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31_days2008-12-05 07:03 am
bane-6.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2008-12-05 07:03 am
[Dec 5] [Jim Henson‘s The Storyteller] Fire Within
Title: Fire Within
Day/Theme: 5) glorious eyes that smile and burn
Series:Jim Henson‘s The Storyteller
Character/Pairing: Storyteller, Dog, cat
Rating: G. Loosely based on a story I half-remember from a book in the ‘reading corner’ of a summer camp I went to as a kid.
The Storyteller’s Dog had found a cat by the hearth and barked furiously before hissing, “Go on! Get, you mangy mouse-eater!” between his teeth. The cat didn’t even look at him. Its ears cocked back, but it went on staring into the fire. The Dog looked at the Storyteller, outraged.
“That’s my spot!” he insisted. The Storyteller held up a warning finger.
“Careful, my friend,” he said in a stage whisper. “Cats should be handled with caution. They used to be dragons and in their hearts, they remember that.”
“What?” the Dog was torn between anger and disbelief. It flopped on its haunches to glare at him.
“In the earliest days of these lands, there were no cats,” the Storyteller said. “But cows a-plenty, and where there were cows in those days, there were dragons. A princess might’ve been a rare and sweet morsel, but there was something to be said for the splendor of quantity, and why bother fighting knights and wizards over a screaming girl, when a whole field of grazing beefsteak was left unattended just over the ridge?
“There was a dragon, golden as his hoard, golden as the sun, proud and strong and fiery. Every seven days, he came to the field and ate his fill of the cows. The villagers weren’t knights or wizards, but they were brave and sturdy folk, so they devised traps and tricks to drive the creature away or hopefully, even kill it. At first, it was entertainment for the dragon. They tend to have a cruel sense of humor about things they might eat, much like our guest.” The Storyteller nodded towards the cat, whose ears were still aimed back at them.
“Guest, pest,” the Dog muttered, showing his teeth, which was wasted since the cat still didn’t look. The Storyteller went on.
“And like most cruel creatures, as soon as one of the traps actually cause him pain in return, the dragon flew into a terrible fury and flew into town to take revenge. All the villagers fled into the old church, as it was made of stone and had deep basements, and while the dragon raged and burned their roofs and fences outside, they were safe.”
Here the Storyteller held up his hand and pointed to the beams in their own ceiling. Dark and dusty with age there were some blackened spots.
“Dragons,” he said, with another nod toward the cat. “Do NOT like being thwarted. Their pride burns as hot as their bellies, and there was no hope of this dragon being satisfied with just scorching their town and eating all their cows. He would’ve done that anyway, but these pitchfork-waving insects had dared to cross him.
“Dragons, like cats, can be very patient. He waited outside the church like a tom outside a mouse hole, tail lashing, eyes burning, waiting for just one of the villagers to show themselves. He could hear them down there, hammering and talking in the deep halls below the church. For a month and a half, he waited, and finally he was too hungry to wait any more.
“He took to the air, casting his shadow over the steeple, then dove through the largest stained glass window in a rainbow shower of sharp glass. He hadn’t wanted to do that before because he hadn’t known if he could get back out again, but with his temper gone, so was his caution. Like a great, golden snake, he wound his way through the church, setting tapestries and hymnals a-light as he went down stairs and corridors.
“He followed the sound of the hammering down deep into the lower halls until he could smell them behind a door. They had nailed the door full of spikes to keep him back, but his fire melted them soft and he battered it down. There were screams as he burst into their hiding place and he drew in a deep breath to blast them to cinders, but then…”
The Storyteller’s voice dropped to a low, dramatic thrum. The cat tilted its head slightly, but still didn’t look.
“Their latest trap clamped tight around his head! Like a gigantic mouse trap of iron, it closed around his jaws and neck, shutting in his fire and trapping him, head inside, body outside. With his head pinned, the villagers hurried to shackle his wings and legs and even his sharp, lashing tail. They bound him in chains until he couldn’t move enough to rattle, and they left him there.”
The Dog waited a moment and then asked, “For how long?”
“Time out of mind,” said the Storyteller somberly. “They locked all the doors behind them, went to rebuild their roofs and fences, and gave no thought to the creature below. Time went on. The village grew, then shrank. A larger town was built a mile or so closer to the river and everyone moved there, and eventually all that was left of the old village were a few stone rooms of the old church and the fields around them.
“A widow came there from the city. With her husband dead, they had lost their home in the city, so she brought her three children and her husband’s blind mother to the old church. You would never know it was a church anymore. The gravestones were all worn away, the steeple had collapsed, and the bell taken by thieves long ago, but when they went down some of the stairs, they had walls and a roof.
“That night when they lit up a fire, and curled up to sleep, the youngest child heard a whisper in the dark beyond the little room.
“What is that?” a thin little voice called, weak as a candle on a windy night. “That is bright and warm and dancing?”
