1 - The Dragon and the King

The translucent petals of the geranium glowed a fiery red beneath the relentless afternoon sun. With a sudden buzzing, the delicate green stem flexed beneath the weight of the bee, its body slim, its colours muted beside the brilliance of the flower. Wings ablur, delicate mandibles immediately set to work, furiously extracting nectar from around the stamen. Legs that picked precisely amongst the bloom also carried sacks for the precious cargo. Beneath that blazing July sun the bee worked quickly and efficiently before moving on to the next flower and then the next, eyes focused on the task at hand, oblivious to the alien eyes intently observing it from above.

'Ligustica,' whispered a voice from a fleshy mouth beneath a long, aquiline nose. The skin was mottled, but the skin healthy and tight. 'See how eagerly she gets to work,' the voice continued, reaching out a finger and, once the bee had got used to its presence, he stroked its furry back. 'But she is far from home: this species does not flourish in the northerly climes.' He frowned, and his young pupil noted wrinkles across the all-knowing forehead.

'Can I touch it too?' asked the youngster.

'You can try,' replied Papa, and the child reached out a fragile and hesitant hand. 'If you are timid she will sense fear: be brave!' The child looked up uncertainly for a second, frowned with thought, then thrust its small hand forward.

For a second the youngster was struck by the contrast between the worker bee's world of flowers and honey and their human world – the garden with its bee hives, the single-storey villa beside the immense lake glittering silver and blue. Worlds within worlds. The child gazed up at a distant jet aeroplane silently sewing a white vapour trail thread across the heavens. 'She will struggle come the colder months,' Papa said, 'They are not resilient. This is a lesson for you, Piccolo. But she is hard-working and industrious: a forager, and an excellent house-keeper. She will find food - all may yet prove well,' he concluded, thoughtfully, raising himself slowly to his feet. He took the child's hand.

'But they are susceptible to disease and are inclined to excessive brood-rearing,' recited his prodigy, turning from bee to man with studious concentration. Papa smiled; his grim face lit up and Piccolo felt proud to be the cause.

'You speak with wisdom beyond your years, my Piccolo. Books are a fine thing, but they are no substitute for true thought,' he tapped the side of his head with a long bony finger, 'or for action. That is today's second lesson.'

'Should I stop reading books, Papa?'

The man laughed.

'Never stop; and never change, little one!' he said, lifting the seven-year-old into a warm, reassuring hug. Piccolo held on to his collarless shirt and stared into those deep, black eyes set in the huge, intelligent face.

'I shall be just like you when I grow-up, Papa.'

'No!' he replied, a little gruffly before softening. 'You shall be greater! Stronger!' But Piccolo, always able to read his face better than anyone, saw the change.

'You are going away again.' It was a statement not a question: the child's intuition was uncanny.

'Probably; and possibly for a long time. It is safer that way for both of us. We need to be strong: can you do that for me?' he asked. The child's face hardened with a solemn nod.

'Will you take the cat I gave you?' asked the youngster.

'But of course! I shall keep it with me, and when I stroke it I will think of my Piccolo,' he said.

The child thought for a moment.

'But you won't prefer it to me, will you?'

'Never!' laughed Papa. Once more they hugged and for a lifetime it was just the two of them, here between the bright green grass and an impossibly cobalt-blue sky. The hum of a distant speedboat faded into nothing and Piccolo smiled, heart full to bursting.

A metallic clang from the front of the house shattered the tranquillity. Papa's face creased and the spell was broken; he placed the small figure back on the lawn.

'Now I must see to my guests. They are troublesome, but business is business,' he said. The outside world had made him look old again, thought Piccolo.

'You will come to my magic show later, Papa?' asked Piccolo, brightly. The man frowned with mock offence.

'Of course! How could I miss it?' he called as he made his way back up to the house but he was lost to the world of the adults. Three men emerged, blinking, onto the terrace and Papa welcomed them with insincere hugs. Turning to gaze across the lake, a speedboat seemed to float on a cushion of light, the sun playing tricks with the water. The modest buildings of the village shimmered on the far shore and the air was suddenly thick. The men's chatter and occasional laughter faded and only the intermittent drone of the ever-industrious bees punctured the silence.

