The last dragon

ALTHOUGH the opponents were so unevenly matched, the fight was an exciting one and not a bit one-sided. Small Peter fought with tiger ferocity and a definite show of assurance, for it had been arranged before hand that Sir Launcelot should win. Galahad had won the Saturday before.

With a sturdy lunge of his wooden sword, Peter unhorsed Billy Rose who executed a trick fall and lay on his back, legs and arms in the air like some huge beetle turned over on its shell. Peter was on him in a moment; drove home the sword; pulled it out and wiped away the gore on his sky-blue cape.

Billy Rose did a spectacular death scene consisting of many kicks and contortions, adding much to the pleasure of the court and the public. It was a very long death scene, many minutes elapsing before Sir Galahad was quiet enough for the victorious Sir Launcelot to put his foot on the corpse and raise his sword to the king in salute.

“Go ye now into the forest and find ye dragon that eats every week a maiden from our smiling village!” commanded the great king Arthur, and Sir Launcelot bowed and stalked away toward the thick foliage of the woodlot.

It was strange and terrifying that at the moment the chubby Peter reached the first maple, the one that breaks from the group and runs out into the meadow, a cloud, very black and heavy, passed over the sun, swimming up out of nowhere in an otherwise clear blue sky. A wind sighed through the maple leaves and whispered about something all through the thimble berry thicket. The meadow darkened. Peter’s hand tightened on his sword. He looked straight before him; then looked back. The court and the public and his rival, Sir Galahad, and the two dogs seemed to be miles and miles away—shadowy, blurred figures. Peter felt all alone in the big world and very small. What chance would he have against that lion he had heard roaring in the thicket that fearful evening? Oh, but he had his sword. Didn’t he always want to do noble deeds? Didn’t he envy Johnathan because Johnathan was a Boy Scout and did a good deed every day? To kill a lion would be a good deed, wouldn’t it, that is if the lion were aching to eat somebody, right at that moment. Of course, if the lion were minding his own business, that would be different. Again Peter looked forward; again looked back.

King Arthur pointed with his scepter and like a voice in a dream came his command: “Pause not, Sir Launcelot! Go kill ye dragon!”

“All right, King,” replied Peter in a tiny, trembly voice, and advanced a few more steps.

He passed the maple; passed the second maple; passed the third. He was in the woodlot now, almost hidden from his companions. How very still it was. The wind had finished whispering to the thimble berry thicket and had frisked away. Not a leaf stirred any place. Far off, Peter could hear the dripping of the spring. He thought of the black cave and of what Johnathan had told him about the strange something around the first bend. He paused, hearing his heart beating.

To give himself courage, he spoke aloud, addressing himself in that well-known lisp: “Go on, Peter Baxter. Don’t be scared. Don’t you know that there’s no more dwagons? In the whole, whole world there’s not a dwagon any place. They’re all dead.”

But even as he spoke he doubted the truth of his words. If there were pixies there could be dragons. Why should all the dragons be dead? People went on living and dragons were dead. To small Peter, dragons seemed much more important than people. Yes, somehow, somewhere dragons lived, and there was no reason to doubt that a dragon might live in the shadowy woodlot along with the lion and the pixies.

Peter’s feet ventured down the twisting path that would eventually arrive at the spring, and found himself safely past the thimble berry thicket. That was a relief. Nothing had broken the silence save the barking of Jerry, the airedale, and that was a comforting sound. Still, he wondered why Jerry and Nap had not followed him. They usually did. That was strange!

Now, here was the spring and the drippy, over-hanging shelf of stones and black earth, all sewn together with tiny root-threads, and right beyond the shelf was the entrance of the cave! Small Peter planted his stocky legs before the black hole; gulped once or twice; mustered up all his courage and spoke in a squeaking lisp that was meant to be a rumbling growl. “Come forth, Dwagon!” His wooden sword was clutched tightly in his little hand. Nothing happened so Peter repeated his command: “Come forth, Dwagon!”

Still nothing happened and becoming more bold, Peter stepped closer to the cave’s mouth; thrust his sword into the hole and rumbling it at last, cried for the third time, “Come forth, Dwagon!”

A long-drawn hissing sound answered him. He fell back. The hissing sound died. What was the matter with him? His imagination was doing strange things. He hadn’t really heard a hissing sound. He hadn’t really heard anything.

Well, he had done his duty. He had called three times and nothing had happened. He would return to the court and tell his story to the king. He was turning to go, when there issued from the hole a deep, deep sigh; then a yawn and then another deep, deep sigh. Before Peter even had time to think, the deep, deep sigh ended in the most entrancing little chuckle, and two fiery eyes blazed in the hole. A long green nose was thrust slowly forth, followed by a broad and lazy smile. The eyes came into the daylight. The fire faded out of them. They were a soft, light blue, like the sky, and looked as if they had just opened from a deep and dreamless sleep.

“Did you call me, little boy?” asked the dragon, as yards and yards of him, bright green like the meadow grass, oozed from the cave.

“Y-yes-yes, sir, I did,” gasped Peter, “but—but I didn’t think—”

The dragon continued to smile, oh, so sweetly, and tears gathered in his light blue eyes. “You didn’t think dragons lived any more,” he sighed, stretching out his great gold claws like a sleepy cat, “and you’re almost right, because I am the last dragon in all the world”—and two big tears the size of cups of clear water, dropped to the ground.