Steven George & The Dragon
The Prophet of Doom
IN THE MORNING, Steven helped load the raft with melons, and then asked how he could get across. The melon farmer showed him how to build a raft like his own. When it was finished, it was obvious that the raft was much too big for Steven’s meager belongings, so the melon farmer suggested that they load Steven’s raft with melons as well. When they were finished, two rafts were loaded with melons and ready to cross the river with Steven’s belongings wedged into a tiny corner of one raft. The farmer looked at the load with satisfaction and announced that they would cross the river the next morning.
The day’s work done and a meal in their stomachs, the farmer turned to Steven for the story of his hat. Now Steven was an honest man, but having heard the wonderful story about the obstructive bridge made him feel as though the story of making his hat was small by comparison. It needed to be much more important to be a good story. So, Steven cleared his throat and began in his best story-telling voice.
ONCE UPON A TIME, long ago but not so very far away, there was a peaceful little village that knew little of the world outside its cluster of huts and the meeting hall where they gathered for festivals and councils. The village had occupied this little spit of land for as long as any could remember. They supplied their own needs and fed themselves from their gardens and herds of sheep. The only people they saw from outside their village were those from the mountain village who joined them once each year for an autumn feast, where the young could dance, and seek marriage partners for the long winter months ahead.
No one else had come to the village in the memory of any of the elders. There were no roads that led from the village, only trails that led to the hunting, grazing, and planting lands that surrounded it. They were a happy people with no other particular cares.
One day there was a great stir in the village as a child had seen, from far off, a stranger walking through the fields. He was dressed in a foreign fashion with long black robes and a hat that defied description. By the time the stranger approached the village, all of the people had gathered at the council house. The stranger walked silently between the standing people making his way to the step where the village elder, the shaman, the wise woman, and the hunter stood waiting for him. The stranger stopped before them and raised a bony finger, shaking it in the face of the elder.
“You and all your people have been marked for eternal suffering by the dragon who sits in judgment over all mankind,” the stark figure intoned. “Repent, therefore, and worship the one who judges you.”
Well, that created quite a stir among the people. They had never heard of this dragon and had lived in peace all their lives. But the elder was a just and wise man. He, interpreting the shaking finger of the missionary as a greeting from this foreign person, stretched out his own bony finger at the stranger and intoned his own greeting.
“You will suffer a feast with the people this very day and will tell us the story that has brought you to our step. Bathe therefore in the river and present yourself at this step at sundown to trade stories with the people.”
The missionary had apparently heard every kind of invitation and threat before so he puffed himself up and raised his voice.
“I will be at this step when the sun touches the mountains. Let every man, woman, and child ready themselves to hear of their doom and to eat the fruits that have been placed before them.” With that, the missionary silently departed and went to the river to wash. The village made immediate preparations for a feast and to greet the strange guest as the elder instructed. This feast—for all it was short notice—was as bountiful as the annual two-village festival. Everyone was gathered together at the council house by the time the sun touched the mountain and the aromas of baked goods and roast fowl filled the air.
In the sun’s last gleams, the stranger once again approached, and his incredible hat seemed to catch and hold the fire of the sun as he strode boldly among the people to the steps where the elder, wise woman, hunter, and shaman awaited him. They escorted him inside the council house, seated him at the table among them, and feasted.
During the course of the dinner, the shaman remarked on the missionary’s unusual hat. That started the storytelling without so much as a ‘once upon a time.’
“This hat,” started the visitor, “is the badge of my office—an emissary from on high bringing the story of doom to all people. It is made of the feathers of the serpent and the skin of the hawk. This is the nature of the dragon. The dragon swoops down upon the unsuspecting and devours them in his fire. And that is the fate of this village. The dragon waits on his mountain for the day when you least expect it—the day when you feast in your homes and say what good lives you have. On that day, the dragon will come. All that you have will be as nothing. You will seek refuge but none will protect you. All your wisdom and all your lore will not help you. You will be as grass before the flames and tinder in the firebox.”
“That is a good story,” said the elder. “You are very exciting. And this hat protects you from the fierce wrath of the dragon?”
“The feathers are proof against fire and the skin against water. The wearer of this hat stands unafraid before the dragon,” he said.
The missionary went on for a long time, but soon the people tired of his doom and gloom, for he gave no one else a chance to tell a story. They retired to their homes and the prophet was given a place to sleep in the council house. But long after the people had found their beds and the missionary slept, the elder, the shaman, the hunter, and the wise woman met together and walked by the river.
“It is all a lie,” said the wise woman, “an exciting once upon a time. Even he does not believe what he says, but has said it so many times that he can’t imagine otherwise.”
“There may be a dragon,” said the shaman. “I have heard of such in my lore and craft. Such a mindless creature could damage us like the stranger says.”
“So, are we to simply send him on his way and trust that we are safe?” asked the elder. “His stories give no hope and no alternative to the utter destruction of the village. If people came to believe this, they might become desperate, leave the fields for fear, and sow the seeds of our own destruction.”
“There is the problem,” said the wise woman. “It is not whether the story is true, but whether the people believe it. We must either be sure that the people do not believe him or offer some protection and hope against his prophecy.”
“Or both,” said the shaman. “Let us make sure people do not believe, but hold a talisman against the threat.”
And so, they laid their plans. Little did they know that the prophet was busy helping them. When they arrived back at the council house to confront the missionary about his story early in the morning, they found the youngest daughter of the village elder wrapped in his arms, sated in lovemaking. They immediately drove the missionary out of the village amidst a clamor from the people for the rape of one of its daughters. He protested that the girl had come to him, but the elder and the wise woman shouted down his protests and denounced him as a liar and thief. The people picked up stones to pelt the man has he ran from the village.
The village hunter waited at the outskirts of the village and as the ragged visitor ran, the hunter took careful aim and shot the hat off his head. The missionary was too panicked to return for his precious possession and ran into the woods, never to be heard from again.
For many years the hat was kept in the council house of the village on display and in every generation a dragonslayer has been raised against the day that the dragon might come against the village to fulfill the prophecy. If it proved to be true, then one day the village would give the hat to their dragonslayer. He would face the dragon and the hat would protect him from harm. For if the dragonslayer is protected by the same feathers and skin as the dragon himself, how can he be hurt?
“AND THAT IS THE STORY of this implausible hat?” asked the melon farmer with interest.
“That’s the story, and that’s why I wear this fine feathered hat so proudly,” Steven affirmed.
“There is more truth in this story than you think,” said the older man, surprising Steven. “Tomorrow at first light, we will cross the river.”
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