The Gobi Dragon

I

Balrog’s Favorite

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Well… technically speaking there was one. He had been a resident for over three millennia, but it is hard to validate when humans cannot “see” dragons. A person rarely remains loyal to the unseen and intangible. Unseen things exist. Creatures do disappear and rarely reappear. The Tasmanian tiger disappeared 80 years ago, yet recently resurfaced after zoologists declared it extinct in 1936.

Another myth must be immediately debunked; beasts do not reside in a “species only” collective consciousness. The tedious observations of human scientists derived this erroneous conclusion while interpreting animal instincts. Animal reflexes and intuitions should not disqualify them from having the ability to develop an individual temperament. Humans also have instincts and a predisposition for gullibility. Ironically seeing and believing do not indefinitely equate to facts. Seeing and believing could be the result of a sleight of hand. A person’s practiced athletic agility may complement them without confiscating their unique personality traits. Conversely, a creature particularly skilled at survival in symbiosis with its environment is not left without a disposition.

For instance, the popular conception that dogs have a collective consciousness is a ridiculous fallacy. Dogs, cats, and people are all individuals. Just so happens that dragons are quite independent characters too. Brimming with life experiences composed of complicated choices propelling them on their unique journey. They are painted with triumphs and regrets leaving a wake of legacies and histories of evolution. Dragons are very much self-aware as is your beloved pet… some more than others.

One intriguing animal instinct forgotten by humankind is interspecies communication. Only a handful of people are gifted with this linguistic talent common to all the kingdoms of creatures. From the beetle to the blue whale, a common language is understood. Given time enough to become embedded in an unfamiliar land people adapt to the local language. Therefore, it is naivete to say the American Native has a collective conscious incapable of communication with the Mongolian Native. The varieties of cultural diversities are infinitesimal! A person may become enamored with the nuances of a foreign culture and enlightened by behaviors and colloquialisms contradicting their upbringing. Could it be possible then that a collective conscience is a true collective, inclusive of all life?

A freezing beetle hitches a ride atop a narwhal horn to warmer weather in exchange for aiding in the difficult navigation through the branching maze of cracks in the ice by providing a periscope of sorts. Enabling both the great compassionate mammal and the tiny brave obsidian conversationalist to survive the arduous trek. How the beetle arrived in this precarious circumstance in the first place is relevant.

A digression.

This dragon, the last dragon located within light years, settled in the unconventional Airakty Castle Valley, confident that he would remain undisturbed by humans or beasts. The Gobi Desert is certainly a challenging environment for humans to inhabit. Nevertheless, a proud Indigenous culture survives astride wild horses, brandishing golden eagles griping leather-clad fists with raptor talons until their impressive wings hoist them into the hunt. Humbly securing the clan’s continued existence.

The Mongolian Kazakh tribe has been cultivating falconry for more than two millennia and continues to flourish in the shadow of a dragon unbeknownst to them. Even under the onslaught of technology and western civilization, this culture continues to practice beloved traditions attracting a conglomeration of foreign spectators.

The Golden Eagle Festival captivates people from all around the globe. None more foreign than this dragon who despite his better judgment, allowed his curiosity to get the better of him. He had not missed the annual festival in five hundred years.

The solitary dragon both respected and scorned the golden eagles that hunted for these humans. He could not fathom why such majestic creatures would allow themselves to be subservient to people who would snare and starve them into becoming trusted hunting weapons. Only a “talon full” of eagles would choose to befriend a human unless coerced by a life-or-death situation.

***

Erdene closed her eyes inhaling a fourth deep breath and became lightheaded. All she could do to stay mounted was remember, “breath, feel the breath bring peace…” The crowd roaring for the rodeo beyond borders interrupted her vulnerable focus. She felt the resonating shudder of her steed’s concern ripple through her. “…to the three of us,” she blurted aloud. Batu let out a supportive snort.

Batu, her Mongol palomino stallion was gifted to her by her brother Bilguun. She spontaneously imagined his baritone voice lecturing her through the echo of the crowd. “You spoil Batu and he’ll cut and run!” Words she resented before her irritated rebuttal, “He needs to know how special he is!” That was when she was ten, two years ago.

Altan, the golden eagle Erdene nursed from a hatchling, perched on her right arm adorned in third-generation leather. He chortled in melodic confidence as he squeezed her arm with gentle encouragement. The only eagle naked of “falcon blinders.”

This was not Altan’s first hunt or Batu’s first rodeo. This was Erdene’s first race. She opened her eyes and turned to the length of the starting lineup. A bold color wheel of cascading hand-tailored Mongolian equestrian attire stole her breath. The juxtaposition of fox fur and richly dyed fabrics erupting from the monotone palette of dull sand was hypnotic. The life it festooned heaving beneath. Intimidating faces of her most formidable competitors began to blur as the noise tapered and time slowed drowning the anxiety of looming trials unknown in the brilliance of the present.

The crowd settled and earnest stillness allowed her to catch a cool breeze graze her cheek heightening her self-awareness. She abruptly perceived a collective desire to win pulsating through the deep impatience of shifting wings and shuffling hoofs. She found herself finally participating in the passions of a thousand ancestors, and for the first time, she felt belonging and respect.

