Most mornings, Kamiratan awoke with a dazzling display of color, green and gold and rose, cheerful and happy to greet the new day. But this morning brought forth only a somber, gray dreariness. Smoke hung low along the ridges like toxic vapors escaped from a pit. Above, the mountain mourned, its sides wet with dewy tears.
Song knelt beside the cook fire and dished himself a bowl of gruel. Last night, the soft murmur of flames had grown to a raging snarl, louder than water pouring off the mountain after a storm. Orange flames licked hungrily at the mountain’s feet. While Karina raced ahead to the village, Song had fled away home, pausing to stash Grandfather’s box among the carvings in the rock crevice, both to preserve it and to avoid punishment.
But the hut had been empty when he stumbled inside. At first he feared his grandfather might have returned and, not finding Song, left again to search, but the unlocked chest in the corner put those concerns to rest. Grandfather had not been back. Alone, Song had clung to Kintu during the long hours of the night.
From the window of the hut, it appeared the sun had lost its way and wandered in the direction of the river. For a time, Song was afraid the fire might spread over the entire mountain. But in an act of self-preservation, Kamiratan had breathed down enough wind to blow the flames into the quenching grasp of the Chin-Yazi, and the light had gone out before dawn.
Gray ash continued to swirl among the breezes, and the reek of burned timber sullied the cleanness of morning. Song ate his breakfast in silence, his thoughts as dark as the smoky air.
Moments later a faltering step sounded on the village path, and Grandfather dragged himself across the clearing. Weariness bent him almost double, and his eyes held sadness enough for ten lifetimes. Settling painfully beside the cook fire, he sat cross-legged with Kintu pressed against his knee. Sooty smudges blackened his skin and clothing.
Song ladled him some breakfast.
“I have sent for help too late, I fear.” He shook his head regretfully. “Two have perished.”
“Who?” Song asked sharply. He had called Karina back from the flames, begged her to follow him, but she would not abandon her family.
“Little Tamina was lost in the fire, and Lonzi Sanochi has disappeared. Carried off, I suspect, but he may still turn up in the rubble.”
Carried off? The man was as big as an ox!
Grandfather wiped feebly at his face in a gesture of pure exhaustion. “The villagers will rebuild, as they always have, but I fear this time their heartache has just begun.”
Song’s hand trembled as he offered the old man the bowl. “Grandfather,” he whispered, “I have to know what’s out there.”
But the man was busy shoveling food into his mouth. When he began to slow, Song fixed him with a level gaze. “Twice I have felt evil pass overhead, trailing fear like a ship trails a wake. You cannot protect me by hiding it from me. Please, you must tell me what it is.”
The old man seemed to sink beneath the weight of the foul air, but he nodded in agreement. “It is time you heard the very first story.” He took one last, huge bite of porridge, as if for strength, set aside the bowl, and began:
“Long, long ago, when the earth was molded of new clay, Mutan built upon it the city of Zuminka. All about this city he planted sunny meadows that rippled with grasses and flowers. To cast shade, he fashioned groves of cool, dark trees. And everywhere he set gentle animals, and birds of every song and color. He caused waters to flow and trees to bloom and bear fruit. And at Zuminka’s very center, he placed an ancient tree, old beyond the beginnings of the world.
“He fashioned a man and a woman and placed them in a fine hut. He fashioned others to fill the city, but Zumari and his wife he set above every created thing. They were to rule over the people and the creatures. Yet, the ancient tree they must not touch. It was sacred and old, out of the land beyond time, and it was called the Guardian.
“The man and woman lived long in their hut, at peace and at rest, discovering daily the many blessings of Mutan. The animals multiplied, and the man and woman brought forth children of their own. The city grew and filled. And always the old tree stood guard above them, but against what, the people could not tell.
“Over time, Zumari developed great skill in carpentry. He constructed many handsome buildings and filled them with beautiful things. He crafted bowls and utensils, tools and carts. He carved likenesses of the animals for the children to play with. He was highly esteemed by all for his skill, but the man’s heart grew prideful. If only he could create something truly great, he might set himself apart from all other craftsmen.
“One day, Zumari’s path took him beneath the spreading branches of the Guardian. No breeze played against his cheek, yet the ancient giant swayed from side to side. The man stopped to watch its motion, wondering, as he often did, if the tree was recalling some storm beyond the memory of the world.
“As he watched, he saw that the wood never cracked. In fact, not even one severed twig lay on the ground. The tree was strong and supple and perfect, with no blemish or shriveled branch. Its wood, he realized, was better than any other tree in Zuminka.
“Disregarding Mutan’s orders, he took hold of a branch. It felt warm in his hand, and throbbed with life, yet he applied his blade and severed the limb.
“When the branch lay at his feet, the tree shuddered. A groan issued from its roots, passed through the trunk, and trembled the leaves nearest heaven in a desperate prayer of supplication. Then as the man watched, the Guardian suddenly wrenched apart, torn and splintered in an angry explosion, its proud form lifeless on the ground.
“From its wreckage arose fire and thunder and the form of an evil, black dragon. The serpent clawed itself free, shrinking from the light of the day. With a shriek of triumph and terror, it unfurled its wings and spiraled skyward, seeking refuge in the darkest bowels of the mountain.
“From that time on, Zuminka was scattered and fell into decay. For on the day the Guardian died, the Ancient Terror entered the world.”
In the silence that punctuated the end of Grandfather’s story, Song could almost hear his hair stand upright.
“A dragon?” he cried incredulously. “That thing flying around at night is a dragon?”
“Not just any dragon.” Grandfather’s voice sounded low and thick. “It is Ju-Long, the Ancient Dragon. The Father of Dragons. He has emerged from the mountain after twelve years.”