the dragon's promise

This, then, is the legend:

Long ago, in the far north-west, there lived a dragon. He was very lonely, being the only one of his kind, and he longed for company.
Long years passed, until eventually people came to his lands. The dragon was overcome with curiosity, and would watch them secretly, fascinated by their little lives. One day the chieftain of the people was hunting on the mountainside when he came upon the dragon, asleep. At first the chieftain was confused by what he saw, and, thinking it must be just an unusual rock formation, he looked closer. But then the dragon opened one huge amber eye. The chieftain let out a cry and drew his sword, but the dragon merely blinked sleepily and sighed.
‘You woke me up,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘I was asleep. You woke me up.’
‘What are you doing here!’ the chieftain shouted, to hide his fear.
‘I WAS sleeping,’ the dragon replied.
‘I mean what are you doing in my lands?’
‘Your lands? This is my country. And I have been here a long, long time.’
The dragon gave another sad sigh.
‘I was here to watch the islands appear out of the sea, the mountains thrust through the earth in fire and smoke. I have seen great lands break apart, the seas rise and fall, and now all is calm, and you have come.’
The chieftain looked at the giant eye and saw the sadness there.
‘And you are all alone?’
A big tear rolled out of the dragon’s eye, causing a minor flood on the plateau below.
‘Well,’ the chieftain said thoughtfully, ‘we would like to hear your stories, if you would tell them, and we will tell you ours.’
The dragon’s eye grew brighter. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. But you must promise never to harm us, for we are small and you could squash us without thinking.’
As he spoke, the chieftain thought, uh oh, maybe that was not the smartest thing to say.
The dragon sat up, felling a small copse of birch trees. He held one giant claw high in the air.
‘Upon my life, I give you my word,’ he said.
And so the dragon came to live with the humans. They were afraid at first, but soon grew used to him, and the dragon was delighted to have so much attention. The children would climb his spiny legs, and he would put his head on the ground and let them sit on his nose, crossing his eyes to look at them, making them laugh.
And the chieftain was well pleased too, for the dragon helped them, felling trees for their boats, and clearing the land for crops. And there were raiders in the land now, searching for lands of their own. What better protection could his clan have?
The chieftain had a young son, Baran, who was clever and curious, and in a very short time he and the dragon were firm friends. Baran would sit with him for hours, telling him tales of the clan, their many journeys, their troubles and joys, and the dragon would tell him about the way the earth came to be, and the travels of the stars around the night sky. Sometimes, Baran would fall asleep, and the dragon’s great claw would fold protectively around him. Baran’s mother did not approve, but the chieftain saw how much the boy and dragon loved each other, and thought this was a good thing. Baran would be the chieftain, one day. The alliance would continue, and his people would flourish.
The summer was drawing on to autumn when Baran first asked the question. The dragon looked at him in surprise.
‘You want to fly?’
‘Yes. I want you to take me. Will you?’
The dragon blinked in alarm. ‘I will not, Baran. For the winds are strong and treacherous, and you will fall.’
‘I will hold on very tight.’
But the dragon refused, again and again, and Baran was disappointed.
But not disheartened. The next day he came back carrying a length of twine.
‘I will not fall. I will tie myself to you.’
‘The twine is thin, and will break,’ the dragon said. ‘It is not strong enough.’
And Baran went away again.
But time passed, and every day Baran brought something else: the gut the hunters used for their bows; the wool the women wove into garments, and every time, the dragon refused.
Baran was at his wit’s end. But one day he went down to the beach and watched the fishermen, and when they had pulled their boat in to shore and left it, he hurried down and stole the rope.
‘This is strong enough,’ he said, laying it before the dragon. The great amber eye turned to him.
‘Do not make me do this, Baran,’ he said. ‘I swore an oath never to hurt your people, and even had I not, I would never harm you.’
‘You won’t,’ Baran said, with the confidence of the very young. ‘It’ll be fine. Come on, let me try, and you can take me up the mountain. You’ll see I won’t fall off.’
So Baran climbed on to the dragon’s back and tied himself to the front ridge of his spine. The dragon got to his feet and ran up the mountainside, clearing a wide path in the young trees. Baran held tight to the great ridge, which was smooth and black as velvet moss, speckled with silver. The dragon smelt of fern and bark, of growing things. Baran had never felt more content. They reached the mountaintop and Baran laughed.
‘You see? I am still here. Now will you take me flying?’
And the dragon looked down at the sea below, and knew he had no choice. He spread his great black wings and leapt off into the sky, and Baran let out a yell of delight.
They sailed across the autumn sky, creating a huge shadow on the land, so that the people came to see what it was. Baran could hear them all yelling, and felt smug. The dragon heard the cries, and knew there’d be hell to pay.
‘Higher, dragon my friend, take me higher!’
The dragon turned and found the thermals, riding them higher and higher, until they could see their small and beautiful country, far below. Baran twisted this way and that, eager to see everything. But although the rope around him was strong, the knot with which it was tied was not. As Baran leaned over to see the chain of islands far below, it gave way suddenly, and he fell.
He screamed, and the dragon let out a roar of anguish. Pulling his wings in tight he dropped after the boy, They dropped like stones from the pale blue sky, the dragon’s wings making the air scream, his forelegs outstretched, his claws only inches from Baran’s small body. ‘No!’ the dragon roared, as Baran hit the water. The dragon followed him down, down, into the chill depths. He found the small broken body and lifted it gently in his claw. He rose out of the water and roared his despair to the stars.
The dragon laid Baran’s body on the soft white sand, and rose again into the sky. When he was high enough, he looked back and saw the chieftain standing on the sand, the body of his son cradled in his arms. The dragon roared once more, and then he plunged into the sea.

Years passed.
The grief lay heavy on the chieftain’s shoulders, and not only for the loss of his son. He knew the dragon had loved the boy, and that there had been no evil in him. When the sun sank low in the sky, he would go the most westerly point of his lands, and he would call out:
‘Come back, dragon. All is forgiven. Come back and claim your lands.’
But the dragon never came.
After one long, fierce winter, the spring tides were very low, and when the chieftain went into the west, he saw that a new island had appeared. It lay opposite the beach where Baran’s body had lain. It was small, but mountainous, and atop the mountain were a series of sharp spines, like a dragon’s back. The island looked into the west, into the sunset, and the chieftain knew he need call the dragon no more.
Many long years passed, and the story was told from generation to generation. But a time came when there were no longer children to tell the story to. The young left the islands and did not return, and the old ones left behind told the tale amongst themselves, until at last the ending changed. The dragon had not returned, but he was there, on the island they now called Baranpay. Perhaps he was not dead, but sleeping. Perhaps some day he might return, and when he did, he would bring their children with him, riding on his back like little Baran.
For the years of men are hard, and hope is often all there is.