Marty Strauss | Storyteller

Chagall, The Recycling Dragon

Chagall stretched his length, twenty-two feet from head to tip of his tail, and yawned, his mouth pointed to the sky and front feet reaching back around him to get the morning kinks out of his shoulders and hips. He looked up to the rim of the canyon in which his cave lay at the bottom hidden by a fall of rock and brush. His bronze scales shined brightly in the morning sun and reflected in prisms of blue and yellow off the canyon wall.

Every morning Chagall repeated his morning ritual. When the sun shined into the mouth of his cave he lumbered off his treasure pile to the outside and surveyed his home for any changes that might have happened in the night. He skipped the morning survey when it rained. Then he slept curled nose to tail, curled up in a tight circle atop his treasure pile, his claws raking through the shiny metal objects that he called his alone.

His treasure came from his aerial hunts for food. From the air he spotted left over trinkets abandoned by humans. Refrigerators, TVs and stereos lay scattered across the landscape below in the woods and along lakeshores and by railroad tracks. Sometimes he found cans of paint and empty oil cans, along with aerosol spray cans.

Not long ago a village of humans moved on top of his canyon. He watched them come and go as they built their houses. Since construction started Chagall had little need to go in search of food. Every morning he found scraps of meat and left over vegetables deposited at the bottom of the canyon not far from his cave. With the food he found more treasure, shiny metal objects and glass, along with the paint cans and containers of solvents he used to decorate the walls of his cave.

Chagall liked the sound of the glass tinkering over his head as he dreamed of where the other dragons lived, in the high mountains where there were few humans and food was hard to find, and the winters were cold. This is why Chagall preferred to stay in his cave at the bottom of the canyon. It never got so cold that it snowed and he found food nearby in the forest and rivers.

Chagall lie down on a warm rock and fell asleep. He dreamed of more treasure and his cave filling with all sorts of shiny objects. Then suddenly he came awake when he heard a crash and a bang. It was midmorning and the truck from the village arrived, dumping its load over the canyon wall to the floor below where Chagall lay.

Some of the junk bounced off his head and before he could move out of the way. He was tired and not moving fast at all as more bounced off his head and torso.

"I was having such a nice dream and do not like being woken so rudely," Chagall spoke to himself, shaking his head from side to side. "But I do not mind so much because what they bring is more treasure for me to sleep and dream on while in my cave," his frown turned to a smile, showing his long white, pointed teeth.

The smell of garlic and onions mixed with roasted lamb made Chagall forget about the bump on his head. He carefully spread the pile out, setting the valuable objects to one side, the lesser valuable ones to another, until he found the source of the aroma that made his belly growl. Chagall settled down to eat the meal delivered to his canyon from the people above.

Everyday the truck came about the same time and each time Chagall forgot to move out of the way. As the garbage spilled over the canyon wall he woke to the sound, but not in time to move to avoid getting a bump in his head.

"A bump on the head is not so bad if what causes it is treasure such as this," Chagall clawed through the new pile deciding what to take back to his cave and add to his treasure pile. This became a daily ritual, separating out the wood from glass and metal. Food he kept separate to let it age properly before he ate it.

With the wood, metal and plastics Chagall built mazes. He constructed them in preparation for the annual Dragon Fair, where other dragons competed for the most complex maze. He constructed other objects, even though he had no use for them. But he needed something to fill his days when awake until he united with his fellow dragons at the fair.

Once Chagall designed such an intricate maze he could not find his treasure pile. He finally burned it down, vowing never to build another maze inside his cave where he kept his treasure.

The metal cups and plastic plates, along with pieces of colored glass, knives and gardening tools he kept for his pile to sleep on and dream. The aerosol cans released strange odors when he squished them down and rolled to one side and then the other to get comfortable for his nap. A cloud formed near the roof of the cave. The papers he arranged into a pillow for his head. But the paint and oil proved to be problems. They spilled across the floor of his cave, making him slip and slide into the walls, banging his wings and nose. And if he snored too hard, the fire from his nose set the oil and paints aflame.

Still, Chagall did not want to give up any of the treasures he found that dropped from the truck each morning.

"The wood I can use to build my maze or to burn this winter when it gets cold and damp inside the cave. I know I can paint stories and tell tales with the paint and oil, but I must watch where I sneeze or I shall lose all of my treasure to fire," Chagall told himself as he settled down for another afternoon nap.

