by G Sauvé
At first, I think the cries are that of anger, but I soon realize they are, in fact, screeches of pain. The more I listen, the less afraid I am. The shrieks come from a static location, which means the odds of me being attacked are slim. Still, it’s with a certain degree of unease that I resume my journey.
I travel across the vast expanse of glowing poop for a while before it becomes apparent I’m headed toward whatever creature produces those horrific wails of agony. I debate whether or not to take a detour, but seeing how it would prolong the journey by at least a few hours, I opt against it.
I keep going until the cries sound so close they seem to come from all directions at once. I pause every few metres and scan my surroundings, but all I see is an endless expanse of glowing poop. Or so I think until I spot it.
It’s an island.
The intensity of the wails proves the creature producing them is marooned on the small landmass. While the logical thing to do would be to ignore the pain-stricken shrieks and continue my journey, my curiosity far outweighs my logic. Mere minutes later, my boat is washing up on shore.
The island is small—roughly a dozen meters in diameter—and devoid of all but stones and pebbles. At the very centre of the landmass is a creature the likes of which I have never seen. It’s reptilian, yet it’s unlike any dinosaur I have encountered thus far. A single word explodes within my head at the sight of it.
Dragon.
I have seen many things of late, but this is by far the most astonishing. Dinosaurs? Fine. Giant insects? Whatever. But dragons? Come on. Aren’t they supposed to be mythical creatures?
I take a moment to study the scaled creature. It’s small—at least for a dragon—and rather frail-looking. It’s black as charcoal, but its eyes glow orange like embers. A row of protruding scales lines the ridge of its back and travels along the entire length of its narrow tail. Two massive wings jut from its frame. Its snout is long and thin, but the horns that erupt from its upper cranium fully make up for it. The final detail I take into account is the intensity with which the beast stares at me.
The glowing eyes follow my every move. This, combined with the fact the pained wails have ceased bodes ill for my survival.
“I-I mean you no harm,” I croak, but my attempt at civility only agitates the dragon further. It opens its maw, revealing a row of vicious-looking teeth. By the time I realize what’s about to happen, it’s already too late.
I stare at the orange glow that emanates from the beast's throat, expecting a column of fire to shoot forth, but all that comes out is a puff of smoke and a few pathetic sparks. Defeated by its failure, the creature collapses and starts whimpering once more.
It takes a moment before I realize the dragon is an infant. It would explain its small stature and its inability to spit fire. The fear I once felt is gone, leaving behind only a sense of confusion.
Should I stay or leave? Part of me—the primal, cowardly side—begs me to run, to flee while I still can. Another part—the heroic, power-wielding side I’m beginning to realize I possess—insists I help the defenceless creature.
Logic dictates I abandon the baby dragon to its fate and pursue my journey. My companions’ lives depend on it. Not to mention the fact that the dragon will most likely perish when the volcano erupts. Then again, this would be the perfect opportunity to test the theory I have been pondering for the past few hours.
Will 2.0 claimed I was a hero. So did the forest korrigans. And Korri. If that’s true, it means I’m destined for greatness. Saving the baby dragon would not only count as my first heroic act, but it would prove whether or not I am the champion people believe me to be.
“Okay,” I mutter once my mind is made up. “Let’s do this.”
I circle the dragon and quickly locate the source of its pain. Its left wing is pinned beneath a large boulder. From the looks of it, it’s a piece of the ceiling. It must have fallen during the earthquake, pinning the baby dragon.
“Don’t worry,” I whisper as I tiptoe toward the injured animal. At first, it doesn’t react, but it starts growling when I get within a metre of it. I’m terrified of what will happen if I venture any closer, but I refuse to give up.
I keep going until I reach the boulder. It’s small but heavy. The fact that it landed on its flat side means I will have to completely lift it off the ground in order to free the baby dragon. Unfortunately, strength is not exactly my strong suit. I doubt even Jonn could accomplish such a feat.
