The line was carved into the standing stone at the edge of the pasture, shallow enough that rain had nearly erased it. The farmer who owned the land dismissed it as decoration whenever visitors asked, something commissioned by an ancestor with more money than judgment. He had repeated that explanation for so many years that he delivered it without hesitation, despite the cattle refusing to graze within thirty feet of the stone and the pale circle of scorched grass around its base returning every spring with exactly the same circumference.
I was staying nearby during the summer the light came. Everyone who witnessed it later described something different: a falling star, sheet lightning, a flame descending from a clear sky. I remember brightness arriving just after dusk with impossible speed, stopping directly above the stone and spreading across the pasture until every fence post, blade of grass, and frozen animal possessed edges sharper than daylight could produce. For several seconds I could see through my own hands well enough to make out the bones.
The farmer found me afterward and seemed less surprised than tired. His family kept records, he admitted, though never where outsiders could find them. The light returned once every generation or two and always appeared while a woman from the household or its immediate circle stood nearby. Those who saw it clearly tended to live strangely afterward. Their bodies aged slowly, wounds closed too cleanly, and illnesses that should have taken months sometimes passed in days.
The family had once treated this as a blessing. Eventually someone noticed the arithmetic.
Each unusually long life corresponded with shortened ones elsewhere in the family. Children died in accidents. Healthy spouses developed sudden illnesses. People who had never seen the pasture seemed to lose years in ways nobody could predict. The records contained no proof, only enough repetition to make gratitude uncomfortable.
Thirty-two years have passed since that evening. My face has changed little. Friends younger than I am have acquired white hair, grandchildren, artificial joints, and the careful movements of age while I continue receiving surprised looks from doctors comparing me with old photographs.
I visit the stone occasionally at dusk. The scorched ring has widened by several inches since my last visit, and recently another woman from the neighboring farm has begun walking there in the evenings. I have considered warning her. What stops me is the growing suspicion that the light never chooses anyone at random, and that whatever accounting governs its visits may already have included the warning.
Every unit has one, the old sergeant told me during my first posting. Nobody appoints him. Nobody lists the duty on paper. Eventually somebody becomes the person who notices when another soldier’s answers come half a second too late, when a joke lands strangely, or when a man starts giving away possessions without explaining why.
Ours was a quiet older soldier who slept less than anyone I knew. The others called him the traitor baiter when he was out of earshot, although betrayal was only one of the things he seemed able to detect. He knew who was planning to desert, who was stealing, who had decided to hurt someone, and who was considering something even they had not yet admitted to themselves.
He never accused anyone directly.
Instead he appeared at inconvenient moments carrying coffee or cigarettes. He sat beside you and asked questions that sounded harmless until several minutes later, when you realized the conversation had somehow arrived at the one decision you were trying hardest to conceal. People who spoke with him usually changed course. Those who did not sometimes disappeared from the roster, transferred suddenly or were escorted away without explanation.
I avoided being alone with him for nearly two years.
He finally found me packing during the week I had decided to leave. I could no longer stomach the assignment waiting for us, and disappearing seemed preferable to carrying it out. He sat on the end of my bunk and told me he had no intention of stopping me. He only wanted to know whether I had imagined the entire road beyond the gate or merely the relief of taking the first step.
We talked for almost an hour. I stayed.
He retired several months later. During his farewell, he pressed a packet of cigarettes into my hand despite knowing I did not smoke. I thought it was a joke until I noticed that the package felt unusually heavy. Inside were twenty cigarettes and a tiny brass disk with no markings.
Years have passed, and I still carry it.
Sometimes the disk warms in my pocket around certain people. I have learned that resisting the sensation only makes it hotter. Eventually I find myself sitting beside whoever triggered it, offering one of those cigarettes and asking a question whose wording arrives before I decide what to say.
The packet never empties.
What unsettles me most is how rarely the person I approach is actually contemplating treason. Some are planning to run. Some intend violence. Others are preparing to betray promises nobody in the service would consider important. The thing passed down to me appears to recognize betrayal in a much broader sense than any military regulation does.
Recently the disk has started warming when I am alone.
I have spent several nights examining my choices, searching for the intention it has detected. So far I have found nothing certain, though I now understand why the old soldier rarely slept. Whatever this duty identifies, it seems capable of noticing a betrayal before the person committing it has decided which loyalty will be broken.
