Return to 1997 SUMMER Index
A Tale for Children by Jonathan Day
Long, long ago in a faraway land where legends were made and time was measured in the passing of moons, where years rolled into decades and decades into centuries and where few people cared, there slept a dragon. The last dragon. The dragon population had been dwindling for some time. Legend making was a serious business and there was no better legend to be had than the slaying of a full blooded dragon. There was no shortage of men, and boys, who wanted to be heroes and although quite a few were eaten in their attempts a fair number became fairly adept at dragon slaying. So it was that over the years their numbers dwindled. Dragons only have to eat once every decade so they were rarely seen anyway. As there numbers grew smaller they were seen less and less until they became the stuff of myth and legend. When old grandfathers told young boys of the Great dragon slayers - Moritrack, Titus and Drambias- they laughed behind their backs, muttered 'sure thing' and ran off to play in the real world.
Any one who was knowledgeable about Dragons will tell you that they do little but sleep most of the time. Only once or twice a century do they become active and pursue their occupation of carnage and killing. The real enthusiast will then go into details about hibernation cycles, eating habits and hobbies. Every thousand years or so a dragon needs to go into hibernation. This can last well up to a century. So it was that the red dragon Kovda still had 48 years of his hibernation to go when the last Great Dragon Slayer- Timbernenk- slew the last known dragon. That had been some confrontation. But I digress. Timbernenk was given a gold watch on his retirement and although his village erected a monument to him its purpose was long forgotten. The art of Dragon slaying was no longer taught and the virtue of heroism no longer as respected as it had once been. It is here that the tale begins.
To the North lay the village of Taystock. Imagine a happy folk, seldom bothered by outsiders, content in their farming and their livelihoods. If you were to wander up the main street, take a right and perhaps a left and then a right again you would come across a grey, but noble house, as befits a story teller. It is here that the Grand Story teller lives. When belief was strong and magic common the Grand storyteller was more important than the Mayor. People used to gather on the seventh day of the week and listen to the exploits of their heroes. But with the new science faith in the old ways died out and without it so did magic. So the story teller was for the most part bored and unemployed.
There was a knock at his door. "Grrmph !!" was his reply as he rose from tending his MostlyMostly plant and went to answer it. As he did he muttered " Not you again ! Always bothering me. Can't leave an old man in peace. What do you want this time ?" he muttered fiercely.
The boy who stood at the door wasn't your normal, run of the mill type hero. He was thin and armed with nothing but a vivid imagination. In fact he wasn't much to look at all. If you were a princess you wouldn't swoon and go weak at the knees or anything like that And if you were a Black Knight you'd probably punch him on the nose and get on with being bad. But appearances can be deceptive. " I want to hear about Timbernenk." came the reply. The Grand Story master was secretly pleased the boy had come again. After all not many people wanted to hear his stories any more. Modern kids just didn't have any imagination and even if they did their parents wouldn't let them come and listen any more any way. What was the point of telling the Legends if no-one believed them any more. That is no-one except the boy. So he led him in, sat him down by the fire and began. "Imagine a blood red crimson sky and a setting sun, and out of the sun a winged, black shadow coming closer and closer......"
Long after it had become dark the Grand Story master was still recounting the legends he knew. The boy sat, with wide eyes and a face that listened. After they were done the Storymaster told the boy it was time to leave and to go home but the boy spoke up. "Just one more question." he said.
"O.k, O.k, what is it ?"
"What happened to all the dragons ? Where'd they go ?"
"Well some of them just died. You know, old age and stuff. But most of them were killed, by heroes. There were lots of heroes back then."
"A lot of the kids say you make it all up you know. They say there weren't any Dragons, or heroes and that you only say so
because you've got nothing better to do. Dad says the Grand Council's going to make you redundant."
The old man, for thats what he felt, looked sad. My time has come, he thought. " That's all for tonight my lad. Thanks for
warning me. Don't come again. The magics dead. The beliefs all gone. I won't be able to tell my stories any more. They won't
work any more, no-one believes. Leave me lad, leave me."
"But I believe !" exclaimed the boy.
"Its not enough. Leave me boy, I've things to do."
So the boy left but he knew that without his stories the old man would die, and the legends with him. On his way home he
made the beginnings of a plan and the further he walked the bigger the plan got, until he knew what he had to do.
