Doctor Agon

Doctor Agon

Stephen Brooke ©2020

 

Far away and long ago there lived a king. His father and his father’s father had been kings before him. It was the family business.

This king, whose name was Johannes, had no son. He did have two daughters. They were large, sturdy girls, for they came of large, sturdy parents and the large, sturdy people who had come to rule their land both by the strength of arms and the strength of their own arms. The princesses were named Carolina and Catarina, and few could tell which was which, for they were twins.

Normally, finding suitable husbands for two healthy, strapping, and decidedly royal girls would have posed no problem. Indeed, suitors were plentiful and the princesses liked each better than the one before. There was even the son of a duke, all the way from France. “We should hold out for an actual duke, rather than a younger brother,” Catarina told her sister.

“Damn right,” agreed Carolina, who was inclined to salt her language just a bit. “And one at least as tall as us.”

Catarina, ever inclined to be agreeable, nodded but she wouldn’t have minded a short suitor, were he a real duke.

King Johannes’s dilemma came from the fact they were his only heirs. One would be queen and, though ruler in both name and fact, her husband would surely play some role in governing. Or wish to play a role, which might be worse.

And which was the older? One girl had certainly been born before the other—Johannes could not picture them both popping out of his Queen Mary-Ambrosia at the same time—but no one was certain which came first. The good queen, it may be noted, complained enough about their size appearing one after the other.

Suitors came and went but one was persistent. That was Ludwig the Prudent, ruler of the kingdom next door and better know to his people as ‘Old Penny-Pincher.’ It was no secret King Ludwig had long had designs on his neighbor’s kingdom. Marriage certainly required less effort and expense than war. And he could get gifts for the princesses wholesale. He knew someone.

Ludwig had a wife already but claimed that would be no impediment. Wives were easy enough to lose. Why, he’d done it a couple times already!

“Mary-Ambrosia, my dear,” said Johannes one day. “Something must be done.”

“Of course,” she murmured, her attention all on her embroidery. The queen embroidered large and bold. Some said that was the warrior nature of her ancestors. Others whispered it was her over-sized and clumsy hands.

“It would not do at all to marry Carolina to Ludwig. Or Catarina, for that matter. When the other chose a husband, there would surely be conflict over the throne.”

“Yes, dear. You could always divide the kingdom.”

Johannes was quite taken aback by that suggestion. For some reason it had not occurred to him. He mused on it for the better part of a minute. The stupefied look on his face told Mary-Ambrosia he was thinking deeply. But no— “And have one half fight the other? No, no, that’s not good at all. I need a clear heir to my throne.”

“But how do we choose one daughter over the other?”

Indeed how?

*

When one can’t decide, one seeks advice. Then, to be sure, one must decide whether to follow that advice. To make matters worse, Good King Johannes convened a council of the wisest men of his kingdom and would have many words of advice from which to choose.

Fortunately, it was a small kingdom and not noted for an abundance of wise men. The king found not one suggestion to his liking. Certainly not that he order his darling daughters to battle to the death. Likewise, he rejected the idea that he institute polygamy in his realm and marry them both to the same man. Johannes suspected the fellow with that bit of advice had his own eye on a prospective second wife.

“I must cast a wider net,” he confided to his prime minister.

“Certainly, sir. Shall I draw your bath?” It being a small kingdom, the minister did double duty as butler.

The thing, King Johannes decided, was to call upon professional advice-givers, learned doctors and philosophers from the cities and great universities.

There came the philosopher Mediocrates, self-styled gadfly of the University of Saragossa, where oft he disputed with he who held the Chair of Magic, only once being turned into a toad. Restored he was, at the Chancellor’s insistence, but some claimed there was but little difference.

While the bald and lump-like philosopher had journeyed from the sunny south, the next to arrive came from a cold land beyond cold seas. That was the renowned scientist and astrologer, Professor Hawkinstein. He had been joined in France by another philosopher, Sartracus, the famed Egg-essentialist.