I plant my feet, grab hold of the ceiling fragment and heave.
Nothing happens.
I try again, only to fail once more. But I won’t give up. I can’t. I keep trying until, finally, I collapse, panting heavily.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “If only I were as strong as you I could...”
My voice trails off.
“Dammit! Why didn’t I think of it before?”
I leap to my feet. The dragon flinches, but now that it has realized I’m trying to help, it’s no longer intimidated by my proximity. Still, it’s with a certain unease that I reach out and press my hand to its flank. When nothing bad happens, I close my eyes and focus on the image of the fire-breathing beast. Within seconds, the transformation is complete.
I open my eyes, tilt my head back, and roar. The rumble echoes throughout the cavern. A few glowworms fall as a result of my growl, but I couldn’t care less. I have a job to do.
Using my powerful new body, I grab hold of the boulder and chuck it into the lake as though it were nothing more than a pebble. The rock fragment floats there for a moment before sinking. And, just like that, the baby dragon is free.
The fire-breathing reptile stands on shaky legs and flexes its injured wing. When nothing bad happened, it leaps into the air and starts flapping. The strokes are lopsided, but the animal remains airborne long enough to perform a few aerial stunts before coming in for a landing. It skids to a stop less than a metre from me and peers deep into my eyes. No words are spoken, yet I sense it’s thanking me. There’s no way for me to respond, so I remain quiet. It’s not until the baby dragon leaps into the air once more and vanishes into the white haze of the glowing lake that I allow myself to relax.
“Wow,” I gasp as soon as I revert to my human form. “I can’t believe I saved a dragon.”
It was risky but rewarding. I now have proof I’m a hero. Not to mention the fact that I’m pretty much invincible. How else could I have survived so many brushes with death? But I forget all about that when I look around and realize the baby dragon is not all that’s gone.
The rowboat is missing.
Memory 88
I ’m trapped. Stranded on an island with no means of escape. I desperately scan my surroundings, but there’s no sight of the rowboat which I used to get here. I was so focused on the dragon I forgot to pull the boat onto dry land, and now I’m paying the price for my carelessness. Or am I?
Who needs a rowboat when you can shift into a dragon? Sure, I’ve never flown before, but how bad can it be?
Bad. Really bad.
Getting off the island is the hardest part. My wings slam into the ground, and I end up losing my balance. After a while, I manage to rise into the air, only to crash because I fail to correctly angle my wings. It takes a while, but I finally manage to master the subtle art of flying and rise high into the air. It’s not until I’ve nearly reached the ceiling that I realize something.
I’m still afraid of heights. The last time I shifted into an animal, I thought my new body allowed me to overcome my acrophobia, but I was wrong. When I was a lizard, being high meant being two metres off the ground. That’s not high. At least, not by human standards. The same can’t be said about soaring dozens of metres above a vast expanse of glowworm poop. That’s high by any standards. And one downward glance is all it takes to remind me of it.
Fear washes over me like a tidal wave. My wings lock up, and I begin to plummet. The wind whistles past my ears as I tumble with ever-increasing speed. My vision blurs with t
ears until I’m no longer sure if I’m a dragon or a human. All I know is I will die unless I can find a way to halt my fall.
I focus all of my attention on my wings—hopefully, they’re still there—and will them to expand. I visualize them stretching out, filling with air. I imagine myself soaring at low altitude, weightless. I can almost see it, almost feel it.
I unfurl my wings. The effect of the wind filling my sails is jarring, but I welcome it. I fight the air until my momentum slows and I’m gliding forward, the lake less than a metre beneath me. I desperately want to land, but I know it’s not an option, so I rise a little higher and get my bearings. Moments later, I’m on my way across what remains of the celestial lake.
Flying is fun when you’re not worried about your wings locking up, but the sense of euphoria quickly fades. After hours of flapping, my wings feel heavy and sluggish. My muscles scream for relief, yet I can’t comply. I keep going until, finally, I see it.