The next day, in the early morning mist, where the crimson of the rising sun shone through, as befits a fairy tale, he stole away
from his home and made his way North, till he reached the Forest of Reseal. He had heard people in the village gossip once
or twice of the Dragon lair that lay to the North, past the lagoon and deep seated in the mountain. It would long be empty and
his plan would be simple. He would go their and find a Dragon scale, there would be plenty to be had, and then he would
march triumphant, back to the village where everyone's faith in the legends would be restored and the Grand Story master
would have his job back and all would be alright. It was a long trek and a tiring one. Unknown to the boy the Forest folk, and
their creatures had been watching him ever since he had first left the open road.
"He's one whos on a quest." said one of the gnome folk.
"Don't be soft," said his friend. "Heroes died out long ago, everyone knows that. Theres none left."
But the first gnome believed and he followed the boy through the forest in case any trouble befell him. None did. Except he was cold and tired and wet and hungry. On the other side of the forest the going became easier and he could see the mountains in the distance. Now that his goal was in sight he was more determined and his pace quickened. The day grew on and by the time the boy had reached the base of the mountain twi-light had fallen. He looked aloft for the entrance to the Dragons's lair and spotted it some way up. Most folk would have given up there and then, but he didn't. He looked and thought and looked and thought.
"It's a long way up." said the gnome who had followed him out of the forest. " Are you on a quest?"
The boy looked round. He had seen gnomes before and even spoken to one once but was still surprised. "Er... Yeah. A quest. That's it. A quest." he said in a determined voice.
"Thought so." said the Gnome. He looked up in the direction the boy had been looking at some moments earlier. "What are you looking at ?"
"The entrance. To the Dragons lair. I've got to climb up there."
"You don't want to do that" said the gnome "You want to use the back passages."
"The back passages" said the boy "Where are they ?" but the Gnome had gone.
The boy looked around, which wasn't easy as it was getting darker by the minute, but eventually came across what appeared to be an entrance. It was more of a hole actually, but big enough to fit through. So the boy, with all the courage he could muster, got down on his hands and knees. He crawled. And he crawled. Dark, dank, musty and wet. It took a few hours but eventually the walls of the tunnel widened and he found himself in a well lit cavern. He was right. There were plenty of Dragon scales to be had. The only problem was they were still on the dragon.
The boy gulped. He wasn't used to being scared. After a while, when he had calmed down enough to think straight he realised the magnificent beast must be in a hibernation cycle. He wondered how close the Dragon was to waking up. How was it you could tell again, he thought. Oh yeah, it depended how regular his breaths were. He crept up to the Dragons mouth and put his hand to feel its breath and began counting. Just as he reached 20 he looked up and yelled. The dragon was watching him with a beady eye. He moved fast and raced back to the tunnel were he was sure the Dragon wouldn't be able to reach him. He was right in his assumption. He listened out for the beating of wings and the sound of movement but he heard nothing. That didn't mean he didn't crawl as fast as he could. As he did so he remembered the purpose of his quest and paused, searching the tunnel for a Dragons scale. Luck seemed to be on his side as he spotted a large red scale which was leave shaped. He crawled on and picked it up. He exclaimed in pain and dropped it. The scale had cut his hand. It had been razor sharp. He tore some cloth from his upper garments, wrapped the scale in them and continued his journey until he had reached the Mountains entrance. He peered into the gloomy dark and waited until his eyes were used to it. The gnome was watching him from a distance.
"What have you got there ?" he said.
" A scale" said the boy ," a dragons scale."
"Thought so." said the gnome and turned, walking off, back into the forest.
"But what shall I do ?" yelled the boy.
"Don't ask me. You're the hero. I'm only a gnome. I'm going home. " he said and disappeared.
The boy thought furiously and then decided he would go and warn the village. The journey seemed to pass quickly as the boy concentrated on what he would tell the villagers, who, he was sure, wouldn't believe him. When he got back to the village it was early morning, with few people about. He made his way to the village tower, shoved open the huge oak doors, which hadn't moved for years, and began ringing the bell. All sorts of people came running, most still in their sleeping things. The bell was only supposed to be used in the emergencies. The boy who wasn't used to big crowds, stumbled over his words before he weakly cried out, "There's a dragon. That is I saw one."
"A dragon ?" said the leader of the Grand council. "What kind of rubbish is that. There aren't any dragons. There all dead."
"No. I saw one. A red one."
"Well, thats it," said the council leader. " Everyone knows dragons are green. You must of imagined it."
The conversation went on for some time until the boy had got his story out. Nobody believed him. They all thought him mad. "He's been listening to that old fella too much." said one of the farmers.
