Starlight

The mountain air is cool, and dusk is settling in. The late fall sun has set. The leaves on the ground rustle restlessly as small animals come out for the night, disturbing the dried leaves that still retain some of their red and orange hues. A few leaves still cling determinedly to the trees, but they are in the minority.

It is my time to venture out.

I live in a small cave near the top of one of the mid-sized mountains, its opening obscured by low-hanging branches and mystical glamour that keeps me hidden from the occasional explorer. These mountains are not oft traversed, but some humans are more adventurous than others, and occasionally come near my home. My cave is cozy and well hidden. It is full of leaves and moss and interesting things I have found over the years: bones, jewellery, sea glass, shiny rocks. We dragons are known for our collecting, and I am no exception.

We are a solitary species. I left my nest at a young age and have yet to meet another of my kind since venturing out on my own. I enjoy my time to myself; I do not long for companionship. I find I am company enough.

As I crunch my way through the dense forest, I note the silence around me. Other animals tend to stay away. I am small, but fearsome, and they like not to take the chance. Approximately the same size and as a small bear, I am three times heavier and more fierce when threatened. I have dark, glossy scales that look blue or black depending on the light, and emerald green eyes. I breathe fire, but only in the winter. It’s a cozy ability to have.

I am always in search of new treasures and things to eat. I mostly munch on plants and insects, though I sometimes treat myself to a rabbit or squirrel. I subsist on food and starlight, though tonight I am without the latter. Clouds cover my shining friends, with only the moon occasionally peeking through.

It is a peaceful life. For hundreds of years I have lived and foraged and explored. I move sometimes for a change of scenery, painstakingly hauling my treasures in the night from one cave to another, but I have never left these mountains. I am safe here.

The western sky is now nearly dark, the pinkish hues having given way to indigo and navy. The clouds still reflect some light, though they are mostly grey. A blanket of them covers the sky, threatening rain. I feel the dampness in the air, and I smell it on the wind. I relish in it; although I always long for starlight, I do love the rain.

A scurry to my right catches my attention, and a flash of black fur disappears up a tree. Curious glowing eyes peer down on me, and I gaze back up at them. I will leave the animal be. It is not alone in that tree, and I do not want to cause a disturbance tonight.

I am not the only mysterious creature living in these woods. There are others like me—quiet, stealthy creatures that humans are unaware of—but few are as companionless as I am. They find mates, have families, run in small packs. I hear them fight sometimes in the night, screeching and growling and screaming into the darkness at one another. It is not a life for me.

As I plod quietly through the dense underbrush, I happen upon a collection of mushrooms. The large, yellow-frilled fungus flares out from a felled tree, and to my delight, also hides a number of beetles. I hunch and stick my tongue out as they scurry past my feet, delighting in their crunchy, surprisingly fruity flavour. The mushrooms are different, tasting earthy and meaty at the same time.

I feel energized and playful now, and decide to climb a tree to get a better look at my surroundings. Raindrops have begun to fall. They splatter on the leaves and my scales, and I delight in their refreshing coolness. At the top of the tree, I can see far from where I am. There is even a faint glow from the closest village over fifty kilometers away. I am admiring my surroundings when an unfamiliar sound hits my ears. I perk up, then remain very still. Something is lightly stomping through the forest. It is not subtle or sneaky, and it makes a distressed noise as it moves. It sounds somewhat like a cat. I very quietly slink down the trunk of the tree to get closer; the thing is moving toward me, and all I need to do is wait. When it tumbles out of the underbrush, I recoil in shock.

A very small human is in my forest.

It makes another whining sound, then trips and falls down. It immediately begins to cry, but when it realizes no one is around, it stops and gets up to continue on its way.

I have never seen a human so close before. Its skin is smooth and fragile, and its eyes are clear and bright, though it very obviously cannot see well in the dark. Its arms, hands, and face bear some faint scratch marks from sticks and rocks, but not as many as I would expect considering its clumsiness, and its protective coverings are torn in places. It clearly does not know of the dangers of the forest, and I assume it must be a child, as all of the humans I have seen are much bigger than this.

It disappears through the underbrush again, and I make the decision to follow it. I slide almost like liquid over and through the brush, moving slowly, as this human does, though much more gracefully. It sways clumsily every now and then, and falls down on its behind. It is humorous to watch, and I wonder how it has not attracted others’ attention yet.

As if on cue, I catch a sound up ahead, and smell another predator. A brief snarl gives away its exact position, and before I can stop myself, I leap in front of the human. As I do, a creature I have seen only a few times emerges from the brush. Upon seeing me, it stops. It eyes me up and down, snarling. Sizing up the competition, I assume. If it tries to fight me, it will not win. It seems to know this, lowers its head, and retreats. When I can no longer hear it breathing, I turn around and face the human. Its cherubic face stares at me uncomprehendingly. Its eyes are wide and green and full of tears, which have spilled down its face. It opens its mouth, and horrifyingly, it starts wailing.