Piccolo returned to practicing the magic trick but still could not perfect 'the prestige', the payoff supposed to leave the audience amazed. Brow creased, hands flexing, nothing seemed to go right: the audience would just laugh, and that must not happen – succeed or nothing, Papa said. 'The art of illusion is believing it yourself,' ran the manual, excitingly, and Piccolo did. 'Sleight of hand, misdirection: even your hands must be unknown to each other!' But what did that mean? How could your hand not know what the other was doing? 'Practice is key – nothing worthwhile comes without a struggle.' This too had been diligently entered into the little-green notebook of 'Lessons and Rules'. So the young magician practiced, but when practice did not seem to be the key after all, Piccolo devised a better route to success; an alternative, better ending.

The long afternoon wore on; Blanca emerged from the single-storey, cream-stuccoed villa with the obligatory home-made lemonade. Papa and the other men preferred alcohol and Piccolo heard laughter but mainly their talk was serious. Piccolo associated growing up with becoming more earnest.

The scene was familiar: men would come and sometimes there would be shouting, sometimes banging, but always Papa would quieten things down again and hands would be shaken. On one occasion a man – a thin, wiry man Piccolo took a dislike to - had pushed Papa in an argument, and for a moment Piccolo had seen Papa's face flash with anger. Papa saw Piccolo, caught himself, smiled and winked. And Piccolo knew Papa was Papa again: quiet, calm Papa who could fix anything, Papa who always made things okay again. The man had not returned.

Papa was 'in business'. Exactly what business was unclear but Piccolo knew it must pay well. The summer house by the lake, the mountain chalet, the cars: even at seven the child knew wealth. But the price was having to share Papa, not with siblings, but with 'business associates'. Piccolo knew not to interrupt this adult world, safe in the knowledge Papa would always return.

The sun dipped behind the western hills: Piccolo decided enough was enough.

'Papa!' Little feet slapped against the patio. Papa turned and for an instant Piccolo saw the transition from the solemn-faced, almost sad grown-up, to the child he must once have been.

'Piccolo! Say hello to my friends! This is Mr Whiteside, and this is Mr McCoy.'

The two men made no such adaptation: forever trapped as adults there was no transition to make. Their wrinkles were signs of age, not laughter; their eyes old rather than wise. For them there was no possibility of re-entering the child's realm. Worlds within worlds, thought Piccolo. The fatter of the two continued talking, trying to ignore the interruption. Sweat glistened on his bulging forehead which he mopped with a pale-blue handkerchief.

'We are agreed on the name for the organisation, then? We will use the English acronym?' he asked. 'As to headquarters, while I like your long-term ambitions, I feel clandestine offices in Paris may be more realistic than a volcano…'

Later!' snapped Papa, and though his face did not waver the menace in his voice made the fat-man turn pale. 'You may have the glory of the name; the rest will have to wait. Just do not forget who owns the organisation – let us have no future argument.' He turned slowly to face the fat man who continued to sweat profusely.

'But of course…'

'Now we will take a break. Piccolo has a trick to show us, have you not?'

'Yes, Papa,' said the child, proudly now the centre of attention, and led them to a pagoda on the lower lawn. The two men exchanged looks of resignation before reluctantly following. The gentle wake from a passing pleasure steamer lapped at the shore, the sound of distant laughter caught on a faint breeze.

'You sit there,' said Piccolo, showing Papa to a neat wicker chair in the shade while the other two men had to be content with stools in the sun. In the centre of the pagoda was a small stand draped to the floor with black velvet. Upon this stood a large top hat. Papa smiled.

'Ladies and gentlemen – Piccolo The Great!' announced the child, now dressed in a black cape with red lining. Papa clapped enthusiastically while the other two men swatted flies disinterestedly.

'Once upon a time there was a king,' began the child, confidently donning a small crown. 'And he ruled over a vast empire. The king had a daughter, upon whom he doted. Her mother had died when she was a baby, and there was nothing he would not do for his princess.

