With so much snow last night, there was little I could do this morning but write down my dream. Again, I dreamt of dragon battles. But, instead of random violence, there appears to be a theme.
Dragon Dream 2:
On occasions of great curiosity, the boy investigated the desert beyond his pond. This was dangerous for dragons, when not attacking, patrolled the skies above. If it weren’t for the ferocious harassment of himself, it would appear that they too were exploring, looking for a way out.
The boy himself, not of this place, wanted nothing more than to go home. But there was no apparent exit. Even memories of his prior life were blurry images at best. He did, though, have a burning need to go home. And when this feeling smoldered greatly and the sun was not too hot and the dragons fell into a synchronous harmony and stayed in their caves, the boy explored.
This day, the boy hiked towards the far mountains. With him he carried only his sword freshly polished, a gourd flask filled with water and paper with crayons to map his expedition. He had been walking for quite a while but the boy knew that time was meaningless here. He never aged. Time in his Baobab tree had been frozen in place.
He looked up at the sun to take a sighting of his location and noticed that his tree, tall though it was, had fallen beyond the horizon. Only the reflected heat vapor could be seen rising from the ground. The boy contemplated returning. It was never a good idea to be out, exposed on the plain. But just then, he saw in the sky a single dragon circling. This was not good. Not good at all. Looking about, it was clear that the far mountains were closers than his home. Without looking back the boy broke into a full run towards the mountain’s base. His only hope was to reach a hole or crevice before he was sighted, stalked and captured by the dragon above.
He made it. But just. There was a crag in the mountain that he could just fit in. The flap of leathery wings whooshed behind him as he sprang through the thin opening. Running to the back of the crag, the boy heard the pounding of the dragon’s fists on the rock and dirt outside his hiding place. He put his back against the farthest wall, his sword drawn only to see what little protection he really had.
The dragon mercilessly pounded the rock outside, splitting off chucks, widening the opening. Knowing he had little time, the boy crab climbed up between the narrow walls at the back of the crag. He stopped when he was just above the dragons head and waited.
And that was not long. The dragon broke through the last bits of sediment and dust. Sighting the sun again, the boy waited for the dragon’s death blow. Just as the dragon reared in an apparent strike, the boy brought up his sword and let the sun reflect off its polished surface. The light was blinding. He directed the flash at his enemy’s eyes giving him the chance he needed. He jumped.
Jumped with every fiber of muscle in him. He looked down as he soared above the blinded dragon’s head. The boy made a rough landing on top of the reptile but quickly turned and grabbed its ears. Dragon’s ears are sensitive and so by grabbing them, the boy leashed the beast to his whim. The dragon reared up to its full height trying to shake the boy off. The boy held tightly to his anchor points. Every time the dragon tried to brush against the mountain rock, the boy pulled back harder on its ears.
Struggling, the boy was able to turn the beast about and coax it into the air. The dragon, not happy by this turn of events, said little and just flew. Its ears rang with pain. Its only hope of relief was acquiescing to the pull of its tormentor. It flew and flew where directed, to the boy’s baobab tree.
By dragon, the trip was short. His tree broke over the horizon’s edge. He looked back only to see the other nine dragons in close pursuit. He knew he could not land this beast and escape into the safety of his house before the others were on top of him. Again, he had to be brave, use his mind and outwit the dull beasts.
Instead of landing, he steered his mount around the tree like children playing at a Maypole. The other dragons followed and on his second in a half rotation of the tree, the boy turned his dragon into the treetop’s thick branches and leaves. This would be painful to navigate through but his doorway was on the other side and his hope was that the other dragons would crash into one another attempting pursuit.
And that they did. They crashed and caromed, bashed and slammed into one another tangling in a heap, the branches a shelf for their failure. Clear of the treetop the boy jumped to the ground. He rolled once and sprinted inside. The dragon he’d flown continued on looking back as the boy shut the door.
Outside, the boy heard an intense mêlée. The other nine fought for position. But, with the door closed, there was little chance of any of them getting him. So, after many minutes of vicious war cries, the dragons flew off.
When he judged it safe, the boy opened the door. He wanted to see if they had really left. They had except one. The one whom he had saddled and rode stood on the other side of his pond. It looked at him in a very uncomfortable way. Then, it too, flew off.
The boy watched. The dragon flew straight and true to its mountain lair. Back inside his home again, he thought about the look that dragon fixed on him. There was no violence in it but menace none the less. It was imploring yet anger edged the eyes. The boy went to his cub bard to make a cup of tea. His encounter with that particular dragon would take time to unwrap with much mediation and contemplation. For now, a hot cup of green tea and a biscuit was in order.
Now, I’ll see if I can dig myself out. Love shoveling snow.