Taking a dragon by the tail

Once upon a time there lived a little girl.

No, wait a minute. That makes it sound like this is going to be just any old fairy tale. But it isn’t, is it?

Let’s start again.

In all of us there lives a child. A child who doesn’t obey the rules just because the rules are there, a child who knows the difference between right and wrong. A child who says no to grownups who don’t know the difference.

This is the story of one such child.

This child lived with her grandfather in a tiny village on the edge of a very steep and rocky mountain. The houses in the village were made from rocks and mud, and looked as if they were clinging on to the sides of the mountain and could fall at any moment, but in fact they had been there for hundreds, if not thousands of years.

The people of the village lived a simple life. They kept goats for milk and for meat, and the goats loved to spring and leap across the rocky face of the mountain, as easily and as gracefully as if they were ballerinas on a stage. The little girl took care of her grandfather’s goats, and she loved the goats more than she could imagine loving any other living thing. When she was with the goats her eyes would shine with the love she felt, watching them gambolling about on the mountainside, and you know what? Those goats loved her right back.

But the little girl’s life was far from a happy one. The people of the village had once been happy, but it had been a long, long time since anyone had laughed, or even smiled. It was as if a dark curtain had been pulled across their lives, for a mighty, terrifying beast had come to live on their mountain, and for far too many years had been feeding on the happiness of the villagers.

Some called it a dragon. Some claimed to have seen it flying in the dark, its awful shape silhouetted against the silver moon as it wheeled across the sky, lighting the night with its fiery breath. Others said it had claws as sharp and as strong as a Turkish scimitar and that it could rip a man open with the slightest flick of its toes. Its emerald-green scales were the size of the metal gong that was used to warn villagers that the beast had been seen and to run for their lives, back to the safety of their homes.

It was said that the beast lived in a cavern near the top of the mountain, that inside the cave it was damp and cold, and that the walls of the cave were covered in the greenest of moss and the greenest of lichen, so that once inside its lair the great green dragon would be hidden from sight, melting into the green of the walls with only the glint of its teeth or claws giving away its presence.

The villagers were very, very afraid of the beast, so much so that they would try to not even look up that way in case the beast saw them and came to steal even more of their happiness. The children were told not to leave the village, under any circumstances, and nobody left their homes after sunset.

Our brave and loving little girl, however, did not for one second believe any of this.

“Grandfather,” she would say. “How could a beast, even a great green scaly dragon with fire in its breath and claws that could tear a man to pieces, how could even such a beast steal people’s happiness?”

“Shhh,” her grandfather would say. “Be silent child or the beast will come for us as well!”

The little girl was kind, and didn’t want to make her grandfather afraid. But how could she stay silent?

“But grandfather,” she pleaded. “I feel happy when I’m with the goats. How can that be? If the beast were real, wouldn’t it have stolen my happiness too? Maybe it’s not the beast that’s making everyone so unhappy.”

Her grandfather simply put his fingers to his lips and frowned.

The next day, the little girl decided enough was enough.

She tethered her goats in a safe place near the village, took up her grandfather’s gardening fork and, when she was sure nobody was watching, started off up the mountain.

“I’m ninety-nine percent sure,” she said to herself, “that the great green dragon beast doesn’t exist. But just in case, I’ll take this fork and just as it raises its scaly leg to slice off my head with its great sharp claws, I’ll pierce its heart and win the day. Either way, I’ll free the village from its sadness.”

For our little friend had courage and cleverness and kindness in equal amounts, and she desperately wanted to hear the people of her village laughing again and see their happy smiles.

Up the mountain she scrambled, as fast as she could before she was seen by anyone in the village. Up and up, until finally she reached the entrance to the dragon’s lair. Taking a deep breath, she gripped the fork tightly in both hands and started forward.

Slowly, slowly, she tiptoed inside the cave then stopped to listen. Nothing. No fiery breath, no scraping of shiny claws. In the gloomy half-light she began to poke and prod at the green, mossy walls and floor of the cave with the fork. Nothing. No dragon, no nest, no sign of life at all.

The little girl ran back down the mountain, calling to her grandfather and the other villagers to tell them the news.

The villagers stopped what they were doing and stared at her. “But if there’s no dragon,” they said, “what’s been stealing our happiness?”

The little girl knew, but didn’t say anything. She just smiled, knowing that once more the village could be a happy place.