Hoarding Impulse

Seamus grunted and shifted his position on a lumpy pile of coins. His cave had been roomy enough, many years before, but now it was starting to feel a little cramped. The pile slid suddenly, leaving him uncomfortable again. "Why do these things shift so much? Whose bright idea was it that dragons should sleep on this stuff, anyway?"

He slid again on his gold pile and snorted in frustration. He began to paw and ruck at the pile, but couldn't make it comfortable. He growled. He pushed some coins, goblets and plates into the corridor between his chamber and the cave mouth, but there was a little lip between the two of them, and all of the coins and half of the larger treasures slid back into his cave.

Bellowing, he spun around and began to shovel at his horde like a dog digging a hole. A high-pitched chorus of pings and tings started as coins ricocheted off the walls of the connecting hallway. Cups clattered, platters ponged. Seamus kept at it until his forelegs started to ache, then moved his bulk around in a rough circle until he'd smoothed out the remaining treasure, with a depression in the center. When he lay down, his belly touched cool, smooth rock, and he fell sleep instantly.

Seamus slept deeply, and dreamed. He was outside his cave, basking in the sunlight. He was doing a joyous little dance, swaying and lashing his tail. As his tail whipped around one time, the tip of it flew off and fell down the rocks, down the steep hill, and into the forest below. The end of his tail hurt, and he knew if he found the tip of his tail he would be all right again.

He scrabbled down the rocks, slid down the hill, and shouldered his way into the forest. In his dream, the forest didn't yield with a crash of branches, but rather enfolded him and held him back; the tree trunks were posts supporting a green mesh. The forest was somehow also a maze. He knew somewhere where the tip of his tail was, but he just couldn't reach it. He pawed at the ground, plucking up undergrowth and moving around big scoops of earth. He tried to move through the forest, but was caught in the branches. He thrashed around and then stopped, roaring in frustration.

It was then that he woke up, covered in gold.

Seamus poked his head up and looked into the hallway; it was clear of treasure. He snorted, a sulphurous puff of smoke gusting from his snout. All of it was back, every coin.

No; not all; something was missing. He could feel it. He had an ache in the middle of his head, and a sense of where the gold had gone.

He heaved himself up through the golden mass and wandered out of his cave. The gold wasn't out front with the chest and the cow-stake. He shuffled to the edge of his large, flat summit of rock, then looked over the edge. He didn't see the glint of gold on the rocks or among the dirt and scrub of the hillside. Beyond that was a stand of trees, and beyond that the first of the human farms.

He went back inside and willed himself to forget about it. But he couldn't. It created an ache in him like hunger, and the headache narrowed and sharpened until it felt like a pebble had been put in a fire and placed in the center of his skull.

He couldn't nap, despite his trying. He tried to nestle onto the hoard, and slid again. He snorted and shoved away a bunch of gold with the back of his clawed foot.

He gave up trying to rest and skulked to the area outside his cave, pacing back and forth and occasionally looking over the edge in the direction he knew his gold lay. Finally the sun relented and the smudged colors of dusk eased across the horizon. Scrabbling as quietly as he could, he made his way down the rocks.

He eased into the forest, picking a way through the trees and making as little noise as possible. He could sense where the gold was--his guess was the house on the first human farm--but approached it from an angle so he had the distance of one of the fields between him and it.

He slunk as close to the ground as he could. There was light in the human home--a rarity--and he could hear a bit of noise. A shadow passed across the window on the side of the house facing the field, and Seamus flattened against the earth. Another shadow passed, as quickly as the first, then another, and another. He took a chance and crept slowly forward, his belly moving like a stone across the ridges of tilled earth.

Seamus watched the window as he crawled across the field. Humans continued to move through the window frame, and as he got closer he noticed they appeared to be slowly turning as well. He could hear them too, now, a high, almost wailing sound, rising and falling in pitch. He could also hear a rhythmic thumping, a 'tump, ta-ta-tump, ta-tump tump,' repeating itself over and over.

He moved closer still; the home was moon-bright inside, and the humans seemed heedless of the world outside the window. In fact, they weren't even facing it. Getting closer, Seamus saw they were all in a circle, facing inward toward each other.

