Claer's Hoard
By Maureen Bowden
Twentieth Century
Llanddulas Hill, Conwy
Seventeen-year-old twins, Gwyneth and Gareth, hauled the battered chest up the hill. Gareth stopped for breath. “I’m still not sure about this, Gwyn. Mum and Dad have a point. When people move house, they don’t take their junk with them.”
Gwyneth scowled at him. “How can you call it junk? Our childhood memories are in this chest. We can’t let them end up on a rubbish tip or gathering dust in the Oxfam Shop. They’ll be safe in the cave until we come back for them when we have children of our own.”
“Do you really think the next generation will thank us for tattered Barbie dolls and rusty Dinky cars?”
She shrugged. “Maybe not, but a working model of the Starship Enterprise might be worth a stash of cash by then.”
He sighed. “Fair enough, though they might end up as part of the dragon’s hoard.”
“Very funny. Shut up and keep moving. We’re nearly there.”
They reached the dark opening in the hillside, known locally as the dragon’s cave. Gareth said, “You hold the torch and I’ll drag this thing inside. Let’s hope the bottom doesn’t fall out of it.”
After pushing, pulling and an outburst of curses, the chest was deposited in its resting place with its bottom intact. Gwyneth swung the torch around the interior. “It’s creepy in here. I wonder how far into the hillside it goes.”
“Quite a way, if a dragon lurks back there.”
She shivered. “I hope it stays there. Aren’t they supposed to be carnivorous? If it’s hungry it might see us as a tasty snack.”
He laughed. “Ignoring the fact that dragons don’t actually exist, they allegedly only snack on sacrificial virgins, so they would all have starved to death by now. Virgins are an endangered species.”
She smacked him around the head. “Wash out your mouth. I know at least three.”
“Are you one of them?”
“Mind your own business. Anyway, if virgins are an endangered species, it’s because there are plenty of other predators around, creepier than dragons.”
“Well, don’t look at me. I’m not one of them.”
She hugged him. “I know you’re not, Gar. You’re the best. Let’s go home now and help Mum and Dad with the packing. The future awaits.”
Gwyneth and Gareth would go on to make other memories to treasure, and they would never return for the hoard. No doubt they have their own story, but it remains untold. This is the dragon’s story.
In the dark recesses of the cave, Claer was disturbed by the sound of human voices. She stirred in her slumber, opened one sleepy eye and then the other. Best lie still until they’d gone. She wanted no more aggravation from humans. Since that wretched wizard, Merlin, had forced her and her brother from their home in the lake, life had been one long trauma.
When the sound of human activity at the cave’s entrance had ceased, she crept along the cold, stony surface and came across a wood and metal container. The humans must have left it. What was its purpose? Was it a gift? What was inside it? She was incapable of opening it so she’d never know. She placed a foreleg across the lid. It felt pleasantly rough. Rubbing her head and neck upon it, she scratched the itchy spot beneath her jaw. Oh, that felt good. Maybe she’d discovered the reason that so many of her siblings hoarded treasure. Land-bound dragons suffered from dry, irritable scales. The brittle surfaces and sharp edges of small glittering gems and baubles would be ideal for scratching an itch. She could think of no other purpose for them. This container would suit her just as well and it was tidier.
Weariness overcame her. Might as well go back to sleep. There was nothing else to do here. She closed her eyes again and revelled in the memory of the beautiful dream she’d been enjoying until the humans interrupted her nap. She’d seen the lake in which she and her brother, Rhew, had been hatched and spent their idyllic childhood and adolescence. Water dragons didn’t suffer from itchy scales. A small boy was sitting on the grassy bank. There was fear in his eyes. Why was he afraid? She couldn’t read his thoughts, but her draconic instinct told her that this child was important and that one day their paths would cross. Was it just a dream or was it a foretelling? She couldn’t remember how to differentiate.
Once again, the dragon slept.
