I wrote this 'Fairy Tale' for my Russian 321 Class at the University of Washington in 1990's. Somewhere in a storage box - I may have the Cyrillic version - you will have to make due with the English rendition. It was founded on the meme of Don Quixote, but in the traditions of Russian 17th Century Fairy tales. It is the tale of an orphan that hunts for adventure and finds indeed, like Don Quixote - that all the dragons are already dead. It is loosely biographical - ie the names have been changed to fit into the story line requirements, and turned out to be entirely prophetic with its foreshadowing.

When the Dragons are all Gone.

Not long ago, in our land, a child was born. The earth did not quake, heavens did not shake, trees were not laid low and no-one in particular noticed the arrival. Boris Neschastnovich (the luckless) was born to a modest family, neither of high stature nor of poor squalor. Quickly a deed is done, but more slowly is this story spun. Boris Neschastnovich began to grow as every other average boy of the neighboring lands. At the age of three, Boris' father, Pavel Nemetz, (the German mute) was called to flee and never returned. His mother Sharon Mortevna, (the deceased) grieved the normal period of mourning ant then remarried. Boris grew to know this false father as his own flesh and blood. A girl was born from this cursed marriage. Ambrosia began to torment Boris relentlessly as soon as she first opened her eyes. Boris could find no escape from her pestering. His step father, Jeremy the Gruesome, loomed as an evil oppressor over the household. As Boris grew to the age of the age of questioning, the cruelty and beating increased.

And then came a day, during his youth, when Boris lost all innocence, beauty, hope and caring. On a cold winters' night, on the day of the Ground Hog, when the moon and the sun hid from the poor retched earth; Jeremy the Gruesome dishonored, stabbed and murdered Sharon. Her dying screams called for Boris to come and save her. Boris gathered his cudgel and mounted an attack against the evil giant. But Boris was just a boy and his weapons were but play things. Boris was dashed to the ground unconscious, he had lost his first battle. The guilt and disgrace of this defeat would haunt him the rest of his days. Boris' fate had only just begun to sour, things unspeakable still awaited him.

Upon awakening, Boris was exiled from his home, never to return again. He was banished to the northwest of this land to serve under the bond of his evil great aunt, Alice the Hideous. The witch collected small children to do her evil chores and bidding for her diabolical potions. She used them as pack animals, guinea pigs, and work horses. She tormented the children night and day. Boris fell into the bondage of slavery. He soon became the witch's favorite child to torture. She set the other children free and enslaved Boris to cater to their every wish in addition to doing labor of the Hideous. The witch stole Boris' shoes and his club, he could not run nor fight the Hideous One.

Days passed as years. Boris grew stronger under the evil witch's toil. He grew wiser and stronger but was still unable to escape from the evil witch's spell. At the age of maturation, Boris ran away. He was found and returned to the servitude under the wicked old witch. She bound him in chains, fed him acid for gruel, never let him rest and tortured him daily for amusement. Boris prayed to the heavens to save him from his cruel fate, to no avail. Boris could no longer endure the slavery and the torment and decided to take life into his own hands. Boris drank poison and gnawed at his wrist cuffs, hoping to sleep forever and die from the bleeding wounds.

Boris the Luckless awoke and cursed the fates. He was still alive, but now he was in the deep dark forest. Boris set to wandering the woods. He came across an Inn but he had no money or shoes, surely he was out of his league. He went in anyways. There were many great heroes of his own age there who had achieved greatness in their own manner. Each set to boasting as to who indeed was the most heroic of them all. Gregory the Wise boasted of much knowledge. He spoke the language of the birds, knew all the riddles and had unlocked the hidden mysteries of life. Matthew Mnogojenshen (man with many girls) boasted of his large harem and the fine items of beauty that he possessed. Carsten the Fierce boasted of his many victories in battle and his incredible strength. And Sergei Deneg (The monied) boasted of his grand wealth and his many possessions abroad. Much green wine was drunk and much fine food was swerved. All of the heroes looked at Boris and asked him of his quests and his conquering. Boris confessed that he had only just escaped from Alice the Hideous and had not yet been to seek his lot. The all laughed at his youth and inexperience.

Boris was angered and swore that he would go questing and best them all. And they laughed at him again, for he did not have a steed, a sword or even a pair of shoes. And so the heroes gathered these things for him, but Boris was unprepared to venture forth, just yet. He did not know for what he should seek. He asked the advice of the great heroes. Riotous laughter erupted again, the answer was obvious. Gregory urged him to seek wisdom, Matthew suggested maidens and beauty, Carsten answered honor and strength from battle, while Sergei persisted that it was all for naught without money. Boris was confused but knew that he would find the answer to this quest out on the trail. He saddled his grey mule and set out into the forest at day break to seek his adventure. Exactly what he was seeking he did not know. Boris traveled for many years through the woods and never met any maidens to woo, dragons to slay, wealth to be found or any knowledge to be learned. Boris left the woods and wandered through the barren plains of this land for countless years. News reached him that indeed all of his heroes had long since passed into the kingdom beyond and no one from the woods remembered his name or continued to speak of him.

