The Dragon Rangers

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. On the increasingly rare occasions that dragons do appear, I am the one who keeps them safe. I am a Ranger.

“I’ve never seen these for real,” Alix, my partner whispers, handing me our shared pair of binoculars. “Chinese Yinglongs.”

I peer at the magnified dragons.

“It won’t be long before poachers arrive,” I say. “These are hard to miss.”

We’re several kilometres away, hidden inside a camouflaged trapper’s hut, its walls and roof covered in old leaves and branches, but even from this distance they are glorious to behold. Their bodies are like golden snakes, entwining around one another, sparkling beneath the hot sun. Their wings, unusual for a Chinese breed of dragon, hardly move, effortlessly keeping them off the ground. Steam billows from their nostrils, wafting around their intelligent, terrifying faces, cat-like and reptilian.

“We should get closer,” Alix says, taking the binoculars back. It takes me a moment to loosen my grip; I do not want to stop watching the creatures.

“We can see perfectly well from here.”

“If there are poachers, we’re not close enough to get there in time.”

Good cop, bad cop is a terrible cliché, but there is a little bit of truth in it when it comes to Alix and me. She’s hot-headed, loves taking risks – and loves winding me up by doing it. I’m the cautious one, waiting like a tiger in the tall grass until I’m sure that the moment is right to make a move. I guess that opposites attract is another bad cliché that applies to us.

“Look,” Alix says, thrusting the binoculars back to me. “At the eastern end of the Valley.”

I pan from where the dragons dance, painting elaborate symbols against the sky with their bodies. Dust rises near the horizon, where the Valley mouth opens up; on a day like this, clouds like that only come from rolling wheels.

“Told you so,” Alix whispers. Her breath is hot against my ear. Even as the urgency of the situation begins to wrap its fingers around my heart, something tingles in my lower stomach. “Let’s get moving and stop those leeches.”

Then she is gone before I can even offer my objections, bursting out of our shelter and into the harsh mid-afternoon light. I follow, reluctantly and desperately. Alix is a faster runner over long distances than I am, and if I cannot catch her, then I know that she’ll run straight into danger. I stumble as I exit the shelter, catching my leg on a piece of old netting, and Alix is away.

“Run fast, Suzannah,” she heckles, tossing her head back and laughing. “I’m going to need your help with this!”

I watch as the love of my life, infuriating and arrogant, sprints away from me. My face is red, shame and anger blending together in shades of crimson, and my heart is thundering, beating a panicked rhythm inside my chest. Alix is running towards the dragons, hoping to head the poachers off and, I’m sure of it, get a much closer look at the rarest of creatures.

Head spinning with a thousand competing worries, I follow in Alix’s wake. My attention constantly flickers from the rising dust cloud, produced by whatever vehicle the poachers are manning, to the undulating bodies of the dragons, their movements a sequence of complex, golden knots, tying and unravelling and tying again. Alix’s own body grows smaller as the dragons grow larger; she sprints effortlessly, bounding over the grass. I think about crying out, begging her to stop, but I know that, even if she hears me, she’ll laugh and run even faster. Besides, my lungs are burning already, and every breath feels as hot as dragon fire.

Then, a crack erupts, rippling off the Valley walls, ricocheting off the sky. Something inside my brain, an animal instinct that balks at thunder, forces me from my feet and into a patch of long grass. I raise the binoculars that Alix had left with me in her rush to exit the shelter and watch in horror.

The poachers have reached the dragons. The creatures rise up, stretching vertically like cobras, their scales glistening with deadly intent. A hiss, loud and terrifying, echoes across the Valley and I cover my ears. The poachers are firing something from great metal cannons, so large that it takes two masked men to carry each weapon. Nets fly through the air, tangling around the dragons’ elegant bodies, snagging their delicate wings and crushing them against the earth. One is resolutely pinned to the ground, incapable of struggling, but the other gets a claw free and swipes indiscriminately, churning up the earth and tearing huge holes in the netting. It breaks free, coils itself around its mate and, seeing the poachers draw closer, their cannons re-loaded, wails. The sound comes close to shattering my heart. Every hair on my body stands on end, petrified, and my veins feel cold, hollow. If it was winter, then the snow would be falling from the mountaintops in brutal avalanches, burying us all.

Then, the remaining free dragons takes flight. Even in its distress, it is effortless. It whips away, escaping the clutches of the poachers before they can flinch.

Only then do I realise that Alix is also trapped beneath a net. Hidden amongst the tall grass, not a tiger biding its time but a deer cowering in fright, I begin to faint.