The Dragon of Kinnoull Meets St Serf

A manuscript written many centuries ago tells of a most horrible dragon who terrorised everybody living around Kinnoull, in Perthshire, Scotland. According to local legend, the people were saved by a holy man named Serf, who went to meet the dragon and bravely ‘smote the loathsome beast’.

But perhaps Serf had a little help…

Sit back, relax, and enjoy an extract from Theresa Breslin‘s retelling of the story, with stunning illustrations by artist Kate Leiper.

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In the sixth century, the Great Wood of Caledon stretched across a vast area of Scotland. Over rugged mountains and through green glens, trees grew in abundance: mighty oak and hardy pine, cedar and beech, aspen and ancient yew, juniper and rowan.

The forest near the Hill of Kinnoull gave shelter to all manner of life – a home for bears and wolves and wildcats, for roe deer and red deer. It was also home to Broca, the woodcutter’s daughter. Broca was a sturdy and talented lass. She chopped firewood, split kindling, and could whittle and carve the most amazing wooden creatures.

Broca had lived her whole life in the woods, and so when she opened their hut door one bright sunny morning, she was quick to sense a change in the air.

“Looks like it’s going to be another lovely day,” said her father.

“I don’t think so,” Broca replied, wrinkling her nose.

“What’s up, lass?” Her father came to stand beside her.

Broca knew the smells of the forest: the tang of pine, the scent of fir, the aroma of applewood. What was wafting on the wind was none of these. She frowned, then said: “Something is burning.”

Forest fires are very dangerous. Thus the woods already had firebreaks and water channels, and piles of long-handled brooms to beat down smouldering sparks and embers.

Broca hurried with her father to the village meeting place, where people had collected brooms and buckets of water. They moved swiftly towards a plume of smoke that was rising into the sky. As they drew nearer, ahead of them, around the base of a tree, flames were burning with a strange luminous glow.

Broca’s father spoke fearfully. “I’ve never seen it before myself, but that could be dragon-fire.”

“What would cause it?” one of the villagers asked.

“A dragon,” Broca replied. “Obviously.”

“We don’t get dragons in these parts.”

“We do now,” said Broca, and pointed to the top of a massive oak tree.

Looming above the branches was a huge dragon.

The ground shuddered as the beast came thundering straight at them. Yellow eyes glared from below hooded lids, and its snarling jaws were agape, revealing rows of jagged teeth. The dragon’s black tongue snaked out, and with it a scarlet scorching burst of flames.

Broca yanked on her father’s arm and dragged him into a nearby bush. Everyone else dropped their buckets and brooms and ran home in terror, shrieking and yelling. The dragon crashed after them, set fire to a few barns, snatched some haystacks to munch, then lolloped off in the direction of Kinnoull Hill.

Broca and her father watched as the dragon made for a deep cave in the rocks.

“It’s going to make a den for itself,” Broca’s father said in a worried voice. “It intends to stay in Kinnoull.”

“Forever?” Broca asked him.

“Once the beast settles in, it’ll take a miracle to move it out.”

That evening the villagers planned a hunting party to slay the dragon. But Broca had been close enough to the creature to see that its hide was well protected.

“Spears and arrows will bounce off its scales,” she said.

“We have never failed yet to bring down a wild beast,” the hunters replied.

“There’s always a first time,” said Broca. “I hope you can run fast.”

Fortunately, the hunters could run fast, for their weapons bounced off the dragon and they were forced to retreat rapidly from Kinnoull Hill.

“This time we’ll trap it with our nets,” they said at the next meeting.

But Broca had seen the dragon’s sharp claws, great jaws and strong teeth.

“Nets will be torn to pieces,” she said.

“We have never failed yet to trap a wild beast,” the hunters replied.

“There’s always a first time,” said Broca. “I hope you can run really fast.”

Fortunately, the hunters could run really fast, for the dragon tore their trapping nets and rampaged about, gathering up hens and sheep and geese and grain before tottering back to its den.

During the third meeting the hunters resolved to build a high barricade to encircle the village and trust that the dragon would shortly move on somewhere else.

As they said this, Broca recalled the words of her father: Once the beast settles in, it’ll take a miracle to move it out.

Now, Broca had heard tell of a holy man named Serf who lived a few miles away in Dunning and was noted for his praying and preaching. There had been talk that this man might even be a saint who could work miracles. But when Broca mentioned asking the holy man for assistance, nobody paid any attention.

Later, walking home with her father, Broca said, “Apart from improving the running skills of our hunters, we are no further forwards in solving the dragon problem. I, myself, will find the holy man, Serf, and bring him to Kinnoull.”

“You are a fine capable lass, Broca,” said her father, laying his hand on her shoulder. “You go, and I’ll help build the barricade.”

So, the following morning Broca set out on the road to Dunning.

“Enormous,” said Broca, for she was a truthful lass.

“Oh dear,” said Serf.

“I thought this was what you did. Fixing problems for folk, working miracles.”

“My role is providing leadership – guiding people on the path of goodness by example.”

“If you smite the dragon, that would provide leadership,” said Broca.

“Smite!” Serf exclaimed. “Do we need to actually kill it? Usually I just help crops grow, settle arguments and cure minor ailments.”

“You’d be famous,” said Broca, “part of Scotland’s history: how Serf bravely smote the loathsome beast.”

Serf sighed. “I suppose I could come and use gentle persuasion. Within every living creature is some tenderness – a soft spot.” He wandered over to his rows of vegetables, murmuring to them to behave while he was gone, and not bicker amongst themselves as to who had the best position in the sun.

It was Broca’s turn to say, “Oh dear.” Serf’s manner did not bode well for dragon-slaying, but at least the holy man was coming to Kinnoull.

As they reached the Hill of Kinnoull, Broca was glad to see the barricade was secure and the village was untouched. However, all the land around it was a trail of ruin and destruction.

“What a mess!” Serf tutted. “The poor creature must be awfully distressed.”

“Couldn’t you simply wave your hands and make this dragon go away?” asked Broca.

“I can’t perform a miracle by snapping my fingers,” said Serf. He paused, snapped his fingers, then when nothing happened, he went on, “I’ll visit its den, speak a few words to the dragon and pray over it.”

Broca did not think this was in any way a smart plan. With a sinking heart she realised that the holy man had no idea of the danger involved in approaching the dragon…