By Abigail Falanga
Everyone knows how the stories go.
The princess imprisoned by a dragon. Then the knight comes and fights the dragon with his mighty lance and rescues the lady.
It’s a good story to tell around the hearth on a winter’s night.
There’s only one trouble with it, and I see that now: I am not a princess, nor even a lady. I’m just me, Meg, the youngest daughter of the old farmer in the valley, with dirt in my hair and bare feet and calloused hands. I’m not beautiful or important, and no one is coming for me.
***
I crouch at the back of the dragon’s den and try to pull my skirts down to cover my cold bare feet. At least shivering takes my mind from hunger as hunger takes my mind from the wound. It’s not as deep as I feared at first, the night the dragon took me—just a shallow, jagged tear along my ribs where its talons clutched. I was too frightened even to feel it at first, though it turned to such fiery pain later that I wished it would finish it and eat me right then.
That was three days ago. The dragon has simply kept me, like a ham in a larder. I know it won’t last long—I found the pile of bones the first day, and the carcass of its last kill is almost dry among them. They’re mostly sheep. Mostly. I cried over the three human skulls for hours, until I couldn’t bear it anymore and gave them the best burial I could.
The dragon always sleeps near the entrance of the low cave and goes out for a flight at sundown. It’s not hungry enough to eat me yet, but I know what’s coming by the way its tongue flicks when its eyes are on me.
The second day, it let me out of the cave to get water and explore the forest down the hill. But the moment I felt safe enough to bolt, it was there, hissing a stream of blue smoke and shoving me back inside. But not before I had time to forage some berries and mushrooms to eat and herbs to make a salve for my wound, bound on with a strip torn from my skirt. The dragon doesn’t let me wander now.
It doesn’t matter. It will be over soon.
I worry about my father. My brother and sister live far away and have their own concerns, but the village is too far for Father with his rheumatism. Who will look after him?
Perhaps John, the shepherd youth who passes our farm from time to time, will notice something amiss. He is kind and always stops to chat, and I’ve learned to watch for his sky-blue coat coming over the hill. I complemented it once, and he grinned his lopsided grin. The next time he passed, he brought me a ribbon of the same color for my hair.
I can’t sit here shivering anymore. Slowly, I creep toward the cave entrance to stand outside instead. The dragon seems to find cruel pleasure in letting me taste freedom, though I know I can’t get away since it’s always near—near enough for me to smell its foul, smoky breath—and always watching.
The sky is the clear blue of full spring and, strangely, a bit of it seems to have gotten down on the hill too. Or is that—?
I stifle a gasp.
A blue coat flits among the trees on something stealthy but solid and human. It’s John the shepherd, come as if in answer to my thought. I shake my head frantically, hoping he can see and take the hint. What does he think he’s doing?
I take a step out into the open day, and then another, cautious of rousing the dragon’s interest. Then suddenly John is near, only a yard or two distant.
“Get away,” I whisper.
“Not without you,” comes the answer, just as low. “Now’s our chance! That monster sleeps during the day, right? We only ever see it flying at night. You can escape now.”
“No, you don’t understand! It’s watching and fast—”
A roar rumbles through the ground, followed by a flash of fire so near behind me that I feel the flames licking my arms. I barely have time to realize I’m on the brink of death when something grabs me by the waist and yanks me into the brush.
It’s John’s shepherd’s crook, hard and solid.
He’s gone deathly pale as he catches me, but he gives a smile that’s both lopsided and joyful. “I know we’re not getting away, but I might have a chance fighting the dragon during the day when it’s sleepy. Wish me luck!” And he puts a kiss right on my mouth.
Leaving me sitting, flustered, on the ground, John jumps up toward the cave entrance, the crook in his left hand and a sheen of steel in his right. The dragon bounds out, spreading wings with a furious roar, but John moves before it has a chance to fly. His crook goes around the dragon’s neck, and he yanks it down.
I can’t see exactly what happens next—it’s all so fast. The dragon, bigger than a cart horse, moves swift as wind, but John fights back with all his shepherd’s strength, wrestling the monster to the ground and slashing with his short blade.
Then it’s over.
The dragon writhes, then stills, the last smoke curling away from its shattered mouth.
John rises and staggers back, bloodied but triumphant with his weapon—shearing scissors—gory in his hand.
I rise and stumble toward him, and we embrace. “Why?” I ask. “Why come for me?”
“When your father raised the alarm, what else could I do?”
“But.” I half laugh. “I’m not even a fair princess!”
“You’re my princess, Meg,” says John, and he pulls the sky-blue ribbon from his pocket. “You dropped your crown, m’lady.”
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