2 - The Story (Ibrihim)

“You’ve heard about The Dragon Boy Ghost myth, right?”

I smiled. I had not heard about it; it was clearly a local urban legend. This was exactly what I wanted, and my face must have been beaming. “No. Tell me.”

He smiled back and took another pull from his beer. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts, and as he did, his face clouded over. “Look,” he hesitated, “it’s not a happy story. Not at first. But. . . ,” he took a deep breath before continuing, “just . . . uh . . . hang in to the end. It’s worth it, trust me.”

“So . . . uhm . . . ok, so there was this kid. A little boy. And this was . . . ummm . . . well he was a special kid. A heart of gold. Ah, I’m telling it wrong.” He took a last pull from his beer and motioned to the bartender to bring another. “Let me start over. There was a little boy. This boy lived a sad life. He had an abusive psycho for a father and a bipolar drug addict for a mother. He was small, and kind, and gentle, and people took advantage of him for that. There wasn’t a day in his life that he hadn’t been bullied or pushed around or betrayed by those who were supposed to protect him.

But this boy . . . this boy was the bravest boy who ever lived. He was plenty smart enough to know how much his life sucked, but he refused to see it that way. To him, everything was just a monster in his way, and he was a monster hunter. It had started when he wasn’t even 4 years old, impatient for school, he had taught himself to read. And whooo boy did he love to read. Going to the local library with his mom were the best memories he had. And it was there that he found the ultimate gateway drug for geeks: The Hobbit.”

We both chuckled at that. He had a good deep voice and a good rhythm for storytelling. I think he was laying it on thick to impress me, and I let my smile touch my eyes to urge him on. Our eyes met for a moment, and I couldn’t help but think how amazing he’d be telling stories around a campfire, in a cowboy outfit. I barely kept the blush out of my face and looked away. He continued,

“He read that local library out of fantasy and sci fi books before he was 11. But it only took the first glimpse at these worlds for him to know his role. He was the hero. He had no fear. He stood up to any bully. He put himself in harm’s way to break up fights. He walked the gay teenagers home when the creepy boys with the shaved heads were around. He even volunteered his free time whenever he could. And he did it all poor and hungry and going home to his own family.

He had plenty of monsters to fight, and he merrily laughed and told the universe, ‘Bring it on!’

Then one night around his 13th birthday, his parents’ fighting woke him up. His mom had taken too many pills or drank too much or something and had vomited catastrophically all over the family’s couch. For a tiny moment, the boy was happy because that meant a trip up to Goodwill for a new couch, and Goodwill had all those racks of used books. He’d been saving up for a month . . .

Then he noticed the look of fear on his mom’s face, the bruises, so fresh they still looked like a blotchy red rash but fading into a solid purple in real time. The boy turned slowly and saw the intense look in his father’s eyes. They were too black, the pupils too big. The boy realized he had heard his father screaming something just a minute before, but everything had gone quiet when the boy walked in the room.”

He paused and took a long pull off the new beer the waiter had brought. I took that moment to remind myself to breath. Shit, this was pretty intense and specific for an urban legend. Before my thoughts could spin back up, he began again,

“The father looked back and forth between the boy and mother a few times, then glared at the mother with so much hate that she whimpered. The father stomped into the kitchen and came back with the butcher knife. This boy . . . He stood up to bullies and monsters. He put himself in harm’s way. He was a hero. But he was also just a kid.”

He let the silence hang a perfect beat, just long enough to let the implication set in without having to say the asshat father murdered his saint of boy. It wasn’t just a sad story. It stirred something in me. It made me think of other sad stories of sensitive little boys. I had been one of those little boys. I looked up and met his eyes. A deep nutty brown just a shade lighter than his skin, they were some amazing eyes to meet. Kind. Intelligent. Playful. I wonder if he was one of the teenagers this boy had walked home to deter the skin heads? For a brief moment I tasted copper and felt my heart skip as a wave of rage pulsed through me. He seemed to sense my thoughts and gave me a wink and a smile hinting that the bad part was over before continuing,

“However . . . just as it seemed like he was dying, he had enough strength to look up at his father. And there, wrapped around his father, was a dragon. Her claws dug into his father’s chest and stomach like a demonic backpack. Her tail whipped at his father’s legs, and her wings beat the air in frustration. Her head, though, her head was perched right next to his father’s ear, screaming. The dragon spirit was stuck to the father, and she was screaming in helpless rage and despair. And the father couldn’t hear her, not really. But she was still hurting the father, torturing him, poisoning him. Locked together, these two poor creatures thrashed around in pain.

And so, the boy reached up, grabbed the dragon spirit’s tail, and said, ‘com’ere you!’ and the dragon let the father go and flew down to the boy. The dragon was so elated that the boy could hear her, that she immediately flooded the boy with strength. The boy stood up and walked out, the dragon perched on his shoulder, whispering ancient secrets in his ear. The father, now weak, was crying on the floor. The mother just looked shocked, staring off into the middle distance while shaking. There seemed to be a body of a little boy, bleeding out between them, but that didn’t concern him anymore.

So anyway . . . I’ve heard a version where they boy’s ghost and the dragon spirit become partners. But the original I heard was that they merged together into . . . well . . . I know it sounds silly, but The Dragon Boy Ghost.” He made a ridiculous hand-stretched-out monster gesture as he said the name with a dramatic voice. We both laughed.

“It’s . . . sort of like the ghost of a boy who looks kinda demonic because of the dragon wings and tail. Whatever version, it always ends by saying that he’s still out there. He helps others find justice. Especially for us outcasts. Especially when the law has failed. Or he helps people with anger issues and inner demons. It’s said he can even help heal the pain that comes from being a victim of bad luck in this world. You know, all the shit the comes from doing only what you must while the strong do what they want. There are shrines all over the town, and if you really need help and can’t get it anywhere else, you put a note in one of those shrines. It’s . . . kinda scary because you are basically summoning this dark, violent ghost that looks like a demon. But it’s said he only comes to the truly desperate anyway.”

“Wow.” I puffed out after a moment. He smiled behind his beer glass, and I again thought how good he would look in a cowboy outfit. Don’t get me wrong, the tailored grey suit he wore looked damned nice on him, but when I came out to Kansas to research these legends, I was expecting to meet some damned cowboys!

Stop. My mind was going on tangents. I did that when something bothered me, and the back of my brain itched. I focused.

I gave him a genuine smile and sighed, “It’s a good story. Really good, actually. But I need real urban legends, not original fiction.”

He looked hurt, “It’s not . . .”

I held up a hand. “It’s too specific. The particular details in descriptions of the scenes. The perspective taking of the boy, knowing his intimate thoughts and memories. The odd phrasing of avoiding pronouns except in the scenes with the dragon. There’s even a literary reference to the Greek conquest of Crete in the middle of your conclusion. It’s a great story, but it just doesn’t sound like a real urban legend.”

As I talked, his face went from hurt to thoughtful to confused. After a long moment, he said, “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. But . . . I swear to you, I didn’t make it up. Trust me, I wouldn't write it like that if I did. And what is weirder, is that for the life of me, I can’t remember where I heard it.”

This was it. This was the tell-tale sign of psychic contamination I had been searching for. I had finally found a lead to the True Source. I looked down and composed myself, making sure that I gave the most genuine smile of all time when I looked up. If I looked too happy, he would want an explanation and would freak out. If I looked not happy enough, anything I said next would seem patronizing. It had to be perfect. I shoved every ounce of skill I had ever acquired over the years at pretending to be human, and looked up with genuine human smile on my face.

“Hey!” I said cheerily, “a mystery!”