The Girl and the Saint

“There weren’t always dragons in the valley, you know,” Mabel began, her voice low and filled with a storytellers depth, “they used to keep to the mountains, where they hoarded their gold in caves, and killed any unlucky sheep or goat that might stray from the flock. That’s why Granny only has cows. They’re too heavy for the dragons to carry off.”

“Granny in the valley? Are there dragons in her valley?” John asked, alarmed.

“Of course there are. There are plenty of them. But like I said, there weren’t always dragons in the valley.”

“Why did they leave the mountains?” Patrick asked, removing his thumb from his mouth for only as long as it took to ask his question. Beside him in matching striped pyjamas, John gazed up at her with an identical questioning look.

“Well,” she began slowly, dramatically, “one day, a small boy, who should have known better, ran away from home. He wanted to find a dragon’s hoard and steal enough gold to make him rich forever, so he wouldn’t have to do his chores.”

“I don’t want to do my chores,” John interjected, but Mabel carried on, ignoring her brother.

“So he ran away from home and into the mountains to find the gold. But when he finally found the hoard, there wasn’t one dragon guarding it, there were seven, all of them huge, with teeth like carving knives. They were having their annual general meeting, you see,” she explained.

“Dragons don’t have meetings!” the boys cried, overjoyed to have found a hole in her story.

“And how would you know what dragons do and do not do,” she chastised, “as I was saying, they were having their annual general meeting, and though the boy couldn’t understand what they were discussing, he could see that they were very angry.”

“What were the dragons saying?” Patrick asked anxiously.

“They were discussing the fact that there wasn’t enough for them to eat in the mountains. They’d eaten all the sheep and goats nearby and they were getting hungry. Anyway, the boy crept past the dragons and into the cave, where he found fabulous riches, more than he could ever carry away. He stuffed his pockets with all of the coins he could carry, and he put chains and necklaces around his neck and a crown on his head, and then he crept back out of the cave. He’d almost made it the whole way out when he slipped in the dark and the crown came tumbling from his head. It crashed to the ground so loudly that all of the dragons heard it and turned on him, smoke billowing from their nostrils,” she said, and was gratified by their twin exclamations of joy in her storytelling. They gazed up at her with wide eyes, and she was glad for a moment to distract them from the horrors of their current reality.

“The boy ran as fast as his legs could carry him, but it was too late, the dragons had seen him. They packed away their ledgers and the minutes from the meetings –”

“Dragons don’t have ledgers,” John shouted, his wide smile displaying three missing teeth.

“Well it’s my story and my dragons do have ledgers,” she argued, somewhat childishly, “how else are they supposed to keep track of all of their treasure?”

“Hmph,” was all the reply she got from her brother, who crossed his arms but didn’t argue further.

“As I was saying, they packed up their ledgers and took off after him. He was a very fast runner.”

“Like me?” Patrick asked.

“Yes, fast like you,” she agreed, “he ran as fast as he could go, and he was dropping treasures as he went, throwing them onto the ground behind him so he could go faster. But the dragons could fly, and they were much quicker than he was.”

The boys were so engrossed in the story that they didn’t notice the flash around the edges of the blackout curtains. Mabel noticed, but she didn’t let her pasted-on smile falter.

“But then they saw the treasure. Everything that the boy had thrown to the ground. All of the coins and jewellery, all of the heavy gold necklaces. And if there’s one thing a dragon can’t resist, it’s treasure. They all swooped down from the sky, onto the treasure, greedily scrabbling for it, fighting each other for the best bits. And the boy got away.”

The ack ack ack of anti-aircraft guns filled their ears and there was nothing that Mabel could do to distract them from it. John flung himself forward into her arms and Patrick stared at the door in horror.

“Alright, I think it’s time,” she said, her voice just a little bit shaky.

“Mother said that we had to stay here until she got back,” Patrick protested, eyes still on the door as though he was expecting her to burst through at any moment and berate them for not having their teeth brushed.

“I know, but I really think we ought to go. Come on, get your coats on, she said. She unfolded herself from under the kitchen table where they’d been having story time. She knew that it likely would make no difference in the grand scheme of things, but there was something comforting about having the solid oak table above them that made it feel as though the bombs couldn’t get through.

She helped her brothers into their coats and pulled her own on. “Where’s mother?” Patrick asked, worry clouding his freckled face.

“I’m sure she’s fine. She probably got caught up in the city and had to stay in one of the shelters there. You know they always get the alarms before we do,” she explained, wishing she could make herself believe her own words. Then, as if to back up her point, the horrible whining of the air raid siren split the air, filling her ears until she was unable to think about anything else.

