Disclaimer: I do not own "How to Train Your Dragon" or any of the characters in the movie presented by Paramount and DreamWorks Animation, or in the novels written by Cressida Cowell. This story is my tribute to the epic work put forth by Norwesterner titled "Taming a Heart: Legacy of Myth", the third story in his "Taming a Heart" series. I found this saga engaging and frankly, I could not think of any additional ways of praising this work that would not degrade into platitudes. With his publication of Chapter 51 earlier in 2014, this story is the culmination of my take on the training of Spring Ýsa.
This is for my wife Ochie.
Chapter 1 – Vienna
Washington is considered the most powerful city in the world. But this power is based on the work of many people who have myriad ideas of where to live. Those who desire land must be willing to travel greater distances to their employ. Others look for quality schooling for their children, while others consider the culture or night life. Suburbs surrounding the capital cater to these desires and tastes of those who work in or near the city.
The town of Vienna is an instance of such a suburb, a town that provides shops, cafes and other establishments typical of suburban America. Some institutions exist to provide an escape from the everyday drudgery of life and work and an inn present in this town is such an example. The outside of the establishment, located in the downtown area, is shod in white siding with window flower boxes filled with geraniums hanging from each of the double hung windows painted to match the color of the siding. The whole effect gives the appearance of a tidy office for one of the trades, such as a plumbing, an HVAC or electrician company. The number of cars present in the parking lot belied the actual purpose.
That may be the case before one enters the inn.
Once inside, as one becomes accustomed to the dim lighting, a visitor is provided a vista of unvarnished and worn wood floors where patrons discuss the issues of the day. The noise from the conversations going on compel individuals to lean into each other, not to be intimate but to ensure that they are understood. Booths constructed of sanded, unvarnished wood line the outer walls of the inn. Wide enough for two, each booth sports a table topped with faded Formica adorned with a pattern of flecks embedded into the resin, worn down to its brownish substrate. A melamine ashtray sits next to the usual items found on café dining tables; napkin holder, glass salt and pepper shaker, bottles of ketchup and mustard.
This was an era where smoking was still allowed, not completely outlawed from public businesses. The aroma of tar and ash was omnipresent inside the establishment and those who were sensitive could not really enjoy the gourmet dining or fine selection of lagers and pilsners. In fact, it was quite possible that they would be affected by the third-hand smoke.
The proprietor of the inn, Joe, chomps on his cigar as he casually chats with one of the regulars. Joe graduated from the CIA, the Culinary Institute of America, and even though his current fare at the establishment ranges from chili-dogs to chili-macs, he realizes that the purpose of running any business is to make money, continuously. The fare may be somewhat down to earth, but the camaraderie and the inherent intimacy are what make people want to come back as regulars. It is the place 'where everyone knows your name'. Joe displays the usual loss in the fitness wars with a waistline in the forties, inches that is. Clean shaven, and half-rimmed glasses perched on top of his balding, dark hair completed the picture of someone definitely comfortable with himself.
The other patrons at the bar were an eclectic mix of Washington society. White collar, blue collar, no collar; it didn't matter what your status or profession was. This inn made no pretense in that regard. Government bureaucrats from the various alphabet agencies, contractors who worked with the same bureaucrats, scientists, accountants, executives, plumbers, electricians, and mechanics, all were present in their own cliques inside the inn. The draft beer present from the taps at the bar situated in the middle of the inn was constantly flowing, providing a liquid respite for those who paid regardless of their standing.
A gentleman present at one of the booths takes a long drag on his Camel cigarette, placing the smoldering stick in one of the notches present in the cracking, yellow ashtray. Nicotine stains present on his fingers were a close match to the color of his light brown complexion while his hands showed the telltale wear of someone used to physical activity. He wore a pressed, button down white shirt with sleeves rolled halfway up, blue jeans matched the cleanliness and care present in the shirt. He stared through the window adjacent to the table, peering outside at nothing in particular while the chili dog and cold frosty mug of draft beer waited for his attention. Some time passed before a man in his forties approached. It was evident that he had a good paying job as he was sporting a Brooks Brothers two piece, charcoal suit with crisp white shirt and gray tie. Trim, white complexion, clean shaven with close cropped auburn hair finished his appearance.
"Gene! I am so glad you could make it here. How have you been doing?" The man in the suit stuck out his hand, waiting for the warm, firm shake that the gentleman in the booth always provided.
