Sacrifice

Another take on the Wawel Dragon fairytale. - See Yesterday.

Agata cried and sobbed uncontrollably, she’d cried enough tears to extinguish a dragon’s breath, but there were plenty more to come. She knew she was going to die a horrible and painful death in just a matter of hours and despite the fact that she was told she was a heroine, that she was doing it for the village, she didn’t feel heroic. She didn’t care about the village, she didn’t want to die and she sure as hell didn’t want to be eaten by a fire-breathing dragon. But she’d been chosen, her family had been paid and so she had to do her duty.

Every month a girl who turned 15 that month was chosen to be sacrificed to the dragon. Last month it had been her friend Ela, Agata had comforted her friend right up to the moment that the men of the village had come to take her away. Agata never for one moment thought that this month it would be her turn. But here she was, being dressed in the sacrificial shawl and anointed with holy water, decorated with flowers and promised she would find peace in heaven.

She shivered and cried her way through the ceremony while the villagers drank and sang and cheered. She wept and wailed as they bound her to the stake and carried her through the streets like a pig on a spit towards the dragon’s lair. She wondered how the villagers could celebrate the death of a young virgin.

The villagers planted the stake in the ground and retreated, going back to safety, to their celebrations and leaving the vulnerable young girl to her violent fate.

Agata could hear their cheers and laughter drifting on the breeze that tickled her face as she hung silently on the pole. Her tears had dried, there were no more left. She closed her eyes and waited, waited to hear the footsteps, the grumble of the dragon’s breath. Every crack of a twig, every howl of a wolf made her jump. She was cold, stiff, scared; she wanted to be at home in a nice warm bed.

Agata opened her eyes, the sky was a soft orange as the sun peaked over the hills, she must have been asleep but she was still alive; no dragon had come to maul her. She started to scream and shout, hoping someone would hear her and cut her down from the stake. She’d been saved, spared, but why?

She was just getting hoarse when her cries for help brought the village men down to the lair to investigate.

‘She’s alive,’ one shouted.

‘How can it be?’ another asked.

‘She can’t have been a virgin,’ someone said. They all gasped at this revelation.

‘Whore,’ one shouted

‘Whore,’ they all shouted in unison, ‘kill her.’

The Wawel Dragon

Wawel Dragon is a legend from Krakow. I hope I don't offend any Krakowians with this deconstruction. Apologies if I do. 

The Legend of Wawel Dragon had haunted the people of Krakow for as long as anyone could remember. Every month the seething, angry dragon would emerge from his cave at the foot of Wawel Hill and devour the young virgin girl the locals had left for him. Woe betide the villages if they hadn’t left one there; then the dragon would wreak havoc on the village, destroying crops and buildings with his fiery breath. The elders recalled the great fires that swept through the town started by the dragon and the great floods caused by the dragon’s wrath.

Crippled with fear, the town folk had long ago agreed to sacrifice a young virgin every month to sate the dragon; the slaughter of the innocence to protect the many.

So once a month a young girl was chosen to be the sacrificial lamb. The womenfolk were told to stay indoors while a group of brave men would go out to the foot of Wawel Hill to deliver the girl and to try to capture or kill the dragon. Every month the girl was killed but the men failed to slay the beast. They came back trophyless telling horrible stories of an enormous reptile with steamy breath and giant claws keeping them back before eating the girl like a crazed seagull. Some had crazy scratch marks from getting too close to the beast, others had singed hair.

Hanna didn’t believe a word of it. For a start how did the dragon know what day it was, and how would he know if the girl was a virgin? And what would it matter if she wasn’t? She knew full well her sister Magda was no virgin and so did the men who had selected her to be the chosen one. And so it was 3 months ago on Magda’s 16^th birthday the men had led Magda ‘the virgin’ to her death but Hanna was sure something fishy was going on.

