece of leather out on the cutting table. Destruction was more his style today. George reached for a pair of shears and set to work cutting out soles for shoes.
"Who was today's challenger?" Father asked.
It was too much to ask that Father had been too busy working to hear the dragon roaring.
George snipped savagely. "No one of consequence."
Father nodded sagely as the boot took a distinct curve in his hands. George would always envy the nimbleness of his father's fingers, forming such beautifully shaped shoes from a flat piece of leather. "So your dragon is alive and well, then? How about the would-be slayer?"
"Alive," George bit out as he snipped the sole free. "He ran away." Because he was outmatched, George snarled inwardly. Better to run away and fight properly another day.
"A smart slayer. Will wonders never cease?" Father lifted a needle to his eye and threaded it in one smooth stroke. "That's who will rid us of that nuisance. Not some mighty hero with a stout sword and shiny armour, but a man with a powerful mind. Dragons are cunning creatures, and fighting one will always be a battle of wits."
"I wish more people listened to your good advice, Father," George said, wishing he had. When his father found out his own son had been today's i***t, George intended to make himself scarce. "I don't think I'll watch the next challenger fight the dragon. I'll stay here and help you instead. There's a lot of orders here. Will we get them done in time?"
Father held up a finished upper, ready to stitch to the sole George had cut. "Together, I'm sure we will. Your mother would be proud."
George winced. If his mother was still alive, his father wouldn't need him in the shop so much. And she would have f*******n him from going anywhere near the dragon, let alone attempting to fight it. Even his fairy godmother had tried to talk him out of it, but he'd been too stupid to listen.
George snipped around another sole. Zoraida had been better at battling the dragon than he had, and his mother had had more wits than any man alive, or so his father said. Perhaps that was how his namesake had defeated that long-ago dragon. The stories all said he'd saved the virgin princess from the beast, but maybe she'd defeated the dragon and all he'd done was offer her his cloak to cover her singed clothes. The townspeople had proclaimed him a hero and not believed a girl could beat the beast.
For who had ever heard of a maiden hero? Not George. He'd like to meet one, though. Such a paragon might be able to tell him what he was doing wrong.
He sighed and set down his shears. No, she probably wouldn't even notice some lowly shoemaker's son. She'd be inundated by marriage proposals from every prince, knight and nobleman for miles around. For a woman who could best a dragon would also bear brave sons.
Or so they said.
If only he'd inherited his mother's wits. Then he'd know how to best a dragon in battle...
- Writer
