The Inconsolable Longing

VERY LATE THE NEXT MORNING, Xandros the donkey gave up standing between the staves of the cart waiting to be harnessed and wandered off to graze on the tufts of weed that grew near the quiet campsite. Soft moans issued from beneath the draped canopy tent but they did not seem to indicate pain. It was not, in fact, until the next day that they moved their campsite.

Over the next several days, they moved the campsite less frequently and shorter distances.

As the traveling trio progressed along the desert road, laughter, singing, the playing of the dragonslayer’s whistle, and the ringing of bells that the gypsy wove into Xandros’ mane accompanied them. There may have been other travelers they passed on this sparsely traveled road, but they were as quickly forgotten as they were encountered. At night, Selah and Steven would spend hours staring into each other’s eyes before they joined together to dance and play music. As often as not, they tumbled into each other’s arms with the music still echoing from the nearing mountains.

The mountains themselves seemed both strange and familiar to Steven. They smoked.

For all his life, Steven had seen the mountain presumed to be the home of the dragon from his village where belches of smoke would occasionally burst forth. It had been across the wide river in the distance. Though now seen from the other side, he knew that at last he was approaching his dragon. As the days progressed, he became more agitated, pushing Selah to move ahead on days when she would rather camp early and dance with him.

He had managed to almost forget the dragon in her company. The vision of being a dragonslayer was more an abstract idea than a job he was prepared to do. He knew in his mind that his village had already been saved from the dragon the day he left. But would they be able to hold their freedom if the dragon continued to belch smoke and flame across the river, or would they quietly slip back into their fears. For once, he had no words to put into a story that would describe his turmoil.

One day, as they neared the smoking mountain, Selah sat down beside the road and refused to go on. Much to Steven’s surprise, Xandros the donkey sat back in his traces and refused to move as well. With a last glance up at the mountain, Steven relented and made camp.

After they had eaten, Selah rose to dance. At first, her movements were slight. A cymbal chimed and then was silent. Her foot came forward and then was still. A cymbal chimed. It was as if the motions of her dance were being drawn out to extend till eternity.

Had she started her normal vigorous dance, Steven might have succeeded in remaining aloof as he thought about his doom. But the measured interruptions of silence drew his eyes to her. He looked at her feet and noted the delicate scratches they made in the dust as she beat their cadence. Her hips, swaying softly, moved barely more than the breeze that began to arise.

His eyes trailed upward around the curve of her breasts and along the sinuous bare arms to the fingertips that clinked together with the chime of the cymbals. Her neck met her shoulders in a tiny depression that Steven thought he could spend a lifetime exploring. Above this, her hair whipped across her face as she turned her head, showing him the profile he had grown so quickly to love.

He absently reached for his whistle and put it to his lips. At its first piercing sound, Selah spun to face him and their eyes locked. The dance progressed, gaining fervor slowly, the tensions of the day and Steven’s doubts dissolved in the movements they made. They pursued each other around the fire dancing faster and faster.

When the dance climaxed, Steven reached for his beloved. But rather than collapse with him into their nest of blankets, she pushed him down and stood over him.

“Tonight, Steven George,” she said, “you will listen. I will once-upon-a-time you. Or twice, or as often as you will,” she laughed. It was a sound Steven wished he could hear forever. “You have become confused as we traveled closer to the mountain. You do not wish to leave me, but you cannot bring yourself to forsake your quest. You are obsessed with slaying the dragon, who, in truth, never meant you harm in the first place. Therefore, listen with your ears. Listen with your heart. For time is a twisting path. We follow it ever forward and no matter what turning we take, we come to where we are.”

ONCE UPON A TIME, when the world was young, there was a dragon named Siranith. This dragon was born from the world egg and for thousands of years lay wrapped around its empty shell at the heart of the earth. But the dragon had an ache in her heart. It started as a small discomfiture ... a sigh. It grew to a tear. And finally, it settled into her as a great inconsolable longing for something more than the empty shell could offer.

Now it was not clear to Siranith what would satisfy this longing. She recognized it only as a deep inconsolable desire for something more. And so, as time passed, Siranith began to stir. “Surely,” she thought, “if I do not go seek what is calling me, I will die where I lie.”