Then one day, all the miners were abruptly paid off and told that their work was over. A new team with quite different skills arrived the very next morning. These were mostly elderly, diligent men and women carrying all kinds of polishing materials – emery cloths, jewellers rouge, fine steel wool, brushes of all shapes and sizes. Some of the miners went home, but many stayed on and worked for no pay, too curious and involved to leave. For the next two months the site was strangely silent except for the soft sounds of brushes and cloths, rubbing, scrubbing, burnishing, buffing and polishing late into the night. A mood of tense expectancy filled the air.

All work on the project stopped one morning and most of the polishing division left that same day. The architect had the village elders proclaim a full week of spring-cleaning. The entire village must be spotless, they said, for the great unveiling. House fronts were painted, streets were swept, junk that had lain around for decades was cleared, doorsteps were scrubbed, lawns were mown, hedges trimmed, windows cleaned and everybody began to think about what they were going to wear.

When at last the big day arrived, the entire population gathered about the mound, filling the narrow streets that led from the centre. Slowly the pegs, ropes and frames holding up the great tent were removed and with a mighty whoosh the sea of canvas was drawn away by a team of horses. There was a sudden silence, followed by a gasp from a thousand throats! Then a great wave of cheering and applause broke as the entire crowd finally saw what had been taking place under their noses all that time.

And what an incredible sight it was! Instead of an ugly pile of dragon poop rising into the sky, their eyes beheld a giant egg shape, like an enormous dragon’s egg, its shell as fine as the finest porcelain, ribbed and veined with a complex criss-cross pattern of delicate struts, dappled with patterns of light and shade, polished and burnished to an almost translucent sheen. Its entire interior space was one vast atrium with a single, great, ocular opening at the top, letting in light and air. Slender arches gave access from all directions.

Inside and out, the towering, delicate shell was seeded with the burnished remains of gemstones, horns, antlers, coins, sword pommels, pieces of brass and armour, lumps of melted glass (melting church windows is a typical dragon party trick) … all polished down level with the surface and faultlessly smooth.  In addition, six hundred tiny, star-shaped holes had been cut to let in light from all around by day and radiate out by night. The building – if one could call something hollowed from such a matrix a “building” – was everything anyone could have hoped for and the last thing anyone had expected.

But all agreed it was a wonder, a magical space, and the finest market hall in all the land, if not the world. They spent the afternoon wandering in and out, delighting in the extraordinary atmosphere of the great dome, its subtle acoustics and endlessly changing light, enjoying the special pleasure that comes from being indoors and outdoors at one and the same time. The very next day the entire population turned out to trade at the magnificent market hall and afterwards go down to the river to begin work on the new bridge. All were in a state of astonishment that such a wonder could come from a passing dragon, that such beauty could be carved out of what was once someone’s lunch.

From that day on, the village began to grow in importance to rival the great market towns of the region. Just as the miners had promised, people came from far and near to see the marvellous hall. Furthermore, the affairs of those who traded there, whether buying or selling, seemed to flourish by some inexplicable grace. The architect could hardly save himself from the flood of commissions that came in. Profiting from the general air of festivity, several of the miners who had stayed on got married to local lasses and nobody minded at all.

As for the bridge, once finished it looked normal enough, much like any other stone structure of that type, with three shallow arches. However, it was always a vexing thing. Some people coming into town would find themselves mysteriously leaving (though these were maybe not the most welcome sort of visitors anyway), while certain popular figures would find themselves re-entering the town when setting out for somewhere else. On occasions the bridge might even set you down arbitrarily on the shore of quite another river in a far-off land, so that you’d grow old just getting home again and have grand adventures to recount.

Thus, although the new bridge, with its distinctive, deep amber colour and its dragon’s head keystones, served most people well enough, anyone with the slightest nagging doubt, the least trace of anxiety, or with seriously urgent business on the other side, preferred to take the ferry ... which suited the ferryman very well indeed, much as it suits me well to end my tale here.


© Edwin Drood, August 2014