The birds began nesting inside the transformer housing behind the substation during the same summer the outages started. They were small gray things with translucent eyelids and feathers that seemed darker whenever the current surged. Nobody could identify the species. The utility crews called them shockingbirds as a joke, and the name survived because removing the nests would require shutting down half the district.
The outages were brief enough to be blamed on heat, aging equipment, or overloaded lines. Months passed before anyone noticed the timing. Every evening near dusk, the birds gathered along the busbars and began a rising metallic chatter. Streetlights dimmed in response. Televisions blinked. Elevators paused between floors. Then the birds would settle, and the grid returned to normal.
One veteran lineman became fascinated by the pattern. She spent lunch breaks beside the housing with an insulated meter, recording surges that made no electrical sense. The birds appeared to absorb charge through their feet and release it in coordinated bursts. When one bird called, current shifted through three transformers at once. When the flock answered, power flickered across several neighborhoods in patterns resembling repetition.
She started leaving the gate unlatched.
One evening she entered the yard after everyone else had gone. The birds were already calling. Static lifted the hair on her arms and pulled loose strands from beneath her cap. Then the chatter changed, falling into pauses long enough to feel deliberate. Lights across the district began blinking in sequences. Apartment towers darkened floor by floor and returned in reverse order. Traffic signals flashed red, green, red, green, then held yellow for almost a minute.
She stood there until the flock went quiet.
Afterward she claimed the outages were conversations. The birds had learned the grid the way songbirds learn an environment, discovering that electricity could carry feeling farther than air. The first interruptions had been instinctive. Later ones had become structured. She refused to explain what she thought they were saying.
She retired that winter but still drives to the fence several evenings a week. The crew leaves the gate unlocked for her. Lately, residents have begun reporting unusual dreams after outages: fields seen from impossible heights, the taste of copper, the conviction that something enormous is listening through household wiring.
The birds have multiplied every year. Last week the utility company approved construction of a new substation across town. Before the first transformer was installed, three gray birds were already waiting on the empty frame, chirping softly toward wires that had yet to carry current.
*Inspired by the song “When The Stars Go Blue” by Ryan Adams
It was a secret place, a quarter acre of Eden abandoned and erased from the mind of mankind the instant the original sin was committed, and I had stumbled upon it quite by accident.
No, that was a lie and I promised myself I would not defile the sanctity of the garden if it could be helped.
I was not proud of the actual reason of how I came to be in this place, simply because I was a stalker. In my defense, it was only the once, I hadn’t made a habit of following women around without their knowledge. Just one woman. The one I was currently spying on, crouched here in the bushes amongst the flower blossoms, berries and leaves.
Mari.
Coworkers called her Marionette behind her back and sometimes to her face, passing it off as good-natured teasing. There was nothing good-natured about it. She acquired the nickname because she was a gangly woman who moved about in a jerky fashion, as if the unseen wires that made her move were constantly in a tangle that the puppeteer hadn’t been able to sort.
Mari did as people of her ilk often do, she kept herself to herself, stared at her shoes rather than make eye contact, and accepted all the negativity heaped upon her shoulders with nary a complaint. But she couldn’t hide the fact that she was miserable, just as I couldn’t hide that I was somehow drawn to that misery.
Although I wanted to know her for a while, I was too shy to make an approach. Today, I told myself, would be the day. As I went through my daily grind, I slowly mustered all my courage and screwed it to the sticking place. Ten minutes to quitting time, I marched to Mari’s cubicle, prepared to make my intentions known…
But she wasn’t there.
I searched by the fax machine, in the kitchen near the coffee maker, I even bore the brunt of strange stares when I loitered outside the women’s restroom, but she wasn’t anywhere to be found. Completely and utterly defeated, I grabbed my coat and left for home.
Half a block before the entrance to the subway, something grabbed my attention out the corner of my eye. Across the street, Mari sat on a bench at a bus stop as the 5:17 pulled up. I wanted to run across the street, braving the crosstown traffic and hop on the bus to make my stand. Instead, I froze. All my former courage had long abandoned me.
For the second time today, my heart sank. And for the second time today it did so without merit. The bus pulled away to find Mari still seated. And she sat as bus after bus pulled up and away. She did not read a book. She did not listen to music. She simply sat patiently.
