Gilbert Guttlebocker,

Defender of Dragons

1. John was a Baptist

Gilbert's parents, Sir Gawain the Mediocre and the fair Lady Gertrude of the Steeple Headdress, owned a modest two-story pueblo home on a quarter acre off North Roosevelt Street, sandwiched between a McDonald's and the local public library.

Across the street was the blacksmith shop where Sir Gawain spent most of his waking hours forging horseshoes, plate armor, and Honda tailpipes. In contrast to his otherwise unremarkable life and character, Gawain's metallurgical skills were prized throughout Connecticut. Honda mechanics would come from far and wide to fill their wooden carts with dozens of newly fabricated tailpipes and to have their horses' shoes replaced while they waited.

Lady Gertrude, who hailed from a family of devout missionaries, spent hours every day in crochet, handcrafting beautifully ornate blankets depicting marvelous scenes of joyful people happily eating Big Macs and Chicken McNuggets as advertisements for the franchise next door. Throughout the day, her friends would stop by to share the latest gossip about who was courting whom, what sorts of mergers and acquisitions were in the works on Wall Street, and whatever events had transpired behind the scenes at the most recent public hanging.

Gilbert himself spent most of his time in school, daydreaming about what life would be like once he became a chivalrous knight like his father: doing good, fighting evil, and replacing tailpipes. After school, the boy would rush home for an afternoon snack and then dart next door to the public library where he would quickly lose himself in a holographic 3D simulation of the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand, or, perhaps, in a book. He particularly enjoyed narratives that were so fantastic that they could not be believed without suspending one's understanding of reality, such as that tall tale of the tiny little invisible thing that nearly blew up the whole world, commonly known as the Manhattan Project; or the strange story in which a man who had been dead for three whole days raised himself to life again, often called The Gospel; or that farcical legend in which liberal casino-owner Donald Trump became the arch-conservative president of the United States, also known as American History. You see, Gilbert, like many children his age, had such a powerful imagination that he actually believed these absurd narratives to be factual, and he longed for the day when he could be involved in a story equally beyond belief.

Unfortunately, of course, that would never happen to poor, average Gilbert. Instead, he would be stuck forever in his dull, everyday existence, living life day-by-day with nothing interesting ever really happening to him, just like you and me. Indeed, it's a wonder I was able to write an entire book about him, let alone find enough biographical material for a lengthy series of tales, as I have. But I suppose that when you are as excellent a writer as I am, you tend to have a knack for making even the mundane seem exciting.

Thus, Gilbert lived in an imaginary world of fiction and fantasy, foolishly believing in such ridiculously outlandish characters as Alexander the Great, Robert Smalls, and Justin Bieber.

But eventually, reality caught up with our young hero. Finally, that fateful summer arrived when young Gilbert Guttlebocker was to prepare at last to leave his father and mother, to study in-depth the most important aspects of his future life as a proud knight in the distant jungles of Siberia, under the ancient wisdom provided at the Knighthood Academy of Monastic Dragons.

The academy, as you probably know, was established over a thousand years ago in Beirut, Lebanon. That simple factoid is merely a footnote in all history textbooks. But what you probably do not know is how and why the Knighthood Academy of Monastic Dragons came to be. At the time, you see, there was disagreement in dragondom — dragondom is what we call all dragons in the world collectively — about the proper role of knights. Knights had, many dragons believed, lost their way. Knights, the dragons thought, had forgotten the basic principles of knighthood.

Now, the knights of the time still wore armor, and carried broadswords, as every knight should, but they no longer engaged in the revered, knightish practice of dragon-slaying. Without anyone killing dragons anymore, those fearsome beasts were increasing in number, terrifying the innocent, carrying away fair maidens, and burning down entire villages with their fiery breath. Recognizing the dangers caused by the overpopulation of these terrible lizards, the dragon patriarch Yiiri, a wise old fellow, held in immense admiration and respect throughout dragondom, called together a great council of dragon elders. According to the roll call, there were 539 dragons in attendance, the largest gathering of great dragon minds that has ever been, or that will ever be again. Unless, of course, there is a larger gathering of great dragon minds at some point in the future.

With such a momentous problem before them, the dragons debated for twelve years about what should be done, which, for a dragon, is not really all that long. After all, they do live for a very long time if no one slays them, and they are known to enjoy a good debate.

The Great Dragon Council, as that twelve-year meeting has come to be known, determined that twenty-three dragons, the wisest and most proficient at teaching, would separate themselves from dragon society to establish a school to teach upcoming knights from all over the world, and especially from Connecticut, the fundamentals of knighthood. They would be certain to have a clear emphasis on the fine art of dragon-slaying, such that all knights graduating from their school would have a clear understanding of their role in the world: keeping civilization safe from the terrors of those fire-breathing monsters.

