The predatory dragon’s shadow emerged from the fog. He flashed over the barge, nearly hitting it with its tail. The dark silhouette soared up into the clouds where it held still for a moment, spreading its five membranous wings, before flying downwards like a stone. The Mariner understood. No time to escape this time. The left side was about to go underwater.

The old man's reflexes had been honed to become second nature over the years. His hands swiftly spun the wheel, pulling all the necessary levels to try and lead the barge away from the blow. He did not attempt to interfere in the work of his own hands. Time had practically stopped for the Mariner and every second seemed to last forever.

The entire day flashed before the old man’s eyes.

***

Nothing had gone as it should since morning. As soon as the Mariner approached the Island, the Gate went berserk and no force on Earth could open it. It took the old man an eternity to struggle with the Gate; he went over different Opening Spells in his head. And there was nothing worse than languishing on a full barge in front of closed doors, risking falling across dragons flying around. The Gate, that seemed to be living its own life, finally gave way and opened.

The old man did not hesitate. The engine roared and the steering wheel began to vibrate in his bony hands. The barge rocked deftly, pouring the whitish muck into the Grotto before going back to the mainland.

“The way back is always easier,” the old man thought to himself, “since the barge is empty. When it’s full, you’re easy prey. In this case, there’s nothing to take from you.”

He had a few more trips to make, but as the wind began to increase in strength, the Mariner's anxiety grew along with it.

By lunchtime, the old man had reached the mainland and entered the Bay, which was idly billowing hot steam. The gale had not arrived there yet, although it was stormy in other places. The old man took a sharp turn, causing the ship to scratch the floor.

As always happened after loading, a sudden breeze slightly rocked the barge.

“How does the wind know it’s time? It’s completely calm throughout the Bay. It’s an absolute miracle.”

The old man was once again surprised and, with pleasure, turned his grey head to take advantage of the wind.

The heavily laden vessel reluctantly departed the quiet cove and returned to the island, churning out steam and crawling through wave after wave. The old man did not know this trip would be his last.

The island inexorably appeared from out of the haze. Both the Gate and the Main Tower were already visible. It meant the dragons had to be somewhere nearby.

Damn dragons. Every time you come to the island, they frolic around the Gate. They don’t give a damn about you. They roll boulders along the shore or throw logs. For them, it was as easy as tossing matches into the air. Just a glance at the dragons caused goosebumps. Then, all of a sudden, one of them took off, the second one following behind. They began to hover around the channel. You’re only left to pray that the dragons won’t spot you. Sometimes it seemed as though they didn’t see you at all, that they wish you no harm. They simply rush around without stopping, occasionally bumping the ship. At other times, they hunt for the barge purposefully, calculating their angle of attack.

The howling wind drowned out the roar of the diesel engine. It was becoming more and more difficult for the old man to maintain his course towards the despised piece of rock.

“What have I been doing here for all these years? Who needs all this? Who appreciates it? Relddot? He doesn’t need anything except some insane fun, which threatens to smash my vessel into pieces. Even though he’s the Spirit of the Island, he doesn’t have a lot of brains to boast of,” the old sailor reflected bitterly. “But the cargo is for him, the idiot. I heard that he wouldn’t even last three days without this slop, otherwise, he’d just kick the bucket. And instead of appreciating the gesture, he keeps playing pranks, like closing the Gate in the middle of unloading or bringing the Main Tower aside. But worst of all, he allows those ghoulish dragons to harass the barge. They smash everything to pieces and you can hardly get out alive. And then you can hear him laughing out loud somewhere behind the clouds.”

***

…The shadow of the approaching dragon already blocked out half the sky. The barge obediently turned its hull to the right, following the Mariner’s every command. For a moment, it seemed he had gotten lucky again, that the waves would not be so overwhelming this time. But he soon realized that the sea wouldn’t accommodate him so easily.

Time stood still for a long time as the Mariner reflected on his thoughts.

***

They say that a long time ago, Relddot used to receive the cargo a different way.