Hawkinstein traveled in a comfortable palanquin; the philosopher disdained any such bourgeois conveyance and chose to walk. It was said, though, he would frequently perch on the rear of the ox cart conveying their luggage.

Last to arrive was Dr. Agon, from far Pitanga. His lateness was largely the result of his concerns about the fee he was to be paid. Agon was as famous for his way of holding onto a florin as for his scholarship.

The doctor reputedly had retired to a cave—a quite comfortable one—in the countryside. He was a stout old man who wheezed some. There were those who claimed they actually saw a little steam come out of him from time to time. This seemed most unlikely to Johannes, though he kept an eye open for it.

The four savants observed one another warily when called before the throne. The king’s herald—who also served as wine steward—stepped forward to introduce them. “From the Institute of the—is that Sorbonne, sir?” he asked, trying to make out the words on his scroll.

“Sorbet. We make the finest in Paris!”

“Ah. Very well. I present the renowned philosopher Sartracus.”

The impossibly tall, skinny man, wrapped in a shabby black robe, stepped forward, peering at the assembly through owlish glasses. “All existence is a bird!” he proclaimed. “It hatches, demands to be fed, then flies away.”

“He wishes he could fly away,” commented Dr. Agon. “His mistress nags him even worse than Mediocrates’s wife.”

An odd, high pitched laugh came from Hawkinstein. “We had to sneak out of Paris so she wouldn’t know where he was going.”

The Egg-essentialist glared at them as the herald continued. “From Spain, the learned Mediocrates. I say, isn’t Saragossa near the Ebro? There are some fine wines coming out of that region.”

Johannes thought he would like to know more about that, even if it were irrelevant, but they received naught but a scowl in answer. “I cannot teach anybody anything,” the scholar stated. “I can only make them think they learned something.”

“Yes, very well,” said the king, seeking to be agreeable. “Perhaps we’ll, um, think we learned something, eh?” He turned his eyes with some eagerness to the herald, silently beseeching him to continue.

“From the University of Esox, the famed Doctor Hawkinstein. That’s in England, Highness.”

“That it is. The only land worth living in, I must say,” came that same strange voice. The king might have taken umbrage at this rudeness had he not been distracted by the fact that Hawkinstein was not speaking. The words came from a small black bird perched on his shoulder. The doctor himself reclined in his palanquin, gazing into space and apparently thinking deep thoughts.

“And to round out our guests—” This statement remained unfinished for at that moment a diminutive woman pushed her way into the room. She spat her cigar out on the floor and mashed it underfoot.

“A sorry lot,” she said, looking over the assembled wise men.

“We invited the six greatest minds we knew,” protested the prime minister. “We were fortunate these four chose to make the journey.”

“You should’ve invited the second six. You’re more than fortunate now I’m here.”

A deep sigh came from Sartracus. “Majesty, might I present Madame de Buveur?”

“Mademoiselle,” she snapped. “And don’t you forget it.”

“I like her,” whispered Carolina.

“I don’t,” replied her sister, “but I hope she can get us husbands.”

“We welcome you, Mademoiselle,” said Johannes, wondering if she would ask the same fee as the others. “Pray continue, Otto, er, my herald.”

“I present the noted historian, Dr. Agon,” said the man.

The king peered at the fat old fellow. “Yes, yes, I believe we have some of your books in our library. Retired now, I understand?”

“Indeed so, your highness. I have traveled widely in my long life and now crave only the comfort of my country home.”

“His hole,” snickered Sartracus.

“A hole of my own, which none of you wastrels can afford,” came Agon’s reply.

Unexpectedly, a trumpet blared outside the chamber’s door. This was played by one of Johannes’s two court musicians. He employed a violist too but his instrument was not so well suited to fanfares. “His majesty, King Ludwig of Toadflax!” announced the herald, though all could see who it was striding into the room.