Then when sufficient time had passed, Mari stood and walked away. I couldn’t tell you what possessed me to follow her on the crooked path that weaved through narrow alleyways, towering overpasses, black as pitch underground tunnels. Eventually her journey came to a halt in front of a lot that appeared to have been vacant for centuries.
Mari stood at the perimeter of the lot and at the precise moment the evening woke and forced the daylight into hiding, a door appeared with seven locks. She stood absolutely still and waited. In the newborn evening sky, stars bloomed and seven of them twinkled blue in a sequence that repeated seven times. The locks tumbled one after the other and the door opened slowly.
Mari stepped through the door frame but hadn’t appeared in the lot on the other side. From my vantage point, she simply vanished.
I ran to the door and managed to squeeze through before it shut, but instead of finding myself in the overgrown and refuse-filled lot, I stepped into paradise. My clothes melted from my body and ashamed of my nakedness, I hid in a nearby bush.
In the very center of the garden stood a mammoth tree that bore unrecognizable fruit of various shapes and sizes, the roots of which branched out along the grass and touched two streams on either side, one that appeared to have been made of milk and the other honey.
Standing beside the tree was Mari, naked but no longer that gangly woman who was awkward in her skin and awkward in the world. Here, her jerky movements flowed gracefully, her normally dull and lifeless eyes were polished to a fine shine, and her crooked mouth straightened and nearly split her face in half when she unleashed that radiant smile.
Mari blew a kiss up to the tree and somehow that kiss became a breeze that rustled the leaves which made a sort of melody unlike any I had ever heard. A pure music played by nature itself.
She danced around the tree all night without tiring, in time with the tune, and sang in a voice that was different from her normal mousy tone, stronger now, more confident. And I watched all the sorrow and strife, all the hurt and anger, all that was wrong with her life evaporate from her body.
When she sensed it was time to leave, Mari reached up and plucked the smallest of the fruit from a low hanging branch and dipped it in the stream of honey before washing the meal down with a cupped hand from the stream of milk.
The door reappeared and her clothing was folded neatly in a pile beside it. With each layer she put on, the transformation to her old self, the Mari that people mocked, began.
I thought about following her, but how could I ever leave this place, this patch of perfection? I knew she would be back and the next time I would talk to her, for certain. Until then I was contented to wait until she returned to dance again. I would wait until the stars went blue.
Sally forth and be dancing where the stars go bluingly writeful.
I burned my soul to ash but the pain paled in comparison to the terror that struck my heart like a match, anticipating her arrival and the tirade she would carry in tow. An unwarranted fear, as she was calm when she saw what I had done. Calm and nurturing. Soothing my pain with herbs and aromas, and each early morning during the hour of the wolf, she laid an ear on my back and listened as my soul mended itself.
She never spoke the words of disappointment aloud but it registered in her eyes. Although residing within my body, this wounded thing, this unwanted soul, did not belong to me. She had laid claim to it many years past, and in my despondency, I had taken liberties with her property and attempted to destroy it. Again.
ii.
The first time, I threw my soul into a sinkhole and allowed the ground to swallow it whole. I made her acquaintance when she plucked it from the soil like a tattered tuber. “I saw what you did,” she said. “And since you would so recklessly toss this precious thing away, it is no longer yours, but mine, agreed?” I nodded and she handed my soul back to me for safe keeping.
I honored our pact for a few years, caring for it within my limited capacity, but during a particularly nasty bout of depression, I tied heavy stones to my soul and pushed it off the sea wall. For a second time, she appeared, fishing my soul from the waves and scolded me, “You are charged with protecting this thing that is mine, do you understand?” Again, I nodded. Again, I lied.
iii.
“Why do you want this worthless soul when it has been crushed by the earth? Why do you want it when it has been drowned in the sea? Why do you want it when it has been set aflame like so much tinder?” I searched long and hard yet found no answer in her silence.
iv.
During the day, when she thought me preoccupied, she secreted herself in the shadows and slept. One day I followed her into the darkness and watched her body twitch from dreaming and listened as she muttered,
One more soul, once buried deep.
One more soul, in ocean steeped.
One more soul, by fire burned.
One more soul, of air returned.
v.
