The farmer's tale

[Patrick]

"Tell us another story grandpa! One with big dragons!"

 

"Pah! Dragons! What do you young ones know about dragons?"

 

"They breathe fire!"

 

"And they fly!"

 

"Dragons..." he spat out the tobacco he had been chewing for the past hour, "dragons are the reason we cower in our houses and hovels, the reason we have so many dogs guarding our pastures and flocks, to warn us of the approach of one. The reason we keep subterranean reservoirs to extinguish fires once they grow bored of torching all that we've labored for...don't' ask me about dragons..."

 

"But grandpa! What about the Dragonslayer?"

 

"No," he said with a finality that the children knew not to challenge. "I shall not tell you of dragons." With slow, deliberate movements the old man gathered a glowing ember from the fireplace and lifted it to his pipe, pausing for a moment. "I shall tell you about my own grandfather." He touched the ember to the tobacco, and drew on the pipe. "He never met any dragons, nor did he want to, but adventures he had aplenty. Now, run along, get your grandpa some ale, this is a long story and my throat is already parched just from listening to you lot clamoring for a story."

 

The ruby glow from the pipe was all that lit up the old man's face as he gathered his thoughts and started the tale the only way he know how, at the beginning.

 

"My gramps was a big hulk of a man, twice as big at the shoulders as me, a mass of muscle and brawn me ma used to call him. He could lift me, even grown, with just a hand, and not even breaking a sweat. He was the best farmer the village had, easily able to pull his plow through the fields even when it was not his turn to have Ol' Toby."

 

"But grampa, Old Toby is barely a grown horse, how could he have known your grampa?" asked the oldest girl.

 

"Ol' Toby...ah a fine beast, but another story. Now, don't interrupt me again," he said, followed by a long pause as he reignited his pipe. "t'is a long tale and the hour already late, if you want to hear more then ye'll have to listen."

 

"Da," came the soft voice from the kitchen. "Let the children go to bed, it's late as you've said. The farmer's tale can wait till the morrow."

 

A long puff on the pipe lit up great bushy eyebrows that covered barely open eyes. "You heard your mother."

 

He said no more that night.