The fantasy trope of taming dragons has always deeply resonated with me, and I happily inhale stories of human partnership with dragons. Both Chrysophylax and Kazul made the list of possible names for my childhood green iguana. Bob the Bearded Dragon, the current lizard around here, escaped being named Kulingile by one of the hairs he doesn’t have.
So Fr. Andrew Stephen Damick’s post today, Can (Should) Dragons Be Tamed?, was food for thought that I found tough and chewy. I think it misses how tamed dragons are generally used in fantasy stories, which is not as diminished/alluring evil but as natural wonder.
He acknowledges that many dragons are rooted in nature instead of demonic chaos, and it’s plain to see the inspiration taken from real animals for most of them. The source animal is usually a reptile, either living or extinct (and the animated version of Toothless in How To Train Your Dragon was refreshing because of Toothless’s cat-like mannerisms). As a reptile owner, I argue for separating The Serpent from serpents. In fiction, nature-inspired dragons are functioning as the relationship between Man and Animal writ large, and taming them is a grand exaggerated drama of the joys of domestication.
But it is quite unfair to stop there and categorize natural dragons as being part of “the de-spiritualized material world” when their most common narrative purpose is to suddenly and completely reveal the truth of a larger, magical world that fulfills the protagonist’s yearning for more than the ordinary world they inhabit. Encountering a dragon is often the first intrusion of the magical world into the mundane in a fantasy story (I’m linking Penny White as an example because you can read the first few paragraphs including the dragon encounter by clicking Look Inside). Dragons are huge and undeniable, unlike a mere glimpse of magic or a fantasy creature that is small and prone to hiding. In these scenes the protagonist is comprehending something larger and more powerful than himself and experiencing awe.
Wonder is the encounter with the Other-world, with Faerie, with sacrament. Wonder is the emotion that readers seek in fantasy literature and tame dragons embody it better than any other fantasy creature. The flight sequence is ubiquitous in tame dragon stories: the rider is carried away from his life on the ground to the heavens.
Wonder leaving the world because dragons are threatened or withdrawing is a narrative response to the loss of sacrament in the modern worldview. The tame dragon story is about the hunger for wonder, the desire to seize onto it and make it stay when we do experience transcendent moments, and that those moments can sustain us even though they end. Tame dragons who leave do not abandon their riders. They leave them secure in body and soul (Pete’s Dragon) and usually with the assurance that magic can be found again when you know where to look.
No, a tame dragon is not in the same class as a horse or a pet. This is more often than not the driving conflict in tame dragon narratives that go on for longer than the initial “wow, a dragon” episode. The Temeraire series from Throne of Jade onward is an excellent example.
I would argue that the Tame Dragon, better called the Wonderful Dragon, is so firmly established in our culture that he is worthy of a place in the Christian imagination. Wonder, like love, is one of the emotions that points to the divine whenever we experience it. And dragons are the very embodiment of fantasy wonder to so many people. There is a reason that you can find dragon tchotchkes in every gas station and that so many fantasy fans use the dragon as a sigil. It’s because they are emblems of wonder to today’s dragon consumers, not wickedness.
Fiction writing is not iconography, with codified symbolism. In fact, we need a touch of the unexpected to keep stories interesting, so the author’s job of satisfying spiritually hungry people is better served by iteration than symbolic ideology. Medieval artists pulled a satisfying and enduring allegory for Christ out of unicorns, who were previously best known in the popular imagination for stabbing people in the butt (and only appear in the Bible in their strong and vicious form). Dragons are undergoing a similar narrative transition.
Tame dragons can be an additional use of the fantasy animal without denying dragons as traditional symbols of evil and chaos. After all, our tame dragons are often found fighting beside us as we go up against bigger dragons (see, in 2019, the plots of How To Train Your Dragon and The Priory of the Orange Tree).
Perhaps the urge to collar the dragon is the feminine fantasy to complement the masculine fantasy: during this season of my life when I’m primarily a caretaker and homemaker, taming chaos is my work on a daily basis. (I have been haphazard in my list of examples, but it’s interesting to note that the authors of tame dragon narratives are predominately female.)