Under her care, my soul grew healthier and it frightened me. I was pitilessly plagued and badgered by the phrase, One more soul, of air returned, that repeated in my mind’s ear until it turned dogged and cacophonous. But she was unaware of my inner torment, in fact, she was in an exceptionally good mood today, her voice almost a song, “I know you don’t see it, but you are a gift, you are. You have no idea just how special.”
vi.
Today was the day. I felt it in my marrow. Something was destined to happen, something I most likely would not survive. I should have embraced this eerie premonition, for it was no secret that I did not want to continue in this manner, broken, detached and alone. But the choice of how and when I departed this wretched life was mine to make and mine alone. So, I stalled by distracting her with trivialities. “May I have more broth? Have you seen my shoes? No, not that pair, the other ones? Can we go for a walk?” If she knew my plan, her expression never showed sign. No request was too large or small on this day. She granted them all.
vii.
We strolled along the pathway in the park that led to the duck pond, a place we visited often during my convalescence. Picked, naturally, as not to arouse suspicion as I searched for the proper diversion in order to make my escape. But I was so wrapped in my own thoughts, I failed to notice that she was walking slower than usual today. “Can we rest a moment?” she asked as we neared the benches. “I am a little short of breath.”
Her breathing became a labored and raspy thing before it hitched and became lodged in her throat. When her face went dusky blue and she slid off the park bench, I panicked. The opportunity had presented itself and there I stood like an idiot, frozen. Entangled in the decision of whose life to save, or more accurately, whose death I could live with.
There was no real choice.
viii.
Her breathing was a trembling, liquid sound as I pressed my mouth to hers and exhaled, but instead of me breathing air into her body, I felt her sucking air from my lungs, and not just air…
I tried desperately to pull away but her thin, vise-like hands clamped down on the nape of my neck and held me firm in a kiss that was collapsing me. My hold on life became dim and futile, but before I slipped away into emptiness, I noticed the oddest thing: her belly began to swell.
Every fiber of my actuality was drawn into her, and my soul, the object I had forever been so reckless with, was systematically being stripped of concern, of negativity, of identity. I fell further and further into a darkness that pressed on me from all sides. So tight, so constricted. I was still unable to breathe but the sensation was somehow different now.
At the very moment when it seemed the darkness was about to claim me for eternity, there came a burst of light so bright as to cut my eyes. Thankfully something soon blotted out the light – a face, slowly coming into focus but I knew her before I saw her. From the moment I heard her soft cooing, “You are a gift, you are. You have no idea just how special.”
About Of Air Returned: Delusion can be a scary thing, but it can also be wonderful at the same time. This piece was written in the early part of 1988, during a period when I swore I could do no wrong—it’s fine, you can laugh, I’ll just cringe quietly in the corner. I was heavily into both science and speculative fiction and had recently rediscovered the works of The Brothers Grimm, so I was determined to create my own collection of fairy tales for the—then—modern age.
Applying fairy tale rules, I could introduce the fantastic or the bizarre into any story with little or no explanation, and have all the characters in the tales accept everything as normal. Wishes as deus ex machina. Love as the ultimate cure-all. All the good stuff without all the fuss. Genius, right?
It would take the better part of six months for me to discover I wasn’t the groundbreaker I imagined myself to be. On the plus side, I followed my then idol, Harlan Ellison’s advice and was able to churn one of these puppies out a day.
Of course, most of them are unreadable. This one teeters on the edge. I kinda like it and it kinda embarrasses the hell out of me, but it was one of the three Rhyan Realm tales–yeah, I created my own sub-genre name for them, what of it?–that actually saw print… after 10-some-odd rejections.
You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll kiss a few minutes goodbye.
Despite the language of the name given them, dragons inhabit the myth and legends of most ancient and modern cultures and have been portrayed throughout history as magical creatures possessing raw power and mystical might. This is the allure of the dragon tattoo design. No other tattoo art or tattoo design makes as distinctive and commanding an individual statement than a dragon tattoo.
Dragon tattoos also have the added advantage of being so fluid that they can conform to and flatter the contours of any part of the body. Many hardcore tattoo addicts have even gotten dragon designs whose tail begins at one ankle and winds its way up the leg and torso with the dragon’s head finally resting on the chest. Dragons can even coil themselves into intricate full and half sleeve tattoos, and a dragon in flight with its wings spread makes an excellent lower back tattoo.
