by TL Rese
Almost.
At last, the flock landed, perching on high rocky ledges overlooking a warm, blue sea. Their numbers swarmed in, filling the air with their wings and their abrasive calls. I scrambled off the creature, collapsing gratefully onto the rough ridge, shaking with fear and relief. Around me, the creatures dotted the rocks, all the way into the distance, where their green forms resembled the shrubs.
When I raised my head, I was surprised to see an old man standing at the edge of the cliffs, his cloak waving in the mountain air. He lifted a golden staff towards the flying lizards, summoning them in. He seemed to command them, as a shepherd with his herd.
The last of the flock flew in, settling like dust after a storm. Soon, the cliffs were green with their forms. Beside me, the creatures clawed along the rocks on all fours, their folded wings jutting out as extensions of their front legs.
When all the creatures were safe on the cliffsides, the old man turned to me. His face was buried beneath a tangle of grey; his long beard twisted past his waist, almost indiscernible from the strands of his hair. Through this grey mess, he peered down at me with curious eyes. And even though the heat was thick, he clung his cloak about him, as though it were winter.
“Welcome,” he said, “Queen of Ranoa.”
It was a moment before I reacted. “You speak English,” I stuttered. There was an accent on his words, but nevertheless, his remark was clear. I wondered over it, but couldn’t bring myself to speak anymore. I was still on the ground, too weak to stand. My legs felt unsteady and I wanted to grip the solid rocks for safety. I felt like I was still reeling on my flight. To my left, the ground dropped perilously, hundreds of feet into an unknown sea. “Where am I?” I finally asked.
The old man studied me as I cowered there in the dirt, before he said, simply, “I’m glad you survived your dragon flight.” He reached down and pulled me to my feet. He was remarkably strong for a man who seemed so frail.
“I came here with someone,” I began, but he didn’t seem to hear.
I looked down the steep mountain cliffs, at the mysterious oceans and the legions of strange creatures. I wondered if Daron had survived his ‘dragon flight’.
Ahead, the old man motioned for me to follow. Perhaps, he knew a place where I could stay for awhile. I could work in exchange for meals and lodging. My mind spun through dozens of possibilities.
The old man made a noise. He motioned again.
I hesitated, but unless I went with him, I would be left alone in a foreign wilderness, unable to feed or defend myself. So I followed him into the mountain jungle.
He leaned heavily on his golden staff as we picked our way through the greenery. The staff curved above him, its tip carved into the shape of a dragon’s head, as he had called those flying creatures.
It wasn’t long before the dense shrubbery thinned slightly, giving way to a wider path. There, I saw the Ranoans for the first time. They were waiting for us, these people of the jungle, with their line of great red elephants. Both man and elephant had skin of a deep red-brown; only the men had an earthier brown skin, while the hides of the elephants were maroon, brick-like. The people wore cloths twisted tightly around their bodies, as though they were dressed in fabric made of soft ropes. They displayed a few modest jewels in their hair or around their necks. Their elephants, in stark contrast, were thick with paint and jewelry, gems dripping from their long white tusks.
The Ranoans bowed when they saw us. A woman stepped forward, holding an elaborate necklace made from shining garnet. She came over and draped it around my neck. I touched it, tentatively, my fingers wandering over the fiery color. The old man spoke to them briefly in a strange language, then he said to me, “Come, onto the elephants.” He pointed. “Come,” he repeated, when he sensed my reluctance. “If you can ride a dragon, you can ride an elephant.”
I climbed on, the elephant bending down cooperatively to make it easier for me. I held onto its giant, beaded collar, studying the colored paints that swirled across its head, as we lumbered through the jungle vegetation, each on our own red elephant.
***
I didn’t know how long we travelled, but the sun was low in the sky when we finally emerged from the dense trees onto a high, rocky path. Around us, the landscape opened into a long range of ragged peaks, the sheer sides descending into a place beyond my vision. Across the distance, the mountains curved like domes, green with jungle and capped with mist.
