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  The Dragon’s Christmas Gift

  Terence O’Grady

  Copyright 2013 Terence O’Grady

  Cover image from Dreamstime

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: A Knightly Visit

  Chapter 2: Bostwick’s Curiosity

  Chapter 3: A Visit from Mom

  Chapter 4: The First Snow

  Chapter 5: Exploring the Village

  Chapter 6: Christmas Is Someone’s Birthday

  Chapter 7: The Storm Threatens

  Chapter 8: Bostwick Takes Action

  Chapter 9: Help on the Way

  Chapter 10: A Bad Situation Gets Worse

  Chapter 11: Peace on Earth and Good Will toward All

  Chapter 1: A Knightly Visit

  Bostwick the dragon peered gloomily out his window. It was an overcast day. Not really gray, but certainly not bright. He wasn’t really sad on this particular day, but he certainly wasn’t particularly happy either. He knew that he often felt just a little melancholy at this time of year—the early days of winter— and he was just beginning to figure out why.

  Bostwick breathed a heavy sigh. Yes, he was missing something. He looked over to his longtime friend, Mortimer, sprawled heavily on a near-by rock. Mortimer, also a dragon of course, was a little shorter than Bostwick, maybe just a little chubbier. Whereas Bostwick ‘s dragon scales were mostly dark green with a few lighter green ones feathered in (Bostwick always thought that this was his most attractive feature), Mortimer’s scales were more of a reddish-brown color.

  But both of them looked dull today. There was no shine on their scales and no gleam in their eyes. Another blah early winter’s day.

  As he looked over at his friend, sleeping quietly if uncomfortably on his favorite rock at the mouth of their cave, Bostwick wondered if he should ask Mortimer whether he thought they were missing anything in their lives. No, Bostwick decided. That probably wouldn’t do any good. He knew that Mort probably wouldn’t give him a real answer. He would reply with some nonsense and then just roll over and go back to sleep. It wasn’t that Mortimer was dumb. He was quite capable of using his head when he had to. But he almost never felt that he had to. “Use your instincts,” he was always saying. “Don’t bother using your brain.”

  Instincts were fine, thought Bostwick, but instincts sometimes got you into trouble. They had lived in this cave for almost ten years now and, in the beginning, had led their lives in typically dragonish fashion. They hoarded gold. They stole livestock from the near-by village. There were times—long ago now— when they even snacked on the villagers themselves when the temptation was just too great.

  But what had it all gotten them? It had gotten them some extremely angry neighbors who had come to their cave to burn them out with torches blazing. Of course the idea of burning out a dragon, whose very breath is made of fire, was just nonsense. But the villagers were very desperate. And very unhappy. Sometimes the villagers would hire a local knight who would show up at the cave door and challenge the dragons to mortal combat.

  On one of those days, a particularly brave knight, dressed in the shiniest silver armor and bearing the symbol of a proud stag on his shield, struggled up the mountain to challenge the two dragons.

  “One at a time?” Mortimer asked him, “Or do you want to take us both on at once and save time?”

  “Well…uh…” said the brave knight, not really expecting any questions from the dragons.

  Bostwick sighed and smiled at the knight gently. “I certainly admire your courage, sir,” he told the knight. “But I’m very much afraid that you’re going to get hurt if you insist on carrying on with this idea.”

  “”Nonsense!” roared the knight. “It’s you two dragons who will find yourselves in greatest peril if you do not immediately leave this country and never return.”

  Bostwick sighed again as Mortimer stepped forth, ready to expel his fiery breath in the direction of the knight. “Let me take this one,” he whispered to Mortimer. “My aim is a little better than yours.”

  Bostwick took a few steps toward the knight (who, if truth be told, cowered a little and stepped backwards) and let out a small stream of fire that promptly melted the knight’s outstretched sword into a mound of molten metal.

  “Well, if that’s the way you feel about it,” said the knight, a hurt expression on his face.

