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NARGIST
Taking
the old Roman road northbound out of Boscodale and following it to the river,
then tracking the river as it runs to its source, through forests, marshes and
tundras, crossing the polar circle and up the ice mountains, you eventually
arrive in a land known as Nargist.
Nargist
is steeped in eternal winter. Temperatures are constantly below zero. Ice- and
snow storms sweep the land. To survive, you must smear yourself with animal
lard and cover yourself with the furry pelts of moose or snow foxes. Without
these precautions, you will suffer frostbite in an instance. But, amazingly
enough, in the midst of this winterscape, hot geysers and springs well up from
inside the earth.
Now,
some people – mostly scientists and the likes – will tell you that these warm
water surges are caused by rifts in the earth’s crust, which allow lava to rise
up and heat the water. Of course, those in the know – such as myself – can tell
you that this is utter nonsense and that the geysers are produced by nothing
other than the fiery breath of a creature that is locked in beneath the
surface; a dragon. (And those who say that dragons don’t exist must be sent to
bed at once without supper, to teach them a good lesson.)
The
people of Nargist had boils growing on their greased-up faces and hunchbacks
from forever walking stooped over against the eternally beating wind. Their
life was harder than we can possibly imagine from our centrally heated homes.
They feared the dragon, but couldn’t live without it either, since it was the
only source of heat in that forsaken land. They would often ease themselves
into the hot sulphurous springs to alleviate the pain from their stiff joints,
sometimes soaking for hours.
But
they always had to remain vigilant, because the dragon might wake up and bite
you in the behind, which would leave you scarred for life and never to be able
to sit down again.
Yes,
dear reader, the dragon was sleeping; producing little gurgles as it
contentedly snored away. Once or twice it had woken up and had spat fire out of
the mountain and many Nargistonians didn’t live to tell the tale. Ever since,
the people often met up and discussed at great length the State of the Dragon
and what should be done about it.
‘We
could pour a sleeping potion down the mountain, to make sure the dragon doesn’t
wake up,’ someone suggested. ‘You can’t get to the top of the mountain, it’s
too hot,’ a woman countered. ‘Why don’t we dig deep holes in the ground and
shovel in tonnes of snow, surely the dragon would freeze?’ somebody else
offered. ‘First of all, that wouldn’t work, because the dragon would simply
melt all the snow and secondly, if it did work we would be without a dragon and
then we would surely freeze!’ the woman exclaimed.
‘No,
we must catch the dragon and train it like you would train a wolfhound,’
suggested a little boy named Bongolom, ‘and then the dragon would become our
friend.’
A
long and deep silence fell as the Nargistonians considered this. Finally, their
leader, a muscular man of nearly two meters tall (that’s about six feet) with a
beard almost as long said: “So be it. Whoever will train the dragon will
receive riches beyond compare.”
The
promise of wealth and favours never fails to excite humans, except perhaps
those few enlightened hermits one might find in the mountains of Tibet, and
this time it was no different. In no time at all, everyone was screaming on the
top of their voices, declaring their worth. When that didn’t work, a big fight
broke out, resulting in many fractured limbs and noses, before the leader
finally managed to put a stop to it. ‘Whoever deems him- or herself suitable
for the job must make a formal application; my office will be open tomorrow
morning from daybreak.’ The Nargistonians shuffled and stumbled back to their
huts. At least the fight had warmed them up for the moment.
Men
and women tossed and turned in their beds that night as sleep wouldn’t come.
They were all trying to devise ways of taming the dragon, but nobody managed to
come up with a feasible plan. Besides, not a single one of them was brave
enough to even contemplate going near the dragon. The situation was hopeless.
They would remain at the beast’s mercy forever.
Meanwhile,
the dragon, which had been sleeping soundly, was woken up by the feverish
thoughts that were flying around in Nargist. He felt that he had a disturbing
influence on these people and, being a nice and sensitive creature, he decided
to leave. All he really wanted was to be loved and understood like everybody
else. Maybe he would be more appreciated elsewhere.
He
was so sad to leave that he forgot to breathe fire when he emerged from his
mountainous cave, which was a lucky thing for the locals. As the dragon made
his way through the night, snow briefly turned to rain. But by the time the
people of Nargist crawled out of their beds, the place was colder than ever.
With
the daybreak it dawned on the Nargistonians what had happened and a feeling of
utter darkness came over them. Quietly, they packed up whatever belongings they
could carry and left, in the knowledge that staying in Nargist would mean
certain death. That day, a long trail of people with large packs on their
hunchbacks could be seen struggling down the mountain, on their way to greener
pastures. They all made their way south. All, but one.
Little
Bongolom had packed a sledge and went eastwards across the ice plains, two
huskies pulling him along. When his parents and five brothers and sisters had
left the house, he had hung back. They hadn’t even noticed he and the dogs were
missing. He was going to look for a brave ally to accompany him on his quest
and he had heard that the bravest men in all the world were those violent and
ferocious Vikings.
He
wasn’t even sure what his quest was. To find the dragon again? And who said
that the Vikings would help him? They might kill him at first sight. What hope
did he, a mere ten-year-old, have to solve this tragedy?
But
what is often the case in fairytales - as well as in real life - is that the
hero doesn’t know what drove him to do a certain thing. That’s the mark of a
hero; to follow your destiny, no matter what.
Don’t
think, however, that Bongolom was aware of this as he sped along the ice. He
was scared and cold. All he really wanted to do was go to sleep, but if he gave
in to that, he would wake no more. He travelled for many days and nights. He
did not know how many, because the sun never rose at all during that time of
the year. Finally, when the first traces of sunshine lit the noon sky, he saw a
small settlement in the distance.