These twenty-three dragons were to maintain intimate consultation with one another, and their number was to remain constant. Should one of these monastic dragons perish, they would need to be replaced by another — a new dragon whose nobility and wisdom was beyond dispute throughout the land. Siberia, a beautiful locale of prolific vegetation and spectacular rock formations, was chosen as the location of the new academy, an idyllic setting for those selfless dragons who were forsaking their previous lives to train young men, and ultimately some young women as well, in the lost arts of chivalry. And thus, the Knighthood Academy of Monastic Dragons was formed.

And, so it was that Gilbert was accepted into that esteemed school, and at last, the time came for him to travel afar, to a distant and foreign land described by so many, yet seen by so few, in deepest Siberia, where the dragons dwell.

Poor Gilbert. As you see, his life was simply not particularly interesting.

Somehow, though, he accepted his lot, and we should all model our behavior after his. Though we all desire adventure, we, like Gilbert, will almost certainly never partake. Nonetheless, we must continue, in the face of our weary and trivial lives, to make the most of the hand we are dealt. Don't feel sorry for Gilbert, that he was not to have the kind of exciting life that every young man dreams of. Don't feel bad that he would not have the thrilling opportunity to watch his father read the news every morning over breakfast for the rest of his life, or to listen to his mother repeat the local gossip that she heard at the beauty parlor every day until he died, or to clean the family's fish tank once a week — without fail — perpetually. No, even though his dull future appeared to merely consist of that uninteresting activity of fighting fire-breathing dragons, we must not feel sorry for him. Indeed, it is only by acceptance of one's lot in life that inner peace can be found.

And so, it was a clear August day when Sir Gawain, Lady Gertrude, and their son Gilbert climbed into the old family Toyota to drive to the station, and say goodbye.

“Dad,” asked Gilbert, “why do we drive a Toyota if you make parts for Honda?”

“Now Son,” chuckled his father, “I don't make parts for Honda — I make tailpipes for them.” He shook his head, smiling. “I'm sure the dragons will be able to sort these things out for you, Gilbert. When you come back, you'll understand so many more things than you do now. Then you'll be a true man.”

“He will,” his mother interjected. “He will be a striking knight of a man, ready to fight for the good, destroy the evil, and make tailpipes for Honda, just like his father.”

Sir Gawain blushed as Lady Gertrude placed her pale, delicate, feminine hand on top of his steel gauntlet, which rested on the stick shift in their small, 5-speed manual transmission, 2-door Tercel. She batted her long eyelashes at him, though he was unable to see her flirtatious advances through the tiny slit of an ocularium in his helmet.

“But Dad, why do you make tailpipes for Hondas if we drive a Toyota?” the boy persisted.

“Honda tailpipes don't fit on Toyotas, Gilbert. That's why I make them for Hondas.”

From his position in the back seat, Gilbert stared at his father.

Then he blinked.

He turned his head and looked out the window.

“The dragons will probably teach you some mechanical work as well. You'll probably get to work on cars in Siberia along with all of the other things they'll be teaching you, like how to throw down gauntlets. There's a special way to do it, you know. It has to be done just right or else really bad things can happen. Believe me, I know — I've thrown down a few gauntlets in my day!”

“Your father knows what he's talking about,” his mother added. “Remember Tiger, our housecat?”

Gilbert turned his head toward his mother, curious about their old pet.

Tiger had been an orange and white tomcat the Guttlebocker family previously owned that Gilbert had very fond memories of. One day, about a-year-and-a-half earlier, Gilbert had fed the cat breakfast, and then gone off to school. That was the last time he had seen Tiger, and no one had ever explained what had happened.

“What happened to Tiger?” Gilbert asked, curious.

“Improper gauntlet throwing,” his mother explained.

“That poor kitty,” his father shook his head.

Gilbert's brow furrowed. He was puzzled. “How did improper gauntlet throwing do something to Tiger?” he asked.

“Because it was improper,” his father explained. “You see, that kind of thing is what you'll know how to avoid after a few years at the academy.”

His mother nodded.

Gilbert sighed.

“Now remember to look for Holy Trinity Church before Sunday, so you can make sure to attend services there Sunday morning,” his dad lectured, turning his helmeted head slightly as he spoke as if to toss the words over his shoulder. “It's a great church, if it's still there like it was when I was at the Academy, and I assume it is. Solid churches like that one stand forever it seems. It's made out of stone, like I was telling you. Every good church needs to be built out of stone, you know, as the good book says. And it has a magnificent cross on the steeple. And it's built in the shape of a cross. And it has cross-shaped stained-glass windows, and they are extraordinary, you know. If, somehow, that church isn't there anymore, Gilbert, make sure you find a good church with a cross on it. And crosses inside it. The sign of the cross is very important for a good church. You do know why the cross is so important, don't you, son?”