Twenty-first Century
Llyn Dinas, Snowdonia
At sunrise, blue and gold Snowdonia skies define the lines of cloud-clad peaks reflected in a glacial lake. The city child breaks the surface with his toes, throws a stone, sending ripples in an arc across the water. In ancient days, they say, dragons in the deep awoke from sleep and shook the earth, till mighty Merlin drained the lake, banishing the beasts to distant lands. The sands settled and the wavelets lay still. The child shivers in the solitude, longing for the motorway’s song: the engine’s urban hum.
Seven-year-old Henry Sam Owen jumped to his feet, turned away from the lake and shook off his fear. Don’t be stupid. There are no dragons in there. Merlin chased them and it’s only a story anyway, but where did they go? His great-grandmother would know. She’d told him stories about dragons before he could read. He’d ask her when he next saw her.
Abergele, Conwy
After the holiday, Henry’s great-grandmother came to visit. He said, “GG, remember the story you told me about the dragons in the lake that were fighting and making the earth shake so much that the king’s castle fell down, so Merlin drained the lake and they flew away?”
“I remember, Henry. Did you find the lake when you were on holiday?”
“Yes, but it’s full of water again now.”
“I know. It rains a lot in the mountains.”
“Where did the dragons go when they flew away?”
“Well, I think the white dragon might have flown to Scotland and taken up residence in Loch Ness, but the red one swooped down into the River Mersey, from where she could still see the Welsh mountains that reminded her of home.”
“How do you know she was a she?”
“I guessed.”
“Did you guess her name, too?”
“Yes. Her name was Claer.”
Henry laughed. “I know that word. It’s Welsh. The English word for it is shining. Did she shine?”
“She certainly did, and she probably still does.”
“Is she still in the River Mersey?”
“No, Henry. When I was a little girl, no older than you are now, my granddad told me the story of what happened. Would you like to hear it?”
“Yes, please.” He snuggled up to GG on the couch and listened.
“Long ago, before the city of Liverpool was built, there was a small village on the banks of the river. One night, the dragon flew out above the village to take a look around. The Liver Bird saw her and he thought she’d come to attack the villagers so he perched on a high rock and screeched out a warning to them to defend themselves or be devoured in their beds. They came out of their houses carrying bows and arrows and flaming torches. Claer dodged the arrows with ease, but annoyed and frightened, she flew back to the mountains. The bird still stands, upon the Liver Building’s domed roof, on guard against incoming Welsh dragons.”
“What does devoured mean?”
“Sorry, Henry. I sometimes forget you’re only seven. You have what some people call an old head on young shoulders. In other words, you think a lot and that’s a good thing. Devoured means eaten.”
“But in a book that’s in my school library it says that dragons devoured virgins. What’s a virgin?”
“A young girl.”
“Oh, right.”
“There’s something you need to understand, Henry. Dragons are mythical beasts. If you don’t believe in them, they don’t exist. But if you do believe in them, they’re just as you imagine them to be. I believe in dragons, and I don’t imagine them doing any harm to young girls. I suspect that the devouring nonsense was made up to explain why some young girls went missing and were never found. It’s what’s called a convenient explanation. In my imagination, Claer never harmed anyone.
Henry thought about the lonely dragon with no home. It didn’t seem fair. “Where do you think she lives now, GG?”
“I don’t think she’d want to be far from Snowdonia so she would have stayed in North Wales. Have you heard of the dragon’s cave on Llanddulas Hill?”
He shook his head. “I know where the hill is. I’ve been there with Mum and Dad, but I didn’t see a cave. The hill’s very high and from the top you can see far across the sea. They told me Ireland’s over there. Dad said that’s where your Gran came from. Did she know about dragons too?”
“Probably. I expect there are lots in the parts of Ireland where they still believe in mythical beasts.”
“Tell me about the cave. Is that where Claer lives now?”
“Most likely it is. The hill is part of the Clwydian mountain range and the cave reaches far back inside the mountains, so there’s plenty of room for a dragon.”