  “I’m sorry,” said Bostwick, “but I really couldn’t see any reason to drag this out any further.”

  “Hrumph!” grunted the knight. He tossed his melted sword to the side and marched right back down the mountain (moving a little faster than he did on the way up.)

  Still, no matter how many swords Bostwick melted, the knights kept coming and the villagers continued to be very unhappy. Until, one day, Bostwick got a brilliant idea.

  Chapter 2: Bostwick’s Curiosity

  Bostwick and Mortimer would become vegetarians. It was not an easy idea to sell. In fact it took a tremendous amount of convincing before Mort agreed to go along with the idea. First of all, he had to be convinced that they would be able to find enough to eat in the nearby forest. Bostwick kept telling his friend that much of the forest vegetation was really quite tasty. But it was a long time before Mortimer could get used to eating it.

  And then there was the joy of the hunt. Mortimer sincerely enjoyed dashing after the fleeing sheep (or whatever animals he was pursuing) as much as he enjoyed eating them.

  Bostwick agreed that exercise was important for any dragon, but finally managed to convince Mortimer that the sheep and the cattle and all of the villager’s livestock weren’t really very tasty after all. On the contrary, Bostwick insisted, they were actually tough, and stringy. Chewing them was almost impossible. And the villagers themselves were just as bad.

  But Mortimer wasn’t at all sure about any of this. In the end, the only way Bostwick convinced him to undertake their new lifestyle was by promising that Bostwick himself would be responsible for all of the food gathering and all of the food preparation for both of them. And think of the benefits! The villagers would no longer be bitterly unhappy all of the time and there would be no more knights darkening their doorstep.

  In the end, Mort had agreed. In part, he agreed because he was basically lazy and was happy to let Bostwick do all of the work. In part he agreed because deep down inside his scaly body, he had a kind heart. Or at least not a mean heart. At any rate, Mortimer was willing to give the new diet a try, at least for a while. So the two dragons became vegetarians. The knights stopped coming to challenge them and the villagers breathed a lot easier.

  So Bostwick was happy, or at least he thought he should be happy. But there was something inside him that still bothered him, giving him an empty feeling.

  “I’m going down to the village,” Bostwick announced one day.

  “Great!” replied Mortimer enthusiastically. “I’m not sure we have enough veggies stored up to last the whole winter.”

  “I’m not going down there to find food,” said Bostwick, “I’m going down there to find out what’s going on.”

  “What do mean?” asked Mortimer, blinking slowly. “Nothing ever happens in the village. The people grow their little crops and herd their little sheep. They eat, and then they go to bed. What could happen?”

  “It has something to do with this time of year, when the first snow comes. Something special happens this time of year. I’ve seen signs of it all the way from up here.”

  “Well, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” replied Mortimer, shaking his head. “But if you just take a stroll down to the village right out in broad daylight, they’re going to panic and start throwing things at you. I thought you wanted to avoid getting t
he villagers mad at you.”

  “I do want to avoid it, and that’s why I’m going to wait for nightfall. I’ll sneak down there under cover of darkness. I’ll hide in the shadows and they’ll never notice me. Then I can listen in at some of the cottages and I’ll find out what’s going on.”

  “But you can barely speak their language.”

  “I can’t speak it very well, but I might be able to learn to understand it better. Anyway, one of these nights, when the time seems right, I’m going down to the village to investigate.”

  Chapter 3: A Visit from Mom

  But Bostwick’s undercover trip to the village would have to wait. The very next day, his mother showed up for a surprise visit. Bostwick was delighted of course, although Mortimer let out a few groans when he saw all the suitcases Bostwick’s mother was dragging behind her.

  Later that night, Bostwick was sitting quietly on his rock, his mind a million miles away, when he heard a familiar sound coming from the back of the cave.

  “Bostwick,” came his mother’s voice. “Where’s the food? I can’t find any food back here.”

