Soft as Ripe Fruit

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. Not on your world.

Not until I landed there.

When I soared down the first time, wings still sizzling from my entrance through the atmosphere, still glistening in golden radiance from the solar winds that powered my flight through the stars, I was drowsy. I found the valley empty, save the cool river that splashed down from the mountain to the north. Small ancestors of the fish you eat now wove merrily through the rapids. Dragonflies the size of your huts wisped about my torso, enthralled by the dizzying metallic glean of my scales. I smiled at the simple comforts of a world so primitive, of a valley so peaceful.

After dipping the tips of my wings into the deepest part of the river, unfortunately boiling many fish that swam too close, I merrily dug into the north mountain, curled peacefully into my burrow, and sleepily blinked while I watched the valley. In my eyes, I watched for only a few moments, but in the scale of time that you can understand, I watched for centuries. Then I shut my eyes and I slept.

Imagine my surprise, upon awakening and finding your hairy forefathers, so curious and inquisitive and brave, poking around in my lair. It pained me to dispatch them, but I sleep so rarely, and to be disturbed in my own burrow rankled me.

At my next awakening I found my peaceful valley bustling with activity, but my slumber was over, and I could depart in peace. It seemed a shame, the once tranquil swath of land now being carved up for your own selfish, fleeting needs. But so it goes, no starshine lasts forever, no river valley can be left untarnished.

I had grown, as I always do in my slumber, and the mountain had widened, and my departure made quite the stir. The ground exploded out; massive boulders hurled through the air. I poked free my horned skull from my burrow. I clawed the hole wider and emerged, stretching my wings wide for the first time in millennia. They caught the evening sun and the refractions of light danced across the village before me, blinding many who stood frozen in fear. Many creatures ran screaming and braying for the far hills.

But not you.

You waddled towards me with your strange fleshy lips flapping, holding a thin little stick in your bare hand. I realized you desired to speak with me, and I cocked my head. How quaint, I thought, a little self-conscious being, soft as ripe fruit and smaller than most of the insects that preceded you, beckoning a space faring predator with a wingspan that could block out the sky with a conversation.

I indulged you. I leaned forward, my neck descending in a grand arc, slithering around the few boulders that now rested scattershot across the land. I brought one amber eye even with your face and saw unique resolve etched in your own tiny blue eyes.

Perspiration dotted your brow, and your lips were now sealed. Your hand tightened on your sharp-tipped stick.

But my kind have knowledge that yours never will. I reached out into your mind and spoke with you.

“What would you like to say to me, small being?”

You trembled, as I engaged your mind, but I did not probe, I did not bore down into your soul and your unconscious, as others of my kind might. I just waited patiently. The stick fell from your hand and you knelt before me.

“What are you?” you asked.

“Others similarly evolved to you, from other worlds, have called us dragons. The name is not displeasing to me. I do not see why your world should have any other name for us. I am the first of my kind to visit this place.”

“Other worlds?”

“Yes, your world is not alone in bearing life. As there are fish and birds and apes here, there are others across the stars. Few are the visits from the stars and it may be a very long time if ever before any other beings visit.”

“You are from the stars?”

“You could say that, yes.”

“And you’re leaving us, going back to the stars?”

“I intend to, yes.”

“Can you help us?”

“Help you?” I cocked my head and looked about.

Clearly you apes were thriving. You wore the furs of other beasts; you created your own dwellings. You were soft and small and yet plentiful. You carried little stick weapon tools about and poked other soft beasts with them. I envisioned many valleys all across your world could sustain you for many millions of orbits around your star.

“You need no help.” I responded.

“But we do. Our children die, we fight amongst ourselves, some years the rains don’t come, and many starve. Large cats hunt us in the wild places. Is it supposed to be this difficult?”

“Nothing is supposed to be anything. No starshine lasts forever. But while it does, the warmth is nice.”

“But what about us? Can we go to the stars? What is out there? Who put us here? What happens when we die?”

The simple questions of a primitive self-conscious species. But understandable questions, nonetheless. I lifted my head away from you. I extended my wings and felt the strength that a long sleep had restored to my body. My scales shuffled, preparing for me to alight from this world.

Before I took flight, I turned back to you.

“Reach your nearest star, young ape, and I will return. And we will discuss your questions, and your next journey.” Little did I believe then, that such a task would be capable for such a small creature.

I soared the stars for eons, finding other little cozy worlds to nap upon, speaking with the rare bird or octopus or whale that developed self-consciousness enough for me to engage in a dialogue. None were close to departing their world.

And yet here you are now, spread halfway across your solar system, probing into the dark void between the next nearest stars.

My kind do keep our promises. And so, I return to you now.

There weren’t always dragons in the valley, not on your world.

But there soon shall be again. We must discuss your destiny, and prepare your defenses. For others of my kind grow jealous when their space is encroached upon.