June

Issue 45

It is well known that the Roman soldier George went down to Silene and slew the dragon with his mighty lance Ascalon. But there is one fact the weavers of song and legend failed to record: the dragon, Stihdjia, spoke, whispering words that almost made the sainted warrior falter from his course. Furthermore, who now recalls that the serpent breathed fire into George’s eyes? Hark now, and hear what George saw in that fire, and know why he left the carcass of his foe with a heavy heart!  

When he found the serpent sunning itself by the spring where people feared to drink, George made the sign of the cross. Contrary to popular lore, this did no harm to the dragon.

One lid rose lazily, revealing an emerald eye slit like a cat’s. Observing the soldier dispassionately, Stihdjia said in a voice that rose from its belly like water churning over pebbles, “I have heard tell of the Christ man. He is no enemy of mine.”

“He is the enemy of all godless serpents,” George replied, reining in his horse. “Armed with Ascalon, I will send you back to Hell from whence you came.”

“This Christ preached peace, did he not? His followers now name their weapons. I have never been in Hell. Like you, I came from the Maker’s hand.”

“As do all things,” George countered, readying his lance, “but, like Lucifer, Angel of Light, some have fallen into corruption.”

To which the dragon replied, “That fallen angel is your stepsire, not mine.”

“You seek to plant confusing lies in my head,” George spat. “You, offspring of the Great Beast, have made meals of how many virgins?”

“None.”

“None?! Then where are all the young women of the impoverished village from which I just came, where men cower in fear and mothers weep for their lost daughters?”

The dragon flicked its slender tail and its long jaws opened, crocodile-like, in something like a toothy grin. “I burned the scales from their eyes. They dwell now in the glade beyond this lake, if you would go there and find them. After they saw the truth in my flame, they chose not to return to those who thought to sacrifice them and send them to their deaths. What a surprise.”

“So that is your trick?!” the brave saint cried. “Send me to an empty glade, and when I return you will have slipped away from your judgment! I say thee nay!”

And with a hoarse war cry, he charged the dragon.

Though more massive than a horse, the serpent was quick. It reared up, unfolding its vestigial wings and displaying its scimitar claws. It was an awful wonder to behold—each scale caught the sunlight like a prism, so that the dragon appeared clothed in rainbow, a rainbow made flesh.

George tamped down the fear in his heart and urged his horse on. Ascalon hit its mark, parting scales, biting deep into dragon flesh.

That is when Stihdjia belched forth a last wisp of flame, which lingered a moment in George’s eyes.

“Blessed Savior,” the soldier muttered as he peered through the fire. “I see stars without number rushing, clouds made of stars unfolding, the universe unfurling!”

In flashes too quick for his conscious mind to comprehend, he observed living things too small for the eye to see. He saw mystery and wonder in every leaf and stone. He saw the marvelous architecture in the feather of a sparrow’s wing.

But as the dragon toppled back into the stream, its blood dyeing the water crimson, the visions grew dark. He saw woods that had grown in abundance—towering poplars, mighty cedars—felled by men. He saw a blue sky blotted out by clouds of sooty smoke. He saw rivers run black, their shores milled by rotting carcasses of fish and fowl. Then the visions faded, and he was blinking in the sun, staring down at his enemy. The lance was broken in his hand, its tip buried deep in the serpent’s chest.
    
As its lifeblood ebbed, the dragon spoke again, its words raspy and shallow, barely comprehensible. It seemed not to be addressing George, but some unseen, unknown observer.

“Why did you entrust your treasures to stewards like this? He thinks you are a king on a throne in the sky. He does not see you, does not hear you, in every plant you call up, in each drop of rain you let fall. Your choice is as unfathomable as a man leaving his house to vandals. But, oh, the vandals are your daughters and sons!”