"But these I must sleep and dream on to figure out what I shall do with them," he held up plant clippings. "I could give them back, but I do not want to hurt their feelings thinking I am ungrateful for their efforts," Chagall fell asleep.

Chagall was soon overwhelmed by the generosity of the village. His cave became crowded and cramped. He thought about asking the village to stop delivering their treasures, but he did not want to hurt their feelings. Never had dragons and humans lived peacefully when found together. This is why all the other dragons had long ago flown away to the high mountains.

Some of his fellow dragons took sport in chasing humans around, dodging the pointed sticks they shot into the air or held out in front as they rode on horseback. But it took a practiced dragon to avoid roasting a human while chasing them about.

"No, as generous as the village may be, I cannot say thank you for the gifts they delivered," Chagall decided before again curling up for another nap and more dreams.

Chagall’s treasure pile fit him just right. It was the right height for his feet to dangle down the sides, and still provide support for his head and chin while he slept. He knew he could never find such a comfortable treasure pile again.

But soon it became apparent, even to Chagall, that he must do something or he would not have room inside his cave. The treasure pile became too high for his feet to hang just right. He could not build enough mazes to empty his cave faster than new treasure came inside it from his forays through the daily pile delivered by the truck. And when he fell asleep and snored too deeply, he came awake from the sound of the exploding gas that floated near the roof of the cave. The smoke made him cough, causing more fire and more explosions.

"This is not good," Chagall told himself. "How can I dream of my treasure if every time I snore or burp I wake myself by exploding the air in my cave?"

Chagall grew weary of trying to find a solution and soon fell asleep on top of his treasure pile. But when he woke he discovered another problem.

"Ouch," he exclaimed in surprise, knocking his head on the ceiling. "My pile is too high and there is not enough space inside the cave to spread it out so that it is lower."

Chagall came outside to look at the problem and decide what to do so that he could fit inside his cave and dream of treasure. The problem was the generosity of the village. Each day they brought more and each day Chagall put more treasure inside his cave.

"I must find another way to deal with what the village gives me," Chagall scratched his chin, shedding some loose scales onto the ground about him. "I need to talk to them about how much they bring me everyday and convince them I do not need so much."

But how he could talk to them without scaring the villagers was another problem Chagall had no solution to.

"People and dragons never live well together," Chagall stomped his feet in anger. "And this is one reason why. They throw their stuff into our home and crowd us out of hearth and warmth." Chagall frowned, realizing he would have to give some of his treasure up if he were to live inside his cave.

"Even a dragon has no use for so much," Chagall said with determination that he would make room for himself in his cave by cleaning some of the junk the villagers brought him. "I will be more selective of what I keep for myself."

But even this did not work, for more came each day, tumbling down the canyon wall onto the floor outside his cave. If he was not diligent and cleared it away daily, soon the pile blocked the mouth of the cave, preventing Chagall from looking outside to stars and watch the sunlight dance across the canyon floor. Then a solution came to Chagall while he dreamed atop his treasure.

"I can keep my treasure and give the villagers something they want in return for their kindness," Chagall thought. "I can take the wood and glass to build them new homes. For their animals, I will build barns. The plastic I can make into large pipes and vents to send heat up from the ground formed from the green waste they give me. When it is done, I will drop it onto their fields where they grow crops and graze their livestock." Chagall smiled at his genius and wondered why he had not thought of this before.

"The villagers will find what I build for them and wonder where it all comes from," Chagall continued to think about his solution. "And being who they are, they will make up stories of elves and fairies, never thinking a dragon would give such things."

"The aerosols and paint, along with the tires I will burn to make heat and energy." Chagall curled up on his treasure; happy he had found a solution to his problem and ready to sleep so that he might have the strength to do as he thought.

For awhile his plan seemed to be working. Every night Chagall took the villagers more materials and assembled houses and heated them as he thought. They seemed to not think to ask where they came from or how the electricity was generated. New residents moved into the village and occupied the new homes.

Each barn came with a plow forged from scrap metal thrown into the canyon. Shovels and pitchforks, along with hoes, were put in each barn. And each was better than any made by others, for they were dragon forged in a hotter fire than any other could make. Chagall was happy with his work. But he grew tired, too. He no longer slept all day and half the night. Instead, he made things ready during the day and delivered his finished goods at night.

