Dragon/s Dream. A Postmodern Fable

Beyond the Sea

The Tides of Night

Eternal darkness of the void beyond seeped into the world at the beginning to become night.

Indeed, the darkness was the world; for ages it had reigned unchallenged and pure, unmarred by light, hidden inside itself, until some star a distance away caught sight of it, and then another, and the corruption commenced.

The darkness strained and strived, foreseeing that it might prevail in the end, even if vanquished at the moment. The light tore at it, banished it, and the darkness suffered, and its loss was great. It kept coming back, always, yet was no longer able to endure. Irresolute and restive, it shifted from one place to the next, all the while repeatedly forced to give up what it had just reclaimed.

Thus the night and the world were divided.

Before, the void beyond had nurtured the night, its favorite progeny, and had sent shadows to act upon its behalf, shadows inseparable both from the night itself and the dark world it engulfed. Now, disconnected, in torment, they gained shapes in wavering starlight and grew distinctive and independent, guarding the night and guiding it from harm.

The shadows found themselves familiar with the dragons, who took no sides, for whom both the darkness and the light were alike. They traveled and they conversed, they ran together and flied together, and sometimes could be mistaken for each other, to mutual amusement.

Many creatures and things of the dark, however, changed their allegiance and were transformed, led to light and to life, but not the shadows, which remained unto themselves. They were all different at first, and neither their appearances nor desires nor doings were remotely the same. They inhabited disparate regions and seldom met in an encounter. They harbored secretly an aversion to each other, as did the darkness and the light.

A ravenous fiery star of extraordinary brightness once drifted from far off and preyed upon the darkness of the world, crippling it with searing shine. The shadows perished in numbers uncountable, were reborn, and perished anew; but the star never withdrew. Insatiable though it was, it could not devour the darkness wholly – from what was left the night and its shadows emerged time after time, weakened but unbroken for all that.

On these occasions, with the fiery star done for the day, the night was able to roam free, unchecked. It swept over the waters and the lands, and filled the air, reuniting the world with the void beyond. It was neither cool nor warm, dry nor wet, supple nor rigid, and it was everywhere. The night was everything, and everything was the night, albeit briefly.

The stars, myriads of them, flickered on all sides, piercingly visible, illuminating nothing. Their soundless songs rushed by and across like currents in an ocean, coalescing into a single celestial harmony of many facets and layers, driving a listener mad and stealing one’s very self.

The dragons did not listen, or if they did, they made no resistance whatsoever. They did not care not to be themselves anymore, or for anything to be anything, for that matter. The tides of night took them across the sky and the stars, holding them firmly in their grip, and the dragons were aware of this firmness, of the steady pulse that ran through the night, of the heartbeat of the void echoed in the rising and falling black waves.

Had any of them glanced sideways, they would have noticed other phantoms, all sliding noiselessly ahead, farther and further – more dragons, all indifferent to the presence of the others, all submitted to the power of night. Their minds were vacant, their senses detached, and night was with them and within them.

More stars began to arrive whenever their fiery kin abated, and some stayed. They had no light of their own, no hunger; instead, they chose to reflect any light that came their way and mutilated the darkness with pale glow nonetheless. Only the clouds provided an incidental relief. Yet, the ancient balance was destroyed. The night of the darkness ebbed and flowed in relentless tides, never at peace, biding its time ever since.

As for the shadows, they were bound to the custom of the world and so restrained. They were made to mimic, as if in a kind of dream, whatever creature or thing they approached and to be at the mercy of all the stars and fires, and any other light there may have been. They were deprived of their strength and of their form, reduced to bear the uneven shape of the others, devoid of color or substance, constantly driven to no escape and brought back. Only the dragons had no part in that and still conferred with the shadows on equal terms, as of old.

It would not last interminably, the night knew. The world had belonged to it, and it would again, at least for some time. Sooner or later the voracity of the fiery star would be quenched, its strength spent. The lightless stars would be of no significance and the distant ones would lose interest. And the shadows, released belatedly, would see to the rest.

It would start slowly, gradually.

In the blazing radiance a faint, faint shadow would go astray, its outline blurred and resembling nothing certain. Another shadow elsewhere would disappear altogether. The night itself, perhaps, would linger a moment longer than regularly. And faraway lights would dissolve before making it all the way through.

The dragons would read the omens and understand but would not interfere. They would only observe how the shadows turned less and less passive, how they imitated their counterparts less and less faithfully, and how the living creatures and things of the light declined and trembled, recalling where they had come from, unwilling to return.

At one point the darkness, eternal darkness of the void beyond, would flood the world to become night. Many would drown, but it would be as it had been before, cleansed and inviolate. The darkness would be the world, would reign unchallenged and pure, hidden inside itself.

And the dragons would glide on its tides once more and revel.

Of Fishes Large and Small

The Dragon came here, to the bottom of the sea, when he was inclined to be social and in a mood for urbane company. He was maneuvering through the fishes, attracting rare dispassionate glances; and the fishes were everywhere, of all sizes, shapes and colors, in schools and solitary. A few darted to and fro on their errands, thoroughly unconcerned, while a greater part moved leisurely in a grave and dignified fashion.

It was impossible not to overhear some conversations.

«Those who speak do not know,» said one fish to another.

«Those who know do not speak.» The fish nodded in agreement.

«I cannot stand ignorance,» the first fish went on. «Despite being neither beautiful nor wise nor good, it is pleased with itself, so that thinking it does not need anything, it avoids what it truly needs.»

An enormous fish, bigger than the Dragon himself, spiraled closer with a melancholy air.

«I never avoid what I need, not me,» it pronounced. With nimbleness utterly disproportionate to its size it pulled the first fish by the fin and swallowed it whole.

«First know yourself, I say. Then know the others,» commented the second fish.

«To know anything, one has to know oneself first – it is through oneself that one can know anything,» said the Dragon. «Alternately, it is peering through a fog at a speck of dust on a cloudy night – dim specters and elusive silhouettes. The one who knows oneself shields his eyes from the dazzling sun and makes a step back for a better look.»

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