Dry land.
It takes all the strength I have left just to reach it. I crash-land and revert to my human form. I pant heavily and I’m drenched in sweat, but I’m beaming.
I made it.
I take a few minutes to recover. It’s not until I stand and look around that I realize how close I came to dying.
I overshot the shore by nearly thirty metres and somehow managed to duck into the narrow fissure that links the Celestial Cave to the adjacent cavern. Like the grotto I left behind, my new surroundings are riddled with puddles of glowing liquid. Only this time the glow is orange, not white.
“Wow,” I mutter at the sight of the lava. “That was close.”
I take another look at my surroundings and spot the exit. It stands at the far end of the cavern. I head toward it, determined to reach it before my luck runs out, but I only make it a few meters before a massive shape emerges from the darkness and blocks my path.
It’s a dragon.
Black scales. Embers for eyes. Razor-sharp claws and matching fangs. A long, whip-like tail. The dragon is identical to the one I encountered earlier but for one detail.
It’s huge.
The fire-breathing reptile looks so familiar I can’t help wondering if it’s related to the baby dragon I encountered earlier. Perhaps it’s the mother. Or the father. Then again, maybe—
The dragon roars, cutting me off mid-thought. The cavern shakes. Or is it fear that’s making my body tremble? I can’t tell.
I ponder my next move. The obvious choice is to shift into a baby dragon, but the exhaustion of my recent flight makes it impossible. I guess that leaves only one option.
I’m about to resign myself to death by dragon when a thought occurs to me.
I can’t be killed. If I die, my older self won’t be able to return to warn me, and since he already has, it stands to reason I survive this encounter. It’s thus with a sense of invulnerability that I take a step. A second soon follows. Then a third.
The dragon roars, but I ignore it. It won’t attack. It can’t.
I keep advancing.
Another roar, followed by a jet of flames. At least, I think it’s fire until the molten rock splashes down next to me. That explains the dozens of lava pools that riddle the cavern.
I guess folklore got it wrong, I muse. Dragons spit lava, not fire.
That explains why the baby dragon didn’t attack. It wasn’t too young to blow fire; it was out of lava to spew. Unlike its mother—or father. It spits a third column of lava which only barely misses me. My heart starts beating faster, but I refuse to let the close call shatter the belief that I’m invincible. I keep going until I’m standing mere metres from the dragon.
“Move!” I command.
Nothing happens for a while; then the charcoal dragon opens its maw and roars. Lava drips down its fangs, illuminating the inside of its mouth. But the glow pales in comparison to the one that emanates from its throat. It shines with the brilliance of a volcano, indicating the beast is preparing for another attack.
I suddenly have a doubt. What if I’m wrong? What if I’m not invincible? From this distance, there’s no way the beast can miss. I wait for a miracle, but none occur. I hold out until the last possible moment before accepting the fact that I was wrong.
The dragon is about to spit, and when it does, I’m going to die.
Memory 89
T he dragon towers above me, its scales glistening in the orange glow of the surrounding lava. Its fiery eyes remain fixed on me, waiting to see if I will attempt an escape. But what’s the point? It’s not like I have even the slightest chance of surviving the onslaught of molten rock that’s about erupt from the beast’s maw.
The dragon bares its teeth and growls. I flinch but stand my ground. The last thing I want is to die a coward. The beast opens its mouth, and an intense orange glow emerges from its throat, casting frightening shadows on the cave walls.
Maybe dying a coward wouldn’t be so bad.
Lava bubbles up the creature’s throat as it gets ready to spit.
Screw it. I’m making a run for it.
I’m just about to make my move when another dragon emerges from the shadows. Smaller than the last, it favours its right side as it scurries forward, but it’s not until it passes by a pool of lava that I understand why.
It’s the baby dragon, the one I rescued earlier.