A rifle shot bellowed, and a wave of rearing horses and loosed eagles chorused battle cries pursued, ricocheting down the encompassing canyon halls. Erdene jolted back into real-time and gasped, inhaling the violent eruption of energy. She sensed Batu and Altan as an extension of herself and the three became a singular being at that moment. Batu lunged forward. Erdene clung to him and in perfect form simultaneously thrust her arm up propelling Altan to the sky. Golden eagles, horses, and riders joined in the crescendo capable of lifting the scales on the dragon’s neck.

Balrog, was inflight when he heard the starting gun. Neighing horses, pounding hoofs, and screaming eagles flourishing nine feet of feathers teased his giddy anticipation and he stretched his enormous wingspan to the limit. He grumbled erratically scouting the foothills for the best “seat.”

Balrog, an immortal Tolkien fan, had recently nicknamed himself, in homage to the author. He was sympathetic to the fiery figure forgotten beneath the dwarf mines. He hid behind the eccentric rituals of Mongolian Natives. Furthermore, no ordinary creature easily comprehends the name of a dragon. To attempt pronouncing it here would consume two pages and result in a rude translation. He had contemplated adopting the name Smaug but considered that character a misrepresentation of “real dragons.” He could not get over the blunder that a dragon was incapable of invisibility. He chuckled and thought, “Put a lost ring on a halfling… suddenly a dragon is bested?”

Invisibility is a complicated endeavor. No dragon can choose whether another sees it or not. Makes one shudder at the power of belief. A magician meagerly mimics the bioengineering of dragon scales achieving the illusion of vanishing via distraction and mirrors. An intimate awareness of one’s surroundings is a prerequisite to true invisibility. Like an octopus camouflaged among the coral beds, a praying mantis at dusk, or a chameleon in the rain. Balrog hid in the undulating heat of the Mongolian desert’s perceived horizon, and he was good at it. Should human flesh encounter his metallic scales, contact would give him away and he would shimmer into the vision of the touched, condemning his disguise. One unsettling thought regarding the people he had consumed.

A rare, isolated larch tree presented itself miraculously surviving atop the terracing foothills. It thirstily waved to Balrog with sparse branches ushering him in the breeze to an adequate spectator’s nest. He tucked his wings and cut through the air before halting his dive by extending them like a parachute slowing his descent. He hooked the base of the larch tree with the farthest-reaching impetuous claw of his wing. Whipping himself around the trunk nearly uprooting the tree and sending a rockslide of shale trickling down the hillside in a plume of dust. He found his footing and shook the sand from his smooth abalone scales and hunkered down beside the teetering tree.

A marbled polecat emerged from the rubble before him and shirked in terror darting away in rapid retreat. Skidding to a stop, it turned for a brave glance back from a safer distance raising a brow and cocking its tiny head to the side in disbelief. Balrog gazed back at the impressive little survivor and then at the leaning tree. “My apologies.” He offered. Crouched beside the polecat’s ruined sanctuary he swept his forearms out and embraced the rubble around the revealed roots. He pulled the earth inward surrounding the trunk straightening the lucky tree while padding the soil down. “There, like new.” Balrog cast a doubtful grin at the disgruntled mammal.

“What in the world?” the polecat grimaced pondering aloud while shuddering the dirt from his perplexed pelt before scurrying away over the adjacent hill.

Balrog sighed and shrugged watching the polecat’s hasty departure, then he felt it… reverberating through the ancient bedrock, near two hundred hoofs approaching. Excitement erupted in his belly igniting the cavity in his lung and forcing him to choke back a flame. Small ringlets of black smoke escaped his flared nostrils.

The course’s first turn inevitably proved the most revealing of the finalists. He found the earliest disqualifications as entertaining as the winners’ circle. Although he would never admit he was a fan. Apart from the occasional refereeing, he had “never” interfered. Balrog had eaten a mouth full of cheaters, and they were not all eagles. Worst case eagles would unconscionably attack and kill their rivals. “Dinner and a show,” he would taunt them before devouring them. He believed himself capable of predicting winners and honorably swaying the outcome, when necessary, with a dragon’s sense of integrity.

Today he was here to witness a particular golden eagle and rider’s performance. He hoped they would not fall victim to the preliminary round of failing contenders he had ample time to categorize.

When over a hundred golden eagles are simultaneously relieved of their blinders chaos ensues. Eagles with instincts among eagles with dreams. What are good instincts really, other than a healthy balance of wants and needs? Balrog was always surprised by the eagles with the worst handlers remaining loyal to the win. While respectfully treated raptors on teams with predictably deemed “best odds” would become diverted by an estranged partner and both glorious birds would fly away into the sunset. Leaving riders and their mounts in a posture of defeat. A paradox unraveled through a modest understanding of fear might illuminate an answer to this conundrum. Consequently, winners never included a “lost” eagle or an “abusive” wrangler. Winners made a team effort feel graceful. Winners made the dragon lose all notion of time encompassing him in "the now" like a soulful living blanket. Winners made him forget why he had come to the desert so very long ago.

II

Scrimmage