If you go up the hill in winter, you sometimes see big footprints in the snow in front of the cave. Footprints as big as a table.
This story is about whose they are.
Chapter 1 — The Shepherd Sees Something
Long ago, between the village and the hills, there lived a shepherd with his wife, Mary, and their little son, Matthew.
The shepherd grazed his sheep and watched the weather. Matthew read his books: about animals, distant countries, dragons.
One evening the shepherd came home trembling.
“There’s something in the cave on the hillside,” he said. “I’ve heard it for weeks. It sighs, it mutters, and it snores so deeply that the grass shakes. Tonight I saw it too.”
“What did you see?” asked Mary.
“As big as four cart-horses,” said the shepherd. “Its scales shine. Dark blue above, gentle green below. The air shimmers over its nose, like the road in summer. It rests its chin on its paw and stares into space.”
Matthew closed his book and yawned.
“Only a dragon,” he said.
“Only?” asked his father.
“Everyone has their own job to do,” said Matthew. “Yours is the sheep and the weather. Mine is dragons. I’ll see to it.”
His mother nodded and said that the poor creature, up there in the cave, had no warm supper.
Chapter 2 — The Poetry-Writing Dragon
The next day Matthew went up the hill.
The dragon lay in the grass in front of the cave, purring. He was as big as four cart-horses, exactly as his father had said.
When he saw Matthew, he raised his eyebrows in alarm.
“Don’t hit me,” he said. “Don’t throw stones. Don’t splash me.”
“I won’t,” said Matthew. “But don’t you keep saying ‘don’t’.”
“All right,” said the dragon, and settled himself more comfortably. “Then I’d better tell you what’s wrong with me. I’m terribly lazy.”
“That’s not a problem.”
“Yes it is, because I’m a dragon,” said the dragon. “The other dragons ran about, went raiding, crossed deserts, chased knights. I liked regular meals and a nap. So I dug myself down miles under the ground, then clawed my way up here, into this cave. I want to settle down.”
Matthew sat down beside him in the grass.
“And what do you do all day?”
The dragon looked around, as if someone might be listening.
“I write poetry,” he said quietly. “May I read you one?”
He read out three. One was about the moon, another about the grass, the third about how good it is to be lazy. Matthew listened to every one.
“Beautiful,” he said. “But listen: you’re a dragon. People think you’re their enemy. If they find out you live here, they’ll want to wipe you out.”
“Nonsense,” said the dragon. “I haven’t a single enemy. I’m too lazy for that too.”
Matthew went home and told his parents the dragon was decent. His mother said she would patch for him then, and tidy up the cave, but she did not say out loud that he was welcome, because you never can tell whose child he is. His father said, all right.
In the evenings Matthew went up the hill and sat with him until it grew dark.
Chapter 3 — The Great Duel That Wasn’t a Duel
One day there was a festival in the village. Carpets were hung in the windows, the bells rang out, and flowers were strewn in the street.
Because someone was coming: Saint George, in gold-inlaid armour and a helmet with a feather, to kill the beast.
Matthew ran up the hill.
“The saint is coming!” he shouted. “He wants to fight you!”
The dragon was just polishing his scales with a flannel, so that he would shine like a great turquoise.
“I don’t fight,” he said. “I never have. That’s your job.”
Matthew went down to the inn and told Saint George that this was a good dragon. The saint thought about it.
“But the villagers want a fight,” he said. “They always do.”
“Then make a beautiful duel of it,” said Matthew. “One that looks good. And a feast afterwards.”
Saint George went up the hill and looked at the dragon.
“What a beautiful picture it would make,” he said. “My golden armour against your blue scales.”
The dragon wavered.
“There’s a place under my neck,” he said. “Between the folds. You can stab there. But only pretend.”
“Pretend,” said Saint George. “And afterwards they’ll celebrate you, and you’ll be one of the important folk here.”
“Will there be a feast?” asked the dragon.
“There will.”
The duel was in the afternoon, on the hillside. The village came streaming up in its best clothes, with baskets. The dragon burst out of a cloud of smoke, shining sea-blue. The saint raised his lance.
Three times they missed each other. The dragon put on a show: he pranced, chased a little, nipped the horse’s tail. Then Saint George thrust at the agreed place, and the dragon opened one eye and winked.
Matthew saw the wink.
Afterwards speeches were made in front of the inn, and everyone was given something to eat. The dragon was the life of the party. He kept asking whether someone would walk him home.
When they set off home, the dragon fell asleep in the middle of the road. Matthew was very sleepy too, because he had stayed up late. Saint George and Matthew’s father took the dragon by the arms and carried him up the hill.
At the last bend Matthew heard something else. Perhaps the wind. Perhaps a river. But it sounded as if someone were singing quietly, strolling up the hill, very pleased with himself.
If you go that way in winter, and see big footprints in the snow, don’t be afraid. It’s only a dragon. He’s asleep.
