Mercury

As has been before, often ominously and always mystically promulgated and shared, like rare rich fruits around a little familial camp, are stories of dragons. Sometimes an intellectual creature, capable of talking and of tearing towns down. Sometimes shrewd, sage.

Often the dragon is slain, conquered fantastically; a spirit of triumph from a heroic and or naive adventurer overcomes the serpentine beast: the virgin and or the gold is freed. No more beast. The village saved.

However, this story takes a little detour from the conventional fairytale.

There probably was a knight somewhere, doing knightly things, however there was a whimsical man, pretty imprudent, who ventured into this journey, not quite knightly — a twist of fate for a young mercurial man.

Ermes stood short; skinny, capricious, lonesome, who both robbed and helped, who wobbled on that sketchy line of morality. Ermes longed for something he couldn’t even articulate to himself, so perplexed would any listener be if the speaker speaks in disarray. Days prior to his adventure were glum, speeachless and stactic, they almost darkened as they proceeded, until a dream so potent struck.

There was a place in the forrest Ermes frequented, lush in pines and blossoms, thorns and ferns… One tree, a Maple, he'd carved odd phrases into, words that came to him.

In his dream he saw his writing: the words in reality he’d read or heard from the odd wise codger. Touching the tree, letters appeared as the bark peeled back. “C-o-n-t-i-n-u-e.” It was numinous, dreamy yet succinct. Ermes awoke in a pool of perspiration.

Before long he’d packed essentials, marching to the maple.

His came to an incline; the road turned out to be rather mountainous. Upon a rock with a pine-tree umbrella he paused to nibble his provisions. The bread was fresh, still with some softness and smell: his tummy thanked him. Suddenly the most obscure voice called out. One could only call it godly.

“I greet you fairly, boy.”

Chewing, Ermes managed a response, barely.

“I should hope it’s fairly, sir, from your magnitude…”

The great serpent laughed, a giggle indescribable, something analogous to the song of a mountain.

“My eyes are deep for a reason. It is so I can see deeply.”

At this point the creature, - the sight! - his movements made Ermes uneasy, and in contrast to this dragon looking to perch close to his right side was a shoddy open blanket adorned with crumbs of bread.

Ermes was ecstatic and petrified.

The dragon grinned; his teeth were remarkable. Each one different yet gorgeous, menacing and dazzling, awe-inspiring and terrifying. Then this overwhelming tail crashed on a nearby rock. Ermes blinked and shuddered.

“I see you, you are different, but the stories you have heard of me are not.”

“That seems to be the general gist of stories about dragons. But I’m a little open-minded. I”—

—“You are. The colour of your heart is not like those of the knights whom come looking for me. Most of the time avoid conflict with them. Let rumours remain rumours.”

“So you are a saintly dragon?”

That grin showed itself, those leather lips widened liked purple curtains and the teeth danced the cha-cha-cha, rows of ladies in white feathers glistening. The voice remained noetic, piercing the heart in an uncanny way.

“I am a creature, as are you. You need your bread. I need my gold and virgins.”

“So you do sequester poor maidens?”

“Insofar as you slice the throats of goats, pigs and whip the loins of whimpering horses raw.”

“What did you mean about my colour?”

“That is why you can hear me. You see my eyes but see not what they see. You have a mercurial nature in you: you are not a red, not a yellow - a moving silver; you’re a trickster.”

“So, why me?”

“Why ask me that question? Only you can set your heart in orientation. Why did you come here?”

“A dream.”

“Exactly!”

“Seeking some sense.”

“And does this make sense?”

Ermes turned, looking again into the dragon’s golden eyes, two almond-shaped bullions of gold with obsidion pupils too dark and glistening to gaze upon for long. His heart was galloping.

“Not really.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ve heard of ‘the deal with the devil’? I don’t like humans, save virgins. Frankly I wish no more conflict with such a creature. You will be my mediator. You, Ermes, are the dancer. You are the man who does not slay the dragon nor speak of him. You are the one to enter the dragon’s lair with grapes and virgins, and leave with a pocket full of gold and silver, Ermes the dualist.”

“So, beast, I'm to bring you grapes and lure young girls to you in return for gold? With my dream in consideration that seems a trifle"—

“—Superficial? Disappointing? You are not a singular colour. I told you I am a creature with needs, like you and your putrid cheese. Utilise this gift. Would you rather be a pile of smoking soot? You’re a lonely boy. You'll be a lonely man. Why not a serpentine friendship? Go back the route you came, back to your village, back to calmly slaughtering livestock. Or foster your duality, Ermes. If tomorrow red grapes lie on this very rock I will understand that is what you wish to do.”

In spite of its size the beast rose, then disappeared. Ermes was left with a head hazy, the same rag of crumbs next to him, and a loud silence, a large emptiness. Cold, hungry, he scuffled back home.

Ermes awoke at dawn. All he envisioned was the dragon’s face, those formidable eyes. The voice: he could still feel it in his heart. From a straw mattress, he glanced at his inglorious abode, his run-down shack. He did so in coalition with the rare promise of the rare beast.

Before scrubbing his teeth, whilst clothing, before eating, he was already firmly set on lying red grapes upon that rock.