Experimenting with The Farming Dragon

“It’s daft.”

We stood on the thin grass verge next to the muddy field. Coxcomb thrust her snout into every badger hole in the hedgerow, snorting and occasionally flaming as she shot dirt from her nostrils.

I had to admit I was nervous.  I’d finally trained her to hold a bit in her mouth, but gave up after she melted each one. The blinders, I’d given up on them too, because they confused her so. With them on all she could do was stand stock-still and pant heavily – and you don’t want dragons panting heavily when all your roofs are made of thatch.

And I’d never tried her with the weight of the plow behind her.

“When do we need to plant?”

“Weeks ago,” my father said, and spat.

“And why haven’t we planted?”

“Soil’s too wet. All this blasted rain.”

“So we’ve got to try.”

“It’s still daft.”

I nodded. It was daft. But we’d never know if it would work if we didn’t try.

I patted Coxcomb on her head, between her ears and spines. “Let’s go to work, shall we girl?” She looked at me with one rotating eye; the other stared still down the last badger hole she’d explored with her nose.

I pulled her halter from my bag and quickly strapped it onto her head. She snaked out her tongue and tried to grab the leather, my hands, whatever she could get, but the hide I used for the halter was thick and my gloves were even thicker. She shook her head as I buckled the halter down.

I played the straps out to the waiting plow. Shaking his head, papa fastened the straps to the plow and stood on the plowboard.

“You’ll run her like an ox,” I said. “I’ll run the flame.”

“We’ll have it all on fire, the house, the barn, the neighbors too,” he said, wiping the rain-slicked hair out of his eyes.

“But we’ll have the seeds in the ground,” I said.

“Maybe.”

He shook the reins and clicked his tongue, and Coxcomb lurched forward. With my strap, I pulled her snout gently toward the ground, then jiggled the strap. She snorted, then belched a burst of flame at the ground, which sizzled.

“Slowly,” I said to papa. “Until we get the hang of it.”

He nodded and twitched the reins.

Coxcomb walked slowly forward, firing gentle bursts at the muddy ground. She left footprints in the soil – but that was it. As the plow hit it, it was soil – not mud.

With his stick, papa poked holes in the earth and dropped in seeds.

Coxcomb lumbered forward, whispering flames and shaking her head as I jiggled the strap attached to her jaw.

We took a break after the first row. I removed her halter and straps and let her go back to the badger holes.

Papa stood by the side of the field, staring at the planted row.

“Seeds went in nice, did they?”

“That they did,” he said. “But got a lot more planting to do. And a lot more mud to pass.”

“But it’s working, right?”

We watched the rain patter onto the plowed soil. The rain would quickly saturate the soil again, but we could dig ditches to help the draining. And Coxcomb could come out into the field again if things got too wet.

“When the field is planted and the seeds are sprouted and not drowning, then I’ll say it works,” papa said.

“Then let’s finish.”

“Aye,” he said. And for the first time patted Coxcomb on her rump. Coxcomb hiccupped flame into a badger hole, then pulled her muddy snout out to look at us.

“Let’s get to work, girl.”