The Garlic Dragon Series - Gisela's Story

Published in THE DRAGON CHRONICLE Issue 23 - Summer 2002

The smell of onions is one thing, but the stench of garlic to an untrained, un-French nose is another. Gisela was a French dragon. She was petite, beautifully formed, European and very chic, but she had a penchant for garlic. Although she had breathed fire at regular intervals around the surrounding countryside, it did not kill the whiff of ghastly garlic. Even chewing parsley after meals (that old herbal remedy) did not help and at twenty-five Mademoiselle Gisela was looking for Dr (short for dragon) Right.

Her home was situated amongst the herb garden of Gothely Grange , a large stone house so old, that its inhabitants had forgotten dragons were part of their heraldic arms. Instead of fairies, a real living and garlic-firing dragon lived at the bottom of Lord and Lady Gothely's garden. Lord Gothely had French connections through his wife, Lady Antoinette and, in fact, the Grange had a French chef named Hubert, who also adored garlic.

"It is so good for ze blood, for ze chest, for ze skin, for ze flu, n'est-ce-pas?" he would argue with Lord Gothely, who would answer, "But not so good for the breath, eh?"

Hubert would then throw a French tantrum faster than any omelette and refuse to cook bread and butter pudding for afternoon tea, until Lord G resumed the 'entente cordiale' and pretended garlic really did work wonders for his gout.

The garlic patch beyond the parsley border was where Gisela lay her drooping head, when the blues got the better of her and her usually green scales were tipped with a deep shade of indigo. Her fire-breathing habits were now only confined to burning stubble at the end of hay-making. Even this had to be held in check for pollution, for the ozone layer, for the EU was very green nowadays.

The old days were disappearing fast, but Gisela was disinclined to keep up with the new ones. All she wanted was a husband, 2.4 baby dragons and someone, besides Hubert, who liked the fumes of garlic to waft romantically downwind after a good meal. The trouble was she did not know of any remaining, decently connected dragons in the vicinity and that made her mood indigo even deeper.

Chantley Lodge lay two miles as th e dragon flies from the Grange and there lived the only remaining male dragon for many hundreds of miles. Now let us clear up one misconception about dragons. They do not live for hundreds of years and die at a ri pe old age of 3247. Dragons map the age ran ge that humans exist in, quite closely. Gisela was from a long lin e of aristocratic dragons, who flew here from France du ring the French Revolution. She could never forget her regal ancestry. The dragon at Chantley Lodge was what one might call 'a mite vulgar'. Anyone who worked close to the land and got his claws dirty must be and he was a year younger than her. She was looking for someone, whose scales were just greying round the temples, who loved good wine, French cuisine and, of course, garlic. Ciprian was overdeveloped muscle-wise, bursting with that rugged, healthy quality that comes from living an outdoor, energetic life. His master, Tom Barnstaple, Keeper of the Lodge for Lord Gothely, knew he existed. In return for ploughing the fields used for vegetables, Ciprian was allowed to sleep in a disused, rather run-down stable across the yard and got his food thrown in as well. He was even allowed a flagon of cider daily, which might explain the ruddiness of his cheek scales and the fact that he was always singing folk songs; quite bawdy ones at that.

Hubert, the chef, knew about dragons, (being French and very well up on French aristocracy). He had an especial soft spot for Lady Antoinette, for whom there was never too much garlic. Gisela was a close second for his affection, because of her love for garlic. He had decided that Gisela must meet Ciprian. Dragons could be over-fussy about whom they married, but as they were a dying breed, and really should have been on the Worldwide Fund for Nature's endangered list, this was no time for Gisela to follow Hubert by taking the hump so quickly. She would have to marry Ciprian, or become a strange, old spinster lurking round the garlic patch forever.

Hubert needed some fresh carrots, shallots and mushrooms for the Coq au Vin he was preparing for the evening meal. He usually went over to Tom at the Lodge to collect the vegetables daily, so they were oh, so fresh. Today he wandered down to the herb garden, past the parsley border and found Gisela drooping over several bulbs of garlic.

"Gisela, ma chérie, is thees the way to spend ze most beautiful summer's day? Why don't you come with me to ze Lodge and 'elp me select ze best vegetables? You have such a regal palate. It would 'elp me, sure it would."

Gisela looked at him languidly, spat out the outer case of the garlic bulb she was chewing, which Hubert thought rather un-regal, then noisily fluttered her steel eyelashes. The smell of garlic was over-powering, even to Hubert.

"'ubert. You are so kind. But I am 'aving a depression. Soon I will be middle-aged and no dragon will want me." She sighed, drenching the chef with such a strong cloud of garlic, that he could feel his chest being fumigated and any trace of the cold he thought he was catching from Lord Gothely disappeared in a breath.

"Gisela, listen to moi. I am your friend, no? I do know a beet about the love. I 'ave been 'earing from Tom that Ciprian has decided it iz time for 'im to settle down and he iz looking for a lovely lady dragon to settle down with."

"Ciprian!" spat out Gisela together with a half-chewed piece of garlic. "Ciprian! Zat vegetable-plucking, cider-drinking, soil-shuffling, stable-dwelling peasant! 'ow can I 'ave anything to do weeth 'im? He wouldn't know royalty if it bubbled up in his cider flagon and lit a match under 'is nose!" Hubert winced at the strange use of language and continued.

"But Mademoiselle Gisela, 'aven't you 'eard? He's turned over a new leaf. No more cider, no more rude songs and 'e has redecorated ze stable. He makes sure there iz never a trace of soil under his claws after work. And 'e loves garlic." Gisela lifted her steel eyelashes with such suddeness, they clattered against the scales of her eyelids.