He moved as close as he dared to the house, barely more than the length of his body away. He slowly raised his head, his neck straining with the effort of making the movement slow and deliberate.

From his new vantage point, Seamus could see much more of the rhythmically-moving circle of humans. He could also see several humans standing or sitting aside from them, drinking from large mugs. In the middle of the circle was a simple wooden table. On it was a tall, fluted goblet. The candlelight all around it brought out the decorations carved on it, making more deep and rich the unmistakable color of gold.

Seamus bellowed. He sat up, snapping open his wings in one large, demonstrative flap. The wind he created kicked dirt into a cloud around him, and also darkened the house as most of the candles inside were extinguished.

The humans began screaming, their circle-dance forgotten. Seamus leaned forward and put his head through the window. He stretched his neck out to reach the table and grabbed the goblet in his mouth. It got mashed between a couple of his fangs. He dislodged it with his tongue and let the misshapen lump of gold drop on the floor, intending to grab it again more delicately. Before he could, however, a woman brandishing a broom--a broom, of all things!--dashed up beside him. She jabbed the end of it at his face. He felt a twinge of pain as a piece of straw poked him right in the corner of his eye. He jerked his head back, taking a large chunk of wood and plaster wall with it. His eye watering, he turned away, ran at full speed over the field, and took to the air, heading for home.

Seamus spent a miserable night with his eye blurred and stinging. He felt only a little bit of humiliation, and oddly enough, none of the burning gold fever that had possessed him when he saw the goblet. He felt sure the sudden pain of the poke in the eye and his embarrassment covered up the feeling.

He slept deeply once the pain in his eye dulled, and he was almost--almost--comfortable on his hoard.

Seamus spent a couple of days in a state somewhere between resting and moping. He slept a lot, and his eye cleared up and stopped hurting. He flew out past his valley and into the land beyond, snatching up a sheep from a pasture. He ate the creature near a large pond, drinking deeply afterward. Then he returned to his cave and slept.

When he woke up, he felt around for the sensation of missing gold. He felt none--or next to none, as he found he really had to focus and concentrate on it in order to realize a portion of his hoard was missing.

He could not be sure why he felt differently about the gold. Remembering the twisted and flattened thing that had been the missing goblet, he had an idea. He picked out a large pitcher, all of gold, and found a goblet that fit inside it. Hooking a claw in the pitcher's handle, he carried the container out of his cave. He set it on the ground. He drew in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Then he stomped on the pitcher.

One hard step of his foot had folded it in on itself; a second pressed it and its contents flat in the middle. He stamped down on it again and again with the foot of one powerful back leg, until finally the thing was a slightly lumpy, messy-looking golden oblong. Scooping it up in his mouth, he ran to the edge of his piece of rock and launched himself into the air.

The great sheets of his leathery wings let him glide well over the forest bordering his hill. His nervousness--and the unfamiliar sensation of carrying something in his mouth--urged him to drop the mass of gold sooner rather than later. But he made himself wait. He went over and over the forest until no human farms could be seen on his right and the trees thinned out to tiny clumps that played a game of capture-the-squares with many small ponds. It was here that he dropped the lump of gold, and forcing himself not to look at it as it fell, he wheeled around, flapping his wings to speed himself back to the cave. Once he landed, he waddled as quickly as he could into the back of his cave, burrowed into his pile of gold, and waited for what might come next.

The gold-craving did not come that evening; he felt no headache, and was able to sleep. The next morning, the keen sense of missing part of his hoard was not there. Again, he had to close his eyes, focus, and feel around with his mind to see that the gold was out there at all. He smiled. This was good, very good.

It was then that he heard the trumpet.

He poked his head out of the cave to see a small group of humans. The one in front was encased in metal armor. He carried a shield with a bright and complicated design. Behind him was a smaller man leading a white horse; two more men were struggling with a mule who emphatically did not want to be there. The mule pulled a cart filled with sacks and bundles.

"Arglarg lagaragal," the armored human cried. He seemed to be making an announcement, meant as much to be heard by his fellow-humans as by the dragon. Perhaps he was a new chief among humans--the standing-races lived such brief lives--come to pay tribute.

