Not Like the First Time

Not Like the First Time

I remember the first time so well. I had felt that I was probably too young for the task at age 16, but my father and uncles were very supportive, telling me that they were sure that I was old enough for it. I think that maybe they wanted to give up the challenge themselves, as they were slowing down some, and I was young and fast, and filled with energy and enthusiasm. Maybe they felt that that their good luck might just come to a fiery end one day in one unfortunate battle. 

I had never ever seen one of the creatures close up. My only times were with me and my dad standing high on the hills, with one of the beasts much lower down, just a little bit outside of its cave. I had heard stories, many stories, many terrifying stories of close calls, and even a few occasions when the human hunter had lost his life.

My mother made very sure that I was properly attired for the task that was ahead of me, with a leather helmet, a thick and slightly dampened jacket made out of the wide leaves of what it known by my community as ‘dragon-weed,’ with my sword in its sheath hanging down the length of my jacket, and below to a little past my knees.

My father and uncles followed me in my journey to the cave, too far to rescue me, but somehow still close enough to give me the confidence I needed. That diminished somewhat when I first saw the beast I was there to slay, before it slayed and possibly ate me. But I was still psyched, and attacked the creature with a quick series of slashes with the very long sword that I had been practicing with almost all the previous day. It had been my grandfather’s weapon, for many a killing  I slayed my very large adversary long before it got a chance to breathe directed flames at me. It was my first dragon. I will never forget this first experience. Many pictures remain in my mind, including the fiery eyes of small dragons deeper in the cave.

That was the start of what I soon began to refer to as my life’s purpose: Dragon Slayer Lars. I did get rewarded well for the dangerous task, by those who came to my house with a request concerning the possible threat of a dragon in the area. My future wife’s family made one such request. My father and my uncles had given it up, as I had early suspected that they would. I became the only one in the community that would dragon hunt.

Taking Mementos of my Early Conquests

With my first few slayings of the dragons I took small pieces of their dead bodies (ears, toes, noses and the like) as mementos to put on the wall of the family home, to go with similar body parts that my father and uncles had done when they were still young. After a while I stopped this deadly practice. It was enough for me that I had killed them. The memories were already large in my mind. I didn’t need physical reminders of what I had accomplished. And there was nothing particularly attractive or decorative about them anyway if I were to be truly honest.

Settling Down

As a successful slayer as well as hunter for food (I would never of course even think of eating a dragon), I was able to marry at the age of 21. We soon had two children, twins, one male and one female. And we were able to settle down living in our very own home, not my parents’ place. Although our son, Bjorn, was initially interested in my mementos, he lost that interest after I foolishly told him some very gory stories of how I obtained them. I don’t know for sure, but I suspect that I might have felt the same at five years old if my father had told me the same stories. My daughter Astrid showed no apparent interest. In fact she would quickly walk out of the house when I was describing my latest adventure to Bjorn.

The Big Question

Then one day Astrid asked me a serious question. “Do dragons have babies?” Although, of course, the answer was obvious, I did not answer her question right away, worrying about what her next question might be. I told her that all animals have babies. Then she followed up with the question that I was concerned that she might ask. “What happens to the little ones when their parents are dead?” I had never thought of that before, and I didn’t like the pictures that ran through my head at that moment. I gave the weak and somewhat cowardly answer of  “I don’t know”, something that I don’t think I had ever said in answering one of her questions about life.

Astrid got me thinking, picturing what I had seen in doing my dragon hunting, the young ones looking lost, trying to hide deep in their cave when I killed one or both of their parents. I had never killed a little one, but right at that moment of contemplation that did not help with the dark thoughts that I was feeling inside.

What made the situation even more difficult was that later that same day, a man came up to me and told me that he had recently seen a dragon in a cave not far away, a den that had been empty for months. All that I could do at that moment was to tell him that I would check it out, a noncommittal answer, uncharacteristic of my responses to such requests before this one.

A New Way of Stalking

So I went to the cave. I knew it well. I has killed there before. I felt nervous in a new way. As I approached the cave, I saw three sets of bright, shiny eyes piercing the darkness inside the place. Two sets were very close to the ground, so I knew that they must be babies. One set was significantly taller, but still not very big as dragons go. I reckoned that she was a young mother. As I approached the dragon trio, I had a thought. The material that made up my armour was dragon-weed. It was called that because it is the main source of food for them. They were not the carnivores I thought they were when I slew my first dragon.

Acting braver than I felt, I took my protective jacket off, dropping my sword to the ground beside me, and tossed the dragon-weed jacket towards the cave. There was no motion at first, but then they moved slowly, cautiously towards their meal. I stood still, not making any movements that they, particularly the mother, might interpret as threatening. The mother divided up the food, and they all munched their meal not far from me. They looked up at me occasionally, but I did not see fear in their eyes.

I would have to prepare a convincing speech when I returned to my community, one that would suggest a change. Dragons had never in my life approached the community, and I cannot remember any of my father’s stories had them doing that.  Why make an enemy when you can make a friend?

And that, dear grandchildren, is why we no longer hunt dragons, and consider them a threat like we used to when I was your age.