There was one flaw in his plan. As the village grew, so did the pile of garbage, for that is how Chagall began to think of the daily gifts given to him. He could not keep up with the amount they delivered. And he was running out of space above to build new homes and barns.

"I could find another village, but surely they would have their own dragon and I do not want to crowd another dragon out of their home as I find myself being," Chagall spoke to himself while delivering another net full of materials.

Then suddenly Chagall found the net slipping from his claws. With a great noise, it dropped to the ground and scattered about. The noise awoke the village and lights came on in each of the houses.

Chagall watched from the air as people wondered outside to find out what made the noise. He knew now he must leave, for they would discover him and send a man in a tin suit to chase him away. And if he was not careful, he would accidentally roast the man and then they would be even angrier with him.

Beams of light searched the ground and people found the pile he dropped. As they searched the ground, Chagall gave a downbeat of his wings and stirred the air below. The people looked up and gasped, as they watched his body turn about in midair and with a great down swoosh of his wings, he took flight toward the mountains in search of a new home.

"My treasure, I do not want to leave my treasure," Chagall thought. " But I am discovered and they will not let me live in the canyon as before." He pointed himself toward the cold mountains and the other dragons.

"But why not?" Chagall asked himself. "Other than they know what has been giving them new homes and barns with tools to work their fields, what has changed?"

With that thought, Chagall dropped his right wing and banked to turn and return to his home. He thought of going back to his cave, but knew the village would only follow to find where he lived and chase him away. So, he decided to fly straight for the village and talk to them.

Chagall approached the village from high up in the air so that everyone could see him. From the air he heard the high pitch screams of women and the excited shouts of children. Men gathered in a protective circle, looking up at his approach and making threatening shouts, hoping to change his mind and get him to leave.

When above them, Chagall brought his wings straight up to brake himself and start his descent to the ground where the villagers waited.

"I apologize for the house," Chagall said as he settled himself onto the ground. "I did not mean to drop the pile onto anything," he looked at the damaged roof.

"Never mind the house," A man shouted. "You must leave now or we will force you to leave." He stomped his foot and pointed at Chagall.

"I would not have dropped it if it had not been so much," Chagall tried to explain. "But I could not accept all the treasure you offered me, so I wished to return it in a form you could use."

"Stupid dragon," the man shouted at him. "We don’t want our garbage back. We threw it into the canyon because we had no more use of it."

"I am not leaving, so I suggest we find a way to make less garbage and stop filling up my canyon." Chagall surprised himself by speaking so forthrightly.

"You cannot stay. Dragons and humans never have lived well together and you know that as well as we," the man who seemed to be the leader told Chagall.

"If that is the only reason, then it is time for a change," Chagall told him, and laid himself prone onto the ground to look less fearsome.

"To start, you need to throw less into my canyon so it does not fill up so fast," Chagall instructed them. "And you cannot find another canyon either to fill with your junk. That is not fair to what or whoever lives in the canyon."

And with no argument, Chagall raised his great bronze body up and spread his wings out. With a downward stroke, he lifted his body into the air and turned himself about, then flew home to let the villagers think of what he told them.

The truck no longer came daily to drop its junk over the canyon’s rim. Chagall missed the truck, but was grateful he no longer had to worry about getting a knock on his head when he napped outside his cave.

A few days later some villagers came to visit him. They approached with great caution, for none were sure what to do if Chagall proved to be angry with them. But the growing pile of garbage in the village they had no place to take to dispose overcame their fear.

After hearing their worry, Chagall offered to visit the village the next day and help them find a solution. At noon the next day Chagall came and landed by the pile of garbage. He started pushing things aside, sorting the junk into piles.

One pile was plastic, another glass and third metal. Aerosol cans, oil, cleaning solvents and paint he put in another pile of its own away from the rest. Soon the garbage pile grew small.

"Take these piles," Chagall pointed to metal, plastic and glass, "And find other uses for them other than throwing them away. "With the grass and vegetables, make compost for your fields. And with the other," he pointed to the paint and aerosol cans with the oil and cleaning solvents, I will help you burn at a high temperature so you can heat and light your homes without polluting the air, ground or water.

Chagall came everyday to help them sort through the garbage. Soon the village learned to sort it on their own. But they grew to look forward to Chagall’s visits. And it was only his fire that burned the toxic paints, oils and other hazardous materials hot enough to make use of them and not damage the environment.

