A Christmas story

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The little Welsh dragon was one of the few of his kind left in the United Kingdom. He’d been brought from Wales to Wivenhoe, by ancient travellers, and now lived alone in a dark cave beneath the Dry Dock. From here he’d peep out, hiding from the summer sun, and watch the wayfarers and the swarthy sailors on the river.

When Autumn came and the clocks went back he allowed himself short outings at sunset. Then he could blend in with the salmon pink clouds that hovered over the water and the fields beyond.

When Winter came most of the visitors disappeared. The lonely dragon lit his fires and swallowed the flames – his throat had softened over the summer and needed to be tempered for the winter activity. This was the time when he had to do his research and undertake the annual challenge to find a different household worthy of his entertainment.

In this, his hundredth year and halfway through his life, he knew he mustn’t let himself down. He stretched his muscles and toned his shrunken summer wings after the long months of isolation, and he longed to spread goodwill to those who deserved it. He even did a little fire dance; excitement growing as he waited for the day when he would make a special appearance.

The Eve of Christmas arrived and he could hardly contain the glowing furnace within, ready as he was for this year’s fun. Midnight approached and the chosen family were all at Midnight Mass, in the beautiful church on the square. He poked his nose out of the cosy cave and gently expanded his chest and wafted his wings. Glowing with strength, and just for fun, he glided carefully between the street lamps before finding house number 64B. The doors of the shabby little house were locked and apart from a small oil lamp in the hall, all was dark. He drifted to the back of the house and found a tiny gap near the rickety back door, just big enough through which to squeeze his small flexible form.

He heard footsteps approach and as the front door opened he took a deep breath and then blew fire towards a dull little Christmas tree which he’d found standing in the corner of the downstairs room. That magical breath created miraculous lights on the tree and sparked coloured candles all about the room. The family gasped in awe at the sight their transformed Christmas tree, now aglow with twinkling stars.

The dragon’s gift of joy spread across the family like a sprinkling of Christmas dust. Mother picked up the flute she often played whenever Father was out mending the neighbours’ broken carts, and the children started to sing, much as they did when they swept the neighbours’ muddy steps. The family never asked for thanks but now were happy to have been justly rewarded for their kind deeds.

The little dragon however was tired after his evening’s work, and sad it was almost over. He tried to draw comfort from the music and the flickering candlelight, and saw that one candle, in the shape of a little female dragon, remained unlit. He lifted his chest and blew one more gentle breath of fire. The sleeping she-dragon responded with a shimmer … and a glimmer of hope for the next one hundred years settled over him.

                                      Merry Christmas Everyone.

 

 

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