Here there be dragons

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. What am I saying? Of course there were dragons in the Valley - there have always been dragons. They just weren’t winged, or savage, or the cause of the end of civilisation as we know it.

It is “unclear” exactly what happened. That’s how the government and the news agencies described it: “unclear”. What did happen was catastrophic and, even now, unbelievable. At some point, whether by experiment-gone-wrong, or spell-gone-wrong, a virus or alien intervention, all the lizards in the world became literal dragons. They grew wings, and sharp teeth, and sharper attitudes. Violence raining from the sky became the norm once every tiny skink, every gecko, every blue-tongue turned into a monster. Some of them even presciently had “dragon” in their names: the Hidden Dragon, the Eastern Water Dragon, the Bearded Dragon - it seemed the herpetologists of the past were trying to warn us of something.

Of course, these are all relatively benign lizards. No, the extent of the trouble we were in only became apparent when the lace monitors and goannas transformed. Then the Komodo dragons took to the sky, crossing from Indonesia to Australia on their own singular scaly long-haul flights.

At first we were charmed - there were tiny silvery dragons fluttering around the backyard! Delighted, we held out our hands to the shiny streaks of lightning. Cuteness started and ended there, for these were no longer sweet bug-eating sun bathers. Fingers were nipped, then ripped. Animals started disappearing. Cats, rabbits, birds, even dogs were found, eviscerated from the inside out. Poorly attended babies were next and, on their protein-rich diet of red meat, the skinks grew. The silver dragons were hungry, and they were spiteful. Killing became fun for them, revenge for every tail dropped and every grasping child.

Out in the bush and on the urban fringes, the goanna-dragons grew.

In garages and drain pipes around the country, the blue-tongue dragons grew.

In the Northern Territory, the Komodo-dragons arrived and grew. And grew.

There are unverified urban legends about the crocodiles of the Top End - after all, exaggeration has a comfortable home there - however, it would not be surprising if the Komodos found some competition in the skies. There just aren’t any people left up there to report back.

I can’t even imagine what’s going on in the seas.

Tired of cowering in the shadows, we are going to war. War against the dragons, dragons that aren’t even accorded the respect of proper noun status because, let’s face it, the dragons are kind of arseholes. And recently the fuckers have learned to speak. Once they can speak, it is no longer animal cruelty to dispatch a flying hell lizard. It’s a legal grey area, but the general consensus among the remaining humans that if they can trash talk us, it's OK to kill them.

The word was sent out, and over the winters we have been progressively gathering in the High Country; the Great Dividing Range a snowy, dragon-free sanctuary for six months of the year. Clustered in the abandoned ski chalets and resorts, in stone farmhouses, in schools and crumbling hospitals, we gather. In the warm months, we shelter and plan, hidden away. Until now. Turns out, despite the flying and the teeth and the endless shouting, they haven’t worked out fire breathing. But we have. Fire is our oldest weapon, our oldest tool, the thing that makes us apart from the beasts. That, and our opposable thumbs.

Metal workers are valued like no time since the Iron Age, forging spears, arrows and flame throwers. Traditional artillery proved useless against scaly hides, so we have gone old-school. The medieval stained-glass windows of St George fighting the Dragon are our new reality. There is no-one to teach us, so we teach ourselves, using trial and error, because this is no way to live.

One day we may parley and thrash out terms, but today is not that day. Today is our day.