Dragon Experiment

I lean against my great broad sword in exhaustion till such a tripod is formed that it is more inclined to a milk maids stool than a work of inspiring masonry.  I am surrounded by my art. A fetid piece of work where the stinking bodies seem to be melting under this blistering sun into a mass not so unlike fish heads and the gelatins that surround their decay.  It will be more than a year before a person will be able to stand this ground for its odors by then nothing but tall grasses will tell something strange and perhaps wonderful occurred in this orchard.

It appears a great work I’ve done, though much, like a magician who travels to a place unaware of his tricks, is illustrious illusion.  But I am done now.  I am the last of my kind and those that died this day were the last of their kind.  So like the confession only permitted at extreme unction, I will breath the final word on my exploits and those I have killed.   My gold for this day will more than accommodate my aged needs and pay for my resting place as no pension or endowment is for my kind.  So illusion no more: I am the last Dragon-slayer.

All will become manifest, but the tale is fraught with clouds as is to be expected when bucking common knowledge.  And as should be presumed common knowledge is common.  It is seldom true, unlikely to be wise, and never graceful.  It is a braying donkey, noisy and stubborn and so, so, difficult to lead down the path and so like the old wives who use it and nothing like the great and rare Andalusian stallion, truth and honor.

Few know the dragon.  It was an anachronistic beast before Herodotus wandered the world, even before Persius defined conquest.  As strange as the hoary northern muskoxen and as wily as the hairy men and never terribly numerous, it infrequently came in sight of man but always when seen brought fear and dread.  It is no surprise Zarathustra chose it as the symbol of Satan or in my understanding our godless eastern brethren worshiped it.

But truth be told, what is this beast?  The dragon is a large animal, very long and lanky, perhaps on average a perch or so in length.  The body hasn’t much girth nor weight comparatively.  A usual dragon will be 30 stone, 35 at best, matched to my Belgian at 85 stone or an ox at nearly the same it is relatively small.  But the measure of a dragon is not its heft but its attitude.  When a dragon rears for all the powers of the mind one can’t but feel they have arrived at the gates of Hell itself.  Not so unlike the tiny wife who exhales her wrath and appears to tower over her cowering husband no matter he be the town smith.

Now the dragon appears to be the conjunction of the salamander or newt and the serpent but where these animals are of enormity.  And despite what is lore; the dragon has no wings, though these colorful appendages do appear to be leathery wings.  I say this in that I have never seen a dragon fly even though I have slain a thousand or more and these wings are only evident when the dragon rears or is mating.

More surprising the dragon does not breath fire and does not have fangs.  Rather the fangs are glands of a sort from which a sputum or spittle of bile and blood is spewed.  This yellow and red exudation is so caustic that irons and mail and armor of that kind corrodes and the skin and shirts under the armor where penetrated at crack or seam will blister and blacken not unlike a burn.  Thus when a peasant would come upon a knight who foolishly thought he was a dragon-slayer, the body would appear to have been roasted.  To further the appearance of fire breath to the uninitiated, the process of projecting this vile substance looks as if to make the dragon belch, on a cool day this after-breath seems as a small cloud or steam. Though it seem gallons of this substance are produced it is probably no more than a bull or stallion would emit to mate and equally as viscous.

So much is appearances.  I ride into the town or castle dressed in the finest polished armor to meet the prince or delegation who has hired me to rid them of the beasts.  My battle horse is gigantic, nearly 19 hands with feet the size of serving platters.  I carry a great lance.  But all that is for the benefit of my patrons, none is used to kill dragons.  The images of St. George are pure fantasy.

For as fearsome as the dragon seems he is, or was, as I have slain the last, actually almost harmless.  His diet is Pomona’s table; fruits, nuts and berries.  He is particularly fond of the olive and date and will not eat flesh and meats.  He is cold blooded and sluggish in the morning and easily over heats in summer sun. And contrary to teaching, he has no offensive mood and will not attack nor has the capacity to attack.  Even his claws which look deadly are more similar to those of a newt and only useful for hooking branches to get his victuals.  With only a defensive posture, no matter how foreboding, no trained dragon-slayer need fear.

The work is far from glorious.  It is hot, stinking, dirty and disgusting.  It seems weeks and vats of perfumes and salts before the slayer can stand himself and longer before he dares be public.

How does the slayer proceed?  Well first I always collect my pays in advance.  I arrive in full regatta to impress my audience who of course hold me in awe and esteem.  But this initial encounter with my hosts is my last.  There are two reasons.  The first is the secrecy of my business which as I have intimated is not glorious.  The second is the smelly business which makes the slayer beyond objectionable.  I suspect if the oils and greases would not turn things would not be so bad, but alas, it is the nature of the occupation.

After partying and taking whatever pleasures and company the principality may offer I leave to set camp.  Usually this is a dozen rods from the beasts which is near enough to walk in my very special dragon killing armor and far enough not to upset the habituations.  Always I set camp near a brook or spring.  My horse I hobble and I set two tents.  One is for the public me that houses my clothing and armor, foods and stores and two beds one before the work one after.  The other is my private self, which has a large Italian bath pre-filled, soaps and salts, and awaiting my return from my efforts.

When all is un-packed and stationed, I pray for endurance and sleep soundly in the before bed.  The dragon slayer prefers to meet the dragon at first light so must arise about two hours before the sun to prepare.  Upon awakening I perform absolutions in a cold brook if possible and immerse my naked body regardless of the temperature.  I then eat heartily as I will not breakfast again for at least one day.  I then begin the hardest part of killing dragons.

As I have said the dragon has only two weapons.  The first is intimidation which is harmless to the aware.  The second, its spit, is beyond vile and indeed harmful and dangerous but can be fended off by preparation.  To get ready I first coat my entire body with rendered pork fat from head hair to sole in thick waves of grease.  Sadly though casked the fats have usually gone rancid.  I then begin to don my armor.  This armor is made of thick and finely stitched sheep skins.  The wooly is worn to the inside and the outside sealed with fat.  The first part are tall boots that reach the top of the thigh and are held in place by a leather brace about the neck.  Then I will glove my hands and arms with gauntlets that reach my shoulders again held by a leather brace about the neck.  Next, a long shirt of the same heavy hide and that covers the ankles, and finally, I put on the helm which is an amazing piece of invention.  The helm is fixed by straps beneath the arm and extending well over the shoulders.  A length of beef gut makes a reed to breath through and a polished and greased till nearly transparent sheep stomach has been stitched to make a window.  My visage must look as an animated still born oxen with cowling intact stumbling across the meadow.

I shoulder my sword and enter the orchard as the sun rises.  The dragons are barely able to assume that position that should frighten any attacker.  But this rearing only leaves them exposed for a quick slicing of their vital organs. They die horribly spitting their bile and writhing in contorted pain.  By mid-day I have accomplished my gruesome task.

It’s true a great melancholy has befallen me.  I burn my hideous armory.  There will be no further use for it.  The stench is retching from the smoke and from the slaughter grounds and from my own self of rancid bacon and sheep fat.  I bathe in the brook scrubbing my skin raw with coarse sands and lye soap but the stain of this sin will remain for sometime.