Ludwig—Ludwig the Third, more precisely—also came of large and sturdy people. That some of that largeness had settled around his belt must be admitted. His full blond beard hung almost to that belt, but it was not quite full enough nor long enough to hide his paunch. “What’s this foolishness, Johannes?” he bellowed. “Just marry one of your girls to me and have done with it!” His voice reduced to a hiss. “I intend to rule Liverleaf, one way or another.”

“Are you invading, Ludwig? You’d better bring an army next time,” came Johannes’s retort. It is to be admitted that his temper had increasingly frayed and now was coming apart at the seams.

“Hmmph! Maybe I will.” The visiting—or invading—king winked at the twins. “One of you had better be ready to greet me. Or both!” Throwing back his head and laughing loudly, he wheeled and left the castle of King Johannes.

“This Ludwig seems a bad egg,” remarked Sartracus. “One would not wish to be yoked to him.”

“Ah,” came Mediocrates’s rejoinder, “but he who is not contented with what he has, should seek what he would like to have.”

De Buveur’s frown was undoubtedly meant for each and every man in the room. “Why should the princesses marry at all? Let them rule!”

“Isn’t that up to the young ladies themselves?” asked Agon. “You do want to get married, don’t you?”

Two heads nodded vigorously.

“You see, all women want to marry, ma cheri.” Sartracus could not hide the petulance in his voice. “I don’t know why you keep turning me down.”

“Then you don’t know me!” she sniffed.

Mediocrates stroked his unkempt beard thoughtfully. “The unexamined wife is not worth wedding. Hmm, maybe you could permit me to make some examinations, mademoiselle?”

The Egg-essentialist glared at him. “There is only one day, Monsieur Gadfly, always starting over, but if you keep that up you may not see it come again.”

“Indeed? I’d like to see your calculations on that,” spoke Hawkinstein. Or his bird.

“It’s a figure of speech, good sir,” explained Agon. “Have you any thoughts to add to our deliberations?”

For the first time, the scientist himself seemed to actually be present, pondering the question. It was, however, the black bird that squawked a reply. “Decades of research have led me to conclude all the universe is made up of things. I call this ‘Thing Theory.’”

Johnnes nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes, but what has that to do with our problem?”

“Is a problem a thing?” asked Dr. Agon.

“Hmm. I’m not sure. Let me return to my equations.” It is to be assumed he did. Hawkinstein did return to staring into nothingness.

“So, does anyone have a practical suggestion?” asked Queen Mary-Ambrosia, who was becoming peeved with her husband’s handling of this council.

“I would propose a competition,” spoke Agon. “The winner chooses one of the princesses as his wife and becomes the heir.”

“Or one of us chooses him,” added Carolina. Or was it Catarina?

“Ah, splendid,” said Johannes. “Let us adjourn and consider what sort of contest it will be overnight. Does, um, Mademoiselle de Buveur need a room? We would have to open the east wing.”

“I am afraid,” announced Sartracus, “she came to stay.”

*

“You have an idea for a competition, sir?” asked King Johannes. “And couldn’t it have waited until the morning?”

The historian shrugged his rather massive shoulders. “It could but I thought it best to get things moving. Best to explain it in privacy, too. I suggest slaying a dragon. Or, more properly, facing one.”

“But where would we ever find one?” wondered the king. There hadn’t been any in the neighborhood since his father’s time. That one was only migrating and rested awhile on the hill across the valley.

“Allow me to show you. It might be best if your highness left the room,” said Agon to Mary-Ambrosia, as he began to disrobe.

“Um, perhaps you should, my dear,” felt Johannes. “And just what are you up to, my good doctor?”

“No way,” stated the queen. “If we’re paying this fellow I intend to get our money’s worth!”

“A woman after my own heart. I need to demonstrate something to you and don’t wish to ruin a perfectly good wardrobe in the process.”

That seemed sensible to the royal couple. Why that velvet doublet was barely worn at all! Mary-Ambrosia rather liked its midnight blue coloring and the neatly done embroidery. She did not so much like the sight of an increasing amount of Dr. Agon’s flesh. There was rather too much of it.

