Week 3 Storytelling: The Consumption

(15th century ink illustration of St. Margaret slaying the dragon, by an unknown author, via Wikipedia Commons)

Author's Note: This story is kind of a gory one--please be aware if you have a weak stomach. I wasn't sure how to avoid description of wounds, though, in a story about a saint--in all the stories I read for this section, there was at least one mention of torture or beheading.

Anyway, though: this week's story is based off of a scene in the life of St. Margaret as described in the Golden Legend. The original in the Golden Legend follows the story of St. Margaret's life, from her birth as the daughter of a pagan prince and her conversion to Christianity, to the horrible tortures her father subjects her to in his aim to make her repent, to her eventual beheading. One of the most striking scenes in the story occurs during the night Margaret spends in prison after her father has had her stripped and beaten: a dragon appears and swallows her, but she makes the sign of the cross and is released from the dragon's stomach. The dragon then shape-shifts to its true form--that of a devil--and Margaret holds it captive and forces it to converse with her in order that she may know where it came from and why it is so bent on evil purposes. I chose this scene to follow because a) I love the potential for sensory description that dragons bring into a story and b) I wanted to try out a writing style that focused more on sensory description--in this case, touch--than my last story.

So, without further ado, here is the story...



Later, people would say that the dragon couldn’t have swallowed me; that, instead, I had simply made the sign of the cross and the beast had vanished into thin air. I can only say to you that whoever told this story could never have met a dragon in person, because then they would have known that dragons are quicker than asps and more cunning than weasels, and should one arrive suddenly with the intention of eating you, you would have no chance. Ignorants declaimed that my story was apocryphal because I was the one who told it—and, truly, who else could uphold my claim, when there had been none but the dragon and I in the prison that night? Though the prison-keepers swore that a blinding light had issued from the door, they were apt to bring their bottles with them to their posts, and none would readily believe them.

No matter. I will tell the story again, this time to you. Perhaps you will have more faith.

I was weeping when it came for me: weeping and praying. My eyes wept tears, and my wounds wept blood, and dark water dripped from the dungeon ceiling. The drops crashed to the floor in a steady rhythm, like the beating of the executioner’s drum to be heard on the morrow, or like the hot tongue of the provost’s whip that had licked my skin, again and again. The sting of my earlier screams was a knife in my throat. My tortured body was all aflame with ache, and my hand trembled as it made the sign of the cross on my chest, over and over, tracing gentle lines over the scores in my flesh.

As I said, the dragon came suddenly—but I cannot say that I did not expect it. What one prays for, one must be prepared to receive, and my thoughts that night had succumbed to the malaise of the prison. I was praying to see the face of the reason for my torment when its foul maw appeared not inches before my eyes, followed closely by the flash of teeth and a glimpse of a gullet too long and dark for words.

The journey to the dragon’s stomach was mercifully quick. It is hard to describe what being swallowed is like, but I thought at the time that it was a bit like torture, where one enters a tunnel from which there is no entrance or exit, only the narrow focus of the next move. Heat from the dragon’s tissues scorched my clothes and hair and set my wounds aflame, every inch of my body alive with horror.

A dragon’s stomach can be likened to a cauldron filled with boiling water. By the time I landed within, still half-weeping, prayers flickering through my mind like a candle guttering in the wind, it had occurred to me, rather absurdly, that should I ever see my father's Provost again it would be well to tell him that the tortures he inflicted on others were no match for those that Hell could bestow upon those it hated; that he should leave the torturing to Satan altogether, and it would be much more satisfying for all parties. As I screamed at the touch of the stomach’s juices, I closed my eyes and drew every ounce of faith I could muster from within my  bones, my hand rising once more to form a shaky cross over my heart.

Then I was on the floor, retching, as the dragon cowered and shrieked above me. I watched with my cheek pressed to the cold dirt floor as the beast shivered and shrunk, down and down, until what faced me was merely a man—or seemed to be. He fell to his knees in the dark water at the center of the cell, his body gaunt and his breathing tormented.

Bit by bit, I raised myself onto unsteady feet. I took care not to make a sound, but my efforts were for naught: the man was weeping. When, finally, I could step forward with any vestige of steadfastness, I crossed the floor to stand behind him. With both hands, I gripped his shoulders and threw him to the floor, pressing my foot against his neck. Still he wept, but my tears had dried in my eyes from the heat of the dragon’s belly.

“Lie still, foul devil” I said, hearing the strength of God in my voice, “under the foot of this faithful woman. And tell me your name, so that I may banish you back to your Master.”

And that is my story. I had vanquished the devil, but in truth it is impossible to vanquish all of the evil that appears within our dungeons with a simple cross: the next morning I was brought to the executioner's block, and though through My Lord God I was able to die with dignity and courage, and though believers now speak my name with the respect a saint deserves, the lies my tormentors told of me are still all that is known about me.

Please see to it that others know the truth as well.

Source: The Life of St. Margaret, from The Golden Legend, edited by F. S. Ellis (1900)

Additional Resources Used: A History of the Death Penalty (PBS)
                                              Cauldron Use and Form (via the British Museum)
                                              More Info on St. Margaret of Antioch (via Wikipedia)