Soon there was little reason for Chagall to come, but he came everyday anyway. After all, a dragon needs something to do to pass the time, especially when you have as much time as a dragon.

The End



					Chagall, The Recycling Dragon Chagall stretched his length, twenty-two feet from head to tip of his tail, and yawned, his mouth pointed to the sky and front feet reaching back around him to get the morning kinks out of his shoulders and hips. He looked up to the rim of the canyon in which his cave lay at the bottom hidden by a fall of rock and brush. His bronze scales shined brightly in the morning sun and reflected in prisms of blue and yellow off the canyon wall. Every morning Chagall repeated his morning ritual. When the sun shined into the mouth of his cave he lumbered off his treasure pile to the outside and surveyed his home for any changes that might have happened in the night. He skipped the morning survey when it rained. Then he slept curled nose to tail, curled up in a tight circle atop his treasure pile, his claws raking through the shiny metal objects that he called his alone. His treasure came from his aerial hunts for food. From the air he spotted left over trinkets abandoned by humans. Refrigerators, TVs and stereos lay scattered across the landscape below in the woods and along lakeshores and by railroad tracks. Sometimes he found cans of paint and empty oil cans, along with aerosol spray cans. Not long ago a village of humans moved on top of his canyon. He watched them come and go as they built their houses. Since construction started Chagall had little need to go in search of food. Every morning he found scraps of meat and left over vegetables deposited at the bottom of the canyon not far from his cave. With the food he found more treasure, shiny metal objects and glass, along with the paint cans and containers of solvents he used to decorate the walls of his cave. Chagall liked the sound of the glass tinkering over his head as he dreamed of where the other dragons lived, in the high mountains where there were few humans and food was hard to find, and the winters were cold. This is why Chagall preferred to stay in his cave at the bottom of the canyon. It never got so cold that it snowed and he found food nearby in the forest and rivers. Chagall lie down on a warm rock and fell asleep. He dreamed of more treasure and his cave filling with all sorts of shiny objects. Then suddenly he came awake when he heard a crash and a bang. It was midmorning and the truck from the village arrived, dumping its load over the canyon wall to the floor below where Chagall lay. Some of the junk bounced off his head and before he could move out of the way. He was tired and not moving fast at all as more bounced off his head and torso. "I was having such a nice dream and do not like being woken so rudely," Chagall spoke to himself, shaking his head from side to side. "But I do not mind so much because what they bring is more treasure for me to sleep and dream on while in my cave," his frown turned to a smile, showing his long white, pointed teeth. The smell of garlic and onions mixed with roasted lamb made Chagall forget about the bump on his head. He carefully spread the pile out, setting the valuable objects to one side, the lesser valuable ones to another, until he found the source of the aroma that made his belly growl. Chagall settled down to eat the meal delivered to his canyon from the people above. Everyday the truck came about the same time and each time Chagall forgot to move out of the way. As the garbage spilled over the canyon wall he woke to the sound, but not in time to move to avoid getting a bump in his head. "A bump on the head is not so bad if what causes it is treasure such as this," Chagall clawed through the new pile deciding what to take back to his cave and add to his treasure pile. This became a daily ritual, separating out the wood from glass and metal. Food he kept separate to let it age properly before he ate it. With the wood, metal and plastics Chagall built mazes. He constructed them in preparation for the annual Dragon Fair, where other dragons competed for the most complex maze. He constructed other objects, even though he had no use for them. But he needed something to fill his days when awake until he united with his fellow dragons at the fair. Once Chagall designed such an intricate maze he could not find his treasure pile. He finally burned it down, vowing never to build another maze inside his cave where he kept his treasure. The metal cups and plastic plates, along with pieces of colored glass, knives and gardening tools he kept for his pile to sleep on and dream. The aerosol cans released strange odors when he squished them down and rolled to one side and then the other to get comfortable for his nap. A cloud formed near the roof of the cave. The papers he arranged into a pillow for his head. But the paint and oil proved to be problems. They spilled across the floor of his cave, making him slip and slide into the walls, banging his wings and nose. And if he snored too hard, the fire from his nose set the oil and paints aflame. Still, Chagall did not want to give up any of the treasures he found that dropped from the truck each morning. "The wood I can use to build my maze or to burn this winter when it gets cold and damp inside the cave. I know I can paint stories and tell tales with the paint and oil, but I must watch where I sneeze or I shall lose all of my treasure to fire," Chagall told himself as he settled down for another afternoon nap. "But these I must sleep and dream on to figure out what I shall