The man drew his sword with a flourish, hefted his shield in front of him, and began to advance on Seamus.

Ah. Not a tribute, then.

Seamus rushed out of the mouth of the cave and butted the man with his head, being sure to close his eyes this time. The man grunted as the dragon knocked him down. Opening his eyes, Seamus saw the man had dropped his sword. He leaned his neck out and butted the man over the edge of the summit with his snout. A deeply satisfying series of yells, clangs, and thumps followed.

Seamus ate the man's horse and went inside to sleep.

He discovered the next morning that in their no-doubt-hasty return from his mount, the humans had spilled a number of things from their cart. A couple of boxes, a small barrel... and a curious little cylindrical thing. He gave it a push with a flick of one claw, and it began to roll--then unroll. Seamus set a paw on it. It was soft...ish. It definitely cushioned his foot from the ground. He furrowed his brow in thought, then his face relaxed and he smiled.

He took the rectangular lump of cloth into his cave and set it upon his hoard, right in the middle. Then he laid on it, belly-first. It definitely made the pile of gold more comfortable, although it could do nothing about the amount of it that was still sliding around. He resolved then to extract everything that wasn't flat like coins or amulets and mash them until they were. He grabbed statues, chalices and candelabra, pressing and stomping until he had a dozen golden plate-like things. He poked a hole with a claw in the middle of each plate, then set them all just outside his sleeping-chamber. He shifted the pile around, set the human bedroll in the middle of it, and slept soundly through the rest of the day and all through the night.

Not a week after the armored man had come to him, he heard the sound of a cowbell. It was not the customary time of year for his tribute. Creeping far enough to get a look outside, Seamus saw a trio of plainly-dressed humans. One led a cow; the other two pulled a small cart. Seamus watched them carefully. The first human removed the cow's belled collar, tied it to the post outside the cave, and gave it a little hug around the neck. The others set down the cart handles and went to get a sack from it.

Oh no, thought Seamus. Not more gold.

He surged out of the cave, startling the humans. He stopped and retreated a little bit, hoping they wouldn't bolt. The cow was already beyond panic, its lowing moan pitching immediately upward to a shriek. Seamus restrained himself from killing the cow, not wanting to panic the humans. He reached out one foreleg and stretched his paw over the little wooden chest, contracting his claws so it collapsed with an audible crack. Struck by a sudden idea, he backed into the cave, then emerged a moment later with his bedroll. Holding it gently between a couple of claws, he draped it over the chest. The humans watched, still ready to flee. Seamus tapped the bedroll, three times, with a single claw. He then sat still, watching the humans, until they slowly slunk away with their cart, its burden of gold still on it.

The next evening, Seamus noticed the humans had left a thin bedroll and a straw-stuffed pallet. They were poor work, but he dragged them into his cave nonetheless, arranged the remaining gold-hoard as flat as he could, and set all his blankets on top of it. He had never been so comfortable.

Months later, when the sun sat low and far away in the sky, the humans came again. There was another cow, and a very large square of fabric. They laid it over the chest, and Seamus could see a design on the quilt. It was roughly-stitched, but unmistakably a dragon. Seamus rumbled with pleasure, then rummaged in his cave and emerged with one of his large discs of gold hooked on a claw. As the humans were leaving, he chuffed to get their attention, then gently flung the disc in their direction. The humans froze for a moment, then hissed and whispered amongst themselves. Finally one stepped forward, making motions and noises at Seamus, then snatched up the disc and backed away to join his already-retreating fellows.

Seamus greatly admired his dragon-quilt; it was soft, and it was warm, and he could take pleasure in knowing he had some gold in his hoard without having to always be mired in it and slipping off the pile. Another such quilt came the next year, the stitching finer, the stuffing thicker and softer. Seamus was deeply content.

The quilts came until one year, Seamus had difficulty stuffing the latest quilt on top of the tall pile, and when he climbed on top of it, his wings were jammed against the roof of his cave. He snorted unhappily, and that slight motion caused the pile of quilts to tip and slowly collapse, dumping him onto the floor outside his sleeping-chamber.

Something, he thought, is going to have to change.