Origin of the Word “Dragon”
The origin of the word “dragon” has been traced to a Greek word, “derkein,” meaning “sharp-sighted one,” which appears to describe a snake, so when it was converted to Latin, the word became “draco,” or “giant snake.”
The Popularity of Dragons
Dragons have always been the topic of fascination and mystery, as well as being a source of wonder, a symbol of hope and purity, and sometimes…jealousy, miserliness, maleficence and fierce rage.
Dragons have also been known to be notorious riddle-masters, sentinels of sacred shrines, and hoarders of treasures beyond imagining. It is even said that great philosophers would climb the highest mountains peaks or venture into the lowest caverns to seek the sage advice of dragons in secret.
When not out to slay dragons for immortality, like Sigfried, or for the golden apples of great happiness, like Hercules, we lowly mortals live under the ever-vigilant gaze of dragons. Sometimes we reside in the sphere of a dragon’s good fortune. And there are those lucky few who actually get to live under the wing of a dragon’s protection.
Dragons have even crossed over into the real world. Vikings carved dragon figureheads on the prow of their ships because they believed the dragons would endow keen sight and cunning to the Viking warriors. And in China, emperors think they are the real dragons and the sons of the heaven. They sleep on dragon beds, sit on thrones called the dragon seat, and their ceremonial dress is known as dragon robes.
Nowadays it’s quite common to hear parents tell their children bedtime stories about good and kindly dragons. For a fee you can hire the services of a dragon specialist who will tell you the name of your own personal guardian dragon and for an additional sum you may even obtain a sketch of your appointed guardian. There are even group therapy sessions that help you release the inner dragon that lies dormant in all of us.
With the success of Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings film trilogy, interest in dragons and the magical world created by J.R.R. Tolkien has renewed, just as it had back in 1973 when Gary Gygax of TSR, Inc. created a roleplaying game named Dungeons and Dragons (D&D).
D&D also goes into great length about dragon societies and the philosophy that revolves around the ancient Ceremony of Sublimation, where dragons aspire to reach a higher level of existence and possibly immortality unique to dragonkind.
And then there are the tattoos. Dragon tattoo designs come in many forms, Celtic dragon tattoos, tribal dragon tattoos, Asian dragon tattoos, and the list goes on. When it comes to body art, dragon tattoos are among the most popular tattoo designs.
What a Dragon Tattoo Represents on a Woman
A dragon tattoo on a woman usually acknowledges “woman as the creator.” Like the dragons of many mythologies, woman’s true body form is that of life, the world and the universe. It is this superior form that allows her to be without equal. Dragon body art also represents a flowing, fluid grace that conceals a reserve of power just beneath the cool surface. Studies have shown that women who get dragon tattoos become more self-confident and assertive.
What a Dragon Tattoo Represents on a Man
A dragon tattoo design on a man typically signifies raw power. Like dragons, men are the guardians of that which is sacred, such as women and objects of great wealth. But this must be tempered with wisdom, lest the greed of dragons overpower the man’s soul and turn him into a ravenous creature with an insatiable appetite. Men who get dragon tattoos view themselves as being revered for their wisdom but feared for their tremendous power.
Why All The Sudden Interest InDragon Tattoo Designs?
Actually, the interest isn’t all that sudden at all. Dragons have always been an archetypal choice for a traditional tattoo design. Far more popular than tribal, butterfly, Celtic, and even cross tattoos, beautifully rendered coiling dragon tattoo flash can adorn any part of both the male and female body. Not to mention that tattoo designers have begun to take traditional dragon tattoo illustration to the next level, giving the dragon body art a stylized edge that is sure to keep people staring at your personal dragon tattoo design in awe and appreciation.
But before you rush out to get your dragon tattoo, you should familiarize yourself with the history of dragons to determine which tattoo design best represents your characteristics and strengths and beliefs.
THE HISTORY OF DRAGONS
Some of the first recorded stories involving dragons date back to the Sumerian civilization, located between the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers in an area once called Mesopotamia, which later became Persia, and is now better know as Iraq and Iran.
Mesopotamian Dragons
The earliest written dragon myth was carved onto clay tablets and depicts the story of a dragon named Asag, who battled the hero-god, Ninurta. Even in these stories, dragons guarded treasures, held back floods, and imparted great knowledge.
