Dragon Dialog No. 1 (From the foundational documents of the Church of the Meaningless Coincidence)

Northern Africa, sometime in the sixth century A.D.

St. George has defeated the dragon. He trusses the monster up in Princess Sabra’s girdle and all three start off for the village. On the way, the dragon strikes up a conversation to pass the time before his trial and execution.

DRAGON: I apologize for choosing a lair so far out of town, but I found the view and quiet neighborhood irresistible.

GEORGE: I had particularly noticed the fine vista. I congratulate you on your selection.

DRAGON: Thank you, although I must credit an excellent estate agent. But, if I may be so bold as to inquire, how can you be a saint? To be sure, I’m no canonist, yet I always thought candidates for the title had to be — forgive my indelicacy — dead.

GEORGE: Fair question. It’s a little embarrassing, really.

DRAGON: I don’t mean to pry, but you are about to chop off my head.

GEORGE: I quite understand the need for closure. The fact is, I’m not really a saint. It’s all a big misunderstanding.

DRAGON: How so?

GEORGE: My dad, Chaim George, is a civil engineer. He named all of his kids after roadways — my brother Turnpike, my sisters Avenue and Boulevard …

DRAGON: And your mother is OK with this?

GEORGE: Well, her sister married a plumber, so …

DRAGON: Say no more. And your name is really …

GEORGE: Street. Street George. A scribe substituted the abbreviation in my elementary school registration, and one thing led to another.

DRAGON: How awkward.

GEORGE: That’s not the half of it. You want to know the real joke? We’re not even Catholic.

DRAGON: You mean …?

GEORGE: Yep.

DRAGON: Oy gevalt.

GEORGE: Exactly.

DRAGON: Thank you for sharing. Under the circumstances, I truly appreciate the confidence.

GEORGE: Not at all. Although, in the spirit of sharing, might I ask …?

DRAGON: Please, go ahead.

GEORGE: It’s just that you didn’t put up much of a fight. You’re much smaller than I expected, and you didn’t even breathe fire on me. I mean, I’m wearing a metal suit and it’s a sunny day in Libya.

DRAGON: I see where you’re heading.

GEORGE: Honestly, even a few moderately steamy snorts would have laid me out.

DRAGON: Fair is fair. I have a confession to make, too.

GEORGE: Again, not Catholic.

DRAGON: Your pardon. The thing is, I’m not a fire-breathing dragon. Quite the opposite, really. I’m a pacifist.

GEORGE: You astonish me.

DRAGON: A misunderstanding, as you called it. You see, my family name is Agon.

GEORGE: How delightfully exotic.

DRAGON: Thank you. But to the point, I believe you have some connection to the princes of Rus?

GEORGE: They invoke me as a sort of military mascot. More embarrassing than flattering, really.

DRAGON: I imagine so. And in their language, “agon” means fire.

GEORGE: I am familiar with the word, a cognate of the Latin “incendi,” one may suppose. Yet I’m ashamed to admit I do not see the connection.

DRAGON: It accounts for the occasional association of our clan with fire, at least in the Slavic regions.The misapprehension has proved especially tenacious in my own case.

GEORGE: Why should you be particularly susceptible?

DRAGON: The curse of a liberal education. The comforts of philosophy took such a hold on my spirit during my undergraduate years that I ignored my parents’ more practical advice and pursued the topic further.

GEORGE: To the extent of submitting a dissertation?

DRAGON: The committee at Oxford were good enough to approve “A reinterpretation of the Platform Sutra as applied to recursive attention models of consciousness,” even though much of the relevant research will not occur for more than 1,400 years

GEORGE: I imagine the dons felt obliged to stretch a point in your favor, given that the university itself isn’t due to open for several centuries either.

DRAGON: Very likely.

GEORGE: Still, I congratulate you. The topic sounds intriguing indeed.

DRAGON: Thank you again. A mere intellectual conceit, really, but it does allow me to claim the usual title.

GEORGE: Ah, so you are now Dr. Agon! And you came to this remote village … 

DRAGON: To apply for an opening to teach at the community college. As in your own case, a careless reading of my CV led to unwarranted conclusions and some hasty actions; rallies were held, demands were made, torches were lit, maidens were offered … 

GEORGE: Just a moment, there. If this was all a misunderstanding, why did you devour the maidens?

DRAGON: I might say it would have seemed rude not to, but in the event I didn’t devour anybody.

GEORGE: Then where have they all gone?

DRAGON: Most of them just skipped out as soon as I undid their fetters. Sore at the other villagers for feeding them to a dragon, I imagine.

GEORGE: That sounds plausible enough.

DRAGON: A few went back to their families, none the worse for the experience. Several of them still write me occasionally, and Mira drops by my cave for tea every Wednesday.

GEORGE: What’s tea?

DRAGON: A mildly stimulating beverage from Cathay made by soaking dried leaves in water. At this time in history people usually add onions to the brew.

