The Thinking Man's Dragon

There weren't always dragons in The Valley. At least not in living memory or what sketchy histories resided in the books in the laughably small and neglected Valley Library. Indeed, many folks didn't even believe in dragons at all!

Total nonsense - until the day the dragons started arriving.

Outrage and panic, organization of the Valley Council Task Force was the inevitable response to the new arrivals. Not quite to the torch-and-pitchfork wielding stage, but that was not entirely out of the question. Signs proclaiming “Dragons begone”, “Rid the Valley of Dragons” had begun appearing in shop windows, on the sides of wagons, and even buttons being worn on coat lapels! And the church sermons...frenzied, striking terror into every heart, every service unusually well-attended.

The stunned Valley folk soon discovered how much dragons eat - and how often. They tore down the fence of a pig pen and feasted on a sow and her entire litter of fat piglets. They devoured all the fish in a garden pond. Dogs and cats gone missing. A cornfield now an ugly expanse of jagged stumps. No fire-breathing...yet. No people eaten, though one venerable elderly lady was frightened to death when she encountered two dragons while taking her morning constitutional. It was deemed a heart attack, but that was counted as a dragon-related casualty.

The Action Committee often discussed the matter of the suspected intelligence of dragons. Groups of them had been observed gathered in apparent conversation, or whatever it is dragons are doing when they put their magnificent heads together to rumble, hiss, grunt and clack their giant jaws at each other; taking turns while the other dragons seem to listen respectfully.

So what if they were smart? So what if an adult dragon was seen “lecturing” a group of younger, smaller dragons, for all the world like a teacher in a school room? Who cares how bright they are? Let them go be smart (and hungry) somewhere else. Get rid of them, whatever it takes.

Did anyone wonder where the dragons had come from, or why they had chosen to relocate to the Valley? That just didn't seem important at the time. Oh, but it would prove to be a very critical line of inquiry indeed, when it was almost too late.

Humans, as a group, have a sad and violent history of not being able to grasp “peaceful coexistence” with any creature that cannot be domesticated, controlled, and profited from, including other humans. Conflict is the default response. Submit or be crushed.

Individual humans, however, have, on occasion, been known to show great compassion and willingness to help. Bruno Tuck was one such individual, with depths of a rare character to be revealed by extraordinary events.

Wiry, thoughtful, unremarkable young Bruno was about to become quite a notable figure in the Valley, to the wonderment and/or dismay of all who knew him (though few knew him very well). He kept to himself, on his small, fertile farm located a good number of miles beyond the village, at the edge of the forested wetlands, close to the river Chynowyth.

When Bruno came upon a small dragonling in the garden, caught in the netting designed to keep hungry wildlife out of the vegetables, he stopped short. He stared. He remained very still and quiet, not wanting to cause the young, though slightly dangerous looking, beast further distress.Bruno's heart was galloping quite as fast as the struggling captive's, and he wanted to observe, and think. Think what to do...

Eventually, Bruno took a deep breath, and started working his way slowly closer to the unfortunate baby dragon, speaking in hushed, gentle tones.

“There, there. You're going to be alright. I won't hurt you. I just want to help you.” he crooned, adding similar words of comfort.

Whether due to exhaustion, or the sound of Bruno's calming voice, or perhaps sensing no threat from the cautious human, the little creature became still and watchful. Bruno saw that one of its sharply clawed feet was twisted painfully beneath it, maybe broken, and that one wing was cruelly bent by the netting. He sighed and shook his head sadly.

An injured creature...needing help...not so different from that crow with the broken wing Bruno had nursed back to health, who was now perched on the fence nearby watching the drama unfold. Blackie, who slept on Bruno's bedpost every night. He remembered that black Rat Snake that had been badly cut by the garden hoe, and curled up in a box while Bruno tended its injury until it was well enough to go back outside. Bruno had often seen the snake with a scar on its back, helpfully keeping rats out of the grain bin in the barn. He called the snake Scaley.

Bruno never could turn his back on a creature in need - even that bumblebee drowning in the birdbath...a stick offered for it to climb on and dry off and fly back to the flower garden. Very important for pollination, those bees are, and harmless if you don't bother them. And after that, whenever Bruno was picking flowers to bring into the house, the buzzing swarms of bees never presented the slightest threat to him. He'd never been stung – no, not once! Perhaps Buzzy had put in a good word for him. And the long list – Chirpy the robin, Lizzie the lizard, Foxy, Furrball, Scamper the squirrel – all had reason to appreciate Bruno's tender heart and skillful healing touch.

And so it was that, about an hour later, Bruno was carrying a blanket-wrapped bundle, one shining clawed foot hanging, and a whip-like tail dragging, trailing shreds of cut netting, onto the shady covered porch of his cottage. He gently lowered the calf-sized creature into a large wooden crate that, last year, had been the temporary home of a little pup Bruno had found shivering out by the shed at the far end of the cornfield. Now a big yellow hound, Corny (Bruno favored the most obvious names for his animal friends) lay draped over the comfy chair on the porch, snoring, totally disinterested in whatever it was the man was bringing home this time. Bruno went to a water bucket and washed his hands and arms, which bore more than a few scratches and one bite mark, despite thick leather gloves. Rescuing a trapped dragon does have its little price to be paid.

Pushing Corny off the comfy chair, Bruno sat down to, once again, observe and think. Corny thumped down on the porch boards with a sigh and a little puff of dust, to resume his nap. Presently, Bruno donned the thick gloves again and cautiously set a bowl of water in the crate..

“There, you must be so thirsty after your terrible ordeal.” he said in his soft, soothing voice.

He went back to his chair, cheered by the sounds of quiet splashing and drinking which soon came from the crate. Thinking, thinking.

One thought that came to him was that he might want to keep the rescued dragon baby a sort of secret from anyone in the Valley, seeing as the Action Committee was really only interested in driving out the dragons, or otherwise eradicating them. Bruno shuddered at the thought of what the Committee would say if they knew he had saved a dragon, instead of taking an ax to it or drowning it, or poisoning it, or something equally horrible. So...yes, a secret.

Evening settled over the little farm in the Valley. Fireflies flashed their coded greeting to the humid night. Little bats flittered low to snatch in midair, what was for them, breakfast. Bruno went to bed. Tomorrow, he thought, I'll figure this all out.