Babylonian Dragons
In Babylonian myth, a dragon was believed to have aided in the creation of the world and the gods, and although some of the dragons served as the guardians of god’s treasure and nature, most were depicted as evil creatures, who all too often angered the gods. It is believed that Asag and Ninurta, from the Mesopotamian myth, are introduced by the Babylonians as Tiamet and Marduk, though this may not be totally accurate as the preserved records are in poor condition and incomplete.
A story that did survive is the epic tale of Gilgamesh, who set out to slay Humbab, the dragon guardian of the forest, who was thought to be a threat to the nearby town.
Babylonian history also tells in the “Book of Bel and the Dragon,” that the ruler Nebuchadnezzar, kept a dragon in the temple of the god Bel, where the dragon was worshipped. When the Hebrew prophet, Daniel, began denouncing idols, Nebuchadnezzar told him of the dragon and argued that the dragon was real and Daniel must worship it. Daniel asked why the people worshipped such a creature, and when faced by the dragon, slew it.
Sumerian Dragons
Sumerian myth depicts several dragons, chief among them, Zu, a cunning and devious dragon who stole the Tupsimati, the tablets of law, from the god Enlil, who wore the tablets on him. Another popular dragon is Gandareva, an immense creature who was the guardian of another dragons and preyed upon humans for food.
ASIAN DRAGONS
The Differences in Asian Dragons:
The Chinese boast that their dragons are the “true dragons” and the proof of this lies in the number of claws on the dragon’s foot. The true Chinese dragons have five claws. The Japanese dragons have four claws, and the Vietnamese dragons have only three.
Chinese Dragons
In Chinese culture, the dragons are considered the governors of rain, entrusted with the power to decide where and when the rain falls. Dragons also play a significant role in Chinese Festivals and the dragon dance has a long history that dates back past the Song Dynasty, circa 960-1279 AD. Chinese even consider themselves “the descendants of the dragon” and their culture is rich with the presence of dragons, which is considered to be a symbol of imperial power.
Japanese Dragons
Ryujin, a Japanese Dragon King, who lived in a palace under the sea, loved his wife and daughter so much that he spoiled them both, often sending out sea creatures such as octopus and jellyfish on errands to retrieve odd things. In one version, Ryujin’s daughter, Otohime, wanted to dine on monkey liver and a handsome and strong-boned jellyfish was dispatched to retrieve the liver but was outwitted by the monkey. In rage, the dragon king beat the jellyfish to a pulp, a shape that they hold to this very day.
Korean Dragons
Tales of Korean dragon are fewer in number than their Chinese and Japanese counterparts. The most popular myth involves a poor fisherman who caught a Carp, and the Carp begged for its life so that he may return to his family. The fisherman obliged, and the Carp turned out to be one of the sons of the Dragon King, so the fisherman was rewarded greatly.
Vietnamese Dragons
The story of Slowcoach, involves a kindly man who fashions a fishhook out of a piece of enchanted wood. When he puts the hook into the lake, the water rises and the fishing pole and line disappear into the turbulence and the waves almost drown him. Then a beautiful woman walks out of the water and tells Slowcoach that she is the daughter of the dragon king and his enchanted fishhook is caught in her father’s mouth. When Slowcoach agrees to remove the fishhook, she turns him into a bubble and takes him to the underwater dragon palace. The fishhook is removed and the dragon king rewards Slowcoach with a bottle containing a little blue fish, which later turns out to be the dragon king’s daughter.
Hindu Dragons
Vitra is the dragon that comes from the Indian subcontinent. Vitra absorbed the cosmic waters from the universe and coiled around a great mountain. Vitra is sometimes described as the personification of winter.
A more fascinating Indian Dragon myth involves the only dragon ever to be converted to a human religion. The Dragon, Apalala, lived in the Swat River and was converted by Buddha himself. Apalala then set out to teach it to other dragons, who drove him away but allowed him to continue teaching the humans.
EUROPEAN DRAGONS
European dragons hold the honorary title of the “kings of evil.” And although these chaotic creatures have plagued mankind since the earliest remembrances with their malicious intent and insatiable battle-lust, still humans feel a strange sense of awe and respect for them.
The tale of St. George’s dragon is perhaps the most famous of the European dragons, in which a dragon appears at the village of Cappadocia and threatens to destroy the region. In fear the villagers offer sacrifices to the dragon in the form of sheep and later the village maidens. Eventually the only maiden left is the princess, who is tied to a stake. Before the dragon can devour her however, George wanders by and slays the dragon.