GEORGE: It sounds horrid.

DRAGON: Yet some philosophers find it conducive of spiritual equanimity and deep thought. For example, regarding our mutual experiences with the sometimes startling contrast between our “true” identity and the persona imputed to us by others … 

 GEORGE: Go on.

DRAGON: It seems that in our social roles, we often act as placeholders for realizing the expectations of others, mere prisoners of archetype, if you will.

GEORGE: Then we are not responsible for our failings.

DRAGON: Nor deserving of any credit for our triumphs.

GEORGE: So in effect you are asking, absent a social context, who is the real me?

DRAGON: Ah! But what indeed is this “self” we believe in? Just one fleeting illusion chasing other illusions around within a nutshell, all of them believing themselves sole sovereign of infinite space?

GEORGE: Well, I can certainly see your natural propensity for philosophy. But in all those years of study did you find any profound, comforting answers?

DRAGON: If I may be permitted a nice distinction, philosophy deals more in questions than in answers. Religion serves better for those who insist on answers.

GEORGE: Then did you find comfort in your questions?

DRAGON: Devil a bit. To be honest, I may have lost my faith in questions, too. I’ve had some interesting discussions on that very topic with a friend of mine in Cathay. Although not a cynic, he almost convinces me that — contrary to the old saw about encouraging inquiry — there are only stupid questions.

GEORGE: This is one of your learned correspondents, no doubt.

DRAGON: Not as such. Indeed, Huineng never even learned to write. He’s actually a janitor by profession, although he has acquired quite a following as a teacher of teachers.

GEORGE: If he cannot write, how does he teach teachers?

DRAGON: Well, his chief disciples favor whacking their students upside the head with a big stick.

GEORGE: For giving incorrect answers?

DRAGON: For giving any answer at all.

GEORGE: How does that work?

DRAGON: Allow me to illustrate with the an anecdote: 

The student says, “Master, I beg you to tell me the secret to the most profound understanding of enlightenment.”

The teacher says, “There is no secret to the most profound understanding of enlightenment. Stop worrying about it.”

The student says, “Thank you, master. I understand. That was very profound and enlightening.”

And that is why the teacher keeps whacking the kid upside the head with a big stick.

GEORGE: A charming story, but it makes no zense.

DRAGON: Still, it is their preferred method of instruction. I assume they adapted it from your tradition of rabbinical debate, hence the name.

GEORGE: What name is that?

DRAGON: They call the nonsensical stories “kohens,” like the Hebrew priests.

GEORGE: So you no longer seek your answers in questions, so to speak?

DRAGON: On the contrary, I don’t seem to be able to stop thinking of questions, and I have come to consider the compulsion a serious personal failing. And sometimes I think we are all just little walking bundles of random virtues and vices. The exact mix determines our individual characters, and morality consists in figuring out how much control we have over which vices or virtues we display when and where.

GEORGE: I see what you mean about the comfortless questions.

DRAGON: Some even know me as the “Questioning Beast.”

GEORGE: But of course! I’ve heard of you under that name!

DRAGON: Really? In what context?

GEORGE: It was at the annual convention of the Societé Internationale des Chevaliers Errants in Calais just last year.

DRAGON: Your guild is named in French?

GEORGE: If this dialog can be in modern English, our guild can be named in French.

DRAGON: Fair enough.

GEORGE: In any case, we were holding a round table discussion about setting goals …

DRAGON: An inspiring subject indeed.

GEORGE: … and there was a fellow on the panel who kept going on about his search for the Questioning Beast. I think his name was Perlman or Palindrome or some such.

DRAGON: Sir Palomides.

GEORGE: The very man! You know him?

DRAGON: An old friend. We’ve been trying to get together for years, but keep just missing each other. The fall of the Roman Empire has really made a hash of trans-continental travel schedules.

GEORGE: Hold up. The Roman Empire fell?

DRAGON: Fifty years ago, give or take.

GEORGE: Get out!

DRAGON: The news has been understandably slow to get around. Plus there are a lot of deniers.

GEORGE: Hmm. Now as you mention it, I have been noticing a lot of service outages lately. But the whole empire falling? Bit of a shock, that.

DRAGON: Meh. It had a good run.

George, the dragon and the princess stop to rest at a well in a little oasis on the outskirts of the village. They all drink.

GEORGE: A toast to talking things out peacefully, like good Christians.

DRAGON: I’ll gladly share your toast, though neither of us is Christian. And while I applaud you entertaining talking things out as an alternative to violence, it has been my observation that both the doing and the talking are more likely to cause conflicts in the first place and mostly make them worse after.

GEORGE: You sound very like a cynic yourself.

DRAGON: The imminent prospect of my own execution concentrates the mind wonderfully.

GEORGE: But now that I am convinced of your innocence, I can bear witness in your favor.

DRAGON: Thank you! You are justice and generosity itself.

