The Farmer and the Dragon
by Ronald Larsen
I was out plowing in the back forty when a big shadow crossed my tractor from behind. I looked up to see this huge black thing fly over and smack into my field up near the trees at the far end.
It came in so fast I couldn’t rightly make out what it was, but I figured it was in trouble, hitting the ground so hard. So I popped the plow out of the ground, put the tractor in road gear and high-tailed it up there as quick as I could.
I thought it might be some kind of drone, ’cause they’re always testing new stuff out at the airbase. But when I got there, I saw that it had a long neck and big black wings like a bird, but it was way, way larger than any bird I’d ever heard of.
It lifted its head and one wing just a little and spit out a puff of fire and smoke. Then the head and wing dropped back to the ground, and it just lay there. Scared the bejesus out of me, let me tell you.
I stopped a safe distance away and looked at it for a while, but it didn’t move again. So I walked around and looked at it from all sides. I figured out that it was a sure-enough dragon, like I’ve seen in movies and on TV. It was big, only not as huge as movie dragons, about twelve feet long, maybe a bit more with about a fifteen-foot wingspan.
I walked up and carefully touched its tail. Then I heard a voice in my head say, “Where am I?” You can believe I jumped back real quick.
It was telepathy, I guess. It didn’t move, though, so I came back and touched it again. I heard the same question in my head, so I said, “You’re in North Dakota.”
“Where is that?” the dragon asked.
“It’s a place in the middle of the United States on planet Earth. Third rock from the Sun, in the Milky Way.”
“Oh,” the dragon said weakly. “That’s not where I was going. The portal really messed up this time.”
“You hurt bad?”
“One leg feels like it might be broken, I can’t feel my right wing, and I had the wind knocked out of me.”
“Are you a real dragon?” I asked. Kind of a silly question, but I didn’t know what else to say.
“Yes. You can call me Johnhall Elvis Blackthorn if you wish. You couldn’t pronounce my dragon name.” Then he shuddered. “It hurts a lot.”
Funny, but I wasn’t afraid of him. I asked what I could do to help.
“Can you hide me until I heal? Don’t call your military. They probably picked me up on radar and will come looking for me. They won’t know what they’re looking for; maybe a UFO, but certainly not a dragon. Military types I’ve encountered on other worlds tend to shoot first and ask questions later.”
“How about I haul you into my barn, then call the vet?” I asked. “I can go get my stoneboat. It’s a flat, low platform on skids. If you can lift yourself up a little, I can help you get on onto it and haul you in on that.”
The dragon agreed, so I drove home and came back with the stoneboat. I lifted and pushed him, and he did what he could to pull himself onto it. His wings dragged on the ground some as we drove back, but it worked out reasonably well. I circled around the edge of the field a couple of times to cover up any marks at the impact point.
I was pulling into the barn about the time I heard a helicopter fly over. The Air Force was looking for whatever had landed. Most of those guys are decent, but the deputy base commander, Charles Schmidt, is a real prick. I knew him going to school downstate. He was a bully, always playing dirty tricks on other kids and trying to get them into trouble. I was one of his favorite targets. I didn’t like him then, and I like him a whole lot less now.
I helped the dragon onto a small pile of hay. I was going to cover him up with more hay, figuring that would help if a search party should show up. He was still very weak, but his voice sounded stronger.
When he realized what I was doing, he said, “You don’t need to bother. I’m projecting an energy field around the barn that will make anyone who comes by think there is nothing of interest here.” Reminded me of the Jedi mind-trick that Obi Wan Kenobi uses in Star Wars.
Once I got the dragon reasonably comfortable, I called Arnie Oberson, the vet. “Arnie,” I said, “I need you to come out and treat a sick cow. She might have a busted leg. No, I ain’t gonna shoot the damn thing. Arnie, I want you to help heal her.”
I could tell that Arnie had been drinking, as usual. He said, “Dammit Jer, it’s after hours, and it will be a waste of my time. Your stinking cow will most likely die anyway.”