“It’s our fire,” the little one said.
“Ohhhh,” said the voice. “I remember fire… Bring me a bit to see by.”
“And curious and not knowing any better, the child took a torch from the fire and stepped into the dark. And there, in the dark, he found a strange and sad creature. Wrapped in chains for hundreds of year, the dragon had shriveled and shrunk. Its wings had withered and fallen off. Its golden armor scales had dulled and crumbled away. It was no longer big enough to fly away with a cow. With no food or light or exercise, its fires had died and it was no longer even recognizable… except for its eyes….
“When what was left of the dragon saw the fire, its eyes grew bright again and it sighed with joy.
“Give me a little,” it begged. “To hold and taste again.”
“You’ll be burned!” warned the child. “It will hurt you, poor thing.”
“Not me,” said what had been the dragon. “Just a small bit…”
And the child, kind-hearted, held out the little torch to the creature, only to drop it in dismay when it screamed with pain. The fire HAD burned what had been a dragon and this came as a such a shock to the beast that it yowled and cried. The child tried to comfort it, but the noise brought his brother and sister and his mother running.
“What is that?” his sister asked.
“Someone has chained the poor creature here and left it to starve,” said the mother, more right than she knew. “Unchain it and let it go. If it is a tame creature, it can sleep by the fire with us.”
“They were until midnight unchaining the once-dragon, and when all the shackles had fallen away, there was only a thin, small beast with a long tail and bright eyes. The sister, braver than her brother, but just as kind was first to touch it, to stroke down its back and dust away the last few scales clinging to its skin. Unfamiliar with kindness, the creature was weak and sick enough to be grateful. She scooped it into her arms and carried it up to their room with the fire, and they gave it some milk and bread left from their dinner.
“It was not a dragon anymore, but it had kept its claws, fangs, and its burning eyes. As time went by, it grew fur to keep warm without its scales and fire. It sat in the blind grandmother’s lap and by their fire, and though it did grow strong and fierce again, it was only a terror to birds and mice ever after.
“They say,” said the Storyteller, reaching out to carefully stroke down the cat’s back. Its haunches raised slightly at the caress. “That you must keep your cat fed on milk and bread, because a cat that gets only blood and meat will begin to become a dragon again.”
“Well…” the Dog had forgotten to be peeved in the course of the tale, but was glaring at the cat again. “He’s not getting MY milk.” The cat turned then and opened its eyes wide. They were as hot and yellow as embers, and as its purr rumbled over the crackle of the fire, it flexed its claws gently against the warm stone and smiled.
Day/Theme: 5) glorious eyes that smile and burn
Series:Jim Henson‘s The Storyteller
Character/Pairing: Storyteller, Dog, cat
Rating: G. Loosely based on a story I half-remember from a book in the ‘reading corner’ of a summer camp I went to as a kid.
The Storyteller’s Dog had found a cat by the hearth and barked furiously before hissing, “Go on! Get, you mangy mouse-eater!” between his teeth. The cat didn’t even look at him. Its ears cocked back, but it went on staring into the fire. The Dog looked at the Storyteller, outraged.
“That’s my spot!” he insisted. The Storyteller held up a warning finger.
“Careful, my friend,” he said in a stage whisper. “Cats should be handled with caution. They used to be dragons and in their hearts, they remember that.”
“What?” the Dog was torn between anger and disbelief. It flopped on its haunches to glare at him.
“In the earliest days of these lands, there were no cats,” the Storyteller said. “But cows a-plenty, and where there were cows in those days, there were dragons. A princess might’ve been a rare and sweet morsel, but there was something to be said for the splendor of quantity, and why bother fighting knights and wizards over a screaming girl, when a whole field of grazing beefsteak was left unattended just over the ridge?
“There was a dragon, golden as his hoard, golden as the sun, proud and strong and fiery. Every seven days, he came to the field and ate his fill of the cows. The villagers weren’t knights or wizards, but they were brave and sturdy folk, so they devised traps and tricks to drive the creature away or hopefully, even kill it. At first, it was entertainment for the dragon. They tend to have a cruel sense of humor about things they might eat, much like our guest.” The Storyteller nodded towards the cat, whose ears were still aimed back at them.
“Guest, pest,” the Dog muttered, showing his teeth, which was wasted since the cat still didn’t look. The Storyteller went on.
“And like most cruel creatures, as soon as one of the traps actually cause him pain in return, the dragon flew into a terrible fury and flew into town to take revenge. All the villagers fled into the old church, as it was made of stone and had deep basements, and while the dragon raged and burned their roofs and fences outside, they were safe.”
Here the Storyteller held up his hand and pointed to the beams in their own ceiling. Dark and dusty with age there were some blackened spots.
“Dragons,” he said, with another nod toward the cat. “Do NOT like being thwarted. Their pride burns as hot as their bellies, and there was no hope of this dragon being satisfied with just scorching their town and eating all their cows. He would’ve done that anyway, but these pitchfork-waving insects had dared to cross him.
