In the Crow’s Caw

I watch Pyrelle as she peers into the forest glade watching the little boy. Neither the child nor the dragon know I am there. But my being lingers everywhere, in the wind tickling the grass, in the sunbeams dancing on the pond, in the sweet trills of the nightingales, I am everywhere.

“Waah waah” screams the child and I smile to myself as Pyrelle’s nose wrinkles in displeasure at the discordant sound. The little boy sits alone in the forest clearing, none of his kind around to hear his cries of fear and loneliness. But Pyrelle hears as do I. The cry pierces something inside the dragon’s heart, something unfathomable and deep as time.

Pyrelle sniffs the air again, checking for the reek of adult humans. Small wonder she is cautious when her family have been hunted mercilessly by men for centuries. She steps into the clearing, sliding noiselessly between the trees. For such large creatures dragons are surprisingly light-footed. Her iridescent scales twinkle prettily as she moves towards the little one. The boy’s eyes are shut tight as he sobs, consumed with his own misery. As the dragon approaches her body blocks the sunlight and a shadow falls over him. Perceiving the difference in the light the child’s eyes snap open, his sobbing halted instantly as he takes in the sight of Pyrelle. Human eyes fasten on dragon eyes and for a moment there is silence as both bask in the miracle of the other.

Of course, my eyes are there too, invisible but wary. I know there are things beyond my control, things I thought I knew but did not and things which fate decides and not me. I know Pyrelle could devour the boy in a couple of bites. One fierce flash of fire and the little boy’s flesh would melt like honey. His chubby thighs and soft buttocks would disappear quickly down Pyrelle’s throat and then her eyes would glaze over as she munched dreamily on his head, enjoying the crunchiness of his skull. I know all this but yet I do not act, I watch.

“Horsey,” the little boy says as his tear- streaked face breaks into a sudden smile. He reaches out his tiny grubby hand towards Pyrelle’s snout. I smile again to myself as the dragon allows her snout to be clumsily patted. I know Pyrelle can understand the boy’s language as she has consumed human flesh. Devouring men’s rubbery saliva coated tongues has given her the gift of understanding their language. She leans forward and sniffs the little boy all over. The air from her nostrils tickles the boy’s bare skin and he giggles. Pyrelle lowers herself carefully to the ground beside him. Dragons are inherently wise and she has witnessed many men mounted on horses. The child still giggling stands up and awkwardly climbs upon Pyrelle’s back wrapping his small arms around her neck. Slowly the dragon gets to her feet. She turns her head and gently nuzzles the boy.

“Go horsey” he squeals excitedly. Pyrelle slips through the glade, carefully looking around, her nostrils twitching, aware of every smell as they journey deeper into the forest towards her cave. And I am with them, watching ….

The village is astir. A boy is missing. Little Shelby the blacksmith’s son has disappeared. He had gone with his parents and his two siblings by wagon to visit his ailing grandmother in the next hamlet. His mother didn’t notice him gone until they drove through their village gates on their return. She thought her three children were all sleeping soundly on the back of the wagon, but discovered only two slumbering forms and her baby gone.

She wails, distraught “Oh my darling little boy. Please don’t let the wolves get him.”

The other women from the village crowd around to comfort her. Little Shelby is a village favourite with his twinkly eyes and unruly curly hair. The women feel her pain as they look at their own children with renewed love and gratitude for their presence. They know what it is like to love a child. They know a mother’s love is lava, burning hot, eternally bubbling, forever flowing. They gently ruffle their own children’s hair and keep them close.

A group of men are preparing to search. They pour from the thatched cottages, some clutching lanterns and pitchforks. Some carry supplies of food and drink. They are dressed warmly as the sun is ready to slumber for the night. Silently each hope they will find the little boy quickly and be able to return to their warm hearths. No one wants to think about wolves or the evil dragon that frequents the forest. The blacksmith hugs his wife, whispering in her ear.

“Don’t worry, we will find him. He can’t be far. He’s probably lying asleep beside the road close by. Keep our supper warm. We’ll be back soon, I know.”

How his wife wants to believe his words. She clings to this hope as an owl clings to its helpless, writhing prey. She nods her head and watches the party as they walk out the village gates, swallowing her sobs as she clutches her other children to her breast.

