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Dragonhenge
by John Grant and Bob
Eggleton
(Paper Tiger, $29.95, 128 pages, hardback; November 2002. In the
UK: Chrysalis, £20, hardback.)
 Somewhere
deep within the dark and folding recesses of John Grant's mind, there
exists a beautiful yet frightening place. And it seems Bob Eggleton
has visited there. Or it's the other way around. Hard to tell who is
channelling whose vision in the production of this stunning story of
dragons and the world they created.
Eggleton's use of colour -- orange, turquoise, brown, threaded with
gold and silver -- is dazzling. He juxtaposes black and white drawings
-- usually of dragons -- with the swirling, burning colours of a violent
creation -- the cosmos born with and borne on the fiery breath of a
dragon.
Grant's words, or lyrics perhaps, are just as colourful. He designates
the introduction as a "proem" -- prose poem apparently -- but the whole
text reads like poetry. For instance, the following is what the Girl-Child
LoChi found in the caves of the sun:
Inside the Cave Where Dreams Are Kept it was even brighter
than outside it, and the sheets of flickering blaze that were its walls
were filled with swiftly moving figments of the not-quite-seen, the
pictures that we can descry only from the corners of our eyes and are
gone when we turn our heads.
At times, the words take on a rhythmic style like the preaching of
a Baptist reverend:
The mindless mind that is the Memory of Qinmeartha has laughter
plaited in its invisibility ...
The mindless mind that is the Memory of Qinmeartha has impatience
plaited in its invisibility ...
The mindless mind that is the Memory of Qinmeartha has anger
plaited in its invisibility ...
Such use of the language and mastery of wild, fantastic colour remind
us that this is first and foremost an art book. And it does well in
that capacity. But even more than the artistry, Dragonhenge has
a story to tell -- the mythology of dragons who have long since departed
from our lonely world.
It starts with the Dream of Qinmeartha, who creates the world, or dreams
the world, or creates the dream that is the world which was and is all
things. Qinmeartha then promptly dies to let his creation be all it
can be. But it is incomplete, and so it's up to subsequent dragons to
finish the work.
For one thing, the world is grey. There is no colour until Syor brings
it. After Syor's contribution, Joli brings the knowledge of life to
Earth. The Girl-Child LoChi adds sound. The two Anyas bring evil and
good and teach us how to fight -- a logical step now that these two
elements have been added to the mix. Fittingly, Angrboda then teaches
tolerance. Nadar shows us vanity. Finally, after the last dragon dies,
all that is left of their time on Earth is the monument called Dragonhenge
-- eight mighty mountains, each with a part of the Dream of Qinmeartha
to tell.
It's a wonderful explanation of creation, no more difficult to believe
than that of the ancient Greeks, Egyptians, Hebrews of the Bible, or
even the Big Bang. And like all the great mythologies, it explains the
natural phenomena of the Universe in terms that we can all understand.
For instance eclipses are (as in many human mythologies) a result of
the moon swallowing the sun. Tides are a result of the fall of Nadar
into the seas and his twice-daily breath there.
Of the stories of Dragonhenge, the most heartwarming is that of Ugly
Duckling Angrboda, the Lesser dragon. Tiny and weak, she is an outcast.
Her father, Barra 'ap Rteniadoli Me'gli'minter Rehan, the greatest of
the greatest Greaters, doesn't even know she exists. But one day her
father comes down with the dreaded "Disease that is Despair", a plague
that is ravishing the world. He leaves his nest so as not to infect
his family, and goes off to die on a distant mountaintop. Angrboda,
alone of all her bigger and stronger brothers and sisters, follows to
comfort him. She finds him on his mountaintop and nestles in under one
of his great ailing wings, telling him stories until they both fall
asleep. When her father awakes he has miraculously regained his strength
and realizes that Angrboda has cured him. He declares an end to the
Greater/Lesser caste system that has heretofore been in existence. Tolerance
is thus introduced to the world. The bittersweet story ends with Angrboda's
death. She was a weak dragon, abused by her family, never growing strong,
and so she died very young.
As if the story alone wasn't heart-wrenching enough, Eggleton's accompanying
drawing shows the big, strong eye of the father dragon, regarding little
tiny Angrboda, herself no bigger than that eye. Her father appears to
be scowling. He's annoyed, angered maybe by the presence of a nameless
Lesser. But Angrboda is not afraid. She reaches up to comfort him with
unconditional love.
This book is for art lovers, dragon enthusiasts, mythologists, children
of all cultures, and anyone who experiences wonderful, strange dreams
that take place beyond the clouds, beyond the sun, beyond heaven as
we know it, out on the crest of the cataract that is the moment of existence.
Where a voice tells you to be unafraid of the time you will spend in
the still, tide pool below once your time on the crest is past.
Coffee table book? Sure. But this is the one that will stay on the
top of the glass the longest, ready to be referred to on rainy afternoons
when contemplating the colours of sound.
Review by Sue Lange.
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