“Dragons, like cats, can be very patient. He waited outside the church like a tom outside a mouse hole, tail lashing, eyes burning, waiting for just one of the villagers to show themselves. He could hear them down there, hammering and talking in the deep halls below the church. For a month and a half, he waited, and finally he was too hungry to wait any more.
“He took to the air, casting his shadow over the steeple, then dove through the largest stained glass window in a rainbow shower of sharp glass. He hadn’t wanted to do that before because he hadn’t known if he could get back out again, but with his temper gone, so was his caution. Like a great, golden snake, he wound his way through the church, setting tapestries and hymnals a-light as he went down stairs and corridors.
“He followed the sound of the hammering down deep into the lower halls until he could smell them behind a door. They had nailed the door full of spikes to keep him back, but his fire melted them soft and he battered it down. There were screams as he burst into their hiding place and he drew in a deep breath to blast them to cinders, but then…”
The Storyteller’s voice dropped to a low, dramatic thrum. The cat tilted its head slightly, but still didn’t look.
“Their latest trap clamped tight around his head! Like a gigantic mouse trap of iron, it closed around his jaws and neck, shutting in his fire and trapping him, head inside, body outside. With his head pinned, the villagers hurried to shackle his wings and legs and even his sharp, lashing tail. They bound him in chains until he couldn’t move enough to rattle, and they left him there.”
The Dog waited a moment and then asked, “For how long?”
“Time out of mind,” said the Storyteller somberly. “They locked all the doors behind them, went to rebuild their roofs and fences, and gave no thought to the creature below. Time went on. The village grew, then shrank. A larger town was built a mile or so closer to the river and everyone moved there, and eventually all that was left of the old village were a few stone rooms of the old church and the fields around them.
“A widow came there from the city. With her husband dead, they had lost their home in the city, so she brought her three children and her husband’s blind mother to the old church. You would never know it was a church anymore. The gravestones were all worn away, the steeple had collapsed, and the bell taken by thieves long ago, but when they went down some of the stairs, they had walls and a roof.
“That night when they lit up a fire, and curled up to sleep, the youngest child heard a whisper in the dark beyond the little room.
“What is that?” a thin little voice called, weak as a candle on a windy night. “That is bright and warm and dancing?”
“It’s our fire,” the little one said.
“Ohhhh,” said the voice. “I remember fire… Bring me a bit to see by.”
“And curious and not knowing any better, the child took a torch from the fire and stepped into the dark. And there, in the dark, he found a strange and sad creature. Wrapped in chains for hundreds of year, the dragon had shriveled and shrunk. Its wings had withered and fallen off. Its golden armor scales had dulled and crumbled away. It was no longer big enough to fly away with a cow. With no food or light or exercise, its fires had died and it was no longer even recognizable… except for its eyes….
“When what was left of the dragon saw the fire, its eyes grew bright again and it sighed with joy.
“Give me a little,” it begged. “To hold and taste again.”
“You’ll be burned!” warned the child. “It will hurt you, poor thing.”
“Not me,” said what had been the dragon. “Just a small bit…”
And the child, kind-hearted, held out the little torch to the creature, only to drop it in dismay when it screamed with pain. The fire HAD burned what had been a dragon and this came as a such a shock to the beast that it yowled and cried. The child tried to comfort it, but the noise brought his brother and sister and his mother running.
“What is that?” his sister asked.
“Someone has chained the poor creature here and left it to starve,” said the mother, more right than she knew. “Unchain it and let it go. If it is a tame creature, it can sleep by the fire with us.”
“They were until midnight unchaining the once-dragon, and when all the shackles had fallen away, there was only a thin, small beast with a long tail and bright eyes. The sister, braver than her brother, but just as kind was first to touch it, to stroke down its back and dust away the last few scales clinging to its skin. Unfamiliar with kindness, the creature was weak and sick enough to be grateful. She scooped it into her arms and carried it up to their room with the fire, and they gave it some milk and bread left from their dinner.
“It was not a dragon anymore, but it had kept its claws, fangs, and its burning eyes. As time went by, it grew fur to keep warm without its scales and fire. It sat in the blind grandmother’s lap and by their fire, and though it did grow strong and fierce again, it was only a terror to birds and mice ever after.
“They say,” said the Storyteller, reaching out to carefully stroke down the cat’s back. Its haunches raised slightly at the caress. “That you must keep your cat fed on milk and bread, because a cat that gets only blood and meat will begin to become a dragon again.”
“Well…” the Dog had forgotten to be peeved in the course of the tale, but was glaring at the cat again. “He’s not getting MY milk.” The cat turned then and opened its eyes wide. They were as hot and yellow as embers, and as its purr rumbled over the crackle of the fire, it flexed its claws gently against the warm stone and smiled.