Read Online The Story of Owen by E. K. Johnston - Free Book Online

me,” I said, setting my cutlery down on my plate. It was time to catch up with the rest of the orchestra. I had never liked the feeling of being half a measure behind.
    â€œEvery dragon slayer used to have a bard,” Lottie said. “Someone who records the dragon slayer’s actions. They did it two ways, actually, first to present the slayings to the public, but also in a more prosaic way, so that the dragon slayer could learn from his or her mistakes. But now it’s all covered on the news or TSN like a sport. There’s no soul, no personal attachment between dragon slayer and bard.”
    â€œYou want me to be Owen’s,” I said.
    â€œTimes have changed,” Hannah said. “But we need more than press releases and idiots with smartphones who don’t know when it’s time to run away.”
    â€œAnd you can write music,” Lottie said. “Like the old bards did, back before everyone could read. Dragon slayers don’t have an oral history any more, just a million hits on Google. If you could make Owen popular in music, it would catch people’s attention.”
    â€œYou’ve never even heard my music,” I said. “And I’ve never written music with lyrics.”
    â€œOwen says you’re good,” Lottie said. “That’s enough for me.”
    â€œOwen’s never heard my music,” I pointed out. “He’s just heard me play.”
    â€œYou don’t have to decide now,” Hannah said. “Just think about it.”
    I looked down at my plate, at the burnt crust of my garlicbread. I thought about Aodhan, out driving around on his own in the middle of nowhere because his sister had a crazy idea. I thought of Owen, who seemed quite willing to toe the family line, rounding out the orchestra of Lottie’s vision. I thought of Trondheim, and the rest of the county, which had only lost a dozen buildings and four people to dragon fire since the Thorskards had arrived in town.
    â€œNo,” I said. “No, I think I’ll do it. I mean, I’ll do it.”
    I looked at Lottie when I said it, but I could see Owen sit up straighter out of the corner of my eye. Lottie smiled, and when I glanced at Hannah, I saw that she was smiling too. I wondered briefly if I should maybe have asked my parents before agreeing to become an accessory to dragon slaying, but then I decided that at least this might provide something interesting to discuss when the inevitable “What do you mean you’re not sure about university?” talks began again.
    â€œGreat!” said Owen. “Of course, this means that now we have a pretty big problem to overcome.”
    â€œWhat exactly?” I asked, trying to remember if there was some sort of government policy I should have taken into account before signing up to do this.
    â€œI’m really bad at math,” he said, and started clearing the table.

THE STORY OF MODERN MUSIC
    Most postmodernists blame the decline of the draconobardic tradition on the sudden and soaring popularity of the Beatles. The Lads from Liverpool were exactly that: four guys with accents who sang about love and truth, and never once mentioned a dragon slayer. The world split around them. There were many who loved the simplicity of the music, the harmonies and the earnest quality of the lyrics. And there were many who were afraid of the example they were setting.
    For the first time since Shakespeare, who had also ignored dragons for the most part and set his plays in bizarre alternate universes where dragons were imaginary creatures of significant rarity, the English-speaking world was confronted by a cultural phenomenon that was insanely popular and entirely bereft of danger. An entire generation of young people (my parents included, though both will deny it unless under threat or blackmail), threw themselves at the Beatles, much to the concern of their elders, who worried about the effect listening to