One fateful day, at day break in the plain, Boris Neschastnovich met a beautiful maiden. Boris thought to himself that she must be his destiny, his quest. She was the daughter of the Day and rode upon a white mare. Her ivory skin and blonde hair shone bright in the sun. Boris fell into company with her. He spent that day lying in the tall grass wooing the maiden. He longed to marry her. That summer's day lasted for three years. As the sun sank into the weest the maiden fled with the vanishing sun. She galloped into the sunset. Boris raced after her streaking stallion but failed to match her swiftness. Boris grieved of his loss through the long twilight.

Boris shed tears into the summer's night. A maiden of the moon came across his path and set to comforting him. Boris fell under her wiles and soon forgot the Maiden of the Long Day. Daughter of the Night, this maiden had dark deep skin, dark eyes and rode upon a steed of Black. Boris was mesmerized by her beauty and swore his loyalty to her eternally. That summer's night together lasted for six months. But the maiden of the moon mounted her black mare and deserted Boris with the coming sunrise. The maiden fled as if only a passing dream of enchanted summers solstice. Boris had lost another battle.

With the approaching sun came the Daughter of the Dawn. Her long crimson hair and eyes the color of the sky cast a spell upon Boris. He had fallen victim to her wiles. She sat upon her statuesque red equine stole Boris's heart and any hope of a future with her. She was only a fleeting vision of the sunrise and disappeared with the day break. Her loss was the most cruel. Boris had given her his last, his all. She toted off with his heart as she sprinted off into the distance. Boris had lost all hope in capturing love. He knew that he was not to quest for maidens any longer. He had Lost three such battles and a fourth would not ensue. Boris set to seek honor in combat.

Boris sett off in search of dragons and villains and infidels to conquer and slay. He wandered the swamp that he had been deserted in, but he found no one to quarrel with. He wandered past the swamp into the distant mountains. Here he prepared for heroic battle. He fashioned a battle ax of sharp stone. He chopped a tree and produced a fine cudgel of oak. He dug ore from the earth and set fires to the yield a sharp sword. Boris set to building his muscles, quickening his speed and practicing the art of combat. But the honor of battle eluded him. It seem that all the dragons had been slain by the heroes of old. There were no infidels to fight or conquer in a land without hope or faith. There was no one for Boris to fight with to prove his courage, strength or honor. Boris abandoned the way of the sword and set to seek the knowledge of the world.

He set to his studies, but they bored and eluded him. They seemed only to consist of tired rhetoric from old heroes who had already conquered mystery. Boris set out to find his own mystery to unravel and claim his wisdom. He ventured into the woods to learn the language of the birds. He listened to them day and night. He came to be able to mimic their chirpings. He thought he was making great progress but it was only a false hope. He did not understand the twitterlings that he was making. He mistakenly offended the birds. They fled from the forest. He could only copy their songs and he did not have a grasp of the meaning, intonation or governance of their language. To the birds his attempts were foul disgraceful mumblings of an unwise blasphemer. Boris was unable to communicate with them. His lack of competence with the language insured that he would never gather any knowledge from the forest. Depressed and beaten again, Boris decided to quest for fortune and wealth.

Boris searched caverns, under stones and the ends of the rainbows for riches. He found no more than a few trifles by which to gain a meager living. It was not even enough to keep him in food or clothing in the villages. He searched for years for gold, silver and diamonds but found nothing but empty treasure chests. It seemed that all the heroes of old had pilfered all the wealth to be had. He discarded the search for money as futile. He accepted yet another defeat.

Boris knew that he lacked heroism and had indeed failed at every quest. Maidens offered him no comfort as they always fled with the passing of the day. He was strong and well armed but there was no-one to fight with for honor. Boris could not speak the language of the birds and so the knowledge of the forest was foreign to him. The collection of wealth eluded him, nor did it offer him any consolation against his hopeless situation.

Boris was tired of questing and never meeting success. Boris was mad at his fate of having to eternally search for a happiness that he could never possess. Boris decided to withdraw from the hunt, withdraw from the world. He decided to build a castle and lock the rest of the world out from his shameful life. Boris gathered stones from the ruble of his life's losses and built a castle with walls high and strong. He cemented them with his loneliness, strength and ignorant persistence. The cold stone walls of his castle were all he knew, all he could trust. Boris built the castle on the waters' edge. He continued to stack stone upon stone . When it was high enough to keep the world out, Boris cast off from the earth and cut all ties to the land. Boris sits in his castle on the sea to this very day. He is tired of search for beauty, love, wealth, honor, knowledge or hope. Behind his walls growing older with each new day.

The isolation of freedom, the indentured independence soon cut him off from the rest of the land; he felt as a foreigner in his own native nation; to him the internment had created unto him his own ideal of a country – the ideals that he sought; he found solace in them of his own self, and with this discovery: indeed something magical came to pass. The castle had cast off binds to the land, at first it was sinking into a morass of depression and despair, but with the in coming tide, and the waters lapping at the foundation – it began to float further from the shore. You could no longer walk to the gate. Soon the ebbs and flow of the waves came to their power and set the castle afloat as a powerful Frigate to roam upon the seas – to find its own new home, to follow the trade winds, guided by the constellations, urged by a fate yet undiscovered; still hidden in shadows. The pages of his journals billowed as sails – he had escaped, to where he was headed – he did not know; where he landed, it would be of no consequence, he simply no longer cared.

It is as it ever was, and as it ever should have been; as I live and breath it happened all as such; I was there, but none remember my name. Pass the mead - we all know the happy ending isn't coming.