Hanna made up her mind, this month she’d defy the curfew, she’d follow the men to the lair and wait, watch for herself the dragon emerge and the men fight him. She wasn’t keen on watching the dragon eating his dinner, but she had to find out once and for all what this was all about.

It was dark and cold as Hanna tiptoed her way down towards the dragon’s lair. The hairs on her neck stood up on end and she shivered in her big coat. She wondered what it must have been like for her sister to take this journey, tied naked to a stake; crying? screaming? or just resigned to her fate? Hanna found a hiding place and crouched down to wait.

Twenty minutes later she heard the sound of voices and a female sob. She saw the haze of light of flame torches.

The men didn’t stop at the entrance to the cave but went in. This wasn’t what they claimed happened, their stories told of pitched battles at the mouth of the lair. But in they went and Hanna would have to follow. She took a deep breath and walked into the cave, close enough to be able to use the light of the men’s torches but far enough away to stay hidden. She was scared now, really scared, she could feel goosepimples on her arms and legs and her stomach was flipping pancakes. The men were laughing, chatting, too relaxed to be dragon slayers.

They stopped and put down the girl and untied her. Hanna watched silently. She could see mounds of earth all around the cave. She stood on one to get a better view, the earth shifted underneath her; she miraculously managed to regain her balance without making any noise.

The poor girl stood in front of the men, tears in her eyes, waiting, but for what? The men circled her and the one stepped forward. The man had lust in his eyes, and lust in his hand, he took the girl roughly by the arms.  Hanna turned away, this was no dragon attack, this was an evil, vile, barbaric human attack. The village men, men she knew, men she respected,  the teacher, the butcher, the priest all taking part in this disgusting ceremony.

She didn’t know where it came from, or how she did it but she let out a guttural howl, it sounded like the roar a really angry dragon might make; a furious, aggressive sound that froze the men in their tracks. They looked around frantically, panic in their eyes, and then ran, scattered, getting out of the cave like the cowards they were, leaving Hanna and the sobbing girl alone not to fight a dragon but to fight their demons. 

It could have been me

Until then it had seemed like a normal flight, a run of the mill journey. The BA pilot had been far too chummy in his announcements but nothing new there, the pastrami sandwich had been far too small but at least it was something and the tea had tasted like dirty dish water while the staff patronised the passengers; it was ticking all the boxes for a typical British Airways flight. 

I was cursing my bad luck; why was there a big, Polish babcia between me and that the pretty Polish girl who’d beamed at me as she’d taken 23A? Right until the end of boarding it’d looked like 23B would remain empty allowing me a chance to follow up on the smile but right as the doors were closed the old lady had waddled up the aisle and pointed at the middle seat. Now she sat crossed armed and open legged, staring straight ahead, unbudgeable. She was like an Italian, maiden aunt chaperon who was not going to let this young pretender get his hands on her fair maiden.

Anyway, I’d had a little snooze, done some of my crossword and I'd just come back from the toilet when the plane swerved violently like the pilot was trying to avoid a sacred cow in the middle of the flight path. We’d been flung left and right like sunflowers in a storm. People, gasped and grabbed at the seat in front of them, some sobbed, some sighed and some screamed and then there was silence as we awaited the next instalment, but all was quiet, the plane rumbled on peacefully.  My first thought was that I was pleased I wasn't still having a wee - that could have been a disaster. My second thought was that I know they are sacred but they really need to do something about those flying cows, they are popping up everywhere, someone is going to get killed. I looked at the pretty Polish lass and saw her clasping the hand of the Polish babcia, so my third thought was, that could have been me.

Views from an Early Morning Train ride

Despite it being early morning, body odour still jostled with coffee to be the main air polluter, while yawns, snores and grumbles at the late running of the service echoed through the carriage. People were going to be late for meetings, in danger of missing planes and were having their shopping days in London cut short, all thanks to a points failure in Swansea. Last Saturday I was pleased when Swansea got no points, losing one nil to Watford but today it was not as pleasing. The harsh white glare of the strip lighting inside the train contrasted with the hazy, yellowing hue of the sunrise.  It felt like the train had stolen us from our hazy sleep and was hurtling us to the harsh reality of the morning.