“Right, John, put your shoes on please,” she instructed on autopilot, taking on the role her mother usually filled, “Pat, have you got Mister Pelican?”

Patrick held up a raggedy teddy bear with only one eye.

She held the door open and the boys went ahead of her, knowing where to go. They sprinted through the wet grass and down the muddy steps into the Anderson shelter. She knew that they were lucky to have their own shelter in the garden, not having to share with anybody else, but right at this moment she longed for the comfort of the masses who crowded into the inner-city shelters.

She lit the kerosene lantern and the little shelter was flooded with light. Really, it wasn’t much more than a large underground closet, with a makeshift camp bed in one corner, where her brothers would usually sleep, piled together. There was a tiny folding table, on which sat the lantern, a box of biscuits, and a pack of playing cards. Back when Father had shared the shelter with them, there had also been an ashtray on the table, but Mother had removed it when it became clear that Father would not be requiring his place in the shelter any longer.

They sat in a shivering silence for a few minutes, just listening, but there was nothing to hear other than the sound of the air raid siren and the occasional burst of far-off gunfire.

“Mabel, what happened to the boy?” John asked, looking up at her with big eyes.

“Which boy?” she asked absentmindedly.

“The boy in the story, the one who stole from the dragons.”

“Oh, that boy,” she said, trying to re-orientate her brain back into storytelling mode.

“Well, the boy made it home, and he sneaked into his bed and hid under the covers. The dragons didn’t catch him,” she said, pausing at the slightly crestfallen expressions on her brothers’ faces, “but what you might be forgetting is that when he interrupted the dragons, they’d been having their meeting. And they’d taken a tally of all of their gold and treasure. So, when they got back to the cave and counted up how much treasure they had, they noticed that there was a coin missing.”

“Where was it?” Patrick asked, clinging tightly to Mister Pelican.

“It was in the very bottom of the boy’s pocket. He missed it when he was throwing all the treasure away. And when the dragons realised that there was a coin missing, they set out to find it.”

“Really? One coin?” John asked incredulously.

“Remember what I told you,” she said sternly, “if there is one thing a dragon can’t resist, it’s treasure. The gold calls to them, and it called them all the way down from their mountain, right to the farm on the edge of the village where the boy lived. They swooped down on their leathery wings, searching for the missing coin. And when they found the boy.

“What did he do?” Patrick asked.

“He knew that they wanted the treasure, so he pulled the coin from his pocket and threw it to them. But it was too late. The dragons took the coin, but they’d worked up quite the appetite flying the whole way down from their mountain. So,” she paused for dramatic effect, “they gobbled him down in one bite!”

“They ate him?” John asked, horrified.

“They ate him all up. And then the dragons, who, like I told you, had never ventured down from their mountains, realised just how delicious little boys were. They’d lived all these years only eating mutton and goat, old and tough as a leather boot. But the little boy was so delicious that they decided that from then on, they would only eat little boys.”

“What about little girls?”

“Little girls are far too clever to be eaten by a dragon.”

“I don’t want to get eaten by a dragon,” Patrick said anxiously, “does this mean that we can’t go to visit Granny in the valley? I don’t want to go there anymore if I’m going to get eaten by a dragon.”

“That’s a good question,” she said seriously, “but luckily, there is something you can do to avoid being eaten by a dragon.”

“What?” they both asked eagerly.

“You have to carry a coin with you at all times. Keep it in your pocket. There is nothing that a dragon wants more than treasure, not even delicious little boys. And a dragon will never eat its treasure, so you just have to make sure that you have a coin in your pocket, and that way the dragon won’t want to eat you and risk losing the treasure you carry.

“I don’t have a coin,” John cried, distress plain on his face, “I spent all my pocket money on sherbet lemons.”

“Oh okay,” Mabel said, rolling her eyes with an exaggerated sigh, “I suppose I can give you a coin. But you have to promise to keep it in your pocket at all times. And you can’t spend it on sweets, understand?” she handed him a shiny silver shilling she’d kept in her coat for this moment. He took it solemnly and tucked it into his pocket.

“I don’t have a coin either,” Patrick interrupted, casting Mister Pelican aside and tugging on the hem of her coat. She extracted the second shilling and pressed it into his chubby palm.

“Not for sweets,” she said seriously.

He collected Mister Pelican and climbed into her lap, wrapping his arms around her neck, none too gently. “Can we have another dragon story, please?”

“Please Mabel,” John pleaded, looking up at her from his spot on the floor.