High on a wide precipice, tucked into the rich mountain land, was our destination. The city of Ranoa. The intricate architecture was distinct among the greenery; made of tan stone, the city was lined with flecks of gold that glinted in the early evening sun. The stones formed a network of arches, supporting houses, alleys, buildings, marketplaces. Along the outskirts, spilling down the sides of the mountain ridge, were a series of terraced grain paddies, tended by farmers. Far from this, past the maze of the streets, at the city’s heart, rose a tall palace. It was built from the same brown stone, but its curving contours were loftier, grander, as though it were meant to echo the majesty of the mountains that surrounded it.
Towards this palace we rode, in our procession of red elephants. When we reached the inner city, the Ranoans came out of their simple houses and crowded the streets. They threw handfuls of dried fruits, nuts, and flower petals in our wake.
Within the palace, the old man led me up the turning staircases, through the winding hallways. The building had a convoluted structure, made of archways and vaulted heights. Elaborate paintings of dragons adorned the walls, while mosaics decorated the floors and ceilings with their patterns. Along the base of a few corridors, long hollows were filled with soil and planted with luxuriant flora.
“Welcome to the Temple Palace,” I heard the old man say.
I stumbled towards him, in a stupor. My brain was over-laden with questions, but I wasn’t sure what to say.
“Get some rest,” he said, when I failed to reply. “You’ll need it.”
He showed me to a small room. There was a tall window, devoid of glass, stretching from the floor to the ceiling; it gave me a beautiful view of the mountain city. Across the window opening, strung between the sides, was a long hammock, furnished with a couple pillows and a thin blanket.
“Bathroom is there, anywhere in the bushes you like.” He indicated a short flight of steps that led down into a small garden outside. “I’ll have some food brought to you.”
When he left, I climbed into the hammock and stared out at the sunset. The mountains cast shadows across the stone city, waning away the glitter of the gold. Soft sounds drifted up to me – the chirping of insects, the calls of birds, the laughter of children playing in the dusk. These sounds were familiar to me. As I listened, I wondered if I would see home again; I wondered about Daron. And I wondered if I regretted going through the Gate.
These troubles fluttered across my mind, before I gave in to sleep, oblivious to the food being laid beside me.
***
Over the days, I familiarized myself with the palace, and with a new way of life. Mostly, I fumbled around awkwardly, trying to learn and adjust.
Instead of bathrooms, the Ranoans cultivated gardens of all shapes and sizes; these were planted with an abundance of sweet-smelling flowers. These bathing gardens often had washing pools, or streams; mine had a small dipping fountain that squirted tall jets of water onto me, like a shower. Although my garden was private, most bathing gardens were shared spaces, open to the public or owned by families in their backyards. The palace itself had a giant maze of a garden, used by the priests and priestesses. I often saw them bringing small seats and sheets of rough tree-bark paper, soaked in water.
In the lower levels, beneath the palace quarters, was the temple, where many came to pray and give offerings of fruit, nuts, and sometimes even gems, gold or garnet. I learned that the Ranoans worshipped a Sky God, and the dragons were revered as Hi
s divine creatures.
At first, I thought the old man was their high priest, but soon, it became apparent that he was more. He was their king. And the golden staff he carried was his crown.
I entreated him often for explanations, tried many times to explain my circumstances. But mostly, his responses were brief, sometimes even curt. Until one day, he asked me to dine with him in his room.
I had been given a variety of long Ranoan gowns. The twisting cloths were difficult to put on; it had taken me a long time, like a child learning to tie her shoelaces. Except the laces twined over my hips and torso, twirling strands dangling over my legs like ropes.