The woman hobbled on to the train and sat down with a relieved bump. Her dyed blonde hair was held up revealing a pained expression on her face.  As soon as the train moved she unbuckled her right shoe and slipped the offending article off, revealing a nasty looking red blotch on her heel, the white skin peeled back to reveal a grizzly, angry wound. She grimaced as she frantically checked her bag, searching for plasters, eventually she found one, it was too small and might even do more harm than good, but any port in a storm.

Mr Chatterbox ignored the quiet carriage regulations and continued to badger the man opposite him who in turn continued to try to deflect his conversations and return to his computer screen. His efforts were in vain; Chatterbox wouldn't be beaten. Chatterbox’s chocolate, white and blue stripped shirt shouted ‘I earn big money’ but his demeanour was more childlike, more naïve, his constant chatter a cry for attention. He spoke about everything and nothing, his voice was soft, almost a mumble meaning his interlocutor had to strain to hear words he obviously didn’t want to hear.

I can tell you the balloon man washes his hands after using the loo, well at least I hope he does. His podgy frame waddled through the train on the way to the toilet and then on the way back too. He seemed swollen, like everything was inflated, his nose, ears, cheeks, fingers, neck all had a marshmallow quality to them. His white hair was nicotine stained and did little to hide his red scalp. As he walked up the train  he grabbed the seats to steady himself and as he walked back and he grabbed my seat water from his hand dripped down the back of my shirt.

The train rattled across the countryside, heading towards the dark clouds that were eating up the sunrise for breakfast. The train hit the rain like a car in a carwash, a tunnel of water washing over us. And in the midst of the downpour the train arrived at Reading, spewing me out mercilessly into the deluge.

The Cellar

Sometimes things don’t seem half as bad in theory as they turn out to be in reality. My landlord had told me he’d knock £125 off my rent as long as him and his mates could have use the cellar at any time. It was a ground floor flat and by the front door was the door to the cellar. It was a fantastic flat, it was clean and tidy, big enough to fit me and my stuff, but small enough to feel cosy. It had all mod cons and loads of light, and it was walking distance to work. Without the discount I never would have been able to afford the place, but with it, it felt like an absolute bargain.  

He’d told me that it would be once a week, that they used the cellar for a poker nights, that they wouldn't be any trouble, but that is not how it panned out. These days it was every other evening and people coming and going, doors banging all evening. It was really beginning to do my head in. Yes they were gone by just after midnight most nights but still it was a bit unsettling to know there are complete strangers in your cellar while you are trying to watch the Great British Bake Off.

I was yawning my way through work, trying to fight the tiredness caused by my strange living arrangements. I was just drifting off when a soft boom in the distance woke me up. What was that?  Oh well, better a strange noise than my boss. This was stupid, sleeping at my desk, I had to call my landlord and call off the deal, I didn’t want to move out but I had no choice. Before I could reach for the phone, the phone rang.

‘Hello,’ I said.

‘Mr Llewellyn,’ a woman said.

‘ Yep,’

‘This is D.I. French from South Wales Police. Do you live at 19 Tennant Street?’

‘Yep,’

‘Could you come down to your address please?’

‘What’s going on?’ I said.

‘Just come down here,’ she replied..

I left work and headed home, sirens blasted past me as I walked; just a normal day of city living. But as I turned the corner into my street I couldn’t believe what I saw. My street looked like a 9 year old’s smile; a huge gap had appeared between the houses exactly where my old flat had been. Smoke billowed from the rubble as fire fighters tried to dampen the blaze. A police officer tried to stop me going any further. But when I explained who I was he pointed me through to a woman standing by a police car.

‘DI French?’ I said.

‘Ah Mr Llewellyn,’ she said, ‘what can you tell us about the bomb factory in your cellar?’