The Boy, The Beetle, The Burning (Chapter 1, Draft 1)

Ancient bones hold strong, despite the pains brought by dropping barometric pressure. It was a cool day, which he did not like. He had just eaten and needed the heat to help his digestion. Mist kissed his keeled, mottled scales and wove through the woods. Something was in the air. Something else.

Winding, serpentine, through the trees, the dragon found the change. He twined and draped himself in the canopy of the old growth forest and studied the creature below him. A child, human. Bad news. The start of a new game.

Sharp eyes surveyed the stranger and surroundings. No one lying in wait, just the lone child dropping to the ground in defeat. It looked tired, lost. Covered in dirt and dressed too lightly for a child in the cold, stomach growling. Animals growl as a warning. He should heed that warning and disappear. No good would come from intervening, no sympathy would be spared for an old forest dragon meddling in human affairs. It was always the same. He thought of the witch.

He lowered his head until he was face to face with the child, a boy, its breath and the dragon’s mixing into a warm orb apart from the mist. The boy’s attention barely flickered to him, instead focused on the ground in front of it. A small beetle, shining carapace and clumsy legs, trudged across the leaf litter. The child hadn’t dropped to the ground in defeat at all.

Some dragons were practically worshiped, deified. These were the ones with feathers instead of scales, with tolerance for domesticity, that would allow themselves to be broken and remain so. The good dragons make men great by serving, protecting, and sacrificing. But him, our forest dragon with reptilian eyes on a child, calculating mind on a chess match? Dragons like him make men great by putting up a fight and losing. Men treat dragons like they treat women. They treat dragons like they treat anyone other. Exploit the weakness, dominate and control. Command the narrative, record events however serves them best. Resistance is punished. Do not dare to dare. Good dragons were models, faces and names displayed for the world. A warning to all others, the animal’s growl.

When would the child learn to destroy everything it could not master? Has it begun? Unlikely, the dragon thought, considering its interest in the little insect. He hesitated, catching himself. A rare thing for a great, winged dragon– needing to be caught. Of course, he thought, it is easier to break a thing you know. The more intimate the knowledge, the more dangerous. Humans can breathe fire, too. The boy looked up, the beetle had disappeared under the lost foliage. It had so many questions in its eyes. So did the dragon.

As a younger dragon, he had seen a woman chased into the woods. Hidden and watching from afar, he saw her escape, saw the town square’s fire threaten to spread into the forest. This was a woman who knew how and when to run. She had been accused of witchcraft, an utterly transparent move to punish a bold woman who dared. The witch refused a marriage, knew too much, felt joy and liberation, some other crime. The dragon never actually found out what exactly had led her to his woods. They both preferred it that way, so he made sure to close his eyes, pretend he couldn’t hear.

The child spoke first. A bold move, the move of a man. A bad sign.

“Hello,” greeted the child with an effortless calm. The dragon paused, assessed it. This boy and this calm were quite curious indeed. The possibilities and mysteries drew the dragon in a hair closer. Despite better judgment, despite instincts that protected him all these years, it was too late. The game was on, and the dragon had revealed himself too soon. This careless gambit narrowed the field for his next moves.

Instead of returning the salutation, he asked a question. “What drew your attention to that beetle? Plain black, typical structure, common. Where is the excitement for a child in that?” The dragon articulated each word carefully and skeptically, offering up a challenge to any boy with the mind for one. He loved a mind for tricks, he had one himself.

Once the witch had met the dragon, they entered an uneasy trust. Each had enough reason to hide from any other living creature, but instead found a tentative comfort in their shared otherness. They learned from each other. He taught manipulations and calculations, she taught freedom and exploration. The lessons were complementary. She sought out magic in her time alone, and spent years hiding her work from him. He always knew, of course, somehow he always knew everything she did. And while they had a strong bond, she was evidently feeling the effects of isolation. She could not forge meaningful relationships with the people outside of the wood. The only good man she’d ever allowed herself to meet, she’d turned into a toad. Not literally, of course– she wasn’t a witch. But she became one.

“Excitement is a trick to distract you. When you see past the spectacular, you can see the deception.” The dragon’s scales tingled at its nonchalance, its advanced vocabulary. This boy could not yet be four years old, but spoke with the wisdom only some elderly men reached. The wisdom cons needed. He made it his mission not to be surprised much in life, and he enjoyed this turn in events. How unlikely to meet a child such as this. I shall enjoy this road, no matter how perilous, thought the dragon. Highwaymen and fallen bridges will not turn me back. They sweeten the travel.

The boy clocked the mischievous joy twitching at the dragon’s great jaw, that particular dragon’s spark in his eyes. Then, the dragon’s attention shot away in an instant. The speed was frightening, even to this stoic boy. Men were coming. A search party must have been sent out for this child. The dragon turned back to the boy and their eyes met in understanding, in challenge, in excitement. The boy bent, picked up a stick, and lifted it out towards the dragon. It was rewarded with the sight of the dragon’s teeth.

He lit the end of the stick aflame, and disappeared.