by Donna Poole
“Always remember, it’s simply not an adventure worth telling if there aren’t any dragons.”
You probably thought J.R.R. Tolkien said that about dragons, didn’t you? Most people do, but most people would be wrong, and I should know, because I’m a dragon, and I pay close attention to all things said about my kind. Sarah Ban Breathnach wrote it. Wise comment, I say. My breed of dragons is called, “The Keeper of the Stories,” and I do love to tell a good tale.
But where are me manners? I forgot to introduce myself, and I should have done that first. My mother would be that ashamed! My name is Dani and it means “God is my judge,” so please don’t be judging me before you get a chance to know me. It’s easy to judge people and creatures by appearances or reputations, isn’t it?
Once an older man and his wife were out for a long walk on a deserted country road. It was an idyllic place to walk and not too far from their home, but recently there had been a breakout of crime in that lovely country setting, so much so that neighbors had formed a neighborhood watch. So, even though the couple had walked that road safely for years, today they were a bit uneasy.
They hadn’t seen a vehicle for fifteen minutes when a beat-up car with a loud muffler came roaring down the road. They moved over to the grassy edge. The car slowed and almost stopped, and the driver stared at them and frowned. They looked back at him. Long hair. Tatous on most visible body parts. Lots of piercings. No smiles or waves were exchanged, unusual in the country. The wife could taste fear. She heaved a sigh of relief when the driver stepped on the gas and raced up the road.
But wait. “Honey, he’s backing up fast,” she whispered.
“I know.”
They froze in place. No use running across the open fields; they could never outrun a strong, young man. There were no homes to flee to for help, nowhere to hide.
When he got next to them, the scary looking man slammed on his brakes and rolled down the window.
“You folks okay?” he called. “I was going to just keep driving, but then I thought I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t check on you.”
The old couple thanked him and assured him they were fine. When he left, they reminded each other that they were too old to jump to conclusions about people! I’d like to tell you how old I am, but you’d instantly label me a liar like the most infamous of my kind, the old dragon, that father of lies. I am nothing like him and can’t wait until he is chained in the bottomless pit. I will tell you that my age is counted in centuries, not in years.
I live in Ireland, that great green land carved out by the Lord God himself. I know, you thought Saint Patrick had driven all the snakes and dragons off the island. According to story, he did get rid of most of my kind. When the monstrous Oillipheist heard Patrick was coming he didn’t wait around to fight. Instead, he threw a hissy fit of dragonic proportions and hightailed it out of the country. On his way he carved out a ginormous trench that filled with water and became the River Shannon, my country’s longest river. We’d be lost without that, so don’t you see? Dragons can do some good, if only by accident!
God created all creatures good, including dragons, but man’s sin changed all that. Still, even though sin ruined everything, not all dragons became fire breathing man eaters.
My ancestors were dragons of the land. The ancient Celtics respected our kind, because instead of hoarding gold like the wicked dragons, we protected the land and helped keep it healthy.
None of us ever breathed fire; we had no desire to destroy. We could fly short distances and swim if necessary. We desired only to do good, but few of us survived the dragon slayers. Prejudice against my kind was universal. “There are no good dragons; kill them all,” was an accepted slogan by the kindest of Christians and the gentlest of pagans alike. Hatred of us was one thing they agreed on. Baby dragons cried in the night hearing the chants, “Save Ireland! Kill all the dragons!”
Even one of King Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table travelled to Ireland to hunt a dragon. And the legendary warrior Fionn mac Cumhaill and his band of fighters, the Fianna, tracked down and killed the largest of our kind, hacking to bits any smaller ones they saw as well.
We are so few now. There must be others, but I’m the only one of my kind I know who is left. ‘Tis a lonely life, to be sure, but I do what me mither trained me to do as a child; I help others. I can only help the wee ones now; the grown ones would kill me on sight.
A wee little boy with red curls was picnicking with his family the other day when he fell in the River Shannon. I was hiding under the banks so as not to be seen and saw the whole thing happen. Before he even had a chance to cry out his little head was under the water.
Soaking wet, he ran back to his family, laughing. “Mither, I fell in the river and couldn’t breathe! But a little dragon pulled me out and put me on shore. I love her, Mither! Can we take her home? Can we keep her, please?”
“Tommy, you’re four years old now, old enough to stop telling these tall tales. There are no dragons left. And even the ones in books were wicked and cruel. They never helped people. You must stop telling these lies! Now, how did you get wet?”
“I told you! I fell in the river, and a little dragon saved me!”
“Let him be, dear,” the dad said, chuckling. “He’ll outgrow this soon enough, or he won’t, and he’ll grow up to be another W. B. Yeats!”
He grabbed the tablecloth they’d used for the picnic and began to dry Tommy. “So, what did this dragon of yours look like?”
“She wasn’t as big as me, and she was green and yellow and had purple eyes and wings and a really nice smile and she said her name is Dani. And she told me not to judge people by ‘pearances.”
The father laughed. “She did, did she?”
“Dad, why won’t Mither believe me? And who is that Yeats person you said I might grow up and be like?”
“Oh, he wrote a lot of tall tales and got paid for it.”
“Did he believe in dragons?”
“Probably.”
“Okay, then I want to be like him when I grow up.”
It was getting dark, and the family headed to their car. Tommy turned and hollered, “Bye, Dani! When I grow up, I won’t judge by ‘pearances!”
I smiled as I burrowed into my hiding place to get a nap. Tommy was the third child I’d helped that month and only God knows how many in my long life. I could only hope they’d all grow up with open hearts and minds, people who knew there could be good in the most unlikely looking of creatures. I’d be so disappointed if any of them thought the world was divided into the “good guys” and the “dragons” and wanted to get rid of anyone who was different.
Suddenly, I realized I was unusually tired. It was getting darker, but I saw a bright light in the distance and heard a far-off voice say, “Well done, my creature, Danni.”
And for the last time from the earth, I whispered, “Praise the Lord.”
***
Genesis 1:21: “And God created great whales, and every living creature that moveth, which the waters brought forth abundantly, after their kind, and every winged fowl after his kind: and God saw that it was good.”
Psalm 148:7: “Praise the Lord from the earth, ye dragons, and all deeps:”
Author’s note: I know the word in Psalms and elsewhere in the Bible is not always translated “dragon” and am aware of the debate. Remember the title. A Fairy Story or Not.
The end.
***
These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:
Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter
