Someday, I am going to write a very long thank-you note to Cressida Cowell.
For those of you who have never made the acquaintance of Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III and his adorably disobedient Dragon, Toothless, your day of jubilation has come. Here they are! Meet them! Love them! Eat, drink, and be merry! (And be quick, or the food will vanish rapidly. ‘Sharing’ is not one of Toothless’s strong points.)
This story is one of those great instances wherein I can enjoy the books and the movie independently of one another. The first film is still my go-to choice for both relaxation and inspiration. I watched it only a few weeks ago. Since I first saw it in theatres, it has never failed to soothe and lift my spirits. So significant is this tale in my heart and the hearts of my nearest, dearest kindred spirits, that one of said kindred spirits purchased mini-Toothlesses for the four of us, and these wee Dragons have shared many of our adventures ever since.
The books – particularly the audiobooks, narrated with mindboggling skill by the inimitable David Tennant (be still, my Whovian heart) – are another treasure trove of delight and surprising depth. Upon reflection, I realized that one reason for their poignant hold on my imagination is akin to the reason behind my lifelong Tolkien fascination, explained in my recent post “Myth Matters”: Cowell writes these books as if they were history. The whole story flows from the belief that myth is truth, and might even have a foundation of fact. From the very beginning in book one, down through every dizzying plot twist, and resounding through the shattering climax and epilogue of book twelve, these books assert unabashedly that Dragons are real – and, what’s more, we have much we desperately need to learn from them.
The fact that we don’t see Dragons anymore is not proof that they never existed, but rather that humanity cannot handle them. We have a lot of growing up to do, whispers Cowell (through Hiccup’s dryly sarcastic voice), and I agree with her.
Ergo, Dragons have a significant role to play in my upcoming novel, The Ancient.
In last week’s post, I recounted the unsavory reputation suffered by Centaurs in mythology. Dragons have fared little better, at least in Western myths; in fact, one of the traditional Celtic terms for such creatures is “péist”. Granted, this is close to the Latin “bestia”, from which comes the word “beast”, but still: I’m fairly certain this is where we get the word “pest”, with all its undesirable connotations. In most of the tales I’ve read, Dragons have been, at best, a nuisance; at worst, a menace. Even my beloved Tolkien held fast to this view: the exquisitely loathsome Smaug who riddles with Bilbo in The Hobbit was only the last of a long line of “worms” to plague Middle Earth.
However, as I researched Dragon lore, I found a fascinating kernel (many thanks to atlanticreligion.com) that set my writer’s mind spinning with mythologically reimaginative frenzy. Celtic myths tend to associate Dragons with bodies of water, especially bogs and marshes. On the one hand, this provides yet more “undesirable” fodder, since bogs and marshes tend to be rife with decaying matter. (Tolkien strikes again: the “Dead Marshes” are, among other things, a clever mythological explanation of geological fact.) This article I read, though, took a different view: this rottenness is important for fertilization of the soil, hence connecting these reeking pits with growth – life – wealth. See??? Other than death, what have Dragons been famous for?
Gold. Treasure. Coveting it, stealing it, hoarding it, guarding it.
Then there’s the fire. The “hearth fire” of the ancient Celts was usually a hole, dug in the soil and filled with fuel – a purifying force, dug into the heart of the earth and feeding on the ongoing death of organic matter. And over this fire, they would break bread and share moments of true communion.
Vibrant growth out of moldy rottenness.
Generosity and fellowship forged from the fiery depths of decay and despair.
Life out of death.
These are the images that went into my version of the Dragon myth, as told in The Ancient.
Snuggle up close to your mini-Toothless and enjoy this foretaste:
“This is a tale of the Wise, whom you call ‘worm’ or ‘serpent’ or ‘dragon’.
“The Wise was not like other beasts. She was not mortal; in fact, she was not a ‘beast’ at all. She was an Ancient; and, like all the Ancients, she was a guardian of the Light of creation. Each Ancient cultivated a certain facet of the Light, the calling of each revealed in his or her name. The Wise was one of the first and greatest of the Ancients, for it was her duty and purpose to cultivate wisdom. Mortals came from far and near to sit with her, and speak, and listen, and she imparted to them the riches of her wisdom, nurturing many a garden wherein bloomed a treasure-trove of Light.
“In time, the Wasting – that terrible, relentless decay of life that grows daily in its breadth and depth of destructive power – divided Humankind from the company of the Wise, cutting them off from the wisdom she always delighted to share. Yet, the image of her remained buried in their consciousness. The Wasting could not remove her completely; so, as it has done with all the Ancients, it poisoned the memory of the Wise in the thought of Humankind, making her a creature of evil in mortal sight: a greedy, conniving, ruthless hoarder of gold and gems, a monster to be feared, hated, and hunted.
“One such daring soul, all aflame with self-righteous zeal, set out to find the beast’s hiding place, slay her, and take the treasure she was thought by all to be guarding. Imagine the surprise of this young warrior when, climbing to the perilous summit and delving down to the roots of the mountain, he found the Wise: sitting by an underground lake, the vast cavern around her empty of any hint of precious metal. The only sources of light were our young hero’s flickering torch and the Wise herself, breathing soft and gentle flames.
“‘I have found you, beast!’ the hero cried, summoning his admirable – however misplaced – courage. ‘What have you done with the treasure? Or are the reports false, and you the fierce guardian only of your own abominable hide?’
“‘Every created being is entrusted by the Maker with a spark of life,’ replied the Wise, her deep voice rumbling graciously around the cavern. ‘Guarding that spark alone is worth a lifetime of endeavor, even and especially when the bearer discovers the key to guarding that spark, which is to pour it out as generously as possible. But I do indeed guard a treasure, my friend – the greatest of treasures.’
“‘I am not your friend,’ spat the hero, and greed soured the flame of courage in his eyes, giving them a greenish tint. ‘Where is this treasure, then? Tell me, and your death will be swift.’
“‘I will tell you a tale,’ spake the Wise, calmly. ‘If you can discern the meaning of it, you will not need me to tell you where the treasure lies; you will already have it in your keeping.’
“‘A riddling worm,’ scoffed the hero. ‘But I am not afraid, whether your defenses be your fiery breath or your fiendish cunning. Tell me your tale.’
What tale does the Dragon tell, and what is the young hero’s response?
You’ll find out soon, my friends.
I love your dragon already. Thank you for new perspectives of truth and life.
Imagine Kermit the Frog flailing his arms and shouting with delight, “yayyyyy”!
I love dragons! They are such amazing creatures! I can not wait to read the tale!