“I want to go there and tell her that Llyn Dinas has filled up with water again so she can go home,”
“Well, you mustn’t climb the hill on your own. Take a grown-up with you.”
He jumped off the couch. “Right. I’ll ask Dad to come with me on Saturday when he doesn’t have to go to work. Mum will still be working at the hospital, taking care of sick people. She won’t mind if we go without her, will she?”
“I don’t think so. Taking care of sick people is very important.”
“Okay. Do you mind my leaving you alone while I look for Dad? Mum will be home soon to keep you company.”
“I don’t mind at all.” She patted her shoulder bag. “I’ve brought a book. One more thing, Henry: You might not see the dragon, but if you shout into the cave that the lake is full of water again, she’ll hear you. Dragons have very big ears.”
Henry found his dad in the garden with Uncle Jack, who said, “Hello, Henry. Did you have a good holiday?”
“Yes, thank you. I found a lake where dragons used to live.” He turned to Dad. “That’s what I want to talk to you about. Will you come up Llanddulas Hill with me on Saturday, please? I want to find the dragon’s cave. Do you know where it is?”
Dad nodded. “I used to play up there when I bunked off school with my mates, but don’t tell anyone. That’s our secret, okay?”
“Right, but I don’t suppose anyone would care now, Dad.”
Uncle Jack did a pretend sneeze into his hankie. Henry knew he was trying not to laugh. Grown-ups were strange.
Dad said, “Why do you want to go to the cave?”
“The dragon that lives there used to live in the lake I found. Merlin drained out the water but I want to tell her that it’s filled up again now so she can go home.” Henry knew Dad wouldn’t refuse because he’d overheard GG telling him that he should feed a child’s imagination. “We can take a lunch box with us.”
Uncle Jack said, “And if you find the dragon’s hoard, remember it’s good to share.”
Henry didn’t answer. He never had a clue what Uncle Jack was talking about.
Llanddulas Hill, Conwy
On Saturday morning, Henry and Dad climbed the hill. Dad led the way to the dragon’s cave. He said, “Listen, Henry, the cave is very big. It goes a long way back under the mountains. We can’t go looking for her, we might get lost, but you can leave a message for her explaining about the lake. I’ve brought a pen and paper in my pocket.”
“No need for that, Dad. GG said if I shout the message into the cave she’ll hear me. She has big ears.”
“Ah, well, if GG says so…”
They took a few steps into the darkness and Dad stubbed his toe on Gwyneth and Gareth’s chest. “Ouch. What the…?” He pulled his torch out of his pocket and shone it at the obstacle. He laughed. I think we’ve found the dragon’s hoard, Henry.”
“Uncle Jack said something about that. What’s a hoard?”
“The stories say that dragons stole treasure from rich people and carried it back to their caves.”
“Why?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“And if it is treasure, why would she put it in a box, and how could she get it in there anyway?”
“I’ve no idea about that either but I was only joking about it being her hoard. It’s probably a load of rubbish left here by some local people to save them taking it all the way to the tip and having to pay for dumping it.”
“Can I open it?”
“I don’t see why not.”
He raised the lid and they shone the torch into the chest. Henry said, “It’s full of toys. Why would anyone want to dump them?”
“Well, they’re pretty old. Look at that fire engine. I had one like that when I was your age, and Auntie Georgia had Barbie dolls like those, but hers ended up being even more tattered. She gave Barbie a hard time.”
Henry pulled something out of the chest. “Look at this, Dad. It’s a spaceship but it’s better than Buzz Lightyear’s.”
Dad took it out of Henry’s hands. “It certainly is. This is the Starship Enterprise. Every kid wanted one of these.”
A voice boomed from the darkness, “I see you’ve found my hoard.” A large, indefinable shape lumbered towards them.
Dad grabbed Henry’s hand. “Let’s get out of here, quick.”
He pulled his hand away. “No, Dad. She’s a dragon and if we believe she won’t hurt us then she won’t.”
