The curse of the dragon’s child

It was December. The wind was mercilessly swinging dry branches of the trees, whipping them against the hospital windows. On that Friday the 13th, a newborn baby's cry was heard among the faded olive-green walls of the maternity ward. Hands wrapped in surgical gloves handed her the shrunken but 

strong body of a screaming male child. Exhausted and sweaty from giving birth, his mother held him firmly but carefully, whispering gently into his ear: "Cry, my child... Cry out all of your tears now. Wise 

people say that when a child is born, it cries, yet everyone else rejoices. And when a man dies, everyone cries, while the deceased lies with a blessed smile upon his lips. So, cry now. We will laugh together 

through our life together. Just you and me."

The next day she left the hospital with the boy in her arms and headed home. There was no one to greet them in front of those sterile sliding hospital exit doors. She returned to her modest one-room  apartment, leaned back in her old brown armchair and nursed her newborn child. Already in the morning, she showed up at the hotel with the baby in her arms, put on her work uniform and entered the supervisor's office. There was a crib in the office. She nodded submissively and handed the child over to her boss. She left the room and went off to finish her daily duties. Although strict and restrained, the chief showed an unimaginable understanding of her situation. Having no alternative, she accepted his good will, even though she did not understand his mercy. Any other woman would have been fired. Little did she know that this same man was also raised by a single mother. There was a kind of tacit agreement; an unwritten contract, with unspoken rules, which were crystal clear to both of them. To the supervisor and the hotel maid.

Ever since he could walk, little Dougal could find his way around all the corridors, passages and storerooms of the hotel where his mother worked. No biting comments, grumbling or gossip from her 

colleagues disturbed his rhythm of growing up in the middle of the resort. Over the next few years, the small crib in the large office has been replaced by a plastic children’s desk. Picture books, notepads, 

coloring books, drawing pencils... Everything was arranged with perfect meticulousness. It was in that office that Dougal learned how to keep quiet. His silence and his mother's hard work provided a roof over their heads and brought food to the table.

In the evening, after a hard day's work, Dougal and his mother Aurora, would watch cartoons while enjoying fresh popcorn. They listened to music together, tickled each other until they were out of their breath with laughter. Dougal started kindergarten, and the lives of mother and son began to drift apart. 

He made friends and spent the summer months running after a soccer ball or jumping into the river. Time has replaced cartoons for sports games on TV. Preoccupied with mere survival, Aurora failed to notice the moment when that cheerful childish laughter began to fade. When exactly did learned silence turn into a daily practice?

Returning from work one Tuesday, she routinely put a pot of pre-made broth on to the stove to heat it up and went to the bathroom to change her clothes. A few minutes later, her six-year-old son entered the apartment. He was returning home from soccer practice at a nearby stadium. They gently embraced and kissed each other, and then silently sat down at the table to eat. Dougal put down his spoon, staring at his plate. Suddenly, a vacuum in the space between them was created and moment that the mother had been dreading for years suddenly appeared. "Where's my dad?" - he said in a shaky boyish voice.

Twenty years have passed since that moment. He still remembered his mother’s first shocked, then embarrassed face. The same thoughts of that confused boy ran through his mind once again – how 

come everyone has a dad but me?

Now, he was sitting in the same position. His body was curled up on the stool, his head bowed, his gaze fixed on the tarot cards and crystals arranged on the walnut wooden table. Sitting across the table was a small woman over ninety years old. Everyone in the village called her “the wise witch doctor”. She had long gray hair tied in a bun, and the sight of her yellow slimy eyes made his blood run cold. The dark room smelled of incense and burning handmade beeswax candles. Braids of garlic and dried red peppers hung from the ceiling, and countless icons and depictions of all sorts of Christian saints covered the walls of a small wooden shack. Nena Luna was both a sorcerer and a witch, a voodoo and a doctor, but also a wise counselor… Known to everyone in the nearby villages of his mother Aurora’s birthplace. 

- "I came to You..." - he wasn’t able to finish the sentence. His tongue was tied and he made a pause.

- "Dear boy, some higher power brought you to me. Not everyone wanders into this remote village. Anyway, the first larger settlement is over 60 kilometers away from us. All around here there are forests, 

mountains and gorges. And there are no roads either, only dirt tracks. Just say what you need to. There is no one to hear us. Except this old crow that is stubbornly sticking its beak through my window." - 

smiled the old woman. 

