Here There Be Dragons
by Elliott Rose
“What is a fantasy map but a space beyond which There Be Dragons?”
– Terry Pratchett in The Color of Magic Foreword
Cillian spent his childhood walking the cliffs, peering down at the rocks battered by the foaming waves. His mother would keep two fingers in his collar, never tugging too hard, but threatening it. He was the type of child who liked to test the leash. He never knew what he wanted to find down there, at least until he found the map.
It was buried in his mother’s trunk. Not the one she kept in the family room, but the one hidden away in the attic. The chest full of trinkets and keepsakes she had been filling since she was a child. Near the bottom was a tattered sheepskin map, depicting the jagged coastline of his home. Near the top of the map, someone had marked the tip of a peninsula with a scrawled hand — Here There Be Dragons.
Cillian stole it without a second thought. He could imagine his mother and father chiding him for indulging in something so silly. They didn’t understand that Cillian was an adventurer: he was born to discover. So he didn’t tell them when he set off towards the northern peninsula as the sun rose.
For the first few hours, he ran through the tall grass, laughing as the starlings scattered in the morning breeze. Even while running, he kept unfurling the map and reading those words again and again and again. “Dragons,” he said to the wind, breathless. Even after his legs were sore and weak, he kept running along the cliffs.
Three hours — and a lunch break — later, Cillian slowed to a stop near a curling peninsula. Slick black rock seemed to shatter where the waves crashed against it, salt shredding stone. All that was left was a small cove littered with countless nooks and caves. The perfect place for a secret.
Grinning, Cillian descended into the cove at a reckless pace — the path wasn’t exactly a kind one. The sea breeze kept the rock slippery, and the salt kept the grass away from what little dirt wasn’t already washed away. It was a recipe for a careful descent, and Cillian was not the careful type.
By the time he reached the beach and its black sand, his left hand was scuffed (his right hand held the map), his pants were bloody at the knees, and his ankle was tender. But no tears dusted Cillian’s eyes, which were still wide and enraptured with the cove in front of him. He pulled out the map again, careful to keep blood away from it. The picture, while crude and amateur, matched the shape of the cove.
Throwing a fist into the air, he took off again towards the closest cave he could spot. He would check every single one if he had to. And he did.
The sun was setting when Cillian limped towards the last of the caves. He heard the clopping of hooves from above, which meant his little excursion was up. But he had to be sure that this last one wasn’t where the Dragons hid. He couldn’t let himself play what-ifs with himself later.
When he rounded the mouth of the cave and found one so shallow he could see the far wall, he knew no Dragon lived there. So he put his back against the wall and slid to the sand, closing his eyes for a little break at last.
Footsteps told him someone was close. They stepped gently up to him before joining him on the ground. A long few seconds passed with nothing said, but then he heard his mother’s voice.
“You look a little worse for wear, Cillian.”
Cillian opened his eyes and turned to face his mother, but he found himself averting his eyes. “Hi, Mom.”
“You led me on quite the little chase there, didn’t you? Running all the way here without telling anyone.” She leaned over and took a little bit of his cheek in between her fingers, like she was going to pinch him. She used to chide him while doing that. “Didn’t even tell Rory. You tell Rory everything.”
“He would’ve spilled,” Cillian said.
His mother smiled coyly. “Smart boy. And you brought lunch with you, which is more than I expected.” She gently took the map out from under his arm and laid it down on the beach, so she could pull him into an embrace. “I wish you didn’t hurt yourself for these kinds of things. You’ll have too many scars by the time you’re my age.”
Cillian leaned into his mother, finding the exhaustion of the day doubling with each passing second. His mother reminded him of his bed, of home. A puffin landed on the rocks near them.
After a long while, his mother picked up the map again and unfurled it in front of both of them. “This is what you were chasing, huh?” She ran a hand over it, reverent. “I haven’t thought about this in years.”
“Why do you have it?” Cillian asked.
His mother laughed. “Your father gave it to me when we started courting.”
Cillian blinked. “Why? There are no Dragons here — why give you a fake map?”
“He made it for me. This was his favorite place as a child,” she mused. “And I wouldn’t be so sure, Cillian. There are Dragons everywhere here. You just need a little imagination.”
“Believe me, I looked,” Cillian said.
His mother just shook her head and put the map down. Gently, she covered her son’s eyes. Leaning in close to his ears, she breathed, “Listen.”
Somehow, for the first time that whole day, Cillian heard the wind whistle like air streaming around a wing. He heard the crabs scuttle from spot to spot like talons scraping fine rock. And he heard the crashing waves roar. The cove seemed to sing Dragonsong, its instrument the wind and the water and the life that lived there.
Cillian smiled, falling asleep in his mother’s arms. “Those aren’t real Dragons, Mom.”
“No,” she said. “But it’s close enough, isn’t it?”
Cillian didn’t answer — he was asleep. His dreams were full of Dragons.