Marigold: The Dragon Who Hoarded Warmth

Marigold, part 1. A free five-minute bedtime story from CloudSheep.

High on a hill above the valley lived a small orange dragon named Marigold, and Marigold was a hoarder. But not of gold, oh no. Gold was cold and hard and did nothing at all. Marigold collected WARM things. She kept them in her cave, and every one of them made her belly glow with cozy.

In tall glass jars she had caught summer sunbeams that still buzzed like bees. On soft shelves sat embers that winked orange in the dark. She had bottled the heat of a July afternoon, the steam of fresh bread, and the last warm breath of an autumn campfire. Marigold curled around her glowing hoard each night, the snuggest dragon in all the world.

Then one night, far too early, winter came. It swept down the mountains in a great white hush and froze the valley solid. In the village below, chimneys puffed their very last smoke, then went out one by one. Marigold peered down from her warm cave and saw tiny windows going dark and cold, and tiny people shivering inside.

A small voice called up from the snow. It was Ellie, wrapped in a red scarf, cheeks pale as the frost. "Please, dragon," Ellie shivered, "our fires have all gone out, and the little ones are so cold." Marigold looked down at Ellie. Then she looked back at her beautiful, glowing hoard, every jar and ember she had gathered for years. Her tummy went tight. It was the hardest choice she had ever had to make.

Marigold picked up a single jar of summer sunbeams. It was one of her very favorites. She held it close for one last cozy moment, and then she carried it down the icy hill and set it glowing in the middle of the village square. Warmth spilled out across the snow, and the shivering people gasped and gathered round. Ellie looked up at her with shining eyes.

So Marigold went back for another warm thing, and another. An ember for the baker's oven. The bottled July afternoon, poured over the frozen orchard until the buds unfroze. The last breath of the campfire, tucked into the school where the little ones slept. One by one, her precious hoard floated down the hill and out into the cold.

By morning Marigold's cave was almost empty, and yet something strange had happened. She had never, ever felt so warm. Down in the glowing village, every window was bright, and everyone was calling her name and waving her up a mug of cocoa. Marigold curled by the square with Ellie leaning sleepy against her side, and she understood at last: the coziest thing of all is warmth you've given away. Goodnight, Marigold.