On the train he picked up a brochure lying on the small table at the window. A drawing of a dragon attracted his attention. It was about Mount Pilatus, the mountain he could see across the lake, with the city of Lucerne at its foot. The flyer mentioned a legend of dragons and that now there was a kind of treasure hunt to look for clues to the dragon. An obvious tourist attraction, thought Pat, yet he found it interesting that here, so close to home, was a legend of dragons. Dragons seemed to be popping up all over the place recently. He took a mental note to check out that mountain when he had time. Strange name, he thought. I wonder how the mountain got its name.
At the airport he went straight through security and sat with a coffee and a sandwich near his gate looking over his presentation. It was all straightforward, pointing out how John’s company would manage their client’s funds in a balanced and constantly revised portfolio. Pat liked John’s strategies and was pleased to be able help him get this important client. A newspaper headline caught his eye on the table opposite. Some Irish businessmen had been arrested due to some mishandling of bank funds. It didn’t interest him. It wasn’t John’s client so that’s all that mattered.
He was looking away when his eyes caught a little story in the margin: “White Dragons control world wealth.” It was just a short paragraph about some oriental group controlling more wealth than the US and UK combined. Nothing else was mentioned and no comments either. Strange, thought Pat. That should be a major headline, considering the economic hole the West finds itself in. Why do they call themselves White Dragons? More dragons, he thought. A bit too many. He started packing his papers into his bag. As he looked up he saw a young couple walk past. The young man wore a sleeveless shirt baring his shoulders. On his upper arm writhed an oriental dragon tattoo. And yet another dragon!
Maybe I’m just too aware of dragons after reading Auntie’s book. Pat waited to board the plane.
On board he browsed the flight magazine. There was an article about the Irish roots of many US presidents and business giants. It reminded Pat about his own Irish roots. His family name, Ferguson, was Irish, or at least Celtic in origin. He had looked up it’s meaning before getting married. It meant Son of Fergus, Man of Vigour.
It suddenly hit him as he was thinking about this, how similar his name is to Einarr, son of Vergil. Just a coincidence, he thought. Wouldn’t it be funny if he were related to Einarr. Ha, no way.
The plane was soaring into the clouds. The ground could no longer be seen. They were flying through cloud for all he could see was white. Everywhere was white. No top, no bottom, so sides, just white. It looked familiar. Where had he seen this before? On another flight of course.
“You are here.” The voice was barely audible above the noise of the plane.
“I beg your pardon,” Pat looked around but saw no one. “Where is here?”
“This is the inside,” husked the voice. “This is where the light shines on what you seek. Seek and you will find.”
“Eh, and what is it I am supposed to be seeking?” Pat was trying to remember where he was. He had been here before. But where was the plane?
“You are seeking the answers to your dilemma. Part of what you seek is here, on the inside.”
“I don’t understand a word you are saying. Can’t you speak clearly?” Pat was losing patience. He hadn’t time for such riddles.
“Your purpose,” the voice was distant yet clear, husky and almost animal like. “Find your purpose and you know your destination.”
“My destination. What are you talking about? Where is my destination?”
“We are here. At our destination.” Someone was shaking Pat’s shoulder. “Sir, we have arrived. We are in Dublin.” Pat opened his eyes to see the bright smile of the flight attendant. “It’s time to disembark, sir.”

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