Both were shocked and amazed when the corpulent scholar at last dropped his breeches. No, no, not that—Agon had a tail. Short, but a tail none the less. Then he began to slowly change, change from a man into something larger, something scaly. A few minutes later a decidedly massive dragon crouched in the middle of their antechamber.

“So, a revised introduction is in order, isn’t it?” asked the creature. “I am Ransax. When I was young, some named me ‘Ransax the Red,’ which is not very imaginative.” Dr. Agon—Ransax—was indeed a quite red dragon. “I was partial to ‘Ransax the Rapacious,’ but was entirely willing to be addressed as Lord Ransax. Now my friends mostly call me Randy.”

“Fr—friends?” asked the Queen.

“Yes, human friends, your highness. Dragons are not inclined to make friends with each other. We’re far too covetous of each other’s hoards.”

“I hope you’re not interested in my hoard!” exclaimed Johannes. “It is exceedingly small.”

“The agreed upon fee is quite adequate, majesty.” Ransax let out a steamy chuckle. “In the old days I would have dropped from the sky and collected my fee in a very different manner.”

“So,” said Mary-Ambrosia, ready to get down to business, “you intend to fight the girls’ suitors?”

“Surely not to the death!” Johannes added.

“Consider it more a test to see how they do in a crisis. A confrontation with a dangerous dragon!” His grin revealed many long and rather sharp teeth. “Not me. I’m too old and fat for that sort of thing. Yes, even as a dragon.” He patted his ample midsection. “I can call one of my young relatives here to do the job. That’s why I wanted to get started.”

Ransax looked toward the window. “I am greatly tempted to take a flight and get some of the kinks out of my wings,” he said. “Best I change back.” This he began at once, noticeably shrinking, the wings diminishing, the tail shortening.

“This is something dragons can do, sir?” asked Johannes. “Change to human form?”

“Indeed so. If you had read those books of mine reputed to be on your library shelves, you might know this.”

King Johannes of Liverleaf decided he would go to the royal library at his first convenience.

Dr. Agon seemed to be back to his human form, aside, to be sure, from the tail. Neither the queen nor king was likely to forget its presence, now matter how well it might be covered up. He began pulling on his clothing. “Actually,” he told them, “I’m not much of a flier these days. Too heavy. Once I might have flown off and found a suitable dragon for you.” He snickered. “But I would have been a suitable dragon myself then, wouldn’t I? I can send a message and get him here by, oh, maybe tomorrow night.”

Fully dressed, he bowed to the royal couple and exited. Young Klymax would be just the dragon for this, wouldn’t he? Ransax had already told him to be ready for something.

He was a great one for schemes in any form.

*

“Things are not always what they appear to be!” Dr. Hawkinstein suddenly announced. Neither he nor his bird had spoken since yesterday’s council.

“Indeed so, sir, indeed so,” murmured Agon.

“That,” further explained the professor, “is because things are made of things.”

“But of what,” asked de Buveur, “are those things made?”

Hawkinstein at once went blank-faced, apparently returned to his calculations. They heard nothing from him and his spokes-bird the rest of the day.

The visiting savants were, of course, invited to view the coming trial of the suitors. There was little else for them to do in Castle Liverleaf but sit and argue and drink Johannes’s wine.

Sartracus was on his second bottle and de Buveur was helping him progress toward a third. The mademoiselle, despite her apparent animosity of the previous day, had also apparently spent her night with the philosopher.

“If you're lonely, seek bad company and go get drunk,” proclaimed that philosopher.

Mediocrates sat down with them. “The unexamined wine is not worth drinking. Allow me to examine that bottle more thoroughly, my colleagues.” That he had already examined a bottle or two seemed more than likely.

Sartracus filled the Spaniard’s goblet. “We are our choices in wine,” he said.

