The Dragon In Grandmother's Garden

(*I wrote this for a class in creative writing my second semester back at school, in 2002. I present it to all of you in the hopes you will derive some of the same enjoyment I found in writing it.)

It was the type of Spring day you dream about. Blue skies, warm air, soft breezes, sunshine in abundance and the velvet, sweet fragrance of freshly blossomed flowers wafting on the breeze. The perfect air drifted lazily through the open door as I prepared the special little "tea party" Grandmother and I had taken to having with one another each year. The special cakes I found that morning graced the antique and delicately painted china, setting off the glow of Great-grandmother Peabody's prize sterling flatware; the soft silver glow of many polishings by loving hands over many years, now too numerous to count.

The table, the day, the weather; everything was perfect. I looked up with a welcoming smile as my delicate, 90-year old grandmother, fragile in her timeless beauty, tottered graciously through the lacy, Victorian screen door. It had been a difficult winter for both of us, but this day was too special to waste on worries or disturbing facts of life. Our thirtieth annual tea party, with just the two of us, took precedence over all else.

As we settled down to our special repast, my Grandmother quickly removing her gardening gloves, placing them inside her inverted wide-brimmed straw hat and then placing the whole upon the needle-point covered chair beside her, looked up and smiled a bit uncertainly. She appeared to be a little confused, which was very unlike her, and hesitated before speaking to me, also very unlike her. "What's the problem, Gramma?", I asked, hoping to help wipe the look of befuddled emotion from the face I had looked into since the day she rescued me. "Not enough flowers in bloom to suit you?"

The veil of seeming confusion disappeared as the lips pursed and the usual sweet-tart expression appeared, much more like herself and much more to my liking. "If you must tease, please leave my babies (her flowers) out of it." This said, the troubled expression returned, inexorably forcing out any sign of contentment or enjoyment in the day that may have resided there earlier. She was hesitant, unsure whether to speak. This was so unlike her I almost panicked, hastily placing the too easily broken cup and saucer on the Battenburg lace tablecloth and, more for time to think than anything else, wiping my fingertips delicately on the matching napkins. Was she deathly ill; dying before my very eyes? Had she had a mild stroke? That could explain the painful look of muddled thought now seated firmly in place. Trying not to upset her, and frightened half out of my mind, I reached over the table, carefully avoiding the teapot, sugar bowl and creamer, and placed my hand gently upon hers.

"What is it, Gramma?"

She looked up at me with just the hint of a smile tracing itself onto one corner of her mouth. A beautiful mouth; chin still strong and determined, thrusting itself out at life as if to dare whatever fates there may be to do their worst; lips, once full and voluptuous, still showing traces of the seductive beauty that lured Grampa into proposing before they had even been properly introduced, claiming that if he had waited any longer he would never have gotten the courage to do so later.

Clearing her throat, she seemed to be deciding just how to phrase something. I tried to smile in as encouraging a manner possible and took a deep breath, wondering what in the world could possibly have brought all of this hesitancy about.

"It's really quite lovely outside and I'm quite sure the daffodils will be blossoming any time now and there's a dragon in my garden."

As she heaved a sigh of relief at having gotten the news out, I was trying to cope with my feeling of floating somewhere out of time and normal space. The spaceship should be landing soon, to take me away.

"Are you alright, dear?" As she spoke to me, interrupting what could have turned into the basis for a million dollar blockbuster hit, I started, shook my head a little and said (you guessed it!), "What did you say?"

"You know perfectly well what I said!" The accusation in her voice and facial expression helped clear the last traces of starship exhaust from my mind.

"Gramma, besides all of the worried questions you know I'm going to want answered, what could you possibly mean by telling me there's a dragon in your garden? If you are teasing me because you bought some little statue, it's going to take me awhile to forgive you. You are just teasing, aren't you?" This last inquirey made in a voice far more pleading than I had anticipated it would sound.

"I wish I were," Gramma said rather quietly. "I thought that I'd had too much sun, but then the little thing up and ate one of the crocuses. I'm just glad I was sitting at the time. Broken hips come all too easily to people my age, you know."

"O.K.," I breathed hard, trying to get more oxygen to my brain, "if you say so, but you, of all people, should know how this sounds. How long has the dragon been in your garden?"

"About twenty or thirty minutes, I watched her for a little while before coming inside."

"How do you know the dragon is a she?" I inquired, argumentative and desperate, "I thought all dragons were "he", and another thing, dragons don't eat flowers they eat people and knights and princesses."

"She is a "she" dragon because I have named her Hermione, and she does eat flowers and what makes you an expert on dragons, you almost lost control of your more personal bodily functions when I told you about her!"

I took a breath. This was getting difficult.

"Gramma, there are no such things as dragons, he or she. So how can there be one in your garden and do you want me to call your doctor or the minister or somebody?"

She looked her age. She looked a little frightened and defiant; fragile. I also knew my total lack of faith in her powers of observation was hurting her; an internal, quiet hurt. She would cry herself to sleep tonight. I felt rotten. I was lower than a dragon's toenails and all I could do was persist.

"If you don't believe me, go look!" The challenge was offered, half certain I would be able to see her dragon, half hoping it wasn't really there. I stood up and walked out the door and into my grandmother's garden.

When my granddaughter got up, I was expecting her to come back in a very few minutes to tell me there wasn't anything in my garden to be concerned about. I was really hoping that was what would happen. It's difficult being ninety. At least they have pills to cure imaginary dragons, although I must admit I enjoyed watching Hermione eat that crocus.