  Bostwick winced. As soon as his mother had come to visit, she had offered to fix dinner for him and Mortimer. But Bostwick had neglected to tell her that they had become vegetarians.

  “Really, Bostwick,” his mother complained, popping into Bostwick’s living room wearing a huge, flower-print apron. “I have no idea how I’m supposed to fix supper when you have absolutely no food back there in your cupboard. I mean, really, where do you keep the sheep carcasses, the salted beef and the cured pork? I can find nothing back here except leaves and plants.”

  “Well, you see, Mother,” began Bostwick.

  “I like a little salad once in a while just like any weight-watching dragon,” said his mother, waddling up to Bostwick as she shook a fistful of branches around,” but honestly, this stuff is all I can find back here. Do you have a new storeroom somewhere you forgot to tell me about?”

  “Well, not exactly,” said Bostwick timidly. “The fact is…well, Mortimer and I have become vegans.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, actually I’m not. Isn’t that right, Mortimer?”

  Bostwick could hear a grunt from the front of the cave. “We’re not all that happy about it,” yelled Mortimer from a distance.

  “Now, why would you do such a thing? It’s just not natural for a dragon, Bostwick. Dragons are meat-eaters. They’ve been meat-eaters ever since there have been dragons in the world.”

  “Well, maybe this is progress, Mother. Dragons have to…you know…evolve… just like everyone else.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Bostwick, and to tell you the truth I don’t really think you do either. You and Mortimer are still growing boys. A young dragon has to eat meat to stay healthy and that’s that.”

  “Oh, we’re healthy all right, mother,” insisted Bostwick. “Aren’t we, Mortimer?”

  Mortimer had a sly smile on his face as he approached Bostwick and his mother. “Well, I’m a lot lighter on my feet than I used to be.”

  “See? That just proves my point,” said Bostwick’s mother, looking sadly at the branches in her claw. “You’re wasting away. I thought you and Mortimer were looking a bit thin. Now you get right down to that village down at the foot of the mountain and bring us back some real food. And have a nice snack down there while you’re at it.”

  Bostwick looked shocked. “Snack? On what? Are we supposed to go down there and pillage and eat the harmless villagers?”

  “Villagers weren’t so harmless in my day, son,” said his mother, a deep furrow covering her dragonish brow. When your father and I were young, you had to eat villagers just to survive. If you didn’t eliminate them, they’d eliminate you.”

  “Well, times have changed, Mother,” said Bostwick cheerfully. “Mortimer and I represent a new generation of dragons and we don’t eat people. And we don’t need to eat animals, either. We believe in ‘live and let live.’”

  “I think you mean, ‘starve and let live,’” grumped his mother.

  “Please, Mother, just stop worrying about this. Mortimer and I are just fine. I’m sure we’ll find something back there in the kitchen that we can all be happy with. Besides, I’ve got something more important to ask you.”

  His mother placed her hands on her pudgy hips and sighed. “Honestly, Bostwick, what can be more important than three square meals a day?”

  “There are things more important than eating, Mother, and I…”

  “I agree with your Mom on this one,” Mort chimed in.

  “Don’t pay any attention to him,” replied Bostwick. “Back to my question, please. And it’s an important one. What do you know about Christmas?”

  Bostwick’s mother paused and put a claw to her lip. Her eyes had a far-away look.

  “Christmas?” she said slowly. “Yes, Christmas. I think I remember something now. Oh, it was long ago. Ancient history. I think I was a child then…years and years ago.”

  “That’s okay,” said Bostwick encouragingly. “Just tell me whatever you remember.”

  “Well, when I was a child, just a little dragon living with my parents and all my brothers and sisters, the villagers near where I grew up had something they might have called Christmas. It was some sort of celebration, I think.”

  “A celebration?” Bostwick said eagerly. “What kind of celebration? What were they celebrating?”

