The northern tip of the island is a mess. The four principles of earth, air, fire and water have long used it as a battle ground. Under their intermittent and savage or continuous and relentless assaults according to each one’s different style of war it has grown wilder and more hostile to life. The beach is rough and black. Large rocks hurled from the volcano are scattered as igneous outposts in the raging surf, but they go no further than fifteen meters from the land. At that point the sea shelves sharply and a deep current whips around the coast. The incessant trade winds which circle the green world hit the land, just about here. Coming to meet them are the stiffly formal frozen rivers of lava, which sought to extend the earth’s frontiers when the volcano last had to plaster the planet’s widening wound.
Life is an intrusion here; an afterthought which slips beneath the notice of the elements only because they are thinking in terms of aeons. That is the way in which they are always subverted.
This is the favourite place of the Great Grey Dragons. A small wild colony ambles through the most untamed wilderness. They are tall beasts, about the height of a grown man at the head, with low back legs and a long flat tail running back to balance the weight of their thin necks, which cannot be entirely supported by the more delicate front feet. Fearsome as they look, the reptiles are herbivores. Raising their thin front limbs they can tear and pull leaves from low shrubs and trees into their mouths. In this way, they munch through great supplies of greenery every day. No predator is large enough to threaten them and if it wasn’t for the fact that they mate very infrequently the island would be overrun and stripped bare. As it is, they live long lives and have a serene and patient existence.
In the afternoon most of the sixteen in the current population can be found sunning themselves, both on the shore and out amid the waves on their own personal rocks. You might imagine that they are meditating for their eyes are closed and they hardly ever stir.
Today they are being watched. Large amber and violet eyes stare from beneath furtive leaves. Quick little minds study the precise location of each animal, calculate probable escape routes and review the details of their plan. Capturing a Great Grey Dragon is never easy, but the king wants a new ceremonial beast to ride in the biannual progress. With a green saddle, gold bridle and tackle heavy with intricate carving and finery, the Royal Dragons are magnificent; an awe inspiring sight and a fit mount for a ruler to ride. First they must be caught.
A foolish observer might think that the reptiles are asleep. Where the wind massages their backs and the silent sun is soporific, why should they not sleep? A foolish observer might think that the reptiles are unaware of his presence. Those eyes are closed and I am well hidden. How can they know?
The watchers are not foolish. They have done this before and they know full well that the dragons are almost as conscious of them as they are conscious of the dragons. The lumbering grey beasts know this jungle too well to miss any changes, however subtle. But for the moment they are content to feign ignorance or indifference and to wait; to let the irritating little two legged scamperers make the first move.
So they do. Around the peninsula five small boats come swiftly on the current, each paddled kyak fashion by two natives. One dragon is rather isolated out to sea and three of them approach him. He is a youngster, barely thirty years of age. Rapidly they move in and he is surprised by the direction and co-ordination of their actions. Jump! Into the surging waves and over with the long thin craft nearest to the calculated splash of disruption. What confusion! He swims to shore, but the two other boats take up the chase. One of the feathered ones is floating very still. His companion in misfortune kicks free from their sinking craft and pulls him to the rock. He will live. Now the dragon is wading out onto the shore. Relatives make way for him, otherwise doing nothing. He looks for the trails. One of them is blocked by screaming natives who have emerged from hiding to wave wicked looking spears. The other appears almost empty but even so, there are signs that the feathered ones are there and he senses a trap. He makes a quick decision. Between two outcrops, is a narrow alternative, heavy with foliage and as yet untrodden. Crashing through the thick leaves, it is a mistake. The little ones have reasoned right with a feint and a surprise. The net falls on his head and in a trice they are swarming over him. Bounding and squawking, their agile bodies seek to harness and to tame without harming the wild creature. They are skilful but this is the easy part. Resistance is low. In less than five minutes they have the dragon quiet and ready to be led away in triumph from the peninsula. Its foot splashes loudly in a small sandy creek, perhaps in a last gesture of defiance, as calling and chirping, the troupe start their homeward march.
Throughout the spectacle the other reptiles have been quiet. With studied indifference they have left their fellow to his fate. It seems as if they cannot conceive of helping, or as if they have a long tradition of stoic philosophy; the resignation of a monastery of Zen Buddhists born into the genes. Qui sera, sera. They look out to sea as the sounds fade. Staring into infinity where the sky and sea meet, or closing their eyes once more their sombre thoughts return to rest. Now they are fifteen.