'Now one day, a dragon arrived in the king's lands,' Piccolo reached inside the top hat and, with the tap of a magic wand, withdrew a beautiful black rabbit sporting a pair of cardboard wings. Papa laughed - Mr Whiteside and Mr McCoy followed suit. 'It started stealing all the sheep and cattle.

'The king sent his best warriors to fight the dragon,' The rabbit was replaced into the hat, 'But when they reached those lands the dragon was gone!' Piccolo lifted the hat and tipped it upside down to show it was now empty. Papa applauded while the two men rose from their seats.

'But…' continued the child, reaching inside the hat and withdrawing the rabbit once more, 'the nasty dragon came back.' The men exchanged looks and wearily re-took their seats. 'This time it took the children of the land. And now the king himself rode out to face the dragon. This time the dragon did not fly away it waited to face the king and the king said, "Leave my lands or I will kill you!"' Papa laughed at the seven-year-old's suddenly deep voice. 'But the dragon replied: "Oh king – you know nothing. For if you raise a force against me I shall take that which you value more than anything."' The men's faces dropped: the child's voice had taken on a dark tone they did not care for. They looked from father to offspring and back.

'So the king returned to the castle and left the dragon alone, and day after day messengers returned with news of new atrocities and the people implored the king to help but the king thought only of his precious daughter locked safely in her castle.'

The shadows were lengthening: a sea-plane circled over the lake on its final flight of the day. The fat man checked his watch.

'Month after month this continued until one day the king could stand it no longer. He called his advisors and the wise-men of the kingdom, offering them a thousand gold pieces to solve his problem. But they all told him the same thing: there was as no way to kill the dragon without risking the princess.

'Then an old woman stepped forward. "I can solve your dilemma, oh king," she said.' Piccolo waved the magic wand. 'The king was desperate, "Anything!" he shouted, and asked the stranger what he should do. "Meet me here at midnight the day after tomorrow, blindfolded, on your own – and there I shall solve your dilemma." So at the appointed time the king arrived, blindfolded. He stood a while in the cold and the dark, and then he heard footsteps and a beating of wings.'

The child held up the winged-rabbit which struggled against the tightening grasp and placed it back inside the hat.

'"You have betrayed me!" shouted the king.' Piccolo The Great removed the curtain from beneath the table: this could be good if the child could pull it off, thought McCoy.

"Not a bit of it, king. For I offer you the chance now to end your torment. Take this weapon, and restore your power!" she whispered and placed in the king's hands a weapon.

Both men flinched as the puny seven-year old pulled a cumbersome cross-bow from behind a curtain. It looked uncomfortably real, yet the child's father was seemingly unperturbed. The child swung the crossbow across the three men, McCoy and Whiteside instinctively ducking, before it came to bear upon the hat.

'The king fired!' The child pulled the trigger and both men jumped as, with a powerful 'twank' and a simultaneous 'thunk' the bolt ripped through the hat lodging firmly in the table beneath. With a wrench to free the bolt, the child freed the hat and turned it upside down. Papa applauded as nothing fell out. 'The dragon was no more.'

'King shoots dragon: are we done?' asked McCoy impatiently. Whiteside winced and glanced anxiously across at their host. Piccolo gave McCoy a curious look.

'No…' replied the child as though talking to a small child itself. Thick, crimson liquid began to trickle from the upturned hat. Without breaking eye contact, Piccolo reached inside the hat and this time withdrew not a black rabbit, but the ragged, blood-streaked carcass of a white, Persian cat. The cross-bow bolt protruded obscenely from its head. 'The king shot the princess so the dragon no longer had any power over him. Lesson eighteen: love nothing you cannot destroy. Isn't that right Papa?'

In the renewed tranquillity of the lakeside garden, his was the only applause.

'That is right, my Piccolo!' said Papa. 'And when you grow big and strong like me, so will your magic!'

Wide-eyed and sweating profusely, the two men remained in their seats. McCoy gave a pained smile while Whiteside nervously fingered his collar.

'Don't worry Papa,' Piccolo replied, earnestly, 'I will buy you another cat.'