“I don’t know, I think it might be time to try and get some sleep,” she said, knowing it was what her mother would say.

“But I’m not tired,” John demanded.

“Me neither,” Patrick added, but his yawn gave him away as a liar.

“Alright, well, how about this,” she began, “you both climb into bed, and I’ll tell you another story, and you can prove to me that you’re not tired by staying awake all night.”

Patrick scrambled from her lap and he and John cuddled into the nest of blankets and cushions on the camp bed. Just as she was thinking about which story she would tell next, a horrific engine scream sounded from outside the shelter. It seemed as though it’d been right above them, and Mabel held her breath for a moment, waiting for the sickening impact. But none came. Wherever it’d landed, it was far enough away that she hadn’t felt or heard it.

“What was that?” Patrick asked, eyes wide.

“Messerschmitt,” John said confidently, not able to completely hide his fear from his older sister.

“A Messerschmitt?” she asked, taking sudden inspiration, “that wasn’t a Messerschmitt.”

“Yes, it was,” John said, “I think.”

“That, dear brother, was an Appenine Heartstalker, I’m sure of it.”

“A what?”

“Haven’t you heard of them? They’re the Italian Air Force’s newest squadron of battle dragon. From the Appenine mountains. Surely, you’ve heard of them?”

“I have,” Patrick said confidently, desperate to impress his siblings. Mabel gave him a huge smile.

“Are you sure?”

“Didn’t you hear it scream?” Mabel asked, knowing that John would be harder to convince than Patrick.

“I, maybe?”

“And didn’t that scream sound Italian to you?” she insisted.

“I suppose so. Are they deadly?”

“Of course they are, they’re huge. Bigger than a Hurricane, I think. But you don’t have to worry about that one, by the sounds of it, the anti-aircraft guns brought it down.”

“Are there more?” Patrick asked eagerly. Somehow, the idea of dragons out there in the sky was less frightening than the men who came to drop bombs on them night after night, and she would do whatever she could do to lessen her brother’s fear.

“Just listen, can’t you hear them?” she asked, and then cocked an ear skywards to indicate listening.

“I can hear planes,” John said doubtfully.

“Yes, but what else can you hear?” The sky was filled with noise, as it was more often than not. There was the distinctive ack ack ack of the anti-aircraft guns, the high-pitched whining of the sirens, the constant thrum of engines and propellors, and a thousand other noises that didn’t belong to the natural world. It really wasn’t such a stretch to imagine that one could hear the roar of a dragon, amongst all of the other noises.

Screeech –

A horribly familiar noise came from somewhere in the garden.

“Scratch!” Patrick shouted, tossing the blankets off and vaulting from the camp bed. John was only half a step behind him. Mabel leapt up and stood firmly in front of the door, but her little brothers still did their best to get past her.

“It’s Scratch. We have to go and get her,” John pleaded.

“You don’t know that it’s Scratch,” she argued, but even she didn’t believe what she was saying. Scratch had gone missing a few days ago, and she hated to think of the family cat, who would usually come to the shelter with them, out there in the night, cold and terrified.

“Its her,” Patrick insisted, determination in his voice as he tried in vain to push her out of the way.

“Let me past, I’m going to find her,” John said, joining Patrick, and shoving Mabel somewhat violently.

“You can’t go out there,” Mabel insisted, standing her ground. But they argued back until all of them were shouting over one another.

“We can’t leave her,” Patrick cried, at the same time as another distressed screech came from the garden. The boys renewed their scrabbling at the door, desperate to get out.

“I said no,” Mabel finally shouted, putting on her adult voice, a voice that sounded foreign, even to her own ears. Her brothers both looked up at her in shock. She never shouted at them, not even when they dunked their biscuits in her tea, or left crumbs in her books.

“Mother is not here, and that makes me the boss. And I said no,” she thundered, “the two of you will stay right here. If anybody is going out there, it’ll be me. Understand?”

Two extremely chastised faces met her gaze and slowly, they nodded.

“I’ll go and find Scratch, alright. But I need you both to promise me that you will not come out,” she gritted her teeth, unable to believe that she was about to leave them. Mother would skin her.

“Promise?”

“I promise,” John mumbled. Patrick nodded.

She grabbed the flashlight and lit it once more.

“Take Mister Pelican with you, he’ll keep you safe,” Patrick said, thrusting the bear at her.

“No, he needs to stay here with you, to keep you safe. I can only go out there if I know that you’re both going to be safe. Okay?”