The voice said, “He’s right, Dad. I won’t hurt you. Dragons aren’t monsters. We’re just serpents that somehow became mythological beasts. There’s really nothing special about us.”
“But you can talk.”
“So can humans but there’s nothing really special about them either. Now, I don’t wish to ignore you, but I should like to speak to the boy.” She turned to Henry, “What’s your name, child?”
“Henry Sam Owen but you can call me Henry.”
“Ah, yes. Humans have a propensity for abbreviation. Why are you here, Henry?”
“Is your name Claer?”
“It is.”
“Then I have a message for you.”
“I hoped you’d say that. I saw you in a dream that I had many years ago. You were sitting beside the lake where I once lived with my brother, Rhew.”
“I know that word. It’s Welsh. The English word for it is ice.”
“You’re right, Henry. He took his name from the glacier that formed our lake. Tell me, are you Welsh or English?”
“My family are all a bit of both, and a bit of Irish. GG says we’re hybrids. That’s what makes us strong.”
“Who is GG?”
“My great-grandmother. That’s what GG stands for. She knows lots of stuff.”
“Abbreviations again. Is she a sorceress?”
“No, she’s a Piscean. I don’t understand why you dreamed about me many years ago. It’s only two weeks since I was sitting by the lake.”
“The dream was a foretelling. That means it was about something that hadn’t happened yet. Now that it has happened, what’s your message?”
“The lake’s filled up with water now so you can go home.”
“What about Merlin? Won’t he drain it again?”
“No. He’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
Henry turned to his dad. “Where is he, Dad?”
Dad said, “According to the legend he’s asleep in a crystal cave. His girlfriend locked him in.”
Claer said, “Good for her. It’s the best place for the interfering little brat. Who was the girlfriend?”
Henry said, “I remember now. Her name was Nimue. GG told me. It was in one of her books. GG reads a lot of books. I’ve seen some. There are loads of words in them.”
“Are you sure your great-grandmother isn’t a sorceress?”
“No, I told you…”
“I know. She’s a Piscean, but she could be both.”
“Oh, right. I’ll ask her.”
“Well, thank you for the message, Henry. I’ll be leaving you now. You’re welcome to the hoard. It really isn’t mine. Some humans left it here the day I dreamed about seeing you at the lake.”
Dad said, “Thank you, Claer.”
He turned to Henry. “I think we should ask Auntie Georgia if she’d like to take it to her nursery school and give the toys to the children. She can tell Uncle Jack to help me carry it down the hill.”
“Good idea. Just one thing: can I keep the Starship Enterprise?”
“It’s all yours.”
Claer said, “I’m glad that’s sorted. Now please leave the cave so I don’t trample you on the way out.”
They hurried outside and watched her emerge into the daylight. The magnificent mythical beast loomed over them, her dark red scales tinged with gold, glittering in the sun.
Henry said, “Goodbye, Claer. Safe journey home.”
“Thank you, Henry Sam Owen. I’ll never forget you.” She lowered her great head to him, spread her wings and took flight.
She flies, Above the pylons and the concrete high-rise. The shining queen. In a sunbeam her colours gleam on wing-tip and tail. St George’s sword won’t harm her, No wizard’s wand will charm her. Not this girl. Not this day.
Maureen Bowden is a Liverpudlian, living with her musician husband in North Wales. She has had 211 stories and poems accepted by paying markets including Third Flatiron, Water Dragon Publishing, The First Line and many others. She was nominated for the 2015 international Pushcart Prize and in 2019 Hiraeth Books published an anthology of her stories, ‘Whispers of Magic’. They plan to publish an anthology of her poetry in the near future. She graduated from the Open University with a 1st class BA degree with honours. Two of the modules were Creative Writing and Advanced Creative Writing. She obtained a Distinction in both. She also writes song lyrics, mostly comic political satire, set to traditional melodies and her husband has performed them in folk music clubs throughout the UK. She loves her family and friends, rock ‘n’ roll, Shakespeare, and cats.