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The Dragon

Trevor Hackley
Copyright 2013
Edited by Leslie Silton

    It was truly a dark night.
    Thunder cracked. Lightning spiked and ripped — it shoved through the dark. There were no signs of the moon or stars or anything.
    There was a certain cave located high in the mountains — these mountains themselves which vaulted, climbed and towered ever higher toward the heavens. These mountains were almost an embodiment of Man’s climb and striving towards greatness, glory, godliness; ultimatums over crags, across rivers and streams, the rough spots, the pointing rocks, the randomly rough veins and crevices, the dripping water. These mountains were a manifesto of nature: all is fair in love and war.

    The cave itself was not (comparably) terribly high itself. Thirty or forty vertical paces up. For those of us who sought to reach it, the usual travelers anyhow, this was rather characteristic of the journey, and not at all a hindrance or drawback to the climb. And for those of us who sought to reach it, the unusual travelers, this provoked a mischievous light in the eye — to breast this peril and see what may come of it.
    Either way, one went up the mountain to this cave — one step at a time. You slipped and you slid. You fell once or twice. If you hadn’t knocked your shin up at least once, by about a quarter ways up, you thought maybe this climb really has not been worth the trouble.
    When you finally did arrive at the mouth of the cave, if you are smart, you stepped in the first six paces so water from the bluff above didn’t drip down upon your head.
    By now you are more or less terribly interested to see what payoff this adventure should give you. What are to be the rewards for your labor?
    Well, you crept in a little ways in, and then a little ways further. You passed rock along either side. It was shiny, rough. And there were dangerous-looking stuff hanging from above, known as stalactites. You kept on. Your feet crunched on the rock. Once or twice you heard a strange sound, so you wondered if anything different or unusual was underneath your feet. But in the next moment you disregarded it.
    On you went, past the half-way mark. You were getting nearer and nearer the back. This was where your journey was supposed to culminate.

    A few yards further. Your eyes narrowed. Your muscles began to tense. Where were you? You looked one way, then the other.
    Your eyes took in the strange marks on the wall. There were signs of past travelers. Were they call-outs for help? Were they simply historical records? These and more thoughts and wonders and questions ran through your mind. The curiosity lasted a while, but when that ended, you turned away. Your interest was now back upon the main task at hand. You continued on.
    Your head now picked up even more. You slowed. Your eyes groped. Is it there? The something you were searching in the place you had heard and read so much. Is this really it?
    Anther step. One more. Oh wait. The next step—your foot was halfway there— when you saw something. It was not rock. (That surface was different.) This was almost smooth-looking, almost burnished. And the edges were cleaner.
    You looked a little further up. You peered. Then it occurred to you. You pulled out a flint, struck it upon a rock. You found dry grass or a stick. Now lit, you took another look: the answer revealed: color—deep red. Skin-like. A scale. You brought the light up further. There! More scales. An arm, a claw. A wing.
    You knew what was coming up and you watched expectantly. The head, long firm and bony.

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