Patrick nodded and drew Mister Pelican back to him. His thumb went back into his mouth and any argument completely went out of him. She gave him a kiss on the top of his blonde curls. Then she forced John into a hug that he didn’t try to squirm out of. And then she opened the corrugated iron shelter door and stepped out into the night.

The moon was out. A bombers moon, they called it. So bright it’d light up the Thames like a silvery snake, wandering lazily through the city centre, providing a perfect map to the east end, where the majority of the bombing was concentrated. She usually felt nothing but pity for those in the industrial parts of the city, but tonight there was a horrible and selfish part of her that was glad that it was somebody else and not her.

Yooowwwl –

A cry came from the Smythe’s cabbage patch and after checking to make sure that neither of her brothers had followed her into the night, Mabel vaulted over the fence and into the next-door neighbour’s yard. She raced through the meticulously straight lines of cabbages, wondering briefly why on earth any person would ever plant so many of them in the first place. War was one thing, of course, but Mabel thought she would have rather starved than only eaten cabbages for the rest of her days.

Clumps of damp earth stuck to the bottom of her slippers and slowed her down. By the time she’d reached the other side of the cabbage patch, there was no sign of Scratch, and she squinted desperately at her surroundings, wishing she had stayed in the shelter. Cats were resourceful. Scratch would be fine. She was about to turn back when she heard the cry once more, and with a frustrated exhale she took off after him again. Her fear had begun to transform into anger, but the reality of the situation came racing back to her when a bomb landed close-by. Not close enough to be dangerous, of course, but close enough to stop her in her tracks and remind her of where she was. The Smythe’s back gate was mercifully unlocked and she hurried out into the park behind it, where she was sure she’d heard Scratch.

The park open and empty. The flower beds, which had recently been dug up and replanted with potatoes, sat ghostly, abandoned by their usual retinue of land girls. The benches where elderly couples sat and held hands, or where vagrants slept off their hangovers, were unoccupied. The moon felt too bright now. It didn’t give her anywhere to hide from the terrors above. There were a few trees around the edge of the park, but it was autumn and they’d lost their leafy cover. She was completely exposed.

A sharp and sudden pain shot through Mabel’s calf and she screamed. There was something on her leg. Her heart skipped a beat and she had to fight the urge to kick the cat away from her. Heart finally restarting, she reached down and scooped Scratch up into her arms. She was shaking almost as much as Mabel was, and she eagerly climbed her way into the collar of her coat, attempting to bury herself into it.

Mabel took a steadying breath and turned to leave the park, but then she heard it. It was such a distinctive noise. The angry whining cry of a plane coming in. She scanned the night sky in horror, but she wasn’t able to spot it, not immediately. It was so low that she wasn’t able to see anything until a flicker of light, flames maybe, appeared, low on the horizon. But it was growing larger as the plane got closer. She wanted to leave but found that her legs had completely turned to jelly, cementing her to the spot.

The plane was coming down. That much was obvious. There were flames on the tail, flickering and growing. It was dangerously close to the tops of the houses on her street, and she watched in horror as it skimmed the back fence at number eleven and plowed into the soft earth of the park with a crash that could’ve woken the dead.

In the moonlight she could clearly see the iron cross on the fuselage, but as she stood, rooted to the spot, the flames grew, engulfing the body of the plane. She was about to turn, to run back to the shelter, to try and forget what she’d seen, when a cry came from the plane. It was barely audible over the sound of the growing flames and the constant ack ack ack of the anti-aircraft guns, but it was there. And it was unmistakably human. There might have been an iron cross on the tail, but there was a person in the cockpit, German or not.

But as she reached the burning wreckage, she saw something that made her skin go cold. There in the sky, racing for her, was another aircraft. Perhaps it was from the same squadron as the downed German plane? Perhaps it was an allied aircraft, coming in for the kill? Perhaps it was…

As it drew ever closer, she was able to make out more detail, though her brain seemed unwilling to process what her eyes were seeing. It wasn’t an aircraft. It was a living creature, like an oversized bird of prey. And it was coming right for her.

She turned quickly, frantically, searching for any kind of cover. But the plane had come down in the middle of the park and there was nothing nearby save for a bench and a row of early potato plants.

She ran, losing her slippers as she went. The earth was frozen beneath her bare feet and her skin burned with the cold of it. But still, she ran. She wasn’t fast enough though, and before she’d made it ten feet, the ground shook once more. She glanced back towards the fallen plane, where the giant beast had come in to land. And then she stopped running. She stopped thinking, about anything but the impossible sight before her. It was a dragon.

It was like something out of one of her brother’s story books. It was like something out of the stories she made up to distract them from the air raids. But it wasn’t something she’d made up, not this time. She sank to her knees at the sheer impossibility of what she was seeing.

