The Den of the Dragon

April 2020. Micro Mystery.

Nestled deep in the uncharted hills outside of town, the citizens claim – for how could the place remain uncharted if they knew what was there? – they claim there lives in all its medieval glory a great fat dragon who, as is customary of his kind, hides in his serpent’s den, guarding a mysterious treasure hoard of unknown kind, surrounded by or comprised of (the accounts differ) clouds of thick-smelling smoke used either to deter those who would dare face him, or hypnotize those invaders and thereby pacify them. As a good skeptic, I hardly believed them, until I found myself standing in the fabled spot.

Many adventurous men, full of hot young blood, had ventured to the hills never to be seen again. This at least was true. A number of missing persons were recorded at the police station I visited, the logical explanation being that underprepared folk who headed out into the wild often meet obstacles, some of which lead to unfortunate deaths of a kind in no way supernatural. Although we planned only to stay in town less than a fortnight, my younger partner found the fantasy fascinating. Awaking one morning to find a note on his bed, I knew where he had gone and cursed his foolishness.

The sheriff and I led the small posse which ventured to the hills. Branches and brambles slowed our search with scrapes and scratches, while the birds above, their cries as undecided as the citizens’ accounts of the dragon, seemed to cheer us onward and then cry for our retreat. At last we stumbled into a clearing flanked by walls of wet gray stone. An ancient eldritch arch, gaping like a dragon’s mouth, had been carved deep into the cliff face by a long-dry river. Our senses were at once affronted by the famous stench, rank and gross yet with a certain undefinable allure. We entered the cave with weapons drawn but soon found – greater than treasure – all those who had been lost over the years!

I felt myself growing faint and drowsy in the sickly sweet smoke that filled the air, but asked to the long-lost crowd, feasting on odd berries and flowers and lounging in their subterranean home, “Why are you still here? Where is the dragon and the treasure?”

Their eyes were glazed. My younger partner sat next to an old man, and a distant smile played upon his face as he said, “You have found the treasure, the dragon, and the reason for our stay: they are in the smoke that fills your lungs – can you not tell? It is opium!”