She was small and delicate. Her scales shimmering with the iridescence of precious jewels. Her eyes were like two pearls, but with opal-fire in them. The scales down her small back were the color of rose petals, the ones from my rosa rugosa; a deep, lovely pink.

Hermione was about the size of a small cat. She was also totally unafraid of me and sat eating one of my crocuses with her head tilted to one side, deciding if she wanted to come any closer.

I don't know why I named her Hermione, I guess it's a name I have always liked and, for some reason, it seemed to fit. When she finished her flower, she sat back on her haunches, looking up at me with a friendly gleam in her eyes. She started to clean her face very much the way a cat does, first with one paw, then the other, reaching up to get the backs of her ears and head. Then, still watching me, she stretched herself out on a flat rock warmed by the sun and rolled about a bit, the sunlight flashing off of her scales, liquid, in jewel-colors racing through a small, earth tangible rainbow. Perhaps the rainbow is where she was born or was supposed to live. A small, sweet sound emanated from her perfectly formed throat, like warm wind playing a tune on a crystal clear xylophone creek. I don't know how she found her way into my garden.

I heard a squeak from my granddaughter. I was about to rise and return to Hermione and my garden, to rescue my granddaughter from herself, when the screen door opened.

Gramma was sitting there looking up at me much the way children do when they need comfort or confirmation, or both. I had to proceed slowly here, or too much damage to be remedied could take place.

I knew, when I headed out that door, that Gramma half wanted me to find her dragon and half wanted me to come back and tell her there was really nothing there. I walked toward the back of her garden where I knew she was working earlier. In spite of everything, the peace of the place crept over me, and I sat down on one of the little benches scattered here and there to try to figure things out. I loved my grandmother more than anyone else. When Momma disappeared after Daddy ran off with another woman, referred to in my hearing only as "Her!" while still in my childhood, Gramma came and got me, took me home and began to erase the fears and insecurities such situations breed in children. She made sure I remembered how to laugh and then made sure I did so as much as possible. There were special treats; little dolls, whistles, plastic rings and stick on glamour nails. I never knew what would appear next, except that it would be something to remind me of how much she loved me. She took care of me; still took care of me. I was lost when my husband died; even more lost when my son took his own life, grieving too greatly for his father. I don't know what would have happened if my already almost ninety-year old grandmother hadn't shown up, taken me home, again, and began again filling my life with her love and her humor; her unique and precious self. I was almost in tears when I heard a small, soft sound at my feet. I immediately picked my feet up off the ground. I hate the thought of a mouse running over my foot or up my leg and, in spite of the terrible concerns of the day, reacted quickly, looking around on the ground for the mouse.

Hermione looked back at me, her pearl-opal eyes wearing an expression of concern that helped ease the shock of having her discover me. She made a sound like a soft breeze gently plucking the strings of some ethereal harp, and settled back to study me. She looked up, happier for having discovered two people she seemed to like sitting in her garden. As I watched, she slowly unfurled her wings, one at a time, watching me out of the corner of one eye, making sure of my admiration. Her wings looked like a metallic velvet, as pink as the scales down the middle of her back, but somehow less substantial. The wings on this tiny miracle were almost translucent. She finally stretched them to their full span and then, with a slight, graceful jump, she flew to the bench beside me and perched.

As I reached out to touch her, she drew back, but only very slightly. This was one of the smallest, most self-assured creatures I had ever encountered. She let me touch her.

There was a gentle feeling of flowing energy as I ran a tentative finger down one side of her perfect and joyously beautiful body. She watched me carefully, ready to jump away if I moved too quickly or tried to grab her. I started to pet her gently, the way you would pet a very small cat that was very special to you. I couldn't believe what was happening, or the part I was playing in what was happening. I always thought that dragons would have to be like lizards, cold-blooded and strange to the touch. Hermione's skin was warm and alive. The jewel tones reflected on my finger tips making it look as though I had put glue all over my fingers and then stuck them in some pirate's treasure chest.

Her wings were warm, too, and radiating an energy force I could feel before I even really touched them. She was warm and alive; solidly beneath my hands and born of a magic I knew I would fail to comprehend, no matter how much I saw and learned. She stretched happily and flew up into a blossoming peach tree, joyously chasing a monarch butterfly through the veil of pink-white, fragrant blossoms.

As I lost sight of her, I got up, still in the dream that was the little dragon in the garden, and went inside to talk to my grandmother.

The old woman looked up as the screen door opened, then stood to face her granddaughter.

"I don't know what to say, Gramma. Do you think she would stay if we could find some way to feed her?"

Gramma took my hand, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears. She nodded. I knew how she felt, half afraid, half hopeful. Afraid that if Hermione stayed we would have to adjust; change. Afraid that if we never saw Hermione again we would never be able to really believe what we had both seen in that garden, on this day. Hopeful that all the stories we heard as children were really true. Hopeful that if there was a dragon in our garden might not there also be a hidden city at the North Pole or a soft, fuzzy bunny with colorful eggs hiding in a burrow in some verdant field?

"Let's see if we can get her into the house."

The gloom of uncertainty descended upon us. Then we heard a light scratching noise at the door and the sound of a sweet, Spring zephyr dancing lightly upon the strings of an ancient lute. I opened the door and Hermione, after a quick glance around, flew onto the table, perching in the midst of our long forgotten tea party. She carefully made her way through antique china and silver, stepping so delicately she seemed to float, and helped herself to one of the special cakes I thought would bring so much pleasure to our, now more than ever, very special day.