The Dragon Who Declared His Hoard

The village hall of Mirna had exactly one service window. Behind it sat Peta, who had turned seventeen that year. Her duties consisted mostly of dozing, and now and then stamping a form for whichever villager wandered in.

That morning, the ground outside the window shook. She lifted her head and found the whole window filled by a single golden eye.

"I have come to declare my property," it said.

The eye belonged to Gradbal, the dragon who had lived in the hills behind the village for three hundred years. Since only his eye could fit through the window, Peta gathered up her papers and went outside.

The dragon had curled his mountain of a body into a heap, and he let out a puff of smoke from his nostrils, looking a little sheepish.

"A letter came from the lord of these lands," he said. "Starting this year, all who possess treasure must declare it. I am a dragon who obeys the law."

"That's very admirable," said Peta. In truth, she had never heard of such a dragon. For that matter, she had never seen any dragon up close before.

The declaration form had three columns: Type of Property, Quantity, and Approximate Value. Peta readied her quill.

"Well, then. Please tell me what your treasure consists of."

"Very well. Brace yourself."

The dragon lowered a great hemp sack from where it had been strapped to his back and let it drop to the ground with a thump. Surely, Peta thought, no one could carry three centuries of treasure in one trip. He must have brought only a few representative pieces. But the dragon puffed out his chest.

"That is all of it."

The first thing to roll out of the sack was a bottle cap. So was the second. After that came a single sock with no partner, then what was probably a horseshoe, then a key to something, and then a cracked hand mirror.

"…Bottle caps," Peta wrote. "Quantity?"

"Four hundred and twelve. Sorted by color. The green ones are rare, you know."

"Approximate value?"

The dragon narrowed his eye and studied her face closely. Peta, being honest, wrote close to nothing.

Deep in the dragon's throat came a rumble like distant thunder.

"Wait. That is wrong. A dragon's hoard cannot possibly be cheap."

"But you don't have any gold coins, do you?"

"Gold is heavy. I used to keep a little, but it dug into my back whenever I rolled over in my sleep, so I gave it up."

"Jewels?"

"Too bright. I could not sleep."

Peta sighed and scratched her head with the end of her quill. At this rate, the form would add up to three copper pennies. No tax would be owed at all. Most people would have been delighted, but the dragon wore the face of a young man whose sweetheart had just turned him down.

"A dragon who owes no tax is no dragon at all," he said. "The village children will laugh at me."

"I won't tell anyone."

"Even if you keep quiet, the paper will speak. The lord will read it, will he not?"

Not knowing what else to do, Peta asked a question.

"Where did you get this sock?"

The dragon's eye suddenly went soft.

"A hundred winters ago, a shepherd's child lost their way and slept one night in my cave. In the morning they left, and forgot one sock behind. I flew down to the village to return it, and the whole place went into an uproar. They shot arrows at me, and in the end I never managed to give it back."

"And this key?"

"The first baker dropped it. It is the key to the back door of that shop. I expect that door still cannot be locked to this day."

Peta knew that much. The bakery's back door had been tied shut with string since before she was born.

"And the green bottle cap?"

"When your grandmother was a girl, she drank wine up in the hills and flung it away. It struck me on the nose."

Peta's quill stopped. The contents of the sack were not junk at all. They were three hundred years' worth of things the village had lost. The dragon remembered every one of them, and he had been waiting all this time for a chance to give them back.

In the margin of the form, without asking anyone's permission, she ruled a new column: Sentimental Value. Then, in large letters, she wrote: Beyond Measure.

"There is no such column," said the dragon.

"There is now. I just made it. I'm the only one at this window, so I get to decide."

That was not actually true, but Peta kept a straight face.

A few weeks later, a reply arrived from the lord's manor. Property beyond measure, it said, ought by rights to bear a tax beyond measure; however, since it was beyond measure, it could not be calculated. Therefore, in place of payment, the dragon would return the lost items to their owners, and that would count as his tax. It seemed the lord's clerk was also someone who enjoyed a good nap.

From then on, once a week, the dragon came down to the village with his hemp sack. For the first time in three hundred years, the bakery's back door could be locked. The shepherd's great-grandchild received their great-grandfather's sock and tilted their head in puzzlement. Being handed one lone sock was not especially useful, but the dragon looked so proud of himself that nobody said a word.

Little by little, the sack grew lighter. When only the green bottle cap remained, Peta laid it on her grandmother's grave. Beside her, the dragon scratched his nose with the tip of one claw, delicately.

"Now my hoard is empty," he said. "What shall I declare next year?"

"Don't worry," said Peta. She took her own house key from her pocket and, quite on purpose, let it fall at the dragon's feet.

"Oh dear. I've dropped it."

The dragon was silent for a while. Then, very carefully, as though it were the most precious thing in the world, he picked it up between the tips of his claws. Deep in his throat came another rumble—this time like the thunder of spring, the happy kind.