I had twisted on my dress, but my feet were bare as I walked down the corridor to dine with the old king. I had never been in his room before, and I saw that it wasn’t much bigger than mine. It was almost identical, except he had an extra window built with a dining ledge. The low window ledge protruded out, just over the ground, functioning as a table. The old king sat on the floor before it, cross-legged. He stared out vacantly through the tall, empty window, musing upon his people below. Dinner was already laid out across the ledge, hot dishes of meat and brown grain served on smooth slices of stone.
And there, sitting in the corner of the window, behind a warm plate of food, was Daron’s flashlight.
Two steps brought me to it. I swept the object off the ledge before the old king could react.
“Where did you get this!” I shook the flashlight at him. “Tell me!”
But he only gazed at me through the hoary grey haze of his beard and whiskers. He was waiting, expectantly.
Then, I looked down at the flashlight in my hands. It was cracked, worn and dusty, broken and useless. But there was something else. The realization came to me - slowly, hesitantly - as though I could not allow myself to believe. The flashlight was old, weathered, eroded by decades …
I raised my eyes to meet those of the old king. I saw past the grey length of his beard, past the pallor of his hair, past his clouded eyes.
The flashlight clattered from my hands.
“Daron,” I choked. “My God… It’s you…”
The shock brought me to my knees; I grabbed at the dining ledge for support. A plate of food knocked over and shattered on the floor.
“Avril,” he said, “I’m sorry.”
He lifted a shallow stone bowl to my lips. It was filled with rain water, and he urged me to drink. I took a sip, forced myself to swallow.
He was speaking again, in that old voice that I couldn’t recognize. “I didn’t want this to be so sudden… so shocking…”
“What… how long,” I managed, but couldn’t finish my sentence. My thoughts were flying wildly, and I couldn’t catch them in time to speak.
“I’ve been waiting for you, all these many years,” he said. His eyes were sad. He seemed tired, worn by time.
There was silence as a thousand different emotions spun through me. For every moment that I had hesitated before the Gate, how many years had passed here? How many decades? Suddenly, I was torn between feelings of guilt and disbelief.
“I’m sorry,” I croaked out at last, the only words that I could find. If only I hadn’t let go of his hand. If only I had held on.
“If only I had held on,” he said. “Then maybe we would have aged together, here in this lovely world.” He looked out the window again, at the curving mountains and the arching city. His fingers touched the edges of a stone plate, as though he would pick up the little tortillas there, filled with berries. But he made no move to eat.
I listened to the accent in his voice, watched the way he watched the land, and I realized that the old king beside me was more Ranoan than American. To him, California was a lifetime ago, a distant past, a faded memory; it was another life, another world.
After a long silence, I whispered, “Did you find your father?”
“I did.” The answer surprised me. He reached beneath the ledge, where a small shelf had been carved into the wall. He drew out a stack of tattered tree-bark paper, and handed it to me.
It was written in his father’s scrawled handwriting, the words barely legible. But I managed to read the first lines:
Dear Daron,
I know that, someday, you’ll follow me through the Gate and find yourself on the throne of Ranoa, much as I did. I wish I could be there to see you rule. Unfortunately, in my efforts to return home, I have gone over my calculations, again and again. I know now that time must pass much faster here. When you arrive, I’m afraid I will already be long gone. So I leave you this, a few words on the Ranoan life and some fatherly advice on ruling as their leader. They are a good people, and I know you will make a great king. This is a beautiful land, Daron. And I’m glad that I could leave it to you.
“My father was here, hundreds of years ago. They made him king, the way they made me king, and the way you will one day become queen.”
Slowly, I handed the old stack of papers back to him. “But what if I want to go home?”
He was quiet. “There’s no way back, Avril. I tried. Don’t look so scared; life is good here. Maybe you’ll grow to love this land, just as I did, and my father before me.”
I admitted that the beauty of the landscape was enticing, and their way of life intrigued me, but still, I felt homesick. I listened as Daron explained their religion to me. The Sky God delivered blessings from the heavens, like the rain and the sunlight. And every so often, if the Sky God is pleased, He would send one of His own children from the heavens to rule over the Ranoans; this Sky Child would fall out of the clouds and fly down to earth on the dragons. In the absence of a Sky Child, Ranoa is ruled by the priests and priestesses, as they wait for their next divine ruler.