SABRA: I wouldn’t worry too much about the whole trial and execution thing. We mostly cleared up the misunderstanding about your CV a few days ago. I’ve been using my local influence on your behalf.

DRAGON: Your influence as a princess?

SABRA: As dean of faculty at the community college.

GEORGE: So you were never a sacrifice?

SABRA: Hardly. I came out to the lair to interview Dr. Agon for the teaching job. And after listening to your blather as we walked, I am prepared to offer you the position.

DRAGON: Why, thank you. But why didn’t you say something earlier?

SABRA: Because you two haven’t shut up all morning.

DRAGON: Ha ha. You remind me of something my third-form prefect once said. I remember the occasion perfectly. Not a bad sort at heart, the prefect, although he could be a bit of a wet blanket. That day he took us punting on the Thames. It was a charming, crisp, late autumn morning, just made for silent admiration of the wonders of nature, but the first formers wouldn’t shut up about their plans for the end of Michaelmas term. We had just come to a little ford past Romney Lock when the prefect remarked to me, sotto voce, “If they don’t keep on exercising their lips, their brains would start working.”

SABRA: See what I mean? That was an unnecessarily circumstantial story.

DRAGON: Ah. Point taken.

SABRA: And how about you, Sir George? Our fencing team needs a new coach since the last one got skewered on vacation in Barcelona. It’s only a part-time gig, but you can make up the hours by chairing one of the more useless academic departments. Sociology comes to mind …

GEORGE: A truly intriguing offer.

They are interrupted by a small mob of angry villagers carrying pitchforks, torches, hastily constructed, unflattering dragon effigies, and a sign that inexplicably proclaims “More beer is less than enough.”

VILLAGER No. 1: Hallelujah! It’s true! St. George has defeated the monster and freed our village!

OTHER VILLAGERS: Chop off its head! Chop off its head!

GEORGE: Good villagers, hear me! The beast is peaceful and innocent, and has done you no harm!

VILLAGERS: Chop off its head! Chop off its head!

SABRA: But why do you want to kill him?

VILLAGER No. 1: The beast’s hideousness is hateful to God!

GEORGE: Seriously? Then what about that guy?

VILLAGER No. 2: Uncle Aderfi’s hideousness is beloved of God.

GEORGE: Look, the point is you hired me to save your maidens from this voracious, fire breathing dragon. Only he isn’t one, and all your maidens are fine. You’ve wasted a lot of my time, but I’m willing to call it quits if you just let the lizard and me go our way in peace.

VILLAGER No. 3: All fine you say? Then what happened to my sister’s girl Safa? We haven’t seen her since the sacrifice.

DRAGON: Oh, Safa married my graduate assistant Paul, and then he got a gig teaching rhetoric at a high school in Alexandria.

VILLAGER No. 1: Well, then what about Saida, Rima, Aya and Wafa?

DRAGON: Married, married, falafel stand in Cadiz, and, last I heard, in command of a pirate fleet currently terrorizing the Adriatic.

VILLAGER No. 4: Then what about my daughter Mona? My precious little Mona!

MONA: Oh, for god’s sake, Dad. I’m right here.

VILLAGER No. 4: Huh?

MONA: I’ve only brought you breakfast every morning for 12 years. I had your third grandchild a month ago.

VILLAGER No. 4: Right. Sorry.

VILLAGER No. 1: Okay, what about poor Mira? The dragon chomps her into little bits every Wednesday!

MIRA: Hi. Over here. Actually he pays me to tidy up in his lair once a week. I do some light cleaning and then we have a nice talk over tea.

VILLAGER 3: What’s tea?

DRAGON: Dean Sabra, while I am truly flattered by the job offer, I have decided to decline. I don’t think I’m a good fit here, and my new errant friend here has re-awakened the old wanderlust. I’m suddenly inspired to hit the road in search of answers, questions, and something better than onions to put in my tea. What do you say, George?

GEORGE: I’m in. We could go a-seeking your Sir Palomides.

DRAGON: A capital notion! Where should we start?

GEORGE: How about Ireland? I hear they have a magic stone that kisses pilgrims with eloquence.

DRAGON: A magic stone? Sounds like complete blarney to me, but what the hell, Ireland it is! We can look in on Scotland while we’re up that way. I hear they have a magic stone, too, and I have a strange feeling it would be perfect with tea.

GEORGE: Ah, the glens in the gloamin in old Caledon’. Excellent! Well, good luck to you all. Villagers. Princess.

DRAGON: Ready?

GEORGE: After you.

SABRA: Wait! I’m coming with you. 

DRAGON: To Ireland?

SABRA: Just get me out of this hick town.

VILLAGERS: Aw.

DRAGON: Off we go then. I suppose we’ll need the nearest port and a ship.

SABRA: This way, then, follow me.

DRAGON: By the bye, whatever happened to your horse?

GEORGE: It’s a long story.

SABRA: Of course it is. Hey, can I please have my girdle back?

The End