The Second Dragon of Creative Writing- Part Two of Four

Lying in Wait

*****

The Old Man

I will not be like him—
darkened, vacant eyes atop a bent and rusted
signpost frame.
On days as bright as digital fire
I will not remember what I should have said
but never did,
and
the shadows of my past will not be haunted
by the dustball dreams and death rattle coughs
that companion him.
He sits and stares; stares and sits.
I saw a tear trickle down his slackened cheek once,
a leaking, salty impotence;
the helplessness of a man who all of his life
has prepared to die.
I will not be like him.

excerpted from “The Borgo Pass,”

by Ferrel D. Moore

*****

Those who survive calcination by the Dragon of Blackened Fire have advanced a step forward by removing a great deal of the personal constraints that have locked in their creativity to their socially accepted role. They are perhaps more bold and do not reject thoughts simply because their friends, relatives, and digital neighbors will disapprove, or worse still, isolate them. For the first time in many years, these writers begin to hear their own internal drum again. It is faint, but definitely there. Calcination is not a one time event- it is a way of life. This is true for our meeting with the Water Dragon as well. In fact, each step that we take toward improving our creativity to write powerful stories proceeds in a cycle. We meet each dragon, learn their lesson, move to the next, and finally pass the seventh dragon's test. Then we begin the cycle anew. Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter come and go every year of our lives. Such is the way of heaven. Each cycle the same, each cycle different. Such is the way of earth.

*****

The storm battles the night outside our cave, and I have come to hate it nearly as much as the old man and his noisy goat. With a mighty roar, the turbulence has thrown branches and sticks and dirty clouds of tiny stones at the mouth of our cave, taunting us, daring us to brave the wild night.


You and I now cower at the back at cave, our arms wrapped around each other, sitting on the hard earth floor. You have killed a scorpion with a ragged edged rock, and the fevered look of hatred as you pursued it between the shadows cast by our tiny, wind twisted fire, caused me to fear for the deadly creature. I felt each narrow escape as you slammed the rock down like a death hammer, desperately pursing the insect. When you finally crushed as it was attempting to flee across a flat piece of rock, I felt a sharp pain in my back and for a moment could not breathe. With a grim smile of satisfaction playing across your face, you twisted back and forth your death-tool to grind whatever was left of its brittle, liquid body into the dust and stones.


When you looked up at me, your face was not as beautiful as I had remembered it from the day before. I turn to the old man and see that he is smiling. What is happening to me?



There is a crackling pop as sap explodes inside at thick branch and the fire flares for just a moment. My world is now trapped within a secret cave in the side of a nameless hill wherein fiery shadows dance about the faces of my loved one, an old man who is not what he seems defends us from the storm, and where a smelly goat licks the rock wall as if it were salt. The wind bursts by our cave and slaps us with waves of pressure and the high screeching howls of dying faeries.


It comes to me that nothing is real in this cave; you and the old man and his goat are mere symbols. My head and face are flush from being to close to the fire, and I wonder if I am fevered. The old man is now much younger; his face is smooth and his eyes are bright. My muscles are sore, and I hunched over against you when you sat down again after killing the black insect. The old man moves about with muscular ease, braving the wild wind to return with branches to dry. He stretches as though luxuriating in new found strength. You and I are wet and cold and shivering. Our hair is finally drying from our run through the rain to this cave. His stays wet as he moves in and out of the cave bringing back kindling. It is plain to see, though, that his hair is no longer white, but black threaded with gray.

From outside where a primitive gale rages, I hear a great creaking as though a tree is being broken in two. The goat makes a nervous sound. Our fire sways back and forth drunkenly. Head down, the old man concentrates on drying branches to keep us warm through the night.


"The elements themselves rage and bellow all around us," he says. "How safe can we mere mortals be?"


"How far are we from the lake where the Water Dragon hides?" I ask.


I am fighting for control in a night where our lives are at the mercy of an angry nature and my heart is filled with dread. If I can keep that one goal- to confront and pass by the Water Dragon- at the front of my thoughts, then I believe we can survive.


"We are there now," he says slyly. "You have only to walk out of this cave and within moments you will be submerged."


"But we saw no lake as we came here," I object.


"It was raining," you say, "and the storm was violent. I could see nothing except this friend's back and I prayed you were following behind me."


"The goat knew the way," chuckled the old man. "I often wonder on nights such as this- who is tethered to who?"


I feel you looking at me. When I turn toward you, you are not smiling.


"And, young man, the Water Dragon does not hide," says the old man. "Why, perhaps you think because it does not breathe fire that it is not to be feared."


"Dragons are our teachers," I say, and I straighten slightly to show that I am strong in my belief.


"So they say."


You speak up before I can respond.


"Have you ever seen the Water Dragon?" you ask him.


"I have played with it," the old man says, still without looking up.


Even though he says it casually, I know that he is lying. No dragon would trust a man with a goat.


"Really?" you ask eagerly and lean forward toward him.


My arm is still around your shoulders and I gently pull you back toward me. Although you yield, I can feel you resist.


"Tell us about the Water Dragon," you urge.


The old man looks up and smiles at me. I like him even less than his stinking goat. The creature stands against a far wall of our little cave as though too stupid to sit. The leather tether hangs from his neck and coils on the floor. It is rarely necessary to tie a goat- they lack the audacity to break for freedom. Outside our safe haven, carved right into ancient rock, a burst of light illuminates the night with a giant lightning torch. Several tense breaths later, drums of thunder shake the darkness. I feel the air press against my ears and pull you closer.


When it passes, I see the goat looking at me as though we were of a kind.


"The Water Dragon," says the old man, taking a seat on a flat rock shelf as though he were a king ascending a throne and lifting his chin imperiously, "does not breathe fire."


"All dragons breathe fire," I say irritably.



"How would you know?" you ask me. "You have seen only one."


Your look pains me and I look away from you to face the old man again.


"If they do not breathe fire, what do they breathe?"


"They breathe," he says, "dreams of the mist. Each mighty exhalation of the Water Dragon is a wave of emotion, of visions and imaginations. The very air around a seeker is fogged and disorienting. It is difficult to find one's way."


"How do you mean that, wise one?" you ask.


Wise one? Since when did we appoint this vagabond old wreck our teacher? Perhaps "we" is only as you need it. I was not consulted.


"In dreams, symbols are real, young maid. The dragon's breath is thick, water-fog, and it is easy to lose your way. You will never find your way if you depend on the real. Who drowns in the breath of a Water Dragon, they say, sees forever only what others see."


"How horrible," you say.


How normal, I think.


"But how do we find the Dragon?" you ask. Your voice is low and breathy and once again I do not like it.


The old man, perched on his rock throne, his rags draped from his shoulders looking like fine linen in the frantic firelight, smiles broadly and says, "You will find the way to her in sleep. When you wake, simply rise and walk straight out this cave. You will be immersed in the Dragon's breath. Ride your heart's visions and dreams to meet her."


"You speak in riddles that can mean nothing. Why not speak plainly?" I ask.


"Why not sleep and find the truth for yourself?" he says. He smiles again, and this time I see to my horror that his teeth are now whole, bright white and unbroken. What is this man?


"I will do it," you say eagerly, and lay back on the one blanket we have between us. "Will you join me?"


I nod agreement, but I will not sleep at all tonight.


In the refuge of the wicked, it is dangerous to sleep.


The old man is watching me carefully as you lie down.


I remember my mother's words, "In two, there is union. In three, there is despair."


No, I will not sleep this night.