Mediocrates winked at de Buveur. “And in women?”

“I make my own choices,” she snapped.

“Ah yes, we are big on free choice. We can be the chicken or the egg!”

“But then who comes first?”

“I’d better,” stated de Buveur, draining her goblet. “I demand my freedom to be first!”

Sartracus hastened to agree. “Yes, of course. Freedom is what is done to us—is that right, ma chere? I sometimes get it confused!”

“Sounds right. Right enough. Fill me up again.”

“Ah,” said Mediocrates. “The only true wisdom is in knowing what you know!”

“But sometimes happiness,” added Dr. Agon, “comes in not knowing what you don’t know.”

*

The suitors for the hands of the royal daughters assembled in the early morning light. Five in number they were, in an open courtyard overlooking the valley.

Alas, the French nobleman had gone searching elsewhere for a shorter bride, but an Italian aristocrat had filled his place—the Conte di Cibella from Piezo, the city famed for its towers that leaned so far they all fell over. His ancestral palace had been among them and he sought a new home. The conte was a scrawny, pot-bellied fellow with more hair on his chin than his head, and a threadbare wardrobe.

When it came to titles, he was outshone by Pedro, a younger son of the king of Carambola. Prince Pedro outshone no one in other respects, being notable mostly for being unnotable. He had been too shy so far to even speak to Catarina, much less Carolina.

There was Bratislav Wurst, scion of a wealthy Bohemian merchant family. His father had ordered him to bring a bride with a title back to Prague. It would be good for business. Brat didn’t mind, not being fond of girls. One would be as bad as another. His eyes occasionally went to the pair rounding out the group of competitors.

Those were the brothers Ulmus and Sorbus, two soldiers of fortune from Riga, just returned from warring with the Cossacks. The pair were big, swaggering fellows, with bristling mustachios. Long swords swung at their sides. Why they thought themselves suitable suitors, no one was sure, but Johannes had been timid about turning them away.

“I like this land,” said Ulmus, looking out across the hills. “It goes up and down.”

Sorbus agreed. “Very flat where we come from. Better for riding horses!”

“Oh, all the horses here have longer legs on one side than the other, for going around the mountains,” Pedro informed him.

Both Letts nodded gravely at this bit of information.

“I have a brother named Kosax,” Dr. Agon confided to the king. “I don’t think that pair would want to go to war with him. It’s his boy I got to come here to help us.”

“Um, that’s good of him, sir. Does he, um, expect payment?”

“I may give him a little something from my fee. He’s just here to blow off a little steam. Literally.” Agon chuckled and maybe blew off a little steam himself. “Klymax is a youngster yet at a hundred and twelve, and up for a bit of a lark.”

“I hope it proves to be no more. I say, what is this?” There was a commotion by the gate. A moment later, Ludwig marched toward them, an attendant at his heels.

“I don’t think much of his army,” commented Dr. Agon. He did notice, though, the king’s man carried a blunderbuss.

“Did you think you could leave me out of this, Johannes?” bellowed the bellicose monarch. “Not that it matters who wins your little game. I’m marrying one of your daughters regardless!”

At that point, the philosophers straggled out into the courtyard. It was far too early and they were far too hungover to say anything at all, much less anything interesting. Professor Hawkinstein still seemed to be in another world but his black bird turned a bright eye to the proceedings.

“All here then?” began Agon, brisk and businesslike. “Our suitors over there. Everyone else out of the way.” He cocked an eye at the king of Toadflax. “Which are you, your highness?”

Ludwig hesitated a moment. “With me,” he told his attendant, and went to join the suitors. There were some murmurs of disapproval but the doctor made no comment.

“So,” he announced, “here is your test.”

The sound reminded Johannes of laundry flapping in the wind. A great number of sheets. He quickly realized it was the beating of two great bat-like wings as a huge red dragon rose above the parapets.