I do not know what to do, until I remember something from when I was very small. I emit a noise that my mother made at me when I was young. It is like a purr, and abruptly, the child stops its earsplitting cry.

Kitty, it says, though it does not open its mouth, and it reaches its hand toward me. I recoil. The hand is sticky and dirty, and I do not want it to touch me. But as soon as I do, the child’s face crumples again, and I go back to it. It giggles and pats me. It is a strange and foreign feeling, to be pat my a small but surprisingly strong little thing.

Good kitty, it says, again not opening its mouth. I am not very familiar with human languages or modes of communication, but I am fairly certain the talk with their mouths, not their minds. This child is strange. I try to pry into its mind, and I see a small house with a thatched roof. What I assume are a mother and a father and a sibling gather at a large wooden table, and a fire roars in a hearth. Home, the child thinks.

I somewhat regret my decision to rescue this small being. What am I supposed to do with it? I wonder also how it got so far into the forest undetected. I sniff at it. It smells like a human, and also blood and dirt and the mustiness of the forest, but then, something else. An underlying aroma, like flowers and smoke, clings to its skin.

This child is something else. It has a magic, like I do, which is not something I have encountered before. I do not think it understands this, however, as it sits and pokes my long claws with its dirty, stubby little fingers.

Meow? The child says, and smiles. I believe it is trying to communicate with me. I huff in its face and it blinks, then grins again excitedly and shrieks. It wants me to talk to it, but I do not understand its language. I show it pictures instead, communicating with it the same way I communicate with my kind. The child apparently understands. I show it the village, which I have flown over numerous times, and it nods, smiling again. These are positive signs. The village is this child’s home. Somehow, I need to get this child to its home without being seen. I look up at the night sky, nervous to fly. It is not easy to fly when the stars are not out. My wings tire easily, even when I am not carrying an added weight. I huff again, and decide we must walk. I picture the child climbing on my back. It tries, then falls down, whimpering again. A stick has penetrated the skin on its palm, and I am about to heal it, but before I do, a wondrous thing happens. The child touches its fingers to its face where its tears have fallen, and then touches the wound, which closes. Only blood remains.

I look down in wonder, and it looks back up at me, beaming. Pushing itself back up, it holds its arms up to me. I crouch down, and this time, it is able to clamber up onto my back. It wraps its chubby little arms tightly around my neck, and lays its face down on my scales. It is strangely comforting. I angle my wings up and wrap them over the child’s back, mostly shielding it from the rain and providing a little warmth. The child coos contentedly.

It is a long trek to the village. The child has fallen asleep, and flickers of its dreams enter my mind. There are flashes of desserts, green light, snarling teeth, and a smiling mother. The dreams are disjointed and confusing, and the child sometimes twitches in distress. I choose not to wake it for fear of it wailing once again.

Despite having a sleeping child on my back, I glide quickly through the forest. I know it well, though I eventually run out of knowledge as I near the forest’s edge. Before the night is over, I have made it nearly through the forest. Fear freezes me. I am still several kilometers from the village, but I can hear the humans. Their voices call out, and they carry through the trees.

The rain has stopped, and I slide my wings off the child, who stirs. It is confused, but quickly remembers where it is, and slides off my back.

Mummy, it thinks, and I see a brief flash of a woman with long dark hair in the child's mind. We walk side by side, toward the voices. When we near the edge, I see a collection of torches. Humans call out, and the child begins to run toward them. I do not follow, and it realizes this. Turning around, it beckons me forward. I slink backward, into the protective darkness. It runs up to me, and I lower my head to its head. It leans into me, wrapping its arms around my neck again.

Thank you, Kitty,” it thinks, and I relish in the soft kindness of the child’s tone. This moment is shattered, however, when a human voice shrieks in fear. I snap my head up to see a woman, who I recognize as the child’s mother, running toward us, torch in hand. The child giggles and runs up to her, wrapping its arms around her legs. When her green eyes meet mine, they widen. There is knowledge in them, and she bows her head at me. When she rises, she gestures back into the forest. We hold each other’s eyes as I slink slowly and silently back into the forest, swallowed by the darkness once again.

Cries of joy sound out behind my back as the woman and child exit the forest together, and a very foreign sense of loneliness creeps over me. I miss the child, and I realize I long to know more about it and the magic it possesses. It is something I have never encountered, though the mother seemed aware of me. Comfortingly, deep down, I know that this will not be the last I see of the small child.

After what seems like an age, I come to a clearing a few kilometers away from the forest’s edge. To my surprise, a patch of sky has cleared and stars shine down on me. I look down to the ground, spread my wings, and rise slowly up into the air, climbing above the treetops as my wings flap heavily. Once I get to the top, I soar. Flying through the night sky is a feeling unlike any other. I feel the starlight on my leathery wings, and for the first time, I think of what the future may hold.