"I'll come and 'elp you get ze vegetables, 'ubert. You know with my taste I always pick ze best." Hubert adjusted his beret and set the straps of his vegetable bag across his shoulders, clambered onto Gisela's back and prepared for take off.

The flight of a dragon much resembles a bumblebee laden with pollen baskets. There are sharp drops mid-air and swerves to the left and right. Hubert had forgotten what dragon travel sickness was like and was glad of touchdown in the yard at Chantley Lodge. Tom came rushing out of the barn when he heard a sound reminiscent of empty armour falling helmet over toe down a flight of stairs. When he saw his friend, Hubert, sliding down the back of the French dragon from Gothely Grange, he rushed up, all smiles.

"Got all the veggies stacked up for you to inspect, Hubert. Good afternoon, Mademoiselle Gisela. Do come this way." His manners always impressed Gisela.

The storage barn was full of the most perfectly shaped, stacked vegetables; from the riotous orange of young carrots, the ruby red of baby beetroots, the lime green of mange tout, to the dark, forest-green of round, fluffy cabbages. Hubert kept deferring to Gisela in his choice, using sign language to Tom to get Ciprian up to the Lodge 'tout de suit' (or pronto in Tom's lingo). Tom excused himself, then blew on a large, silver whistle chained to the wall at the side of the archway to the Lodge. A distant speck became a distant bird and on closer examination, a distant dragon flying Lodgewards. A similar clatter to loose armour announced Ciprian's landing on the cobbled stones of the yard.

"Did you want me, Master Tom? Got four fields of potatoes to dig up, then plough." Ciprian's air of muscular strength bulged from under every scale of his perfectly formed dragon dimensions.

"I need you to sort through the pile of mushrooms picked this morning. Can you go to the barn now?" Ciprian nodded good-naturedly and set off towards the barn, his nails leaving scratches of soil between the cobbles.

The barn door was ajar. He heard the strains of two French accents discussing food. Ciprian paused on entering, preferring to watch. His eyes were drawn to the petite, beautifully formed figure of Gisela, while he was trying to figure out the haunting smell that invaded the atmosphere. Hubert noticed him.

"Bonjour, Ciprian. 'ello. Do come in. I just 'ave to see Tom a minute, Gisela. Excusez-moi." Ciprian pulled the door further open and was entranced by what he saw. Gisela was gently turning over a pile of pearly shallots, picking out the best and popping them into Hubert's bag.

"Let me help you." Ciprian sauntered over to Gisela.

Once near her the over-powering smell of garlic hit him. Not knowing what it was (but thinking it smelt very much like the water Tom gave to the chickens to keep them free from pests), he decided it was a new type of French dragon perfume and after a while his nostrils became immune to the pungent odour. Gisela, in her best French manner, allowed him to be gallant. On close inspection, she thought Ciprian was worth studying further.

After packing the vegetable bag with shallots, carrots and mushrooms from the pile picked today, Ciprian then escorted Gisela to the yard. There she noticed the newly decorated stable.

"Ooh, you 'ave made ze stable very attractive."

"Do come in and have a cup of tea, or coffee, if you prefer," offered Ciprian.

"Café au lait, s'il vous plaît," purred Gisela, her eyelashes working overtime. "That is coffee with milk, if you please," she translated.

Ciprian was transfixed. Gisela noticed the cider flagons dotted around his newly fitted shelves now held bunches of wild flowers. Ciprian moved to his newly fitted kitchen and began making cappuccino coffee with his new, stainless steel coffee-making machine. A cup of frothy, milky coffee with grated chocolate melting on the top confronted Gisela. She smiled, took a sip, then breathed a hot sigh of relief and pleasure.

"Très bon," she murmured. "Delicious." Ciprian almost burst his scales with pride.

"Perhaps you would do me the honour of having a meal with me tonight?" His slow brain was working overtime. He knew Gisela's not too flattering nickname was 'the Garlic Dragon', due to her love of the plant and any food with it in.

"I am cooking garlic soup, fresh poached salmon with aioli (which was a pungent garlic mayonnaise originally from Provence), strawberry shortcake with fresh cream followed by cheese studded with cloves of garlic and celery."

Gisela melted. He had made such an effort. He was so nice; not at all what she had imagined. The 2.4 baby dragons lit up like light bulbs in her mind, as she contemplated (in a haze of garlic) what might happen, if she married Ciprian.

"I would adore to come to ze dinner. What time would you be serving ze meal?"

"At eight o'clock." Ciprian smiled. He must remember to hang up a string of garlic bulbs in the kitchen.

At Gothely Grange, Lord Gothely was talking to Hubert, the French chef, about yesterday's superb bread and butter pudding and reminiscing about the days before he contracted gout. Gisela, who married Ciprian, was now Madam Smythe and lived at Chantley Lodge Stables; très chic. She still visited the Grange. Today it was the christening of little Zachary in Gothely Chapel. Pearl, Gisela's two year old daughter, would also be there. Ciprian and Gisela were expecting another baby dragon in about five month's time, so the 2.4 dragons had come to pass.

Ciprian worked hard. When Tom Barnstable retired, he became Keeper of Chantley Lodge, being an expert on vegetables and French cuisine. He was continually besotted with Gisela and their family of dragons.

As Lord Gothely said to Lady Antoinette at the christening, when they, as God parents, together with Tom Barnstable and Hubert, the French chef, gathered round the font,

"I bet our Gisela took Ciprian's breath clean away, eh!"