"He's dotty, if you ask me."said the baker.
"As nutty as a fruit nut cake."said his wife.
After a while the crowd went its separate ways. The boy stood alone. Except for the Grand Story teller. "Was he a red dragon, as crimson as the sun setting sky ? Was he awake or sleeping? How regular was his breathing ?"
So the boy told him all that had happened. " It must be Kovda" said the old man, whose face was etched with worry. " No one knows what happened to him. He just disappeared.'
"Kovda" said the boy. " Who's he ?"
"He's a sly old devil" said the story teller, with a reawakened glint in his eye. " Come on. There 's work to be done." he shouted. And the boy followed him.
The storyteller sent the boy to Timberneck's old home in the mountains. The great thing about recounting legends or stories is that if it gets a bit boring you can skip over until you get to the good bits. So it is with this story. The journey was laborious. There were a couple of adventures for the boy, like quicksand and trees that spoke, but apart from that it was a pretty average journey, full of mud and sweat. When the boy got to Timberneck's home it was nothing like he expected, just a small thatched cottage. That doesn't befit a hero thought the boy. He had a lot to learn and didn't realise that real heroes would be content in such a home. Unfortunately heroes get old like the rest of us. So it was that when the boy rang the doorbell that an old Timberneck rose from his chair, struggled across the hallway and answered the door.
The boy was surprised, much by the heroes age than anything else. The wrinkles on his face weren't on the statue of the man that the boy had seen. The boy was invited in and over a hot cup of char the young fella once again recounted his story. To cut details, after an hour Timberneck understood the problem and had a fair idea of how to solve it.
"You'll have to kill it." he said.
"Oh." said the boy.
Timberneck then launched into a long speech which can only be described as a crash course in dragon slaying. He also added a few morals and finished by saying:
"Of course you won't only be killing a dragon, who are a great source of evil after all. You'll be doing something more. You'll be reawakening the magic and the legends. You'll also make me redundant as the last great dragon slayer, because of course with Kovda around..... .." and on and on he rambled.
At last Timberneck came to the crunch." I'll have to give you my sword." he said. "Can you guess what its called?"
"Er. Dragonslayer."
"Wrong."
"Excalibur."
"Wrong again."
"Well I don't know."
" Its called Oliver." said Timberneck with a smile of satisfaction on his face " Knew you wouldn't get it" he said as he waltzed down to the cellar to go and get it.
The sword was every thing a magic sword is supposed to be. It shined and glinted and looked sharp enough to give you a decent haircut if you had run out of barbers. All it needed was someone to use it. And the boy took that task in hand.
The journey back was quicker as the boy knew his way. He took no time in his task. There was no building of atmosphere or anything fairy tailish like that. He just went back to the lair to wake up a dragon a couple of years early.
Kovda was beginning to wake up. He had been asleep for ninety eight years and was in that grouchy stage when the alarm clock has rung its bell but you don't really want to get up. The boy came the same way as before. Only this time he tapped Kovda on the nose with his sword and said "I'll be outside." It was in his best heroes voice.
Kovda had never met a hero before and wasn't too impressed at being woken up too early. I think I'll go and despatch him he thought. He got on all twos, stretched his body and roared. And the mountains shook, and so did the air and the seas and the clouds. Kovda was awake and anyone with a ounce of sense knew it.
As far as battles went it wasn't a bad one. It lasted for a day and a night and there was blood and sweat. The boy had his sword and used it best he could. Kovda was up against a determination he had never encountered before. When the boys strength wore out he fought on his reserves of belief in magic and imagination. And thats why he won. I won't go into details about carnage and stuff,( if thats what you want get a video.) Suffice to say the boy won with a triple twist turn, followed by Oliver getting stuck in Kovda's neck. With victory came belief in the Grandmaster's story telling. The whole village had turned out to watch the fight, silhouetted against the sky then against the moon. Even the mayor had to admit that there was such a thing as red dragons. Though what the difference is between them and green ones no one knows.
As the boy came back to the village he was greeted with cheers and exultations and happiness. it wouldn't last for long but for once the magic was there. The story teller now had a story to tell and the boy was to become a legend.
" That George," said the bakers wife, talking of the boy. " Hes a saint you know."
Foot note or moral or lesson (or whatever you would like to call it.)...
Dragons still exist in the modern world. They are merely in disguise and today are known as problems. When
encountered a bit of nounce or imagination is required.