“The priests will help you,” Daron said. “They’ll be your advisors, just as they helped me.” He bent closer. Through the grey of his beard, I could tell that his expression was worried. “Are you okay?” he asked.
I had suddenly gone from being an ordinary Californian girl to a divine queen, with the responsibility of a whole people on my back.
“I know you can do it,” I heard him saying.
“Sure,” I laughed feebly, my hand on my forehead as I leaned my weight on the window ledge. My gaze dropped to the food at my elbows. The dishes were getting cold. I rolled some grain and fruit into a leaf and ate it; I felt I needed the sustenance.
Daron picked up the flashlight from the floor.
“You held on to it during your dragon flight,” I commented.
“I didn’t. It dropped into the sea and washed up on shore. A few years later, a Ranoan found it and brought it here, to the temple, saying it looked like something that belonged to the gods. I kept it here in my room, because it was all I had left of home.”
He turned the flashlight over in his hand, as though he were examining a foreign object, recalling a dim past. And I saw that he was no longer the boy with the red hair and floppy smile, who had kept that flashlight, and the realization pained me. He looked so frail now. I knew the years before him were few, and suddenly, I was seized with a fresh worry, terrified that soon, this old king, this man that Daron had become, would leave me. I would be abandoned, alone in a strange world, among an alien people. But above all, beyond my fears, I grieved that the Daron I knew and loved was gone, replaced by this new Daron before me, who was as foreign as this new world.
The old king placed the flashlight gently into the shelf beneath the window ledge. “I remember, so many times, wishing that my grip was stronger,” he said, in his tired voice.
And I knew he meant me. He wished that he could have held on to me. As it were, the Gate had torn him away, and now, we were a lifetime apart.
“I still wish it,” he said.
***
The years that followed were mostly spent preparing me for life as a queen. Daron introduced me to the Ranoan customs and taught me their language. I a
lso spent much time with the priests and priestesses, eating with them and learning from them.
The days were pleasant, and I grew fond of the Ranoan land and its people. Theirs was a simple and quiet life, away from the concrete havoc that I had always known. It was a more natural way of living that made me feel closer to the earth.
During the summers, the Sky God would warm the soil with the heat of the sun. And the crops would grow high and thick, ripe for the harvest. In the rainy seasons, the skies opened, and a constant deluge of water would fall. Rain cascaded across the arches of the city in streams, flooding over the sides of the mountain ridge in thin waterfalls. Children often came out, playing naked in the rain and puddles. And I would lie lazily, swinging in my window hammock, listening to it all. An overhang allowed the rain to pour over my window like a curtain, dripping from the stone awning. It kept my hammock dry, but if I stretched out my hand, I could feel the spray of the rain running through my fingers.
In the spring, Daron often took me to the dragon ridges, where I had first landed on this foreign world. The dragons were nesting high in the corners of the precipices, their spotted eggs tucked into leafy nests. The dragons ate mostly sea fowl and fish. So we would spend much time watching them dive from the sky, plunging into the ocean waves, emerging wet with fish between their jaws.
“Do they breathe fire?” I had asked Daron once.
“No,” he replied, after a small laugh. “I think they’re a dinosaur. A descendant, or some pterodactyl.”
He had brought with him a pouch filled with fish. He reached in and pulled one out, offering the smelly thing to a dragon that was sunning itself next to us. As the creature took the bait, Daron gently slipped a knotted rope around its neck, all the while stroking it and speaking soothingly in Ranoan.
He offered the rope to me. “We’re the only ones allowed to ride them,” he said. “They’re our divine creatures, meant only for royalty.” He tried again to hand me the rope. “Go on. It’s a great feeling.”