This is. Time for podcast?
Yeah. The podcast is starting.
What's the? Podcast It's all gonna be
alright in the air, It's gonna be alright.
You've got some worries, my dear little.
Arise. Means rest your busy minds
because it's finally time the Stories from Now and Then.
Hello, everybody. Welcome back to Stories From Now
and Then. My name is Captain Blunderface,
and I'm here in the old library with Deprecatus.
And we have a bit of a situation.
Yeah. Do you hear that I have a
problem with the audio cable? Yes.
It's because there are mice in the old library.
I've been hearing them behind the shelves for weeks now, and
they're finally chewing through my cables.
I can't have that. Deprecatus as the cat in
residence. I feel like this falls under
your department. What do you mean you don't want
to? You were born to do this.
No, they're not your friends. Well, maybe we shouldn't argue
about the mice too much longer because we have a shout out to
do. Today's shout out goes to Elsie
in London ON. Elsie loves playing hide and
seek and she loves to sing, especially Raffi songs and
practicing her do re mis at music class.
So Elsie, today's story is for you.
And with that, we'll pass it off to the amazing Nicola for
today's story, the reluctant dragon deprecatus.
We'll have to keep discussing this this mice issue.
This one is set in a quiet countryside where the hills roll
softly like green blankets, where sheep wander slowly under
wide skies, and where little paths curve between hedges thick
with black breeze and wild roses.
This place was the sort of place where nothing surprising ever
happened, which is exactly why what happened there became
unforgettable. For one summer, on the side of
the hill above a peaceful village, a dragon came to live
in a cave. The reluctant dragon.
He was not the sort of dragon people usually imagine at once,
with fire bursting wildly from its mouth and claws scratching
towers. No, this dragon was rather
thoughtful. He liked warm sunshine, long
naps, and listening to the wind moved through the grass.
He had large wings folded neatly along his sides, scales that
gleamed softly in the light, and eyes that were bright and
curious rather than fierce. Now, the first person to
discover him was not a knight or a hunter or a frightened
villager, but a boy who often walked alone with books tucked
beneath his arm. This boy loved exploring old
places. He liked ruined walls, hidden
paths, and caves where the air smelled of damp stone and Moss.
One afternoon he climbed farther than usual up the hillside until
he found a cave opening half hidden behind brambles.
Inside, he expected darkness. Instead, he heard a deep voice
saying, rather politely, do come in if you are coming.
Standing in the entrance let's in a dreadful draft, the boy
nearly dropped his book. There, inside The Cave, curled
comfortably among dry leaves, lay the dragon.
A little smoke rose from one nostril, not angrily, but as if
he had sighed while thinking. The boy stared.
The dragon blinked. Then he said.
I hope I did not startle you too much.
I was trying to remember a line of poetry and nearly had it.
You can talk, said the boy. Certainly, said the dragon.
Most creatures can, if one listens properly.
The boy stepped inside. To his surprise, The Cave felt
warm and almost cosy. There were smooth stones
arranged like seats, a neat pile of books in one corner, and
flowers growing near the entrance where sunlight reached
in. You read?
Asked the boy. Oh, yes, said the dragon,
brightening at once. A little history, some poetry,
bits of adventure. One must pass the evening
somehow. The boy looked more closely at
the books and saw some had clearly come from old village
shelves, though borrowed perhaps without formal permission.
You are not at all what I expected, he admitted.
That, said the dragon, with satisfaction, is often the
nicest way to begin a friendship.
And so it did begin. Day after day, the boy returned.
Sometimes they talked. Sometimes the dragon recited
poetry in a deep, rumbling voice that made The Cave walls hum
gently. Sometimes they simply watched
clouds move across the valley below.
The dragon had opinions about almost everything.
He believed sunsets were better in autumn than summer.
He thought sheep were under appreciated creatures.
He disliked loud arguments and had never once, he said firmly,
eaten a human being. I should not care for the
flavour, he explained. Now, because villages are
villages. News eventually travels.
A shepherd claimed he had seen smoke on the hillside.
A farmer found curious footprints near his fence.
Someone else said the sheep were nervous.
Soon whispers began. A dragon.
A dragon above the village. And because people often imagine
the worst before they know the truth, alarms spread quickly.
The villagers gathered outside the inn and argued in anxious
voices. A dragon, they said, meant
danger. A dragon meant burned fields,
stolen cows. Fear and disaster, the boy tried
to explain. He is quite gentle.
He said he likes poetry. But nobody listened very
carefully to that. The blacksmith shook his head.
Dragons do not belong near villages.
The Baker crossed his arms. Poetry never stopped a dragon
before. By evening, word had travelled
even farther, until it reached the ears of a very important
person indeed. Saint George himself was passing
nearby, and if there was one thing people expected of Saint
George, it was dragon business. When he arrived the next
morning, mounted neatly and carrying polished armour that
flashed in the sun, everyone felt reassured at once.