“Because it represents the love of God for us, in the willing sacrifice of His Son, Jesus, as an atonement for our sins?” Gilbert asked.

“What…? Who…?” his father replied, momentarily confused. “No, no, no. Constantine, my boy. Constantine marched under the banner of the cross and his enemies couldn't stand before him. The cross will make you invincible as a knight, Gilbert. You've got to attend a church with a good cross on it. No self-respecting knight would be seen anywhere else on a Sunday morning.”

Gilbert nodded as he looked off into the distance at the passing houses of suburban Connecticut.

“And Gilbert,” his mother added, “while you're there, at church, make sure you wear your Sunday best! Clothes make the man, am I right, honey?”

Sir Gawain smiled approvingly at his beloved, though she could not see his smile behind the helmet's ventail.

“Your father agrees,” Gertrude announced knowingly, seemingly reading her husband's mind.

“Mom, what kind of a man was John the Baptist?” Gilbert asked.

“Well, he was a Baptist, sweetie.”

“That means that he held to a solid distinction between the ecclesiastical and civil authorities,” his father explained, to make sure Gilbert understood the importance of his mother's answer. “The church shouldn't control the state, and the state shouldn't control the church,” he added.

“What I mean is, John the Baptist wore clothing of camel's hair. So, what kind of a man was he?”

“Well, he was still a Baptist, sweetie. That's why he's called 'John the Baptist,' you know.”

“But if clothes make the man, and John wore clothing of camel's hair, then what kind of man was he?” Gilbert persisted, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“What does camel's hair have to do with the separation of church and state, Gilbert? Sometimes I just don't understand your reasoning, son. But don't worry,” the boy's father continued as his authoritative voice echoed subtly inside his suit of armor, “the dragons will teach you excellent logic skills at the academy.”

Lady Gertrude positively beamed at her eloquent, learned, and sophisticated husband.

“Now be careful and watch out for witches and warlocks. A chivalrous knight ought to have nothing to do with them,” his mother added.

“How will I know a witch or a warlock if I meet one?” the boy asked.

“Witches and warlocks!” his father exclaimed. “Gilbert, what will you think of next! Witches and warlocks are mere fantasy, boy! You'll never meet something imaginary, because things that are imaginary don't really exist! Witches and warlocks…” he mumbled. “Where does that boy come up with this stuff…?”

“Yes, Gilbert, you need to be careful not to mix fantasy with reality,” his mother lectured, nodding. “And make sure you stay away from witches and warlocks. Far away from them.”

“Definitely,” his father agreed. “Witches and warlocks are not people you want to mess with. You need to make sure you give them a wide berth. A very wide berth.”

Gilbert stared at his father, confused.

Then he stared at his mother, confused.

Then he looked out the window.

Gilbert, as you can certainly tell by now, was not the brightest of boys. He had an insatiable curiosity, but the poor young man never seemed to understand the answers that were provided to him, no matter how clearly and unequivocally they were presented.

“Do you think he'll be alright, dear?” Lady Gertrude asked her husband softly. “He's not the brightest of boys, you know.”

You see, dear reader? Your narrator is not the only one who noticed.

“He'll be fine, my lady. I was just like him at that age — curious, confused, totally out of my element. But now look at me!”

Pulling onto the freeway, Sir Gawain gripped the stick shift with his gauntleted right hand. Plunging the clutch to the floor under his steel sabaton, he then shoved the stick into fifth gear. He turned his head as far to the left as his rigid bevor would allow (which was not very far), peered through the narrow ocularium, and, seeing as best he could that there was no traffic in the lanes to his left, the knight then vaulted his Toyota across three empty lanes to the far side of the freeway.

As they drove down the interstate, Gilbert observed the rush of the trees that passed by them on either side, a blur of green and brown that would soon turn to oranges, reds, and yellows. But he would be in Siberia by that time, and with the tropical climate there, the thick foliage would stay green year-round. Autumn was one of the things Gilbert loved most about Connecticut, and he knew he would miss it.

Seven miles up the freeway, Gilbert saw the traffic jam leading down the exit to the Empress's palace, an impressive, ancient structure — well over twelve years old — where Empress Pauline and her husband Jim Bob (who recently enjoyed their 35th wedding anniversary) spent most of their time. Constructed of massive white stone blocks, each imported from the spectacular granite cliffs of Kansas, the palace was not only one of the area's top tourist attractions, but was also a hub for local business contracts, political maneuvering, and yo-yo competitions.

Gilbert himself had never been very skilled with yo-yos — the sad tale of the death of his Aunt Beatrice, which happened at that very palace, demonstrates this in quite graphic detail. But that's a story for another time.

Two exits later and the family pulled off the freeway, the station where Gilbert would hug his parents for the last time looming large in front of them.