"Well, well…if it isn't 'Kaiju' Bob Williamson," Gene replied as he reflexively shook the visitor's hand. "Have a seat."
Bob took a seat opposite from Gene, unbuttoning his suit to be more comfortable. The delay gave Gene a chance to finish his dinner followed with a swig from the mug. "Gene, you know I've asked you to not call me that," Bob mentioned to Gene in a voice barely more than a whisper. "Not in public."
Gene smiled. It was so easy to get Bob upset. "I know, I know. You know damn well no one else can probably hear what we're saying anyway. So what the hell did you call me for?"
"Well, first of all I want to know how you are doing after Jill's passing. It's been a year?" Bob asked with some concern and care in his tone.
"I'm doing fine," was the curt reply. Gene returned to staring out the window into the parking lot. Shadows were beginning to lengthen, indicating an end to another fine spring day.
"You know that 'fine' stands for—"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know what it stands for, you little twit," Gene grumbled as he looked back to his guest.
Bob was not completely surprised by Gene's reaction. "Do you still miss her?"
"What do you think?" he replied, his voice breaking.
"I'm sorry." Bob reached out with one hand to pat the clinched fists of Gene as he sat rigidly in his seat, staring at what remained of his dinner.
"No kids, no family, no wife…I have nothing." Gene's face was a rigid mask that belied his internal torment. He pulled his hands back and placed them in his lap, somewhat conscious of accepting any appearance of comfort from another man. Gene gave a bitter laugh as he looked squarely at Bob. "Yeah…it's been a year…and I still miss her."
Bob was reticent to show the ex-Marine any additional comfort; it was something that would not be expected. "Look…I know that you have been through a lot. You know we're good friends and I'm just doing what I can to look out for you."
A bitter grin settled on the face of Gene as he continued to stare at the remains of his dinner. "I thought I would have been over her death by now," he said as he looked up to the heavens. "Married thirty five years and serving almost as long in the Marines…hell…I just thought that there would be more to life than just sitting around waiting to die."
Bob looked at his friend, trying to gauge how what he would say be taken. "What do you want in life?"
Gene looked down and met the determined gaze in Bob's eyes. "I'm not ready to die…I don't want to end up being wheeled around in a nursing home with attendants having to change my diaper every two hours… I still want…to make a difference in the world. That's what I want," Gene said with conviction. He knew that Bob was a good friend and was true to his word, even though he was CIA; that is, Central Intelligence Agency.
Bob smiled at what he heard. "Okay. Good. Then I would like your help. I want to get this out on the table right now."
"What…are you getting me into?" Gene rolled his eyes before he replied sarcastically to Bob's request. "I have heard about some of your cockamamie schemes—"
Bob held his hand up in the air. "I am only an analyst, and that's all I can say."
"Right. And I'm the goddamned Tooth Fairy…" Gene replied sarcastically. He noticed then that Bob wore a pin on the lapel of his suit. It wasn't an American flag. "What the hell is that?" he asked while pointing at Bob's lapel.
Bob looked at what he was pointing at. "Oh…this," he said while he carefully removed the pin from the lapel. "This was a gift from a very dear friend of mine, Doctor Lance Hyse." Bob handed the pin over to Gene. It was a lapel pin fashioned in the form of a coat-of-arms, blue in color. What caught Gene's curiosity were the objects in the coat-of-arms; apparently a rider perched on the back of a maroon, winged dragon. The dragon was four-legged, standing on the ground and gazing to the left. The rider had a sword but it was sheathed.
Gene raised an eyebrow at the mention of the name. "Isn't he the President of the nation of Berk or something?"
Bob smiled, "Well his actual title is Chief, and his ancestry line dates back over a thousand years to one of his predecessors, Chief Hiccup Haddock the Third. They actually have writings that date back to Hiccup's time."
"What the hell kind of name is Hiccup?" Gene asked, somewhat skeptical of what Bob was saying. "I mean the only Norse history I recall is that of Leif Erikson and Saint Olaf."
Bob smiled. "Well, Lance loaned to me one of their journals that covered the life of Hiccup. I had it translated into English so I could have a fuller understanding. I was quite impressed with what Hiccup was able to accomplish."
"Really?" Gene questioned.
"Yes, really," Bob replied.