The Conte di Cibella promptly fainted. Bratislav crouched behind the Latvian brothers. Ludwig’s man turned and ran. Ludwig watched him go for a few seconds, turned his eyes back to the monstrous worm, and hastily followed him to safety.

Ulmus and Sorbus slowly backed away, swords drawn but seemingly in no hurry to engage Klymax. “Stop cringing back there, Brat!” growled Sorbus.

“You’re in our way,” added Ulmus. “In case we have to retreat some more.”

The dragon rose high above them and then rather gracefully dropped to the cobblestones. Its wicked head went back and forth, glaring at the remaining men. Before he knew it, young Herr Wurst was in the open and the Letts were behind him.

“Not worth it,” stated Ulmus.

“Agreed,” said Sorbus.

Then Bratislav was completely by himself. Not long, as he bounded toward safety.

That left Prince Pedro of Carambola. He looked Klymax up and down. “Well, you’re quite a magnificent fellow,” he said. “I do believe I might know a relative or two of yours.”

A deep chuckle erupted from the dragon. “It is possible, your highness.”

“Call me Pedro.” The young man looked about. “I think I must have won, huh?”

Cheers began to rise, a few at first, then most of the crowd. “Prince Pedro! Prince Pedro!” came their cries.

“Give me that,” growled a livid Ludwig, grabbing the blunderbuss his attendant held. “And quit yelling ‘Prince Pedro.’” He strode toward the young man, leveling the gunne as he approached. That was most foolish, for he completely neglected the dragon standing near by.

A few seconds later, only the royal legs protruded from Klymax’s maw. A few seconds after that, Ludwig the Third was no more than a name in the history books, and one that rarely rated more than a paragraph.

“I see,” commented Mademoiselle de Buveur, “one is not born, but becomes, a dragon-fighter.”

“Liberty!” cried out Sartracus. “Down with all kings! Down with the bourgeois order! Oh, my apologies, majesty.”

“Quite all right,” said Johannes. “We all became a bit stimulated. My daughters included.” Catarina and Carolina were making their way toward Pedro, a bit cautiously as Klymax still sat there, apparently carrying on an amiable conversation with the prince. A steamy belch or two punctuated his speech. Johannes and Mary-Ambrosia followed in their wake, with Dr. Agon ambling behind.

“He’s a nice guy,” said Carolina, “but not really my type.”

“I think he’s just fine,” rejoined Catarina. “Brave, and well-mannered too. If you aren’t interested, he’s mine!”

Queen Mary-Ambrosia turned around and gave Agon a long and somewhat suspicious look. “You had something to do with this outcome, didn’t you?”

“Well, your majesty, Carambola is right next to Pitanga and the young prince might have met a dragon or two in the past.”

“Yourself included, I dare say.”

“Indeed so.”

“Oh, I say, Johannes, is that creature turning into a man?”

Klymax was doing exactly that. A minute or so later a large, naked, and rather impressive young man stood there. Yes, he did have a tail.

“Oh, I want him, Daddy!” cried Carolina. “He’s perfect!”

“But dear, he’s not, well, human,” objected Johannes.

“He can be quite human as long as he wants to be,” said Dr. Agon. “And I might point out that there is an empty throne next door that he could now occupy.”

“Well.” The king thought on this. “What do you think of this, young, um, man? And what should we call you?”

The dragon-turned-human took a look at Carolina and grinned. “Sounds great to me. Call me Klaus. King Klaus of Toadflax! I like that.”

“Me too,” said Carolina. “When’s the wedding?”

*

As Professor Hawkinstein and his bird announced, before departing with their fee, “Things change.”

Klymax became a king, a human king, and took the throne of Toadflax, with Carolina at his side, and Prince Pedro married Catarina and one day they occupied the thrones of Liverleaf. Both couples lived happily for many years after, though not quite forever.

To be sure, King Klaus did not age as quickly as his Queen Carolina, and one day left her, flying off toward the high distant mountains. Not however, without leaving several large and sturdy children to carry on.

appears in Lands Far Away 2021