The Kingdom of Come Again?

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Nor, for that matter, were there any now.

In fact, you could go up to just about any Valley dweller while they were going about on their merry business and ask them: “So, what of these dragons, eh?” And quite likely, they would scratch their nose and respond with something like: “What’s a dragon?” or “Come again, mate?”

One time, a fisticuffs broke out when someone mistook the word “dragon” for a local slur that means “son of a person who has an unfortunate penchant for falling in love with sheep or other grazing animals, and feels tempted to act on such impulsions.” Or something to that effect. It was considered by far the second most offensive term in the Valleyish dialect.

A question that the astute reader will undoubtedly ask is: “But why would people keep asking about dragons, if there aren’t any?” Good question. Luckily, since there seem to be few astute readers around, I think we can safely ignore this question for now.

~.~

“So… what of these dragons, eh?”

The farmer’s eyes narrowed, his peace suddenly interrupted by this nosy traveller. A question mark wouldn’t have seemed out of place floating above his head, next to an annoyed exclamation mark. He seemed to ponder if he should even reply, and if so, what.

“I haven’t the foggiest what you’re talking about,” he finally decided. With a tip of his hat that managed to be simultaneously polite and extremely dismissive, he started to turn around.

The traveller placed his hand on the farmer’s shoulder. “I’m afraid I must insist upon my query.”

The farmer turned back his head, giving off a piercing stare. He spat on the ground.

“You’ve got nerve, stranger. Coming here and haranguing honest working people.”

“And I’m sure you were breaking a mighty sweat when I interrupted you standing in this field. Now pray tell me, please, Sir. How is it I keep hearing wild tales of dragons in the Valley — in every tavern and temple, every guild and gambling hall, every nunnery, brothel, farm and fish market — yet when I, or any number of intrepid travellers before me, arrive on the premises and ask about it, everyone seems to act as if it’s the first time they’ve ever heard someone utter that word?”

“What word?”

The traveller could barely contain his annoyance. “What word? Sausage roll. Dragon of course, you — humble farmer.”

“Describe what you mean by this word.”

The traveller sighed. He wasn’t usually a man to go along with another’s games, but it seemed the Valleyers were more stubborn than most.

“They’re sort of — giant flying reptiles, aren’t they? I mean, for a place that is supposed to be teeming with them, how come nobody even seems to have heard bedtime stories about them?”

For a few brief moments, the farmer appeared to be in deep contemplation. Then, he said: “We’ve got some salamanders, if that interests you.”

“I think both you and I know it doesn’t. They’re not even reptiles!”

The farmer threw up his hands in frustration. “Alright, that’s it! I’m tired of catering to you entitled, overeducated, snobby city dwellers.”

“With all due respect, I don’t think knowing the difference between a reptile and an amphibian makes me overeducated.”

“I like how that is the part you challenge. Because, as both you and I know, I’d be perfectly content to offer you to stay the night in our guest bedroom, in line with ancient Valleyish custom, and take a seat at our dinner table, and help yourself to a generous serving of my wife’s broth. And before you say it — yes, the guest bedroom is a stable. I’m sorry my family can’t offer you lodgings worthy of the Emperor of Shalamala, or whatever you fancy yourself as, just because you do us the extraordinary favor of turning up here unannounced.”

The traveller tried to get a word in, but he was met by another volley of ranting. “But no, that isn’t enough. Instead, you people come here and demand we conjure up your delusional fantasies on command. Just because you’ve read a brochure or pamphlet once selling you some ludicrous, idealized vision of an idyllic countryside plagued by mythical beasts, that doesn’t mean we here in the Valley of Parmuthran have a moral duty to upend our lifestyles just so you folks can have a slightly nicer vacation.”

The traveller caught himself listening with his mouth slightly open. He closed it back and said “That was quite an articulate rant. Are you sure I’m the overeducated one?” To his surprise and consternation, the farmer broke down in tears.

Standing awkwardly at an arm’s length from the sobbing stranger, the traveller contemplated the most appropriate course of action re: consolation. Was a well-placed “there, there?” in order? Or did the situation require something bolder, like a friendly pat on the shoulder? Or would this offend and upset the Valley dweller even more? Whatever the case, part of the traveller wished he’d never brought up the dragon thing in the first place.

Taking pity on the farmer, the traveller hesitantly said “Look, Sir, I’m sure your wife’s broth is excellent. I would be honored to taste it.”

“Do not insult me further,” the farmer said, voice creaking, trying his best to stifle his sobs. Fixing his gaze on the now unsettled traveller, the sadness finally made way for a steely determination. “So you want secrets? Gossip? Lurid tales, juicy stories? I’ll give you what you came for, straight from the source. To hell with it all! Follow me, city burgher.”

“Oh, it’s quite alright,” the traveller said, wondering if this whole trip had been a good idea. “I didn’t mean to cause any upset to you, your family or your community — I think I might just look for a different farmstead to spend the night, or maybe the next town over — ”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit too late for that now? This whole conversation will have been for nought if you turn back now. You came all the way here in the hope of finding — ” he swallowed, as if it cost him a great deal of effort to pronounce the next word “ — dragons. So what are you afraid of?” At this point, the farmer’s eyes appeared to be bulging from his sockets, and he’d grabbed the traveler’s wrist with his blistered farmer’s hand. With a distinct feeling he might regret it, the traveller nonetheless nodded his head, and he followed the farmer off the field and onto the winding path.