Saint George was not boastful, but he carried himself with calm
certainty. He listened while the villagers
all tried speaking at once. Then he said, Where is the
dragon? The boy stepped forward.
I know where he is. Saint George looked at him
carefully. And is he dangerous?
The boy hesitated. Only if forced into being
something he does not wish to be.
That answer interested Saint George enough that he agreed to
walk up the hill first before charging into battle.
So together they climbed toward The Cave.
Inside, the dragon was arranging flowers in a cracked jug.
He turned when they entered and gave a small, worried puff of
smoke. Oh, dear, he said.
I had hoped, perhaps not to become official.
Saint George removed one glove and offered his hand.
The dragon looked surprised, but shook it carefully.
For some moments they simply looked at each other.
Then Saint George said The difficulty is this.
The village expects a battle. I was afraid of that, said the
dragon. Sadly, I do not enjoy fighting.
Nor do I, said St. George, adjusting his helmet
thoughtfully. Though I am rather expected to
do it now and then. The boy looked from one to the
other. Could could you not explain?
Both turned to him kindly. St.
George said gently. Sometimes people need a story
they understand before they are ready for a truth they do not
expect, The dragon sighed. I suppose they would be
disappointed if nothing happened.
Oh, very disappointed, said St. George.
So they made a plan. The next day the whole village
gathered below the hill. Children climbed fences, mothers
shaded their eyes, men stood in excited groups.
At the proper hour, Saint George rode forward grandly.
The dragon emerged from The Cave with great dignity.
Spreading his wings wide, he gave a magnificent roar that
echoed across the valley so impressively that several sheep
ran at once. Then the battle began.
Or rather, something very like a battle.
Saint George charged. The dragon leapt sideways.
Dust rose. The dragon breathed a careful
stream of fire high into the air, well away from everything
important. Saint George swung his spear in
splendid circles. Again they moved again.
Dust rose again. Villagers shouted.
To anyone watching from below, it looked glorious.
To the boy standing nearer it looked rather like 2 very
skilled performers helping one another not to trip.
At one point the dragon whispered.
Was that too dramatic? Just enough, murmured St.
George. At last, after one especially
impressive tumble, the dragon gave a final great roar and sank
gracefully to the ground. Saint George stood over him,
raising his sword, while the village cheered.
Then he leaned down and whispered.
Would now be a suitable moment for surrender?
Extremely suitable, whispered the dragon.
So Saint George announced loudly, The dragon has agreed to
peaceful terms. This puzzled the villagers at
first. Peaceful terms were not what
they expected after cheering so hard.
But because Saint George himself declared it, they accepted.
And because the dragon then promised not to frighten sheep,
not to scorch the hedges, and not to borrow books without
asking, things improved greatly. In time, the village discovered
what the boy had known all along.
The dragon was excellent company.
He attended summer gatherings from a polite distance.
He lit bonfires better than anyone.
He frightened away foxes when the chickens needed protection.
He even recited poetry on certain evenings, though the
Baker claimed not to understand most of it and secretly liked
hearing it. All the same, Saint George
stayed two days longer than planned, which he admitted was
unusual. He and the dragon played long
games of chess outside The Cave while the boy watched the clouds
drift overhead. When Saint George finally rode
away, he said, a rare thing has happened here, Try not to spoil
it. The villagers did not, and as
years passed, the dragon remained on the hillside,
peaceful as ever, smoke curling lazily above The Cave at sunset.
Visitors came sometimes hoping for terror, and left smiling
instead. Children grew up hearing the
tale that once there had been a dragon above the village.
And a battle too, though not quite the sort people expected.
And perhaps that is worth remembering.
A creature may carry claws and wings and still prefer kindness.
A hero may carry armour and still choose wisdom.
And sometimes the finest victory is not defeating what frightens
us, but learning how to understand it.
So if ever you walk a quiet hill at evening and see a curl of
smoke rising softly where no chimney stands, you might wonder
whether somewhere, hidden just beyond the brambles, a dragon is
turning pages of an old book and listening to the wind.
Until our next story together, dear listeners, may you always
look twice before deciding on anyone, and may you have sweet
dreams of the friendliest Dragons.
And that's our story. Thank you so much, Nicola.
Deborah Caddis. I've been thinking.
And if you don't want to run and catch mice, that's OK.
Yeah. Also, the new cables you found
from storage are working great. Thanks so much for getting them.
There are no more crackly noises.
I just hope the mice leave this audio cable alone and don't chew
on it like last time. Maybe you could let them know
for me. Remember, if you'd like a shout
out and a future episode dedicated to you, just send us
Adm on Instagram at Stories from Now and then.
We'd love to hear from you. Stories from now and then is
narrated by Nicola Ward, music played by Captain Blunderface,
played by Evan Weep. Stay kind out there everybody
and we'll see you next time on.