It was almost as big as the fighter plane it landed beside, with legs as thick as tree trunks and giant leathery wings that folded up neatly onto its spiky back. She couldn’t see what colour it was in the moonlight, but there was a deep and ominous red glow coming from its nostrils, as though there was a fire brewing inside its giant scaly belly.

And there was a man.

He leapt down from the dragon’s back and landed beside it. He was tiny, compared to the beast. He spared her a brief glance before striding purposefully over to the plane. Mabel wanted to warn him. She wanted to shout out, to tell him that it was dangerous. That the flames would soon reach the fuel tank, and then the whole thing would go up like a firework, but she couldn’t find her voice, and she certainly couldn’t get back to her feet. Command of her legs appeared to have completely left her, and she simply sat and watched in utter disbelief as the dragon, for that’s the only thing it could be, sat down, like a dog might, and let out a sigh that sent curls of smoke from its nostrils.

A dragon. It was a dragon. A giant beast for the hero to slay, to save the princess. But this wasn’t a children’s storybook. And she wasn’t a princess in a tall tower. She was a terrified girl in flannelette pyjamas, out in the night where she shouldn’t be.

“Buggeration,” came a soft voice from the crashed plane, and she finally managed to pull her gaze away from the beast. She stared at the man, curiosity overcoming fear, just slightly. He wore a long white tunic with a belt that glinted in the moonlight, and he carried a pike. At least she thought that’s what it was. Perhaps it was a fishing pole, though she didn’t think so.

As she watched, the man drew back the cracked cockpit cover and peered inside. There was a low cry from the inhabitant, but that was quickly silenced when the man in the tunic drew his pike level and plunged it into the pilot’s broken body.

She let out an involuntary scream. The pilot slumped against the laminated glass cockpit cover, dead. The man turned away from the crashed plane, his face utterly devoid of emotion.

He came for her now, and it was all that she could do to get back to her feet, her legs still uncooperative. He held the pike aloft, casually, confidently, as though it’d been nothing for him to kill a man.

“You’re no pilot, are you?” he asked by way of greeting. His voice was pleasant, calm. But the blood of the slain airman glinted on his weapon, and Mabel couldn’t help the wave of revulsion and pure terror that swept through her. She gave her head a little shake in response, the best she could manage in such a situation.

Then, he did something she wasn’t expecting. He offered her his hand, as though he were a gentleman and she was a lady, and they were meeting at some kind of formal event. She simply gazed down at it, thrown by the gesture.

“How can I be of assistance to you, my Lady?” he asked. The question was open-ended, and it was obvious that he expected her to provide her name. She did not.

“I’m fine, just going,” she muttered vaguely, as though nighttime strolls in dragon-infested parks were a usual hobby for a young woman.

“Perhaps I can assist you,” he asked again, “may I help you to return home?”

“No,” she stammered, her heart racing.

“I’m afraid I must insist,” he said softly, “as a gentleman, I simply cannot leave a lady in a situation such as this.”

“Gentleman?” she sputtered, “you’re a murderer.” She wasn’t sure where this newfound confidence had come from, but she was determined that he would not take her home. She would not allow this man and his beast anywhere near her brothers. She could not.

“Oh, him?” the man asked, confused. He gestured behind him to the dead pilot. She nodded emphatically.

“You care for the life of an enemy of these great British Isles?” he asked. His tone was not unkind, but simply baffled.

“He’s a person. You killed a person!” she cried.

“It was a mercy. He wouldn’t have lived. I was simply saving him from a drawn-out death,” he explained, “but, you are aware that he was trying to kill you, or at least, your people?”

“He was just a boy.”

“Well, in that case, I offer you my sincerest apologies. You should never have had to see that. A lady’s sensibilities, I know, are delicate.”

“I’m not delicate,” she stammered, and then immediately wondered why she was even engaging this madman in conversation.

“That remains to be seen. Alas, we must go. I do apologise for any inconvenience though.”

“Inconvenience? You’re a murderer,” she squeaked indignantly.

“I miss the days when maidens would show a bit of gratitude,” he muttered, clearly annoyed now. It would be just her luck, Mabel thought, to annoy somebody into murdering her. She vowed to keep her thoughts to herself for the moment.

“Who are you?” she finally asked, trying to keep her tone even and pleasant.

“Who am I?” he repeated, clearly taken aback by her question. But at the blank look on her face, he finally responded, “oh, you really don’t know who I am. How refreshing. I, my lady, am George of Lydda. Though you may know me as Saint George.”