Part Two: The Adventures of Wyatt Narr, Attempted Dragonslayer

PART TWO of a continuing story between famous author, Peter M. Last, and myself. Check out Peter's website, http://www.peterlast.com/blog/2015/06/19/andthen...one/ for Part One!

The shopkeeper swung around, eyes flicking to the shelves at the front of the store. “Wyatt Narr, my eye,” he retorted. “Listen, Jimmy, if I catch you in here one more time, I’ll send you back to your momma with a tanned hide, hear me?”

                Wyatt found this rather rude; sure, he wasn’t the tallest or most muscular guy around, but he wasn’t so small as to escape notice. Folding his arms across his chest, he impatiently tapped one boot on the ground. “I’m standing right here, and my name’s not Jimmy.”

                “What sort of tricks are you playing, you rotten boy?” the shopkeeper grumbled, eyes still searching the store. Finally, his gaze landed on Wyatt, and he let out a surprisingly girlish shriek. In a feat of dexterity Wyatt had not thought the somewhat paunchy man capable of, the shopkeeper dove right over the front counter.

                Startled, Wyatt jumped behind a set of shelves. As his right hand reached over his shoulder for his sword, he looked toward the doorway for whatever had scared the other man so badly. After a moment, Wyatt straightened in confusion. There was no one in the shop except the two of them.

                “Sir?” he called hesitantly.

                “Is it gone?” came a quavering voice from behind the counter.

                Wyatt scanned the quiet shop once more. “I guess,” he said with a shrug.

                There was a loud sigh of relief from the hidden shopkeeper. “Thank goodness,” he said as he stood up from behind the counter. “For a second there, I thought I saw…” The man broke off with another shriek, jumping backward into a set of cupboards and clutching his cudgel to his chest like a child’s toy.

                As the contents of the cupboard rattled alarmingly, Wyatt spun around, whipping out his sword. Once again, he saw nothing to cause such alarm. Bewildered, he turned back to the shopkeeper. “Can you just tell me what you’re shrieking about?” he asked. “I don’t see anything, and you’re starting to hurt my head.”

                The man stared at him, his mouth opening and closing like a fish’s. He looked ghastly, a sort of pale greenish color.

                “What?” Wyatt demanded, starting to get a little irritated. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, man.”

                The shopkeeper’s eyebrows descended into a perplexed frown. After a moment, he released a strangled sound that may have been a laugh. “I have,” he croaked.

                Really, this man was a perfect rabbit. Wyatt propped his hands on his hips, sword sticking out of one fist. “Don’t be daft,” he scoffed. “Ghosts aren’t real.”

                “Then explain how I’m talking to you,” the man retorted. Evidently, being insulted was giving him a little more spine.

                “Me?!” Well, this was the outside of enough! “I’m not a ghost. Great goose, man, have you been out in the sun too long?” Wyatt demanded. He had had a very confusing day, and this little interchange was not helping matters.

                The shopkeeper squinted, straightening slightly. “Then how come I can see right through you?”

                Wyatt glanced down at himself. He was a little dirty, perhaps, but hardly insubstantial. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Privately, he thought this man must have been imbibing a little in his back room.

                “No?” The shopkeeper appeared to be taking umbrage at Wyatt’s condescending tone, and he fumbled behind him in the cupboards, coming out with a small tin. Without warning, he heaved the tin at Wyatt.

                “Hey!” Wyatt dodged the tin. “You could have hit me!” he said, outraged.

                “I did,” the shopkeeper said, and his voice had gone all croaky again. He pointed a shaking finger at Wyatt’s foot.

                Frowning, Wyatt looked down. Then he released a shriek of his own, leaping backward. He stood, trembling, staring at the tin as though it were a live dragon. For just an instant, he had seen it through his own foot.

                He looked toward the shopkeeper, but the man had disappeared behind the counter again. Taking a deep breath, Wyatt gave himself a little shake. It must have been a weird angle, that was all. He stepped hesitantly forward, reaching for the tin.

                But his fingers went right through it.

                Wyatt stared at his own hand as though he had never seen it before. Dropping to his knees, he grabbed at the tin again and again, but each time it slipped through his hands like smoke.

                “See, you’re a ghost,” the shopkeeper said smugly.

                Wyatt looked up to see the man leaning against the counter, cudgel still gripped in one hand.

                “I can’t be a ghost,” Wyatt gasped. He was feeling a little light-headed. “I can’t. I’m a hero. I killed a dragon!” And he looked at the other man defiantly.

                From outside, came a low rumbling sound, like the tremor of an earthquake. But it was not an earthquake; Wyatt felt the familiarity of the sound by the rising hairs on the back of his neck.

                “That dragon?” the shopkeeper asked wryly, gesturing toward the window.

                Knees shaking, Wyatt crept to the window, slowly shaking his head back and forth. Outside, he saw a narrow, dirty street leading out of the town and beginning to climb the mountain that loomed over the populace. Far away, so distant that misty tendrils of fog nearly obscured it, a great black shape swooped across the face of the mountain. Wyatt saw a spurt of orange flame, like the flickering wick of a candle, and again the ground beneath his feet gave an echoing rumble.

                Slowly, Wyatt turned back to the shopkeeper. And then…