Another dragon can be found in the epic Anglo-Saxon poem, Beowulf, which chronicled the three battles of the hero of the same name. In the first battle, Beowulf slew Grendel. In the second, Beowulf battled Grendel’s larger, more fearsome mother. In the third and final battle, Beowulf fought a fierce and fiery dragon, that he managed to vanquish, but suffered wounds so lethal that he himself perished.
Greek Dragons
Greeks mythology views dragons as terrifying dark creatures, remnants of an earlier age, that needed to be slaughtered by a hero. Dragons were guardians of underground sources of power, and often guarded springs, where the watery underworld burst to the surface.
Austrian Dragons
In the Vorarlbeg area of West Austria dragons were not considered supernatural but rather simply an unwanted part of nature like wolves, bears, and mountain cats. The annoying dragons occasionally took a horse, cow, or some sheep but were rather shy about confronting mankind and were thus never seriously feared or hunted.
French Dragons
Tarasque is a dragon of a different kind. Reputed to be the daughter of the giant serpent, Onachus, and the water dragon, Leviathan, Tarasque came from the sea up the river Rhone and decided to make her home in Southern France. She terrorized the region for many years, despite the attempt by many knights and heroes to slay her. That was until St. Martha faced the dragoness alone in a white dress and armed only with her faith and a jar of holy water. Apparently that was enough as she led Tarasque back to the town where the now docile and trusting creature was hacked to pieces.
German Dragons
The village of Brand in Germany hosts a dragon who appeared and began eating cattle and tormenting the villagers. Every effort to destroy the dragon ended in failure, until a traveling scholar arrived and created a tempest that completely covered the valley in a landslide of rocks, trees, giant boulders, and mud. The dragon was never spotted again and the area became known as the “dragons grave.”
Norse Dragons
Nidhogger was a famous Norse dragon, who lived at the foot of Yggdrasil, the tree of life. Nidhogger was, in reality, Fafnir whose greed for the gold he horded slowly turned him into the great dragon.
English Dragons
In Sussex England there is a deep cleft in the ground named after the dragon who had resided there, Knucker, who in true dragon fashion caused the usual sort of mischief. This dragon, however, wasn’t slain by a knight. It was killed by a local farmer’s son, Jim Pulk, who put poison in a pie and offered it to Knucker as a meal.
Irish Dragons
Ollipeist is the most famous Irish dragon, who fled Ireland when St. Patrick started imprisoning dragons. It is said that he left a mark with his tail in what is now called the Shannon Valley.
Swiss Dragons
The historical figure St. Magnus (1698-1772), credited with founding several notable churches and monasteries, had his first encounter with a dragon at the city of Kempton, which was said to be empty of men and filled with dragons. He lured the dragons out by sleeping in the open and managed to slay the lead dragon, Boas, by calling on the power of his god.
Russian Dragons
Gorynytch, three-headed dragon with seven tails knew of the prophecy involving the hero, Dobrynja, who would slay him, but was still defeated despite having this information.
Did You Know?
Did you know that the name “Dracula” is linked with dragons” In 1410, the holy Roman Emperor, King Sigismund of Hungary, established a clandestine fraternal order of knights which he named the Order of the Dragon to advocate Christianity and protect the Empire against the Ottoman Turks. At Sigismund’s behest, an emblem was created depicting a dragon clutching a cross with its wings extended.
In 1431, Vlad Tepes II demonstrated great bravery in battling the Turks and as a result was inducted into the Order. His name became “Vlad Dracul” which translated to “Vlad the Dragon.” His son, Vlad Tepes III, inherited his father’s name as well as his lust for battle and was called “Vlad Dracula.” The Romanian word “ulea” translates as “son of the,” which means his name was meant to be “the son of the dragon,” however, “drac” has a second meaning, “devil,” which is one his enemies believed was more accurate.
OTHER DRAGONS OF NOTE
Borneo Dragons
From the Island of Borneo comes the myth of a dragon named Kinabalu, who lived at the summit of a mountain of the same name, and possessed a fabled pearl of immense size. The Emperor of China heard about the pearl and sent an army to get it for him but the dragon killed all but a few. These survivors return and told the emperor about the disaster and said he could not be overcome by strength of arms. So the emperor sent his two clever sons named Wee San and Wee Ping to get the pearl.