do with them," he held up plant clippings. "I could give them back, but I do not want to hurt their feelings thinking I am ungrateful for their efforts," Chagall fell asleep. Chagall was soon overwhelmed by the generosity of the village. His cave became crowded and cramped. He thought about asking the village to stop delivering their treasures, but he did not want to hurt their feelings. Never had dragons and humans lived peacefully when found together. This is why all the other dragons had long ago flown away to the high mountains. Some of his fellow dragons took sport in chasing humans around, dodging the pointed sticks they shot into the air or held out in front as they rode on horseback. But it took a practiced dragon to avoid roasting a human while chasing them about. "No, as generous as the village may be, I cannot say thank you for the gifts they delivered," Chagall decided before again curling up for another nap and more dreams. Chagall’s treasure pile fit him just right. It was the right height for his feet to dangle down the sides, and still provide support for his head and chin while he slept. He knew he could never find such a comfortable treasure pile again. But soon it became apparent, even to Chagall, that he must do something or he would not have room inside his cave. The treasure pile became too high for his feet to hang just right. He could not build enough mazes to empty his cave faster than new treasure came inside it from his forays through the daily pile delivered by the truck. And when he fell asleep and snored too deeply, he came awake from the sound of the exploding gas that floated near the roof of the cave. The smoke made him cough, causing more fire and more explosions. "This is not good," Chagall told himself. "How can I dream of my treasure if every time I snore or burp I wake myself by exploding the air in my cave?" Chagall grew weary of trying to find a solution and soon fell asleep on top of his treasure pile. But when he woke he discovered another problem. "Ouch," he exclaimed in surprise, knocking his head on the ceiling. "My pile is too high and there is not enough space inside the cave to spread it out so that it is lower." Chagall came outside to look at the problem and decide what to do so that he could fit inside his cave and dream of treasure. The problem was the generosity of the village. Each day they brought more and each day Chagall put more treasure inside his cave. "I must find another way to deal with what the village gives me," Chagall scratched his chin, shedding some loose scales onto the ground about him. "I need to talk to them about how much they bring me everyday and convince them I do not need so much." But how he could talk to them without scaring the villagers was another problem Chagall had no solution to. "People and dragons never live well together," Chagall stomped his feet in anger. "And this is one reason why. They throw their stuff into our home and crowd us out of hearth and warmth." Chagall frowned, realizing he would have to give some of his treasure up if he were to live inside his cave. "Even a dragon has no use for so much," Chagall said with determination that he would make room for himself in his cave by cleaning some of the junk the villagers brought him. "I will be more selective of what I keep for myself." But even this did not work, for more came each day, tumbling down the canyon wall onto the floor outside his cave. If he was not diligent and cleared it away daily, soon the pile blocked the mouth of the cave, preventing Chagall from looking outside to stars and watch the sunlight dance across the canyon floor. Then a solution came to Chagall while he dreamed atop his treasure. "I can keep my treasure and give the villagers something they want in return for their kindness," Chagall thought. "I can take the wood and glass to build them new homes. For their animals, I will build barns. The plastic I can make into large pipes and vents to send heat up from the ground formed from the green waste they give me. When it is done, I will drop it onto their fields where they grow crops and graze their livestock." Chagall smiled at his genius and wondered why he had not thought of this before. "The villagers will find what I build for them and wonder where it all comes from," Chagall continued to think about his solution. "And being who they are, they will make up stories of elves and fairies, never thinking a dragon would give such things." "The aerosols and paint, along with the tires I will burn to make heat and energy." Chagall curled up on his treasure; happy he had found a solution to his problem and ready to sleep so that he might have the strength to do as he thought. For awhile his plan seemed to be working. Every night Chagall took the villagers more materials and assembled houses and heated them as he thought. They seemed to not think to ask where they came from or how the electricity was generated. New residents moved into the village and occupied the new homes. Each barn came with a plow forged from scrap metal thrown into the canyon. Shovels and pitchforks, along with hoes, were put in each barn. And each was better than any made by others, for they were dragon forged in a hotter fire than any other could make. Chagall was happy with his work. But he grew tired, too. He no longer slept all day and half the night. Instead, he made things ready during the day and delivered his finished goods at night. There was one flaw in his plan. As the village grew, so did the pile of garbage, for that is how Chagall began to think of the daily gifts given to him. He could not