Daddy Dragon hurried to his son’s cave. He found Junior sitting up on his bed of gold, panting. Plumes of smoke shot from the youngster’s nostrils. Daddy blew on a candle, setting it alight.
“Now, Junior, what’s all this noise? Another bad dream?”
Junior sobbed and held out his arms for an embrace. His little wings flapped anxiously. Daddy perched on the edge of the pile of riches and hugged Junior until his sobs subsided.
“He – he was after me again!” Junior’s shoulders heaved. “He was on horseback and he had a long, long lance. He was going to run me through.”
“There, there,” Daddy patted Junior’s scaly back. “He’s gone; you’re awake now.”
“But you know what day it is tomorrow. It’s his day.”
Daddy sighed. They went through this every year on April 23rd.
“Look, son, it’s late but, in the morning, I’ll show you how to defend yourself against knights in armour, OK? You’re big enough now.”
Junior perked up a little. “Will you show me how to blast him out of his saddle?”
“Will you show me how to melt his lance?”
“Will you show me how to cook him in his metal suit?”
“Yes! Now, get some sleep or you’ll be too grouchy to do anything in the morning.”
Junior snuggled down on the horde of treasure. Daddy bent over him to kiss his brow.
“Hey!” said Mummy Dragon, coming in. “He should be asleep. Keeping him up at all hours.”
“He had a bad dream,” Daddy protested.
“And you’ve been filling his head with nonsense again, I suppose?” Mummy produced a large book, leather-bound and chained. “Time we sorted this out once and for all.”
She leafed through the pages until she found the one she wanted. “Look, son. You have nothing to be scared of. This George idiot never even came to England. He was from here, do you see? A place called Turkey. Then he moved to Palestine and was too busy spreading his religion to bother about saving people from dragons! He’d have a hard time of it if he came to England today – if they even let him in the country.”
“Did he carry a lance?”
“Did he wear a suit of armour?”
“No. Once again, he wasn’t even English.”
“But – but –” Junior leapt off his bed. “The English celebrate him every year. They go mad for it. What if he comes over to join the celebrations?”
“He won’t! Get back to bed. Listen, honey, people believe all sorts of crazy things. Saints don’t exist, but we do.”
“That’s right,” said Daddy, “and, lucky for us, nobody believes that.”