The Implausible Hat

ONCE UPON A TIME, there was a dragonslayer named Steven George. He could not remember whether he had volunteered for the task or had been chosen. He did not know when he would be called upon to slay the dragon. He did not even really know what a dragon was—aside from the fact that it was fierce, and to be feared, and it breathed fire. He knew, however, from his earliest memories that he was the one who would one day slay the dragon.

“One day” came when a sheep was discovered slain near his village, its bloody carcass left partially charred near the river. The village elder said that the time had come. The dragon had attacked. It was time to send the dragonslayer to do his job. The villagers held a great feast in honor of Steven. His sweetheart was especially nice to him. The women of the village bathed and groomed him for the ritual feast. The men cooked food and beat on drums. Everyone he met in the village congratulated him on his great new adventure. Steven was pleased that he would finally fulfill his destiny and that the whole village was celebrating.

The dragon—Steven assumed—lived high on a mountain on the other side of a wide river. Steven had often seen plumes of smoke rise from its peak. Dragons breathe fire. There was smoke on the mountain. Therefore, the dragon must live there. If Steven could just figure out how to get across the wide and treacherous river, he could walk up the mountain, slay the dragon, and be home in time for dinner. But there was no way across the river. So, Steven planned his strategy carefully. Exactly 10,230 steps downstream, an equally wide and treacherous river joined the one near his village, and became even wider, more treacherous, and impossible to cross. Steven determined to walk upstream until the river narrowed or became shallow enough to cross, and then he would come back downstream on the other side to the dragon’s mountain.

Steven was ready to shoulder his pack and step off his front stoop—the first step of his journey—when his sweetheart approached.

“Steven, dear, I’ve packed you a lunch,” she said. She handed him a small parcel wrapped in oiled skin and looked at him lovingly. “So now you are off to slay the dragon. My hero. All my life, I will pine away on our doorstep, dreaming of my brave Dragonslayer. People will nod their heads when they pass and say, ‘She loved Steven George the Dragonslayer.’ Poets will write of our love and how you rode off to meet the dragon to protect your village and your love. I am so proud of you!”

Steven didn’t really know what to say other than to mumble quietly, “walked,” as there was nothing for him to ride on. He kissed his sweetheart and said he expected he would be gone a few days. He already had strips of dried meat and dried fruits in his pack, but he accepted the proffered lunch, looked sadly at his sweetheart and took step number one. Two, three, four, five, six. Steven always counted his steps. As long as he knew how many steps from home he was, he knew where he was. Steven had counted the steps to the river, the steps to the pastures, the steps to the field. Steven had counted the steps between his home and his mother’s home. He had counted the steps around the village long-house. Knowing the number of steps he had taken was a comfort to Steven. 14, 15, 16, 17.

Steven walked at the steady, measured pace of 80 steps per minute. To walk more slowly would make it appear that he was reluctant to proceed on his journey or to perform his task. To walk more rapidly would make it appear that he was rushing and careless. He counted each step until he stopped before the village hunter who stood in the road blocking his path.

Over the years, the hunter had taught Steven the arts of making arrows, setting traps, and surviving in the wilderness. Now the hunter stood before Steven and offered him his second-best bow and a quiver of arrows.

“You will need something with which to kill the dragon, Steven George,” said the hunter. “I want you to take my bow and arrows so that you can make our village safe from the dragon again.”

Steven accepted the bow and quiver of arrows gratefully from the hunter. He hadn’t been sure how he would slay the dragon, but now he felt confident that he was fully equipped. He proceeded farther through the village as people gathered silently to watch him go. Occasionally, a mother would say in hushed tones to her child, “There goes Steven George the Dragonslayer. Remember this day.” As he moved forward—35, 36, 37, 38—the village wise woman stepped out in the street to greet him. Steven had spent hours in the fields with the wise woman learning the properties of various herbs. She was also the best cook in the village.

“Steven, you will have many adventures and may face many dangers. This packet of herbs will heal any wound. It is just like the packet that I keep with me at all times. Just smelling them will revive your spirits.” She lowered her voice until it was barely a whisper and Steven leaned in to hear her. “Just a pinch in your soup will make the poorest meal taste like a king’s feast.” She winked at him. Steven gratefully accepted the packet of herbs thinking how fortunate he was to have this healing remedy in case he was injured. He walked on through the village—51, 52, 53, 54. He came to the shaman, who stepped into the street to greet him. The shaman had taught Steven the art of spirit journeys and storytelling. They had spent many a night sitting by the fire trading tales of things imagined.

“Steven George,” said the shaman, “as you travel the path to your dragon, wear this talisman. It is like the one I wear. It will bring you luck in this world and the spirit world, and will give you safety and warm welcome wherever you journey.” Steven proudly accepted the strangely shaped badge and fastened it on his shirt. He stood a little straighter as he walked through the village—69, 70, 71. Steven was near the end of his small village when the village elder stepped out to block his path. During his life, Steven George had spent many hours with the elder, learning about village politics and just judgment. He was like a grandfather to Steven.