Dragon's Breath

Art-Inspired Fiction

With thanks to

Harry Watson

for the suggestion, this short imagining is based on ‘Wanderer above the Sea of Fog’ painted in 1818 by Caspar David Friedrich, a German artist of the Romantic movement.

For me, there’s fun to be had by twisting the likely scenario into something darker, unexpected, or - in this case - slightly comical. The painting has been widely interpreted as symbolic of self-reflection or contemplation of life's path, and the landscape is widely considered to evoke the sublime. Some have seen it as a reflection on Friedrich’s proud nationalism.

Resetting the scene on a road less-travelled and introducing a character who observes from just out of shot, a world of possibilities opens up.

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“The breath of the mighty dragon seeps from its mountain lair”.

The words are spoken out loud, too loud.

“Misty portals to dark worlds unseen by wanderers of ages past”.

The old retainer sighed wearily. He knew he could only get away with considered silence for so long. He was not a poetic man. Things were what they were, not what they seemed to be. Mountains were there to be crossed, roads to be followed for the warm inns that greeted them. Goblins and sprites did not trouble his thoughts, nor did dragons breathe fire into his imaginings.

“That ridge is like the armour-plated tail of a mythical beast curled around its horde of gold. The rocky outcrops, its sharp talons”.

He cleared his throat, preparing himself.

“We have many miles to travel, Master George. The fog is closing in”.

“Dragon’s breath, Fotheringham, dragon’s breath”.

A sigh. Deeper this time.

“Indeed, Sir, for that is what it is”.

It had been like this for three full days and now a fourth, not yet complete. The journey back to the family estate had started on the teeming dockside as he sought the familiar red hair, the only inheritance for a second son of the family his own had served for three score years and ten. His father, and his before him, had worked the fields. Young Will Fotheringham had learned his letters though. Not for him the relentless harshness of the highland weather that battered a man’s spirit. He warmed his feet by the stove he’d rigged up in the makeshift office where he saw to the affairs of the estate. It was his hand that embossed the ledgers with the tallies of the game raised and slaughtered each season. His written and spoken words were functional, no-fuss descriptions of days spent in the hills, notations that spoke of rain that was wet, winds that blew hard, occasional sunshine that burnt the skin. Nothing fancy. He knew the words to tell the story that unfolded generation upon generation in that corner of Caledonia.

Dragon’s breath? Mythical beasts? Misty portals?

The young man gazed out over the miles they had yet to cover. The silver-topped cane was an affectation. Perhaps that’s what all young gentlemen returned with from their Grand Tours, affectations and fancy ways. To this gruff, hard-working man o’ the hills, it all seemed like poor preparation for a life of service to his Lordship.

{ahem} “I wandered lonely as … (a pause as his head cocked a little to the left) … a sheep”

The estate manager stuffed the leftover bread and cheese back into the saddle bag he had filled that morning. These treasures had been offered to him by the buxom wife of the miserable auld innkeeper when she roused him unexpectedly (very ‘unexpectedly’) in the straw bed he had fashioned for himself in the barn. He smiled, for a moment lost in his own day dreams. Perhaps there was something of the romantic in him after all.

“I wandered lonely as a minstrel …”.

Another seven miles by his estimate to the small town hidden in the folds of the hills. Seven miles. Two hours or more listening to this ha’penny poet and his bletherings. Then two more full days of travel. Perhaps his Lordship will have sent a carriage to meet them at the next boarding house. He would make his excuses, travel alone with his own thoughts.

“Now then, Sir, let’s get on the road before that dragon stirs and sees that we’re up here looking down on his treasures”.

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