Sir George and the Dragon

Dearest friend,

I fear that I do not bear good tidings. Sir George has slain the dragon. He rode out with his sword and all manner of chivalry not three nights past, banners streaming elegantly in the wind- some of the younger, less informed ladies thought him quite fantastic- and he murdered the creature where it slept.

Now, I must elaborate; The dragons in your mountains are quite the aggressive sort. If I am correct, and the understandings that my imagination has conjured from your letters proves to hold firmly against the truth of your situation, the dragons in your country are about the same size as Old McFarnan’s dogs. You know, the ones which have a treacherous tenacity towards my cows. Old Bessie gave the last one quite a good kick. You have already read concerning this in my previous letters, so I shall not continue to pontificate upon the pride which I carry concerning my herd. However, due to the events which I must return to relaying, this will not be the last time they are mentioned.

Regardless. Your dragons are of a smaller, meaner variety, which give the raccoons a run for their coin. In your descriptions, they bear some semblance to those mythical bears which we read about in our classes together- What fun that was! Do you remember the stories we made up about them?

Once again, regardless. This particular dragon is the same size as Old Woman Tilly’s blacksmith. I mean with her expansions, you must know. The additional forges and such and all the other items which she does try her best to explain to me, but I cannot be tickled to understand! My work is with the creatures, lover of the sunlight, not the blood of the earth! And yet, this dragon seems to be both of them.

To the foreigner, it would seem a terrible sight. It had wings of crystalline structure, which made the most beautiful sound when it would grace our skies. Not even the cows frightened when they saw it. It almost reminds me of the cat you had when you were twelve. Shy, lovely creature. It snatched up trees with its hind legs to build little fires, to keep warm at night, as all citizens of the reptilian kingdom have to find their own ways to do. It never took our livestock. I, personally, think that it fed itself in the same way our crops do. I haven’t nourished my flower garden with bread or flesh, and yet, they bloom in their dancing circles.

The dragon is dead now. Sir George (How it irks me to provide him that respectful title!) returned to the people soon after, calling himself a Dragonslayer. No one cared for the manner in which death seemed to hang over him. We loved our dragon. It did nothing more against us than Old Bessie! If Georgie really wanted to provide us peace through some miracle or another, he would have gotten Old McFarnan to mind his own business. Some feat that would be. I suppose he could not find honor in the peaceable ways. Georgie didn’t find it with his sword, either. The children all threw pebbles at him. The adults threw their words. I do not deign to wonder which caused greater injury. He has made himself scarce since then.

The crops are not growing as well. The sunsets lost their vibrancy. The dragon’s blood has turned the water a sickly blush, and many are falling ill. I near the end of what paper I could find, but please write back to me in every kind of haste. I seek your companionship and advice.

I remain,

Your friend.

Dearest,

You shall not run shortly supplied of companionship or advice. I apologize for the delay in my return. Neither the weather nor our dragons have been kind to me lately. I am somewhat flabbergasted by your description of such a creature! We know them here as nothing but pests to keep in mind during the construction of chicken coops. Please give everyone my love and regards, but keep the majority for yourself. I quite miss you and the cows. I begin to question what drove me to pursue medicine in these far corners of the map. We have heard stories about Dragonslayers, though, and wondered if they were not unlike the gentleman who leads the rats out of our town with his pipe. The lads at the tavern found your description enthralling. The little boys were horrified. At least one of them, I know, keeps a dragon as a pet. His parents aren’t sure what to do with him.

I am certain that you will handle your situation as well as you possibly can. You remember when your herd came down with sickness some three years ago? When you lost your sunflower field to the flooding? When the better part of the North District burned down last autumn? There is no prevailing in what must be a tragedy, but I am sure that you will still be there at the end of it.

I am going to do better than sending you a letter in haste. In fact, even as I write this, I am packing my things to make the journey home to you. And the cows, of course. I am not more than a few weeks away, should the earth consent to turn favorably. But, would this letter reach you before I do, please take great pains to avoid the water. Stay far away from the poor thing’s body, as well. I shall take a look when I arrive, but it may be best to leave it alone entirely. I know it is more than impossible to avoid sustaining oneself, especially when the clear springs are so close, but I would advise that you consume mainly beers and wines. Rainwater, perhaps, if you make it into teas. I will bring my mourning clothes, as I assume there have already been losses.

The best thing for you to do is continue. That has always been the case. I ask it of you again, now, even as the sunsets dull and the people return to the dust from which they came. It will only be a little while. You know this. I will be there shortly, and we can know this together.

All affection, and I remain,

Yours.

Post Scriptum:

Please be there.