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Authors: Kate McMullan
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fields. But those tales were not so much fun to hear.
Wiglaf settled down in the straw next to his pig to listen. The tale was indeed about a mighty hero. A hero who tried to slay a dragon named Gorzil.
When at last the minstrel came to the end, his voice dropped low. “Then Gorzil roared a roar of thunder. Bolts of lightning shot from his nose. And from out of the fire and smoke came a CRUNCH...CRUNCH...CRUNCH! And a mighty GULP!
“When the smoke cleared, the knight and his steed were gone,” the minstrel said. “But Gorzil was sitting high on his pile of gold—using the knight’s own sword for a toothpick.”
“No!” cried Wiglaf.
“‘Tis true,” the minstrel told the boy. “My grandfather was a dragon hunter. He saw it happen with his own two eyes—well, with his one good eye, anyway.”
“Pray, tell,” Wiglaf asked, “who finally killed this dragon?”
“Oh, Gorzil is still very much alive.” The minstrel grew thoughtful. “My grandfather told me that every dragon has a secret weakness. Take Old Snart, for instance. For years, that dragon set fire to villages for sport. Then one day Sir Gilford stuck out his tongue and said, ‘Nonny-nonny poo-poo, you old sissy!’ Well, Old Snart hated to be teased. He began whimpering and crying until he collapsed in a pool of tears. He hardly noticed when Sir Gilford sliced off his head.”
“And what is the dragon Gorzil’s weakness?” Wiglaf asked.
“That,” said the minstrel, “no one knows.” He picked up his lute. “I have written a song about Gorzil. Listen:
“Gorzil is a dragon , a greedy one is he ,
From his jaws of terror , villagers do flee .
Gorzil burps up clouds of smoke ,
Shoots lightning from his snout ....
Where , oh , where’s the hero
Who’ll find his secret out?”
From that night on, Wiglaf brought the minstrel a bowl of cabbage soup for supper. In return, the minstrel told Wiglaf many a dragon tale. And he taught the boy many a useful skill: how to stand on his head; how to wiggle his ears; and how to imitate the call of a lovesick toad.
By the time the snow began to melt, he had even taught the boy how to read and write.
Then one spring morning, Wiglaf brought the pigs their slop and found the minstrel packing.
“Are you off for good?” Wiglaf asked sadly.
“Aye, lad. A minstrel must wander,” the minstrel explained. “And”—he burped—“eat something besides cabbage soup. But here, give me your hand. Before I go, I shall tell your fortune.”
Wiglaf held out his palm. The minstrel studied it for a long time.
“What do you see?” Wiglaf finally asked.
“Something I never thought to see,” the minstrel replied. “The lines on your palm say that you were born to be a mighty hero!”
“Me?” Wiglaf cried. “Are you sure?”
The minstrel nodded. “In all my years of telling fortunes, I have never been wrong.”
“Imagine!” Wiglaf exclaimed. “But what brave deed will I do?”
“That,” said the minstrel, “you must discover for yourself. Now I must be off. I shall miss you, Wiglaf.”
“Wait!” Wiglaf said. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a tattered piece of cloth. “This is all I have left of...well, of something I had when I was very young. I carry it with me always, for good luck.” He held the rag out to the minstrel. “Here. I should like you to have it.”
“Keep your good-luck charm, Wiglaf,” the minstrel said, shouldering his lute. “The road a hero travels is never an easy one. I fear you shall need much luck.”
And with that he was gone.
Chapter 2
Knock! Knock!“ Fergus bellowed one fine summer morning at the breakfast table.
Wiglaf didn’t answer. He poked at his cabbage pancake, lost in his own thoughts.
It had been months since the minstrel went away. And as far as Wiglaf could tell, he had not become a hero. True, he had saved a chipmunk from drowning in the pigs’ water trough. And he had rescued six spiders from his brothers’ cruel hands. But
Wiglaf settled down in the straw next to his pig to listen. The tale was indeed about a mighty hero. A hero who tried to slay a dragon named Gorzil.
When at last the minstrel came to the end, his voice dropped low. “Then Gorzil roared a roar of thunder. Bolts of lightning shot from his nose. And from out of the fire and smoke came a CRUNCH...CRUNCH...CRUNCH! And a mighty GULP!
“When the smoke cleared, the knight and his steed were gone,” the minstrel said. “But Gorzil was sitting high on his pile of gold—using the knight’s own sword for a toothpick.”
“No!” cried Wiglaf.
“‘Tis true,” the minstrel told the boy. “My grandfather was a dragon hunter. He saw it happen with his own two eyes—well, with his one good eye, anyway.”
“Pray, tell,” Wiglaf asked, “who finally killed this dragon?”
“Oh, Gorzil is still very much alive.” The minstrel grew thoughtful. “My grandfather told me that every dragon has a secret weakness. Take Old Snart, for instance. For years, that dragon set fire to villages for sport. Then one day Sir Gilford stuck out his tongue and said, ‘Nonny-nonny poo-poo, you old sissy!’ Well, Old Snart hated to be teased. He began whimpering and crying until he collapsed in a pool of tears. He hardly noticed when Sir Gilford sliced off his head.”
“And what is the dragon Gorzil’s weakness?” Wiglaf asked.
“That,” said the minstrel, “no one knows.” He picked up his lute. “I have written a song about Gorzil. Listen:
“Gorzil is a dragon , a greedy one is he ,
From his jaws of terror , villagers do flee .
Gorzil burps up clouds of smoke ,
Shoots lightning from his snout ....
Where , oh , where’s the hero
Who’ll find his secret out?”
From that night on, Wiglaf brought the minstrel a bowl of cabbage soup for supper. In return, the minstrel told Wiglaf many a dragon tale. And he taught the boy many a useful skill: how to stand on his head; how to wiggle his ears; and how to imitate the call of a lovesick toad.
By the time the snow began to melt, he had even taught the boy how to read and write.
Then one spring morning, Wiglaf brought the pigs their slop and found the minstrel packing.
“Are you off for good?” Wiglaf asked sadly.
“Aye, lad. A minstrel must wander,” the minstrel explained. “And”—he burped—“eat something besides cabbage soup. But here, give me your hand. Before I go, I shall tell your fortune.”
Wiglaf held out his palm. The minstrel studied it for a long time.
“What do you see?” Wiglaf finally asked.
“Something I never thought to see,” the minstrel replied. “The lines on your palm say that you were born to be a mighty hero!”
“Me?” Wiglaf cried. “Are you sure?”
The minstrel nodded. “In all my years of telling fortunes, I have never been wrong.”
“Imagine!” Wiglaf exclaimed. “But what brave deed will I do?”
“That,” said the minstrel, “you must discover for yourself. Now I must be off. I shall miss you, Wiglaf.”
“Wait!” Wiglaf said. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a tattered piece of cloth. “This is all I have left of...well, of something I had when I was very young. I carry it with me always, for good luck.” He held the rag out to the minstrel. “Here. I should like you to have it.”
“Keep your good-luck charm, Wiglaf,” the minstrel said, shouldering his lute. “The road a hero travels is never an easy one. I fear you shall need much luck.”
And with that he was gone.
Chapter 2
Knock! Knock!“ Fergus bellowed one fine summer morning at the breakfast table.
Wiglaf didn’t answer. He poked at his cabbage pancake, lost in his own thoughts.
It had been months since the minstrel went away. And as far as Wiglaf could tell, he had not become a hero. True, he had saved a chipmunk from drowning in the pigs’ water trough. And he had rescued six spiders from his brothers’ cruel hands. But
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