“Maybe,” I said, “but I want you to try to save her. Anyway, you owe me one.” I’d sweet-talked my sister, the county sheriff, into letting Arnie off the hook the last time he got picked up for drunk driving.
So Arnie came out in his little panel truck. I took him into the barn and showed him the dragon. If he’d been sober, he’d have shit his pants. But he was just swacked enough to be super loose, and I’m not sure that he didn’t think it really was a black cow. Or maybe the dragon did a mind trick on him.
I had Arnie touch the dragon, who told him what to do. By this time, the dragon said he was getting feeling back in the right wing, and it was probably not badly damaged, just would be sore for a while. He directed Arnie to splint up his leg using some 2 by 2’s and several rolls of duct tape. Arnie suggested a cast, but the dragon didn’t think that was necessary. Dragons have four legs — at least this one did — so he could hobble a little; he just couldn’t put weight on the injured leg.
When Arnie got the leg fixed, the dragon lay back down on the pile of hay. Arnie was starting to sober up, so I got him out of there before he figured out what he really was working on. I know it sounds funny, but Arnie is a good vet and probably best when he’s half-gassed.
The dragon stayed in my barn for several days, healing. He explained to me that dragons heal very rapidly by focusing their minds and directing energy to problem areas. I brought him a few chickens to eat as he got stronger. We talked every night about his interest in religion, politics and history of our world; and he filled me in on various aspects of the dragon world, as much as I could understand.
He said, “Communicating mind-to-mind and spiritual healing aren’t just gifts possessed by dragons, but something all intelligent creatures are capable of. Humans have these abilities, but most are afraid to use them, based on centuries of ignorance, superstition and fear. The old fear of being branded a witch is very real in your psyches, and parents generally teach their kids that talking to spirits and so-called Extra Sensory Perception is wrong. If you pound something into malleable little minds often enough, it becomes truth to them.”
That made sense to me and I started to think that maybe I could unfold those abilities he talked about.
Then I thought about poker. I told him I was a poker player, but not a very good one. We talked about how the best poker players can read their opponents. They look for physical “tells” like different ways a player might hold his cards when he’s bluffing and how a person’s voice inflection can change depending on whether or not he wants his opponent to bet.
The dragon said, “The best ones probably also sense what their opponents are thinking to some degree. Not mind-reading but picking up feelings the players throw off.”
He offered to help me pull up memories of past poker hands and analyze what happened; what vibes the opponents had and how I could have used that info a whole lot better. I learned a lot, and now I can hardly wait for next Saturday’s game. I think it’s time for Old Jer to start being a consistent winner. I’m even thinking of hitting Vegas after spring planting is done.
The sixth night after the dragon arrived was a full moon. He said, “The energy is best for me to leave tonight. I’m not totally healed yet, but this is the best window for a moon shot. My people will pick up on me about the time I get out to your moon and help beam me back to my own time and place.”
He and I went out to the back forty about midnight. He flexed his wings a few times to make sure they worked OK. He was still a little wobbly, but said he needed to go anyway. We thanked each other for the help and he took off.
As he started flying up, one wing brushed an oak tree and snapped off a branch that sliced my arm as it fell. The dragon was apologetic, but I said, “It’s no big deal. Farmers get cuts and bruises all the time. Comes with the territory.”
So the dragon got safely away, and I can claim points for my humanitarianism. But I’ll take only half and claim the rest as self-interest.
I took a while trying to bandage my arm myself before I decided I needed medical assistance. As I was coming into town, a bunch of choppers buzzed my farm and a couple landed in my back forty. When I pulled into town, there was a command post on main street, with Deputy Base Commander Schmidt in full uniform, full voice and full importance.
I made it a point to walk by and say, “Hey, Chuck (he hates that nickname), I saw you had a batch of choppers around my place. Find the UFO you were looking for? Or maybe a dragon from outer space?”
He sputtered, turned purple, and I thought he was going to choke. The bastard knows I know something; but the government doesn’t officially believe in UFOs, and he can’t talk about it. It was beautiful. After all these years, I’m finally getting back at the SOB, even if it’s just a little bit.
Copyright © 2022 by Ronald Larsen
