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Because Life's too Short Not to Laugh at it

The dragon woke up, and her nostrils flared with annoyance--another dragon slayer was approaching. It was always so. Whenever the beast was rudely awakened from a sound sleep, it was another fortune hunter seeking honor and glory.

The dragon stretched her limbs and shook out her long, scaly body. Her name was Jormungand, known to mythology as the Midgard serpent, and she was a formidable creature. Her father was the Norse god Loki, and her mother, the giantess Angrboda.

Jormungand had originally guarded the World Tree of the Norse creation legend, a job from which she had resigned long ago. For millennia, she lived at the bottom of the sea wrapping herself around the roots of the tree. The pressures of the job were unspeakable, and there was too much hostility from those who adhered to other creation stories. Moreover, there was the nasty episode where the hapless dragon had tangled with Thor, when he nearly snared her by lowering a bull's head into the water as bait. The day Thor threw a fishing line into the sea and nearly reeled Jormungand in had caused deep psychic scars for the underwater behemoth.

Thor's hatred for the dragon was motivated by the prophecy that the god of thunder would someday die at the hands of the Midgard serpent. Jormundgand had never even heard of the prophecy until Thor hunted her down and tried to kill her. The dragon had enough stress in her life as guardian of the roots of the World Tree, whose lower branches encircled the Earth while the upper branches connected the Earth to the heavens. She did not need the added complication of Thor's enmity. But that was long ago. Now Jormungand was retired, and she enjoyed her life in the mountainous countryside, where she spent a good deal of time sleeping.

But today she heard the galloping of the horse's hooves outside the lair, and she sighed. The last adventurer had sought her out just six months earlier and with unfortunate consequences, which Jormungand preferred not to dwell upon. She hoped her assumption about the identity of her caller was mistaken. Jormungand stuck her head out as she squinted in the bright sunlight.

“Who goes there?” the dragon inquired.

Jormungand knew the answer to her question as soon as she set eyes on the unwelcome guest. The combatant was dressed in traditional chain mail, with helmet and face piece, and a long sword inserted neatly into the sheath attached to his belt. His white Arabian charger was an elegant mare of perfect lineage. The horse whinnied and reared upon meeting the creature of the cavern, but the expert rider reined in the frightened animal. “Are you the dragon of lore, who devours anyone who approaches your den?” the armored chevalier rejoined.

“Probably.” Jormungand did not care to elaborate on her illustrious history and her rather intimidating reputation.

“En garde! I must combat you.” The knight's voice rang out loud and clear, for he took himself very seriously indeed.

“I will pay you fifty gold pieces to go away and leave me alone,” Jormungand announced calmly.

“Aha! And did you procure that treasure with innocent blood?” the knight asked suspiciously.

“No, I killed a nasty pirate who disembarked at the coast and was passing through. No one missed him. He had it coming to him.”

“And you expect me to believe that?” the knight pursued.

“Well, if you did, it would be expedient for both of us,” the dragon replied in a resigned tone of voice.

“I happen to know you kill good men who would try to reason with you to give up your faithless ways. But who could reason with you? You have no mind and no intellect. You are merely a reptile.” The knight made no attempt to mask his scorn.

“I am a rational reptile, who would like to see humans resolve their conflicts and build a society where each gives according to their ability and receives according to their need. I would like to see the underprivileged freed from the enslavement of poverty. I would like to see a classless society where all individuals share property and wealth, released from any unreasonable restrictions imposed by marriage, family, religion, or country. I would like to see the full self-realization of every individual in that society, even if it means they have to overthrow the powers that be to create a bohemian, democratic, and egalitarian utopia where no one is homeless, hungry, or in despair.”

The knight blinked in perplexity. “Are you a Communist?” he asked.

“I'm a communist with a small 'c',” the dragon responded.

“What does that mean?” the knight questioned

“It means I don't endorse the distorted form of communism that becomes a poor excuse for a fascist dictatorship. I maintain the pure, idealistic form, which will give humankind a theoretical framework to build a perfect world where all social ills have been abolished. My ideas are not as revolutionary as you may think. I have been around a long time; I have seen enough suffering to last an eternity, and I know that the present system does not work. I guess you could say I'm a humanitarian.”

“Then why are you hated and feared in legend, myth, and lore?” the knight wanted to know.

“The legend of the murderous dragon is what they all want to hear, and I firmly believe in producing the greatest happiness for the greatest number of people,” Jormungand acknowledged sadly. “Now, in exchange for your good will, compliance, and perhaps even a promise that you will abort your ridiculous mission, will you accept my offer of the fifty gold pieces?”

“No, you filthy vermin. I have been in training all my life to kill you. I will become a living legend for having finally rid the world of a hateful creature like yourself. En garde!” The mounted horseman unsheathed his sword.

The dragon swatted her tail, flipping the knight high into the air so that he landed on the treacherous bluffs beyond the clearing. The horse bolted.

Afterwards, Jormungand yawned, snorted a few fireballs, and went back to sleep.

By Clarise Samuels

Clarise Samuels is a Montreal writer who has published stories, poetry, and articles. Her first novel, told from the perspective of the Norse goddess Brynhild, is forthcoming from Heliand Publishing. Clarise has stories published or pending in Boston Literary Magazine, Flashshot, The Short Humour Site, Bewildering Stories, Werewolf Magazine, and others. Clarise has a Rutgers PhD in German literature, and her scholarly tome on the Holocaust poetry of Paul Celan can be found in major university libraries.