The Dragon and The Bomb

An epyllion

Andrew Wynn Owen, Emma Dai'an Wright

• Publisher: The Emma Press
• Year: 2018
• Print ISBN: 9781910139585
• eBook ISBN: 9781910139813
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Poetry
• Index: Literature

In an island kingdom, Don Armando dreams of a dragon-slaying adventure like heroes used to perform. And in a laboratory in a gleaming city, scientist Haplo Nous tinkers towards an atom bomb. Past, present and future collide in Andrew Wynn Owen's rip-roaring tale, full of rhythmical fireworks and joyous anachronism. This is a clash between chivalric heroics and modern scientific enquiry, and a shaggy-dog story taking in farmers, fisherpeople, flying machines and general derring-do.

CHAPTER 1.

THE FARMER AND THE ANGLER

The anchorite, Armando, rose one day

And yawned, ‘There’s nothing in the sea or sky

To bother me. My life is like a play

Without antagonists – and this is why

I need a change. The saints in time gone-by

Had martyrdoms. But martyrs now? Who cares

For pangs and agonies? The public want affairs.’

So off he sets. He lines a rowing boat

And sculls across the brine. The plish-a-plash

Of oars, disturbing fish, sends out remote

Competing ripples as the crumbled ash

Of breakers blows above the paddle-thrash.

‘I live too quietly. I need a feat

To prove at last I’m worthy of the saintly seat.

‘The formula is clear: what people like

Is heedlessness that’s followed by contrition.

A child, I was an unconforming tyke

But adolescence banished my ambition.

To gallivant is in a great tradition.

It’s criminal to leave one’s line uncast:

I want a stint of stunts to call “my reckless past”.’

With reasoning like this, he hits an island.

He ties his ship and shimmies up a slope

Until he finds a farmstead in the highland,

The sort of spot young lovers might elope.

Beside a weathered copper telescope,

He meets a farmer swigging from a flagon,

Whom Don Armando hails and sues to for a dragon:

‘My name is Don Armando and I seek

Adventure, of the dragon-slaying kind.

I’m tired of being labelled “mild” and “meek”.

I’d like an epithet that brings to mind

Achilles, Helen – all of Homer’s blind

Heroics – and Orlando Furioso.

I wish to blaze in life – a hero, not a bozo.

‘In short, I yearn for risky escapades

The fame of which will make me feel fulfilled

And win me loving looks and accolades.’

The farmer grunts and checks his flask is filled.

‘No dragon here, signor. The last was killed

By Saint Vincenzo, late of Tuscany –

A more impressive saint I know I’ll never see!

‘For hours he bashed and buffeted the dragon,

The scale-on-skin, the clatter-click of teeth.

With rope he hitched its wagger to his wagon

And dragged it, coughing fire, about the heath

So all the ground was blackened underneath.

I’ll never see a scrap like that again.

Today we’ve neither dragons, nor such daring men.’

Armando slumps, dejected, on a rock,

Running his hands, distractedly, through hair

Besmattered with saltwater and the shock

Of travel. ‘By the rood, it isn’t fair!’

He pipes, ‘I spend eleven years in prayer,

Do all the pilgrimages, live in thrift,

And now, as thanks, th’Almighty cuts me loose, short shrift.’

‘Perhaps,’ the farmer glugs, ‘there is a trick

But, if I tell it, you will have to vow

To do or die. I doubt you’ll make a nick

On dragonhide but, if I show you how

To summon it, I’ll want you not to bow.

Yes, when it comes to battle, seize your day:

Don’t be afraid to bash; don’t be abashed to fray.

‘Observe,’ the farmer sighs, ‘the shining city

Below this outcrop. That’s the Copper Port.

For years now I’ve been strapped to write a ditty

About its walls; how, when the sun’s half-caught

Behind the eastern hills, its walls are fraught

With swarming dots that chrysalize and dart

Along the swerving valley, toward this island’s heart.

‘Those houses used to be all weatherboard

And thatch, till one named Haplo Nous arrived

To modernise. He cut the natal cord

Connecting town to mainland, and contrived

Machines so mining on this island thrived.

He ousted every governor in the town,

Of which I was the king. These days, he wears my crown.

‘I know that, if I help you, I’ll assist

Haplo indirectly, yet I predict

His crafty hand is poised to form a fist

And here he strays. No tinker can conflict

With Ares. Yes, the backlash will inflict

Deserved disaster. He, for all his brains,

Will croak, and I’ll descend to dance on his remains.

‘To call a drake,’ he slowly furls his sleeve,

‘You’ll need to wield a holy artefact.’

He draws a conch from underneath a weave

Of lapis lazuli. ‘A little cracked,’

The king declares, ‘but it’ll still a...

Table of contents

• COVER
• ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
• OTHER BOOKS FROM THE EMMA PRESS
• TITLE PAGE
• COPYRIGHT
• CONTENTS
• CHAPTER 1. THE FARMER AND THE ANGLER
• CHAPTER 2. THE LABORATORY OF HAPLO NOUS
• CHAPTER 3. THE SLAYING OF A DRAGON
• THE EMMA PRESS