"So what the hell does this have to do with me?"
Bob smiled, "Lance...wants to put some of their best and brightest through an Officer's Candidate School to prepare them for four years at Oslo at a Norwegian military academy. He knew about the OCS of the United States Marines and asked if I knew of anyone. I naturally thought of you. The Marines are considered the best disciplined, best trained warfighters in the world. They are highly regarded by everyone, especially by the Chief and the King."
It was now Gene's turn to smile. "Naturally," he replied. "So what the hell do you want from me?"
"I want you to train these new recruits. We want to find out also what they are capable of. Both Oslo and Berk expect that whoever is found to lead in the training do so with an open mind and provide the most thorough training in three months that is possible."
Purpose. An opportunity to make a difference in people's lives…again. That is what Gene believed he was given. One more shot. 'An open mind', Gene thought, 'what was meant by that?' "So if I accept this little soiree, what is expected of me?"
"You would be flown to Oslo for a brief orientation before proceeding to Bodø then to your final destination. You would then have two weeks to prepare a curriculum for the candidates. That would need approval from the Chief.
"Two weeks, to prepare a curriculum? That does not give me a whole lot of time."
"We'll have whatever resources you need at your disposal. The Gerhard Corporation is also picking up the tab for costs," Bob added as he retrieved the lapel pin that Gene placed on top of the table.
"Who the hell are they?"
"They are a part of the Barony that oversees the finances of the state of Berk, in layman's terms."
Gene looked thoughtful for the longest time. He knew that it would be a challenge, but that is what would make this fun! Gene felt something that he thought he would never feel after his wife passed.
He felt happiness.
"Okay," Gene said as a smile broke out on his face. "You've piqued my interest …What's next?"
"Well, that's a switch…"
"I can also tell you to go 'pound sand' and walk the hell out," Gene said, somewhat halfheartedly. He was interested in seeing where this would go but it was so much fun to pull Bob's leg.
"Well, what do you want?" Bob now said nervously.
"Hell, I'm in. Don't make me regret this, you young whippersnapper," Gene replied with a wry smile.
"I love it when you use all those dated terms. It really helps me broaden my vocabulary," Bob replied with his own smile, somewhat relieved that this appeared to be moving forward. "I'll need you to come by headquarters tomorrow morning for a full indoctrination and briefing. How does ten o'clock sound?"
"Let me consult my appointment book. Oh, I'm free at that time. How about that?" The sarcasm was dripping from Gene's voice.
Bob looked at Gene, perplexed as to how to answer. "Sooo…are we on for tomorrow?"
"Yeah, we're on," Gene replied. Smiling felt good again.
"Good," Bob said as he got up to leave. "Oh, make sure you bring your passport with you."
"Should I ask why?" Gene said with some trepidation.
"Well, if things work out we could have you on a flight tomorrow."
Gene thought about that for some time. He could understand the necessity for getting everything in place prior to the new school year. He was usually in more control of his environment.
"Alright, I'll pack my toothbrush too," Gene replied as he held out his hand. "Thanks Bob."
Bob looked at Gene's hand before taking it in a firm handshake. "You sir, are welcome." After releasing their hold, Bob took his leave by the main street exit.
After 'Kaiju' Bob left, the retired Marine sighed before he reached into his back pants pocket and removed a folded envelope he previously opened. He pulled the letter from the envelope, unfolding it, and began to read.
Department of Veterans Affairs
Washington, DC 20420
Dear Sergeant Major Smith,
Thank you for your interest in participating in the upcoming tests on the effectiveness of the retro-viral treatment for Acute Myeloid Leukemia. However, as pointed out in our pre-requisites for selection, your age disqualifies you from this particular test. We will keep your information in our records if at some future time you would be a better match for these clinical experiments.
In the meantime, your current diagnosed condition does qualify you for hospice care in the Washington, DC metropolitan area. A list of VA approved hospice care centers are provided in the attachment with this letter.
Thank you for your interest.
Sergeant Major Smith stared at the paper for the longest time; hoping, wishing that some change could take place in what he saw in those words. He knew that the decision was made.
Sergeant Major Smith took the letter, neatly folding it into thirds before tearing it up. He got up and after leaving a twenty dollar bill on the table for a ten dollar fare, threw away the torn letter in a trash bin before walking out the door.
Thanks for reading.
Reviews are appreciated
