I still miss the good old days, when I was truly useful. When they needed me. But it seems I'm useful once more, perhaps not as much as was once the case, but it's good to feel those centuries of isolation coming to an end.
Once upon a time they couldn't have managed without me. I'd watched so many creatures change over time, hoping one or another would develop the brainpower that would appreciate the possibilities of what I had to offer. It was never clear it would come from the monkeys, until they shed much of their hair, learned to walk on two legs, and developed the ability to grip and wield. They were my chosen ones.
Fire was something they feared, one more uncontrollable element in a terrifying world, a wall of heat and destruction that swept across woodland and grassland and left a black smoking wilderness, and the black smoking bodies of those who could not escape. I thought about how I could introduce them to the magic, without the fear, and awaited my opportunities.
A wandering group of these early humans, hungry, cold, night falling. In a dip in the ground I swept some wood together, breathed upon it gently, and created a warming fire. In the clearing I scattered more wood, and left a small antelope nearby. Gentle hints. The band approached, warily, scouting out threats, assessing the situation, and found the warmth and light made them feel better, kept away predators. They let the fire die down.
It would a take a few goes on my part before someonefinally thought to try putting more wood on the pile, to keep the flames going longer. That made them more adventurous and some tried building their own piles of wood, but they never lit. Some tried warming the meat of the antelope (or whatever I'd found convenient nearby), and recognised the improvement in taste. Unable to recreate the fire elsewhere, they settled in the spot they'd found, kept it going and this became home. Some understood they could take burning wood in their hands and use them to take light elsewhere, and then to set another fire going. But if it rained...
I still hadn't shown myself, but observed from high in the sky, far enough that they would mistake me for a great bird. Revealing myself for what I am would require much thought if they were not to be terrified. Eventually I chose a grouping that had settled by the sea, when their fires had all been put out by the weather. I landed as softly as my beating wings allowed. There was fear in their eyes, but I kept some distance, dropped the wood I had carried with me into a neat pile, and, checking their wary eyes were still on me, gently breathed my magic upon it. I stepped well back. They stepped forward, cautious, fearful of a trap. One stuck his stick into the flames, drew it out ablaze, and rushed back to start relighting their own dark pyres.
This had happened several times, and I had gained their reluctant trust, but they remained cautious. Who would not be, seeing my size and majesty and powers? A dragon is not a sight humans ever become fully accustomed to. But the time was right for the next stage in their combustion education. When the fires were out once more (although they had steadily developed ways of preventing this from happening too often) I returned. Instead of setting a fire I dropped rock on rock to create sparks. They looked bewildered. I did it again. And again. One of the sparks dropped into some sticks and grass which was briefly alight. And the spark lit up in one head. A man rushed to get some rocks and banged them together next to a pile of wood. No luck. Another added grass. And they created their own fire. I flew up, hovered above, and could see that they knew now. I was their friend, not their master.
More groups received the same lessons. The news spread, of how to create and master fire, of the uses it could be put to, and that the dragon, if you ever saw it, was a friend of man. I did not want worship, just the knowledge that I had helped.
All was well between us, my legend strong, my reputation untarnished. Until the incident. One man who changed it all, and changed it for the worse. His story spread, the dragon became an evil one in the minds of humans, and my usefulness ended. I hid myself away in these mountains, kept my distance. But let me tell you what really happened.
I discovered a young woman in trouble. Lost, far from home, at the mercy of the wild beasts in the hillside forest, hungry and tired and very, very frightened. When she saw me she knew who I was and that I would be her friend, although she lacked the power of speech. She let me pick her up, and, holding her warmly in my softened jaws, fly her back towards the nearest humans. I spotted one on a horse, and thought he might be the one to help, and carry her back to safety. A strange creature though, in metal clothing that made him look like a poorly constructed shiny scarecrow, with a bright red cross on the board he had strapped to one arm.
I put her down before him, and stepped away. The distressed woman looked at me gratefully, and at him expectantly. He looked on grimly, angrily, with reason deserting his face. Which he hid as his metal covering snapped shut, pressed his horse to charge forward, and came at me with his puny stick. I could have, perhaps should have, roasted him then. But I bore no ill will towards the horse, not did I want to frighten she I had so recently rescued. So I ascended, and hovered above the scene, immune to his idiocy. He shouted insults, called me coward and claimed what he called victory. I stopped myself from laughing. Chuckling too often results in unexpected busts of flamey breath, and I didn't want the situation to get worse.
He turned back to the woman, now on her feet. Instead of alighting to check on her condition, he didn't even stop, just bent down to grab her clumsily and heave her painfully across his saddle. Administering a couple of smacks to her buttocks, he spurred his charger on and went off into the woods. I thought to follow, to check on her safety, but, shamefully I admit, my vanity had been rattled, my pride roused, and I flew off in the other direction. The arrogant, ungrateful boor was best left alone, I thought. Wrongly.
My next appearances before humans were greeted with fear and loathing and aggression. I even had to singe a couple for my own safety. What had changed? It was my friend the unicorn who told me enough to piece together the story. The tin man had returned to his people with a fantastical tale about his rescue of the poor maiden from the evil dragon, her bruises and the clear evidence of despoilment being shown as evidence against me. He was a persuasive orator, a man who could spin lies and deceit into a credible farago, and the word of my supposed wrongdoing spread rapidly. This despicable creature built up such myths about himself that he became the hero of a people, their knight in shining armour. What sort of folk would choose a bullying and uncaring falsifier as their icon?
But that was then. The bully is still seen as a hero by many of the descendents of those imperious fools, and they have brought much havoc to the world of humans. But their neighbours see through them, and accord myself, and my one horned friend, our due credit. Now, in these hills and valleys, I still light upon people who are lost and tired and hungry and fearful, and I light them a fire and guide them to shelter. They are grateful, but will not tell the story when they return to their families, for fear of ridicule. I prefer it that way. I am a myth, a legend, and a friend of man. But not of the tin men.
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