By the Cliff’s Edge

It happened in an instant.

The tempest brought with it the dark clouds which bled black into the clear blue canvas, and cloaked it gray. The cryptic white mist now looked glaringly sharp against the lightless backdrop. It was an indication for her to leave.

‘The woods are not safe after the sun goes down.’, her father had warned, several times.

But she was not in the depths of the woods; she was out of its foliage on the barren slopes, which were unforgiving to anything living. She had, however, scaled that formidable mountain often — the first time was, when she was only six. Since then it has been countless times that she had dared the ominous mountain, to climb and sit by its edge, and watch the impenetrable and mystifying white mist enveloping the same piece of earth and air, far away from her. She never had any company — there were no inroads from the impassable woods to out of them. But she was one with the wind and the trees — barely a minute passed before she would find herself staring at the mist, waiting for it to unveil whatever it was that it had been guarding perpetually.

The sun was down — or it was no more capable of light and warmth — a mark for her to go back, lest her parents, who were unacquainted with her forbidden exploits, started worrying. The barren slopes were ominous — it had devoured all the life that had ever planted a foot on its chest. Legend had it that it was the abode of Koroda, the dragon. It hoarded jewels and gems, bones and flesh; heaps of gold and silver dazzled its lair. A part of that legend sufficed to entice people to embark on their last journey, while the latter was successful in deterring the plain folk.

In all her adventures, Elena did not see any dragon; she never stumbled upon any of its lair of either riches, or doom. She didn’t even try. The uncanny white mist shrouding something was what had arrested her curiosity, from since she can remember. In twenty years, the mist had never betrayed its secret.

An unclothed child with a few days in her, she was found abandoned on the lower slopes of that mountain deep in the woods. Elena had grown into a handsome girl with red hair, and red eyes which were easily startled. Taller and stronger than all women in the village — her strength was never measured against that of men. But she tended to their chores — tilling the fields was her favorite. Nimble as a deer, she was quick of temper — a trait, certainly not becoming of a respectable woman. But then, she had always been different, and she wore the difference unflinchingly.

‘I went up to the mountain-top — there were no trees — very cold wind — but no dragon. No dragon father.’, she panted and exclaimed, ‘But it was beautiful — the mist — oh! It was beautiful’, she announced, and waited with impatient curiosity.

Her father looked at her with a stern, but benign gaze.

‘Children mustn’t lie’ ,he ruled.

‘But, I’m not lying, father. I ran up. I saw the mist.’, still panting, she pleaded for her father’s belief.

‘Elena, you have been out of my sight for only a few minutes.’, this time he didn’t even look at her.

‘No father, I was there. Up at the top. I was fast.’

‘And you didn’t see the dragon?’, he said as a matter of fact.

Elena was stunned, her eyes expanded and she replied, ‘No father. There was no dragon.’

Her father smiled an exhausted, and still, an unbelieving smile, ran his hand through her head, and signaled for her to leave. Chagrined, she did as was bid, and never again mentioned her escapade, except twice — once to her mother, and then to her father, at which time, she was met with a graver reaction.

Now it was her secret, buried in her bosom. It wasn’t the dragon and his gold, but the opaque mist and its abode, that kept the curiosity burning inside her.

Today, it was not yet time for the sun to sleep, but the sky was already shrouded in a black cloak — the golden blades could no more pierce through that coat of mail. She sat there fixated on the distant dwelling. A thunder roared not so far away — perhaps, a storm was brewing somewhere; the lightning struck; the sky glittered; and then was filled with red glare as the trees scorched and smoked.

‘I should return’, she thought.

But she didn’t. She sat, and waited, and hoped for the fog to clear, and the magic to unfold. The storm drew closer; thunder bombed louder — she felt a burning in the pit of her stomach. It was as if the thunder had manifested itself as a ball of fire inside her belly. It was not an unfamiliar feeling. The mist stood there, steadfast, as her insides burned, and howled — and she turned and twisted.

‘I should have returned back’, she thought.

But it was too late — like always.

Every bone in her body broke, and reformed. Her soul too. With a dying flicker in her easily-startled eyes, she forgot her father, she forgot her mother, she forgot her sister. As if battling the lightning, she spewed fire, flapped her wings — larger than the fields she tilled until a while ago — and flew away. The sky witnessed a riot of fire and color, red and silver, thunder and lighting, dark and light, as she cut across its bosom.

The mist was unaffected. It still protected its secret — from everyone — except, its mistress. It opened up to her, and quenched her longing, once again.

It was her lair, and She was the dragon.