The syllabus claims that there's a journal/blog entry due this week, even though there isn't. This gives me the urge to write a long-winded, deeply emotional post. Sadly, I'm not in a deeply emotional mood, so instead I'll tell a story about a dragon.
Many years ago, in the Far North, there lived a dragon. His name was Fwoosh. He lived near the village of Oort, and from time to time he stole a sheep if other prey was scarce.
Practically everyone knows that dragons can breathe fire. What people have forgotten is that, if a dragon gets too cold, the fire in his belly gets smaller and smaller, and he'll get slower and slower and sicker and sicker. If he can't get warm again, the fire will go out and the dragon will die.
The villagers of Oort knew this, of course, because it was written quite plainly in the book on dragons that was kept in the big bookchest in the corner of the meeting hall.
The villagers never really trusted Fwoosh, although he never harmed a person. The farmers hated him for stealing their sheep, and he'd set fire to a house once when he'd gotten too excited chasing a particularly agile ram.
So, when young Artee found him crumpled in a ball against the side of a barn, there was plenty of commotion. They'd all gathered up in the square, and with lanterns and pitchforks and the odd rusty sword, they'd timidly marched over to investigate. It was plain right away that his fire was weak-- his scales didn't glimmer, and they'd changed from bright reddish to a deep maroon, almost black. When they made noise he'd open his eyes, but they'd droop closed again. He hardly moved at all.
Well, the villagers all marched back to the meeting hall to decide what to do. The farmers wanted to leave him to die, or better yet, kill him. But a cold dragon is a pitiful thing, even more than a squirrel on a wet snowy day. Crumpled against the barn, Fwoosh looked scarcely bigger than a sheep. His wings, wrapped sloppily around him, looked spindly and weak. Every time he opened his eyes, they seemed to shine a little less. Even some of the farmers felt a little sad.
The villagers all voted, and shouted, and hemmed and hawwed, and voted again, and shouted some more. Nobody noticed when Artee climbed up on the table, until he shouted and stomped and hollered and clapped his hands all at once. Once he'd gotten their attention, he said, in a matter-of-fact way, that he'd found the dragon, and he wanted to help it, and if anyone wanted to hurt it they'd have to fight him first.
Now Artee was normally a quiet lad, and certainly not a fighter. He wouldn't have been hard to best in a fight, only noone wanted to be the one that did it. The farmers grumbled and mumbled to themselves, but they didn't step forward. Many of the villagers had wanted someone to help the dragon, but hadn't wanted to get too close to it. So in the end, Artee got his way.
He found a tarpaulin and dragged it over Fwoosh as well as he could, staying out of reach of his head (you never can tell with dragons). He brought a pile of firewood and made a big, hot fire as close as he dared. Then he went and pleaded with the butcher until he gave him a big pile of scraps.
Artee put the scraps in one bucket, and filled another one with water, which he heated over the fire. He placed these as close as he dared to Fwoosh's mouth, and darted back.
The whole time, Fwoosh never moved. Gradually, though, his scales seemed to catch some of the fire's light and shine it back. His eyes flickered open. After an hour or so he started gulping down bits of meat and mouthfuls of water.
Artee sat, watching the dragon, huddled in a blanket on the other side of the fire. Once it showed signs of improvement he began to relax, and soon fell asleep. When he awoke the next morning, the dragon was gone. He jumped up, and something fell to the ground from his lap. Picking it up, he recognized it instantly-- one of Fwoosh's claws, hard and sharp, warm to the touch and burning with a hot red light.
Fwoosh never came back to visit Artee. But the villagers' sheep stopped disappearing, and every so often someone would a wolf that looked dragon-killed. Fwoosh had never done that before.
Artee found that the dragon claw seemed to warm him a little, especially on the coldest days. Every so often he could feel it pulse, and if he looked up he could see a glint of red high in the sky. He put it on a cord around his neck, and though he's old now, he wears it still. Ever so often he glances up at the sky. Sometimes I follow his gaze, but I always seem to be a moment too late to see the dragon, if indeed it's there.
