The Dragon and St. George

In the firelight, an old woman patiently rocked, basking in the peace of the quiet evening. The voice of a child approaching did not lessen her pleasure in the evening, however, only increased it.

“Grandma? I’m all dressed for bed. Will you tell me a story now?”

“Of course, dear. Come, climb on my lap. Up we go! Now then, what kind of story will you have tonight?”

“One with lots of bad monsters, and pretty princesses, and knights, and things.”

“Have you ever heard the tale of St. George and the dragon?”

“Nope. Tell it, tell it, please!”

“Well, it was one of those still, quiet afternoons in early fall.

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Exactly 952 years before:

It was one of those still, quiet afternoons in early fall. The trees were just beginning to turn to flaming orange, red, and yellow, the hills were a subdued olive in the distance. Low in the sky, the sun gave the landscape a golden glow. The wind held its breath. A little bird, overcome with the perfection of the scene, burst into song. A moment later, however, he was ashamed of marring the smooth silence in the air, and hid himself in a tree.

But, of course, like any good old-fashioned, self respecting still and quiet afternoon that happens in a tale, it was not to last.

Several shattering sounds swept away the afternoon bliss. There was a sudden roar, then a deep yell, and the terrible scream of a horse. The wind let out its breath with a puff, disgusted at the ruined moment.

In the no longer quiet or still afternoon, the bird and the tree burnt to a crisp as they were blasted with a spout of poorly aimed, multi-coloured flame. Writhing in the air above them, an average sized dragon glittered with the colours of all metals both known and unknown to man. Its barbaric beauty was disfigured by the protruding end of a clumsy looking lance. Weakening, it sank to within a few feet of the ground, and a sword gash to its throat was the finishing blow.  It spat another stream of flame, into the sky this time, but the flame died off with a gurgling cough. Beneath it, a brute of a knight quenched the fire in his horse’s tail, copied by another, seemingly his twin in brutishness. 
A few moments later, the dragon's eyes rolled back in its head and it fell to the ground. THUD. The knights took off their helmets and wiped the sweat off their flushed faces.

"We did it," said one, half in awe. "We've killed our own dragon. Soon, bards will sing of us, damsels will swoon at the sight of us, dukes and counts will beg us to make our residence with them and to protect them. We will be famous!"

" Yes," said the other, " I will be famous," and killed the first.

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"You are a cunning man, George," said the knight to himself. He had disposed of the other knight in the still burning pile of brush. Now he mounted his horse heavily, and it spooked.

"Woah there, you nag. You are finally going to the soup pot soon, where you belong, and I will have a charger befitting my new rank as dragon slayer." They bounced off at an awkward trot in the direction of the nearest town. Ten minutes later, he was back with a girl on the back of his saddle, and stopped right beside the dragon.

"Now you, girl, have a good look at the dragon, so you can give details to anyone who asks." "I have a name, you know," said she rather sulkily.

"That's very nice, wench, now look. I haven't much time before I need to bring back other witnesses. Repeat back to me again how the story goes; you must not make a mistake." After a pause she recited:

"I was wandering the hills, in maiden meditation, when this horrible beast picked me up in his claws. This other knight came and tried to rescue me, but he was stupid and got killed trying. Then, just as I gave myself up for lost, you came a long and rescued me." Her tone was rather resentful. "Good girl. And what will happen to you if you try to say anything else?" "They will take your word and the evidence over mine and I will be turned out of the town in disgrace for being so ungrateful to such a kind, helpful man as yourself."

"Exactly. A gold coin for your efforts when I’m done here." They rode away, and in half an hour, a group of townspeople came and viewed the remains, leaving satisfied.

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Exactly 952 years later, the grandmother smiled down at her grandchild.

"And the gallant St. George married the beautiful princess he had saved from an untimely death, and they lived happily ever after."

"Really, truly, Grandma?"

"Really, truly, sweetheart." And the child smiled and went to bed to dream of ferocious dragons and handsome knights.