Her words and gentle humor lightened his burden for slight a bit. 

- "You know... I lost my mother five years ago. Her name was Aurora and she told me that her... Or, better to say, that our family derives from this village." 

- "Aurora..." Nena Luna repeated his mother’s name in a whisper. 

- "Dear God, may her soul rest in peace." - she said, closing her eyes and crossing herself. 

- "So, you know my mother?" - he asked excitedly, hoping to finally reveal the secret that has tormented him all his life. 

- "Tell me something about yourself, boy. What is your name, are you married, do you have children? What do you do for living? Did your mother maybe tell you who your patron saint is?" 

- "Patron saint? What is that?" 

- "Start with the first question, and we'll get to it." - she commanded. 

- "All right..." - he stuttered and looked away from her eyes again. They inspired both fear and awe.

- "My name is Dougal, mother Aurora's only son. I'm a police officer. I have no children, but I am married. There lies a problem. My wife claims that I simply cannot be talked to, that I never smile or look forward to anything. We fight often. Better to say, she does, and I never seem to find the right words to answer her questions. She doesn't want children with me. She says I'm not worthy to be someone's father..."

- "I understand her." - said Nena Luna without a trace of empathy.

The blood, which had been almost frozen a moment ago, began to boil. Humility turned into anger, and his silent whispers into to shouts. 

- "What do you understand, you old hag?! What exactly do you understand? You can't see me, you don't know me, yet you understand her!”

He began to roar and howl at the top of his lungs, to curse and swear. To curse God and women, both old and young, daughters, mothers, wives and grandmothers. 

Exhausted from the rotten words he released from his mouth, finally he uttered tiredly - "I just want to know who my father is. Just that, nothing more. Do you know or don’t you? Will you help me or do you 

just wish to torture me?”

Nena Luna sighed deeply and asked that last question again - "Who is your patron saint?" 

- "I don't know!" - he answered arrogantly. "I'm not interested in your saints, cards, crystals, witchcraft and magic. I have one single icon, which my mother gave me for my tenth birthday. That is all." 

- "Do you carry it with you?" - continued the old witch doctor without giving up her principles. 

- "No, but I do remember that it represents some holy woman. Saint Ita… Or Ite of Killeedy, if I remember correctly." 

A long and painful silence arose. Nena Luna was staring into some distant void, while Dougal was elbowed on his knees staring at the floor. It might have lasted forever if the crow hadn't squawked. 

Finally, the old woman spoke. 

- "I know who your father is. Only one man here shares the same patron saint with you." 

His eyes widened and his jaw fell down. He arched his back and rose to his feet.

- "Who?" 

- "You are a dragon's child. In our tradition, to a dragon's child the father's name is never to be revealed, since that act carries a death curse. Don't tell anyone, says the vow. The burden of your parents is yours 

to carry. Not everyone carries only their own cross, but the cross of the unwilling heritage as well. If you wish to know, you'll have to find out for yourself. I am sorry, but I am bound by the vow." 

- "If you're sticking to your vows so strictly, old woman, at least explain to me what a dragon’s child is." - he ordered. 

- “Very well, son. You have been warned." - she continued - "The dragon is a cruel and brutal creature that haunts lustful men. In the blur of the lust, the man then attacks the woman's body. The moment the dragon releases the male, the man forgets about the female body he had broken as well as about his seed, which he planted in her." 

His mind became clouded, and the brutal truth of his mother's fate drained the last spark of light in his soul. 

-"My mother was raped." - he uttered quietly into his chin.

Then he stood up throwing the prepared bundle of bills on the wooden table and left. The old woman remained sitting in the dark, aware of the fate this truth would bring. 

Ten days later he returned home. His angry wife stood at the door with already packed suitcases behind her back.

- "I can't go on like this and I won't!" - she roared. - "I can't stand you and I'm leaving!" 

He passed her with a blank stare, silent lips, and a hovering gait of a ghost. She gave him a sharp look, kicked the bag full of garbage, scattering it all over the apartment and slammed the door leaving their home. 

He was alone. 

 - "What do I need a body for, when my soul has been taken away?" - he thought. 

He stood in front of the mirror, staring into his blank eyes, until he finally whispered... 

"Don't tell anyone…"

Then, he placed the cold metal gun barrel into his mouth.