Work Text:
Many stories begin with a dragon. A dragon comes to the city, demanding virgins to devour. A baby thrown out with the bathwater grows into a great wyrm. In a novel not yet written at the time this particular story occurred, an unlikely hero will emerge from a hole in the ground and set out to face a dragon, all according to the mythological whims of a Catholic English professor.
And these are only Western examples. Consider how striking the image of the dragon is in Asian folklore. If you were to take, at random any five stories (the dragons taking pity on a blighted earth and bringing rain, two brother dragons fighting, every twelve years the Year of the Dragon comes around etc.) and mix all of them together with no sense of coherency and add some confused mythology from the rest of the world; and if you then told this story during a game of Chinese whispers at a college party wherein shots were required….
Then would you understand what Isaac and Miria were talking about.
But it began as thus, before the story spiralled out of control, and for once, it did not begin in the East:
In a well in Wales, two dragons were fighting…(1)
-
“Fighting? Why were they fighting, Isaac?”
Sat at the campfire, Miria’s face gleamed in its flickering, fickle light. She was caught on every word.
Isaac wracked his brains for an answer. “Well...you see, Miria, they really were like Japan in the Warring States period. They each represented something, good and evil, yin and yang. Their names were…” He thought hard. “Owain Glyndŵr and Yīngguó, which is the Chinese word for England.”
“Wow, England? That’s incredible, Isaac!”
It had been almost a month since their daring escape, and Isaac would never cease to be amazed by Miria’s smile. Her joy, her excitement, it never ceased to amaze. They were living the life of outlaws, on the lam, but Isaac had never been happier than he was with her. It was hard to imagine a life without Miria. He had a good imagination, but he didn’t want to spend any length of time thinking about that possibility.
Isaac didn’t understand emotions to any great depth but he knew he couldn’t live without her. They were made for one another. Anywhere else, Isaac was a misfit, an oddball, made to feel an outcast. With Miria, he was complete. And though he knew she felt the same way, he felt an obligation to make her as happy as possible in return for how whole she made him feel.
And so, despite the fact he had no recollection of the rest of the story at all , he carried on.
“Yes, England, Miria! So Owain Glyndŵr and Yīngguó’s fighting caused earthquakes, floods, and even tornadoes. In fact, it was so bad that the Jade Emperor himself had to intervene.”
“Emperor? But I thought this story took place in Wales.”
“Ah...yes.” Isaac remembered abruptly. “Well. The disaster was so big you could feel it in China, and in the heavens where the Emperor lived. So the Emperor summoned Merlin-”
“As in the Great Wizard Merlin? From King Arthur?”
“Yes, Miria, the very same! And Merlin went into the cave where the well was and made the dragons talk it out, and then the dragons came out as best friends, and the storms stopped, and that was the first Year of the Dragon.” (2) He looked at Miria, hoping his cobbled together explanation had been satisfactory.
Miria was staring at him, in rapt fascination. When she spoke, her voice was very quiet and very soft. “Isaac?”
“Yes Miria?”
“I-” she chewed at one of her thumbnails, and then she smiled. “I’ve got a story I want to tell now.” She perked up abruptly. “I do so love your stories, Isaac, but-” her face fell, her voice trembled. “I need to tell you this one.”
“Of course,” Isaac replied with a note of worry. “Anything for you.”
Miria shifted nervously, swallowing.
Isaac leaned forward, until the fire was scorching his face. The light danced, the fire roared; and Miria’s story began.
-
There was a girl who lived in a big house with her family. She liked to run around barefoot and slide down banisters, but she wasn’t supposed to do either of those things, being a girl. Her best friend was her older brother, who would sneak her sweets, and tried to teach her what he learnt at school, but the girl wasn’t very good at things like algebra. But she could sing, a little.
Her brother called her Little Bird.
Things were happy. Her parents were indulgent, she was always treated well, she was never in trouble even when she acted mischievously (often). Her brother, meanwhile, grew bitter. He was always blamed for the girl’s faults.
“They treat you like some kind of innocent princess,” he muttered. “You have no idea about the real world.” He saw her lip wobble, about to cry, and consoled her immediately. “That’s a good thing, Little Bird. You don’t want to know the kinds of things that are out there. I’ll always look after you.”
When their parents died, and the money ran out, he fell to drink. The big house was sold. More often than not, the girl found herself facing the brunt of his temper, in their one room hovel where there was no escape.
One day the bird got out of the cage and flew away.
The world was bright and colourful. It wasn’t full of danger like her brother had said at all.
And the best thing of all-
-
“Is you, Isaac,” Miria said earnestly. Her voice had started out choking but gradually grown clearer, and her eyes glinted not with tears but with joy.
Isaac stared. He could feel his face burning, a lump in his throat, a pang in his heart tugging at its strings. He wasn’t sure what to say.
“I didn’t know you sang,” he found himself saying.
Miria blushed. “I’m really not that good. Not like your sister.”
“Nonsense,” Isaac replied. “Why, I’m sure you’re fantastic. I’m sure you sing even better now. The great poet William Blake said that birds sing better outside in the world, or something like that.”
Miria looked nervous. “It’s just...I used to do it for him .”
Him . Her brother, Harvey Harvent. The monster in the closet, who even now still kept Miria awake at night. Isaac didn’t hate as a rule, but he could safely say he’d never despised a man more.
He hated Harvey because he loved Miria.
The realisation hit him like a bolt. He couldn’t have ever identified the feeling as love but as soon as he thought it it seemed so obvious. He’d loved Miria since the moment he’d first met her. It wasn’t so much a feeling as a fact. They were a fact. Isaac and Miria. Inseparable.
“It’s okay, Miria,” Isaac said. “You don’t have to sing, if you don’t feel good about it. It should be singing for you and not for anyone else to begin with, and nobody has to do anything they don’t want to. On the other hand, if you want to do something, nobody can stop you doing it. So long as you’re happy. And you, Miria, in the East they say that people are like jigsaws, yin and yang. Yīngguó and Owain Glyndŵr. And once someone finds the other part of their soul and completes the jigsaw, they can do anything.”
“So you’re saying we’re like the dragons? Ahh, Isaac! I don’t want to fight you!”
Isaac shook his head. “Remember, after Merlin the dragons lived happily. We’ve come through hardships, but I’m sure we’ll have a long and happy future together.”
-
This story is, really, a Frankenstein creature. It isn’t one strict story at all. But neither are people. We are all shaped by the stories around us, a hodgepodge of fables and love.
Nothing is ever so clear-cut as a fairytale. Yet sometimes, once in a proverbial blue moon, there are people who truly deserve their fairytale ending.
And they both lived happily ever after.