I watch as Pyrelle enters her cave. The little boy or Shelby as I now know he’s called is still riding his new found horse. She gently sinks down to her knees and he alights, tumbling onto the dirt. He picks himself up without crying. His eyes are bulging with curiousity as he looks around the cave. A few paces away lies a half-devoured cow, udder still intact. Pyrelle has been a mother once before. But she lost her little one, barely two summers old, shot down by a farmer’s arrow as they passed over his cow pasture. I watched as her baby tumbled from the sky as the sky is my land too. Pyrelle cried out in torturous pain. She turned around and razed the farmers house and barn with her fierce fire but that did not bring her baby back. I could not help her. I was a mere bystander that day as a mother lost her greatest treasure..

But in the cave now Shelby needs food and drink. Instinctively Pyrelle knows this and so she steps one foot delicately on to the cow’s udder. A stream of milk squirts out and hits Shelby on the face. Momentarily startled, his little face crumbles as though about to cry but then his tongue snakes out and he tastes the liquid.

“Milk” he gasps and chuckles.

Dragons do not laugh as humans do. Their laugh sounds more like a human hiccough and this sound delights my ears as it bursts from Pyrelle’s throat. To me it is a symphony, a sound sweeter than gentle rain, a sound I have longed to hear from Pyrelle for far too long.

The game continues. Pyrelle presses her foot on the udder and the milk squirts into Shelby’s open mouth. When his thirst is quenched, she rips a piece of meat from the cow’s flank. She releases a stream of fire from her mouth to cook the beef and offers it to him. He takes the meat from her mouth and chews on it hungrily. She feeds herself too as she feeds him, ripping larger chunks of meat from the cow for herself. Every time she shoots the flame from her mouth he squeals with delight and yells “fire, fire”.

When they have both sated their hunger, she searches the cave for a sheep pelt which she places on the ground beside him. Shelby is rubbing his eyes now and yawning, his body tired after a long adventure. He lies down on the pelt and pulls it around himself. Pyrelle lies down beside him and curls her body around his keeping him warm and protected. They both quickly fall asleep and I turn away..

But my work is not done. Across the dark countryside the men stumble, their lanterns bobbing as they walk yelling his name. “Shelby, Shelby”. His name bounces off the trees and echoes through the hills. They have searched for hours now but to no avail. They have crawled through ditches, waded through creeks and peered under hedges. And now the moon is high and the cold night air mercilessly bites through their clothes. But no Shelby.

“Perhaps he has wandered into the forest?” Suggests Tom the farrier.

There is nothing else left to search. The men’s faces are grim and worried. No one wants to go into the forest. Every man knows what dwells in those murky depths, every man feels the fear swelling inside of them. But the situation has grown desperate now. How long can one so young survive in these conditions?

They turn to his father the blacksmith awaiting his direction.

“Aye,” he nods wearily. “We should spread out and search along the perimeter. Maybe he’s wandered in to sleep under the trees.”

And so be it. They pass some flasks of whisky among themselves, the liquor warming their insides, giving them strength to continue, giving them courage for whatever lurks within the forest.

I watch them admiring their spirit. They are doing what they can but there are things that humans cannot do. I pity their powerlessness but I am bound to my duty. Now is my time to act. I close my eyes and feel my body swell. I am breaking up, spreading in a thousand directions. My wispy icy tendrils reach all the way to the moon, swirling and smothering all in their path. The fog rises thick as porridge, cloaking the ground. The men cannot believe it. Their lanterns flicker and die. The cold air consumes them, they cannot see their own limbs.

For seven days and seven nights I lie in my thick white cloak, suffocating the earth and sky, killing the quest. It is bitterly cold and several of the older weaker men perish before they can crawl through the village gates. On the eighth day the sun rises and Shelby’s mother weeps again for all is lost for her baby boy. No child could have survived the last seven days in the wild alone.

In their cave Pyrelle and Shelby live, mother and son, bound by love. And I watch as I am everywhere. In the crow’s caw, in the lamb’s bleat, in the throbbing pulse of every being. For I am Danu, Goddess of Motherhood and a mother’s love is lava, burning hot, eternally bubbling, forever flowing…