Hawaiian Dragons
Mo-O-Inanea is considered to be the mother of all dragons, but little is known about her since natives are very reluctant to talk about this dragon. Some speculate she may still exist and is being protected by the Hawaiians.
Australian & New Zealand Dragons
Dragons in this region are called “taniwha” and the most famous is a dragon named Hotu-puku, who is credited with the mysterious disappearances of travelers going between Rotorua and Taupo.
African Dragons
In West African mythology, it is said that the world was formed by the genderless one god, Nana-Buluku. Out of loneliness, Nana-Buluku created a rainbow dragon companion named Aido-Hwedo, whose dung created mountains across the flat surface of the Earth and nourished the land so that plants and life could grow. But soon, the planet became so congested with plants and animals and mountains that Nana-Buluku feared the earth would collapse.
In gratitude for being created, Aido-Hwedo offered to help remold the planet, so the great dragon traveled across the earth, its massive dragon tail writhed with so much force and fury that it created the rivers and valleys, until its body formed an immense circular ring with its tail in its mouth, and enfolding the world.
IN SUMMARY
Whether you’re attracted to the history, mythology or pure fantasy of these mysterious creatures, a dragon tattoo can reveal aspects of your true character or serve as a potential warning to those who cross you. Whether you choose a solid black tribal, Asian, Celtic or any of the many other dragon designs, your tattoo will make a powerful statement for the rest of your life.
Shhh, be quiet for a moment. Do you hear that sound” It’s the call of the dragon tattoo beckoning you to take that first step toward fulfilling your destiny.
In 1991 I launched Visual Assault Comics Press, an independent comic book publishing company that began life as a true new talent showcase. What we strove to do, besides attempting to achieve a forum where serious creators could learn the ropes of the industry, was to raise comic books back to the level where quality storytelling was the acceptable standard and not the exception to the rule.
MISSION STATEMENT
We are the Visual Assault. Two individual who came together to perserve the continuity of the fictional dream.
We are tired of the independent comic scene being dominated by the same standards as the mainstream comic society.
We are sick of not seeing people like ourselves represented in the comics industry.
We are tired of waiting for someone else to start a revolution. We are going to do it ourselves.
We aren’t a stereotype.
The Visual Assault is visible on the horizon. We are ready to build a place where we can come together and work together for a revolution and a common cause.
Our plan is produce a line of illustrated publications (call them comics if you dare!), garage kits, movies, animated features and so on.
If you’re ready to make a change and stand up for quality material, then you’re the kind of people we’re looking for.
Our actions will speak louder than words.
We had a decent 10 year run, met a lot of incredibly talented people and had a hell of a time splashing around in the creative pool.
And you never know, if situations change… we may be back.
— Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys
PS. Here’s copy from the first ad we ever ran:
BET YOU CAN’T EXPLAIN IN 10 WORDS OR LESS WHAT’S HAPPENING WITHIN THE PAGES OF VISUAL ASSAULT OMNIBUS.
You’re on! First you got this ALIEN…WHO’S FROM MARS BUT NOT REALLY…(wait, do-over! That didn’t count.)
There’s this FEMALE VIGILANTE, see, WHO’S ACCUSED OF KILLING A NATIONAL SUPERHERO, BUT HE AIN’T REALLY DEAD, BUT SHE’S NOT REALLY INNOCENT EITHER…(that’s not working either.)
Okay, okay, how about the GUY WHO LIVES INSIDE THE TIMELINE WHO’S OUT TO DESTROY A CREATURE BORN TO END THE UNIVERSE, BY BUILDING AN ARMY TO COUNTER THE ARMY THAT THE…(no dice, huh?)
Well, there’s always the one about the TOTALLY LAWFUL SUPERHEROINE THAT’S RESPONSIBLE FOR THE DEATH OF OVER 2OO PEOPLE, KINDA, BUT NOT NOW, WHEN SHE WAS A BABY…(strike that. Let’s start from the beginning.)
IN NEW YORK, THERE’S THIS THING, A 400 YEAR OLD GOLEM OR SOMETHING, BUT IT’S NOT FROM NEW YORK, IT’S FROM AFRICA, ALTHOUGH IT DIDN’T REALLY TRAVEL FROM AFRICA…(all right, enough already)