The old man remembered the tales of his great-grandfather well. He used to say that back then barges didn’t go to the Island, instead, a large Barrel. It was able to carry in one trip more than his grandpa’s nutshell of a ship would take over a month to deliver! The barrel used to approach the Gate with no fear, pouring its contents straight into the Grotto, into the same damned Grotto he had been messing around with for so long this morning. At that time, both dragons were small and they could do nothing to the barrel.

That was Utopia.

If his great-grandfather wasn’t lying, then whose idea was it to switch to using the barge? What was wrong with the barrel? So much cargo was lost on the way…

And then there was that one hellraiser who was always talking complete bullshit. He used to come here, from behind the Mountains, pretending to be a Wiseman.

Cape, rosary, beard down to his waist…

A poser…

What was his name…

Citi… Ctrai… Citraidep Rotkod! That was his name. The tales this Citraidep told matched his tongue-twisting name.

They say the story of the Big Barrel was true. In the olden times, it was the way the cargo had to be delivered to Relddot. And now Barrels are not to be used for deliveries anymore. Barges must be used instead.

What did they mean by ‘must’? Who made the decision? No one was ever in a hurry to explain.

The funniest part was the prophecies by the Wiseman. He said that the following would happen to our half-witted Relddot in the future:

His dragons would seize the barge and take it to him through the channel!

The old man had reasons to believe this part of the story. The dragons had enough strength to carry up to ten barges.

But it was getting worse as he went on.

The dragon itself would fill the vessel in the bay, and then pull it to the Island and unload it in the Grotto!

Relddot’s insanity would pass in time, and he would be opening the gates himself, without any spells.

At this point the “prophet” would fall silent, humbly keeping his eyes down, then add that everything was going in accordance with the Great Plan predicted by Tsigolocenyg thousands of years before.

The old man cackled, remembering how the crowd at the square would quiet down after hearing these “prophecies.” The Mariner choked with laughter. He knew it was foolish to expect a different reaction from those land rats. They had never even seen the dragons in their entire lives, let alone Relddot, the Spirit of the Island.

***

The predatory dragon’s shadow emerged from the fog. He flashed over the barge, nearly hitting it with its tail. The dark silhouette soared up into the clouds where it held still for a moment, spreading its five membranous wings, before flying downwards like a stone.

Time was up.

The dragon struck the barge, instantly flooding the stern and causing the nose of the vessel to lift up. A viscous mass rushed onto the deck, sweeping over the cabin and the old man, who was still gripping the wheel with his white fingers.

The Mariner’s last thought was that of a stranger from a completely different world. “Those stupid idiots have put in too much sugar.”

***

The plate rolled to the floor under the table with a crash, the sound of aluminum ringing echoing in the father’s head for some time.

“Mikey, what have you done, huh? Look at yourself! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” His dad was trying to assess the scale of the disaster. Porridge was in his hair, slowly dripping onto his ear.

Mikey was not ashamed. Mikey was having fun. A minute before he had been screaming so loudly that pedestrians passing by were stopping. Tears were still gleaming on the boyish cheeks of the one-year-old toddler. But now the child's gaze was peaceful. From time to time, he brought the smeared "dragon" to his eyes and squeezed it in his fist. His fist was plump and dimpled, every grandmother's dream. Having admired the toy in his hand for a while, the toddler unclenched his hands and slapped his soft palms on the porridge-covered table, rejoicing in the white spray hitting the wallpaper. He cast a sly glance at his sullen father, who was not sharing the toddler's enthusiasm about another successful "hunt for the barge".

“It’s like an oil barge flipped upside down,” the father stated gloomily wiping the cute little eye with his hand. “When will you start eating on your own? I told her that I’m absolutely useless as a mariner, but she just wouldn’t…” he muttered.

Searching for a mop, the father came across a spoon-barge covered in porridge. He kicked it aside in anger.

“The Mariner.”

The strange word was still spinning around the father’s head for a while, but once he found the mop, he forgot about it at once.