The flying reptile may be small, but it’s fearless. It skids to a stop between my attacker and me, interrupting it right before it can spew its molten rock. I expect the massive beast to swat away the troublesome youth, but it calms down at the mere sight of it. After a moment, it steps forward and presses its snout to the smaller reptile’s face. I can’t be sure, but I think they’re communicating. I just hope whatever is being said is to my advantage.
It is.
The large dragon eventually pulls away and growls softly. Moments later, two more baby dragons emerge from the shadows. They hurry forward and gather around me, sniffing tentatively. I can tell the adult dragon is their mother by the way she watches over them.
That explains the hostility. She was just trying to protect her children. It also explains why she purposefully missed when spitting lava at me. She didn’t want to kill me; she just wanted to scare me away.
The baby dragons soon grow bolder. They rub up against me and tug on my clothes. I can tell they want to play, but I can’t afford to waste any time. I must pursue my journey. I must save my friends.
I dodge a playful attack by one of the baby dragons and begin the short walk to the exit, but the mother dragon blocks my progress. I make my way around her, but she once again moves to stand between me and my objective. I try one last time before finally giving up.
There’s only one way for me to get what I want. I shift into a baby dragon and beat my wings. The mother retreats, but only for a moment. She bows low and presses her snout to mine.
Can you hear me? The voice erupts within my mind like an explosion. I stagger back, stunned by the unexpected occurrence.
“What was that?” I try to ask, but my new body keeps me from speaking. Only a high-pitched snarl escapes my fanged maw.
The mother dragon steps forth and once again presses her muzzle to mine.
Can you hear me? This time, the voice is soft. It fills my mind for a moment before evaporating like morning dew on a hot day.
It takes a moment before I realize the dragon just spoke to me.
“How did you do that?” I try to say, but as before, only a muffled growl escapes my throat.
Don’t speak, says the voice in my head. Think.
It’s not easy, but I manage to suppress the urge to speak.
How are you doing this? I ask with my mind.
We dragons communicate through touch, says the mother dragon.
That explains why I only heard her when she touched me. It also explains why she calmed down as soon as she touched her child. It must have told her how I saved it and insisted she spare me.
It takes a moment, but I final
ly gather myself enough to form a logical thought.
Why won’t you let me leave?
I need your help.
How can I possibly help you? I ask. I’m small, and you’re huge.
The dragon snorts, which I assume means she’s amused.
That’s precisely why I need your help, she says.
I don’t understand.
I’m trapped, she explains. About a year ago, I reached maturity and laid three eggs. I spent months watching over them, waiting for them to hatch. When they finally did and the time came for me to introduce them to the outside world, I discovered the tunnel which leads out of this mountain had collapsed. I was trapped, and so were my children.
That explains why a massive dragon would require the help of a scrawny human teenager. Well, sort of.
I’m sorry to hear that, I say, but how do you expect me to help?
There are other ways out of the mountain, explains the mother dragon. Unfortunately, they’re too narrow for me. That’s why I need your help. You must guide my children to the outside world before they get too big and end up trapped here with me.
Can’t they find the exit themselves? I ask.
They’re too young. They would get lost.
There’s a moment of silence as I consider whether I can afford to help the baby dragons find their freedom. In an attempt to buy myself a little more time to think, I decide to distract the mother with a question.
What’s your name?
I don’t have one, she admits, but I have been known to answer to the name Korrigana.
The name sounds familiar, but it takes me a while to figure out why.
“Of course!” I blurt out, but only a low growl escapes my reptilian lips. Korrigana, I continue, this time in my head, that was the name the forest korrigans gave their goddess. According to the korrigan priest, she lived atop the Mountain of Fire. He claimed she used to fly down to their village each day to bestow her blessings upon them, but about a year ago, she stopped coming. Soon after, the fire plague claimed its first victims, and the forest korrigans interpreted it as a sign their goddess was displeased with them. Of course, the plague had nothing to do with Korrigana, but it does explain quite a lot.