Legend has it that hidden atop the precipice of Cnoc na Péiste, or the Hill of the Serpent, in County Kerry, lives a great golden dragon. The people of nearby Killarney often tell travelers of the horrible bellowing that can be heard breaking from the cliffs and echoing all across Lough Leane on particularly cloudy nights. They tell of how cattle go missing in the night and turn up torn to pieces; of how a monstrous shadow can sometimes be spotted looming above the clouded peaks just before dusk. Aul’ wives’ tales likely; however, they also tell of a great treasure hidden away there. A treasure that would garner the envy of Midas himself. After all, golden dragons are sure to lay golden eggs, and the greed of men often make for eyes bigger than stomachs, and for wide-eyed Desmond, hearing these tales of the great golden dragon and hidden treasure had his curiosity aflame.
Easy-peasy, he thought to himself. He’d already made the pilgrimage to Mount Brandon across the way and he’d seen Snowdonia from atop Lugnaquilla in County Wicklow and was itching for another go at Irish mountain climbing. He set out in haste for the summit, hoping to conquer it and claim any treasure to be had for himself. He was halfway there when a massive storm broke out. Hailstones pelted him on down from above and the wind roared whoom in his ears. Just then a thought he’d been pushing aside all this time surfaced in his mind: it was rumored that all who undertake the arduous climb to the summit of Cnoc na Péiste in search of the dragon never return and giving credence to this were the many mangled and broken bodies that had turned up over the years of daring treasure-seekers who lost their footing during the climb.
Aul’ wives’ tales, he repeated to himself. Throwing caution to the howling wind, he pressed forward up the hills, around the bends, and atop the steeples. Finally, he came to the last leg of his journey – a steep, sleek, twisted rock wall that led up above the clouds to Cnoc na Péiste’s summit. Battered by the gales and shear rains then soaked to the bone by the cloud wall, his climb was a difficult one. Upon the last scramble to the top, he pried himself up above the crag just long enough for a glimpse beyond the summit’s ridge before the rock gave way. He lost his grip and tumbled to his death shortly thereafter.
The folk in Killarney began telling another tale then; that when the body of the latest wide-eyed and eager stranger in search of the golden dragon had turned up round the base of Cnoc na Péiste, all mangled and broken, a strange expression had been frozen on his face. An expression of fear and astonishment, as if he’d been dazzled by an incredibly blinding shine.
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Giuseppe Gillespie Writing 
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