A
circle of primitive huts stood around a large bonfire. Viking men with rough
helmets and women with long blond braids were dancing, eating, drinking and
laughing. Bongolom knew why: they were celebrating the first day of spring,
when the sun at long last rose again. The festive scene warmed his heart. He
was cold and hungry and longed to join in the feasting, but he was afraid.
Furtively
he approached, trying not to be noticed, but it wasn’t long before a
particularly large Viking spotted him, seized him by the collar and dragged him
to the centre of the circle. “Isn’t this the ugliest child you have ever seen
in your life?” he roared. Everybody laughed and pointed at poor little
Bongolom, whose spots indeed were no pretty sight. Bongolom felt like crying or
running away, but gathered all his courage and looked the wild Viking straight
in the eyes. “Don’t you know your place, boy”, he growled and punched him to
the ground.
Again
Bongolom felt tears pressing behind his eyes, but he swallowed hard and got up,
trying to outstare his opponent. “Ha ha, this kid’s got guts! Join the party,
lad!” He clapped Bongolom on the shoulder and shoved an earthenware cup with a
rather dubious tasting but strong local beverage into his hands. “Skoll!”
Bongolom said, trying to imitate his tough host, provoking another roar of
laughter from the crowd. Eyeing him curiously – after all, it wasn’t every day
that a strange boy came to their village – they invited him to sit by the fire,
where he told them his tale.
“You
have proven yourself very courageous,” the leader said. “Courage is everything
to a Viking. That’s why I will appoint my best tracker to accompany you on your
quest to find this dragon.” He signalled a boy not much older than Bongolom to
come over. “This is Fredrik Plot. He will travel with you tomorrow. But first,
let’s make merry” and he called out for more drinks.
The
next day, fresh supplies loaded onto the sledge, the two boys waved the
villagers goodbye. “Where shall we go?” asked Bongolom. “South,” Fredrik
answered. “Do you think we will find the dragon there?” said Bongolom. “I have
absolutely no idea, but I’ve always wanted to go south,” the tracker replied,
smiled a blistering smile and started whistling a happy tune. The little boy
from Nargist was too taken aback to say anything. So south they went.
Meanwhile,
the dragon was wandering about, causing forest fires here and earthquakes
there. And that wasn’t everything. His very presence seemed to heat up the
earth. Again, dear reader, I feel I must set something straight here. Many
people claim that global warming is caused by so-called greenhouse gases and pollution.
How ridiculous! It is obviously caused by a dragon at large. When will people
ever learn!
Anyway,
our dragon was wreaking havoc like there was no tomorrow. Sensing it wasn’t
wanted, the poor creature kept on the move. It didn’t mean to harm anyone. It
simply couldn’t help having a fiery temperament, that’s just the way dragons
are. Tired and sad, the dragon finally took shelter in a cave on the island of
Sicily.
Five
years had passed and the two boys had grown into young men. They had journeyed
all across the continent and become close friends. They had overcome many
trials and tribulations, but they had also had a lot of fun as they went from
country to country. Bongolom’s complexion had greatly improved in milder
climates and he now walked as straight as his companion. Both of them had
become fluent in at least five languages and learned many skills to survive and
earn their keep. Often they completely forgot why they were on the road in the
first place. But occasionally they would hear news about an earthquake or other
‘natural’ disaster and they would be on their way again.
After
hearing reports about eruptions on Sicily, Bongolom and Fredrik knew where to
go. A few weeks later they set foot on the island and set up camp near the
biggest hill. That night they heard rumblings from within the mountain. People
started running about frantically, clutching their most precious possessions,
their eyes wild. But Bongolom and Fredrik kept their cool.
It
was Bongolom who first recognised the sounds for what they were: sobs. He
realised the dragon must be in considerable pain and felt for the creature. He
was suddenly overcome by a great sadness and started to sing a slow and
heart-rending song, while Fredrik whistled along.
Surprised,
the dragon stopped weeping. It had gotten used to people screaming and crying,
not singing and whistling. Carefully, it stuck its head out of the mountain to
see who was singing. “Who are you?” it whispered, trying not to cause a fire.
“I am Bongolom of Nargist. Dear dragon, we have missed you, won’t you come home
with us?” the brave boy asked. “You mean…, you like me, you really
really like me?” replied the dragon. “Of course we do, we can’t live
without you!” screamed Bongolom. The dragon was so happy to hear this that it
did a little dance, which of course made the whole island shudder.
Well,
dear reader, that just about concludes our story. By the end of December, Bongolom
had taken Fredrik and the dragon home, where the latter learned to control its
fire to the required amount, as if it had a thermostat. Most of the people
returned to the country and Bongolom and Fredrik were heftily rewarded for
their deeds. Bongolom, who was appointed Keeper of the Dragon, married a
relatively sweet young lady and had twelve children. Later in life he set up
the Bongolom Institute of Languages, causing the Nargistonians to become the
greatest linguists in Europe. Even today, northern Europeans are known for
their linguistic skills and they have Bongolom to thank for it.
Fredrik
stayed on in Nargist for a short while, but felt the travel urge stirring
inside him once again. So he made his farewell and travelled down the
ice-mountains, crossed the polar circle, tracked the river south through
tundra’s, marshes and forests and found himself on the old Roman road to
Boscodale.
But
towards the end of each year, he goes back to Nargist, to celebrate how they
brought back light and warmth to that country, to drink, dance and be
merry. And Bongolom hands out
presents to all the children of the town, laughing loudly “Ho, ho, ho!”.
© Pep Mac Ruairi