  “Give a person a chance to think,” said his mother, settling her rear end gently on a nearby boulder. “We never gave too much thought to the villagers, of course. We had one or two for supper now and then naturally, but we didn’t really stop to think about them.”

  “But you must remember something,” urged Bostwick. “Was it a big celebration?”

  “Pretty big,” said his mother thoughtfully. “As I remember it, they had lots of decorations up on the houses. And they put shiny things and candles on some little trees that they took into their homes.”

  “But what was it all about?” asked Bostwick impatiently.

  “Oh, I don’t really remember…something about a king, I think. The birthday of their king.”

  “Really, did you ever see this king? Did he ever come to the village?”

  “Oh, no. The king had lived a long time ago.”

  “And yet they still celebrated his birthday?”

  “Yes, I’m not sure why. But they still thought he was important, I guess.”

  “That’s amazing! He died a long time ago and he was still important. Did they still follow the laws he made?”

  “Maybe…I don’t really know. But really, Bostwick, why worry your mind about these things? These things have nothing to do with dragons.”

  “So you and Father never celebrated Christmas?’

  “Of course not. He was not our king so we had no reason to. Dragons have never really had a king, you know. But there was one thing I did like about Christmas.”

  “What?”

  “The villagers often liked to fatten up their livestock just before Christmas so they could have a fancy Christmas feast. So your father and I would come down and raid the village just before Christmas while the livestock were at their fattest.”

  “Mother! That’s terrible!”

  His mother frowned and folded her arms in front of her. “You asked, so I told you. Now look, Bostwick. I don’t really know anything about Christmas, but there’s no reason why I should. And there’s no reason why you should. Just because it’s important to the villagers doesn’t mean it should be important to you. I’m a dragon. You’re a dragon.”

  “But weren’t you curious? Aren’t you ever curious about things like that?”

  “No!” snapped his mother. “I make it a point never to be curious about things that don’t concern me. And so should you. Now what you should worry about is going out and finding some real food to eat before you and Mortimer waste away into nothing. I’ll be back in a few days for an
other visit and I expect you two to be fattened up by then. Remember! Real food! No more leaves and twigs!”

  Chapter 4: The First Snow

  It was a quiet time in the village. The first snowstorm of the season had fallen and the villagers were hard at work digging out. Still, they seemed happy in their work, many of them whistling or singing little tunes. The children seemed particularly gleeful, jumping into snow banks and tossing snowballs back and forth. The mothers and fathers simply laughed and shook their heads.

  Mr. White, the village blacksmith, never minded the winter, or even the snow. Of course he stood there several hours a day next to a large fire, pounding metal into shape over a big black anvil, so he was always happy when the cold weather came. Mr. White was, by nature, a jolly man to begin with and now, five days before Christmas, he seemed jollier than ever.

  Of course Mr. White never really looked white at all. He had long black hair and an even longer black beard to begin with, and the soot from his fire made both even blacker. The long apron he wore for work might have been brown at one time but by now it was as black as coal.

  But his children were clean as a whistle and he wanted to keep it that way.

  “Samuel!” he roared at his eight-year old son who had just scooted by the open door of the blacksmith shop. “Stop throwing snowballs at your big sister…right now!”

  “But how could you…?” stuttered Samuel, stopping in his tracks, his bright red hair flashing dramatically against the brilliant whiteness of the landscape.

  Mr. White gestured to Samuel who entered the shop slowly. “I don’t have to see you do it. I know you. You’re my dear son but I happen to know that whenever we get a healthy snowfall, you start throwing snowballs at Emma.”

  “I haven’t actually hit her,” Samuel protested.

  “That’s only because your aim isn’t that good. We both know that,” said his father, a slight grin crossing his face.

  “Oh, I could if I wanted to,” said Samuel.

  Just then, ten-year old Emma popped her head in the door. “No you couldn’t. I’m ten times too fast for you. Maybe twenty.”

  “Children!” sighed Mr. White. “It’s five days before Christmas. Can’t you stop arguing for five days?”