keep up with the amount they delivered. And he was running out of space above to build new homes and barns. "I could find another village, but surely they would have their own dragon and I do not want to crowd another dragon out of their home as I find myself being," Chagall spoke to himself while delivering another net full of materials. Then suddenly Chagall found the net slipping from his claws. With a great noise, it dropped to the ground and scattered about. The noise awoke the village and lights came on in each of the houses. Chagall watched from the air as people wondered outside to find out what made the noise. He knew now he must leave, for they would discover him and send a man in a tin suit to chase him away. And if he was not careful, he would accidentally roast the man and then they would be even angrier with him. Beams of light searched the ground and people found the pile he dropped. As they searched the ground, Chagall gave a downbeat of his wings and stirred the air below. The people looked up and gasped, as they watched his body turn about in midair and with a great down swoosh of his wings, he took flight toward the mountains in search of a new home. "My treasure, I do not want to leave my treasure," Chagall thought. " But I am discovered and they will not let me live in the canyon as before." He pointed himself toward the cold mountains and the other dragons. "But why not?" Chagall asked himself. "Other than they know what has been giving them new homes and barns with tools to work their fields, what has changed?" With that thought, Chagall dropped his right wing and banked to turn and return to his home. He thought of going back to his cave, but knew the village would only follow to find where he lived and chase him away. So, he decided to fly straight for the village and talk to them. Chagall approached the village from high up in the air so that everyone could see him. From the air he heard the high pitch screams of women and the excited shouts of children. Men gathered in a protective circle, looking up at his approach and making threatening shouts, hoping to change his mind and get him to leave. When above them, Chagall brought his wings straight up to brake himself and start his descent to the ground where the villagers waited. "I apologize for the house," Chagall said as he settled himself onto the ground. "I did not mean to drop the pile onto anything," he looked at the damaged roof. "Never mind the house," A man shouted. "You must leave now or we will force you to leave." He stomped his foot and pointed at Chagall. "I would not have dropped it if it had not been so much," Chagall tried to explain. "But I could not accept all the treasure you offered me, so I wished to return it in a form you could use." "Stupid dragon," the man shouted at him. "We don’t want our garbage back. We threw it into the canyon because we had no more use of it." "I am not leaving, so I suggest we find a way to make less garbage and stop filling up my canyon." Chagall surprised himself by speaking so forthrightly. "You cannot stay. Dragons and humans never have lived well together and you know that as well as we," the man who seemed to be the leader told Chagall. "If that is the only reason, then it is time for a change," Chagall told him, and laid himself prone onto the ground to look less fearsome. "To start, you need to throw less into my canyon so it does not fill up so fast," Chagall instructed them. "And you cannot find another canyon either to fill with your junk. That is not fair to what or whoever lives in the canyon." And with no argument, Chagall raised his great bronze body up and spread his wings out. With a downward stroke, he lifted his body into the air and turned himself about, then flew home to let the villagers think of what he told them. The truck no longer came daily to drop its junk over the canyon’s rim. Chagall missed the truck, but was grateful he no longer had to worry about getting a knock on his head when he napped outside his cave. A few days later some villagers came to visit him. They approached with great caution, for none were sure what to do if Chagall proved to be angry with them. But the growing pile of garbage in the village they had no place to take to dispose overcame their fear. After hearing their worry, Chagall offered to visit the village the next day and help them find a solution. At noon the next day Chagall came and landed by the pile of garbage. He started pushing things aside, sorting the junk into piles. One pile was plastic, another glass and third metal. Aerosol cans, oil, cleaning solvents and paint he put in another pile of its own away from the rest. Soon the garbage pile grew small. "Take these piles," Chagall pointed to metal, plastic and glass, "And find other uses for them other than throwing them away. "With the grass and vegetables, make compost for your fields. And with the other," he pointed to the paint and aerosol cans with the oil and cleaning solvents, I will help you burn at a high temperature so you can heat and light your homes without polluting the air, ground or water. Chagall came everyday to help them sort through the garbage. Soon the village learned to sort it on their own. But they grew to look forward to Chagall’s visits. And it was only his fire that burned the toxic paints, oils and other hazardous materials hot enough to make use of them and not damage the environment. Soon there was little reason for Chagall to come, but he came everyday anyway. After all, a dragon needs something to do to pass the time, especially when you have as much time as a dragon. The End