Tag: supernatural
What if all humans are really born as dragon riders?
What if all of us have a soul out there, yearning and calling out to us and so unbelievably lonely, connected to our own?
And what if the only reason we haven’t become the most terrifying force to ever be reckoned with in the history of everything is simply… that they’re too far away from us? That we were never allowed to find them? We have the legends, we have the stories and almost-forgotten memories passed down from ancestors that desperately tried to let us know, hoping we would bring back what has been ripped away from us. They were here, our myths whisper. Find them. Find them. Find them.
It’s been two hundred years since we first left our planet. Our ships roam the solar system. Trade flourishes and we are met with a strangely reserved kind of respect – almost as if we are merely tolerated, though never outright insulted or rejected.
And then, a ship vanishes. Another follows. We search for our lost people, don’t find, help refused by the creatures more intelligent than us, stronger, larger, still keeping their distance instead of overthrowing us. But when our ships return, we know why. When they return from what we thought was a prison colony planet full of caves underground and mountains too high to land, we learn.
They all speak different languages, those other creatures, but they share an age-old saying in all of them:
“You cannot kill a dragon, but you can tame it if you take the eggs from its nest.”
But we’re humans, and they didn’t know what that meant. Without the warmth from our other souls, we took the nearest hand. We made ourselves hatch.
What if all humans are really born as dragon riders?
And what if someone’s out there, waiting for us to find them?
Nobody knows when it began.
Some say it was a Monday morning, but it could have been a Tuesday, a Sunday or anything in between. It’s hard to even remember the season – was there snow? Had the trees lost their leaves yet? Were other cats squeaking when their paws touched the concrete because the sun was burning down with too many degrees and no mercy?
It could have been years ago, or centuries.
All the people of the small town know is this:
The cat doesn’t move.
And it doesn’t seem to eat, either. They’re not even sure if it’s a she or a he. (Some whisper it’s neither. A kid told his friend in school, during break. His friend said that’s stupid, but her eyes were a little watery and very wide.)
When it rains, the cat nuzzles flat into the ground.
When the sun shines, its nose lifts into the air, eyes blinking, fur uncoiling in little happy motions.
When the heavy blizzards come, nobody can see it. Every year, they think: This is it. There’s no way this tiny thing survived. Children don’t go to school, adults don’t even need to call into work because snow rules the world and the sky spits ice into the streets and lakes.
As soon as winter leaves, the people go out looking.
The cat is still there. Its eyes are soft half-moon smiles. Someone always leaves food. It goes untouched, and somehow, not even the crows or seagulls dare come close to pick it up.
Everyone hears when it begins.
From one second to another, the sky is gone. There is no light. The universe yawns in horrible silence above their heads. Impossible, the people whisper as they stare where the stars should be and only infinite darkness grins back.
The earth cracks. A sound emerges from it, loud and distorted and a million noises screeching at once. The people of the little town are running.
The cat sits next to the hole in the ground. Something is next to it, a terrible shadow, eyes coal-glowing-red, a claw around the cat’s neck. It looks at the people, half-moon happiness now despair, as if to say: I did all I could.
And the people realize (too late), and they beg (too little), and they shiver when the shadow moves toward them.
The cat doesn’t cry. It can’t. But it sits and looks at them with sad full-moon pupils, as if to say: I’m sorry for not being stronger.
People often misunderstand what the old saying about a cat having nine lives means. The cats prefer to keep it a secret, as most humans can’t be trusted with information so fragile and precious, but there are exceptions.
The merchant who shares his leftover fish. The young girl that hides littler after litter of newborn ones in her room until they find new homes. The old man with scars who still has enough kindness to open his shed to let them slip in from the rain. Boys, teenagers, mothers, warriors, brothers – some are trusted.
Exceptions, yes, few nowadays and rare, but honoured all the more.
So nine lives there are indeed. Each cat is born with them and no matter the time or place, they are lost easily.
This is where the story ends for most people.
But for those who are trusted, those who wake up one morning and find a weird taste in their mouth, the scent of a forest never touched by human hands in their nose, and a strange lingering touch of whiskers on their forehead – they know the truth.
Nine lives for this world, is what all our legends used to say.
You, friend of cats, know the ancient, almost forgotten sayings.
You know of cat eyes shining in the deepest night when they shouldn’t be able to. You know of cats staring past your ear, at that forbidden spot right by the frayed corner of your vision, and you fear that if you look, your cat won’t be able to stare it into submission anymore. You don’t look. The cat purrs. You’re safe.
The kittens have all their lives still. They do not look at the edgewalking beasts that whisper through their humans’ house. It will take time until they fall, hurt, learn.
The oldest cats know so much that a touch of their paw will make an entire village shudder. Their quiet voices cast spells. Let them roam. You cannot imagine the things that flee from them as they walk in silence.
Cat friend, you know it in your heart.
You know of the paths they walk that human feet can’t find.
You know of the nights they vanish and return with the scent of blood, earth and salt in their fur, and when your fingers touch their coat, a cold shiver awakes your skin.
Sometimes, they hear things. You don’t know what, but you know enough to let them sit in front of your house or room, paws tucked under, dark stare never leaving an invisible spot in the air.
And when you float between sleep and life, when you’re unlucky enough to claw at the edge of death before you’re ready to go…
Then maybe, friend of cats, you’ll feel a brush of fur along your legs. Maybe, just before you startle with awe in your heart and wake once more, the same pair of eyes that should sleep by your side winks at you from another world.
The crime scene is an abstract artwork of leaves and blood. It’s difficult for the inspector to nagivate her way through the mess all over the forest ground, and she tries not to breathe too much into the stench of moss, wet earth and copper. There are five bodies, a policeman walking by her side informs her while they carefully round the scene, and they only know that because they counted – she chokes a bit when hearing that – the remains of what must have been human heads just a few hours ago.
If she hadn’t been told on the way here that people had been torn apart by some wild animal here, she wouldn’t have been sure what or who had died on the clearing in the middle of the forest.
“There are no traces leading away,” the policeman says then, flipping a page on his notepad, “seems the victims were campers, died about three hours ago. A jogger found them.”
“Of course.” The inspector sighs. Who else would find a body in a forest, if not a damn jogger. “Where is he?”
“Being questioned right now,” another voice says behind her. It’s one of the forensic guys, clad in white from head to toes, waving a gloved hand at her. “We got a survivor, though. A little kid. Looked pretty horrified, splattered with blood.”
The inspector nods and opens her mouth to ask some more questions, but –
A wail echoes through the forest. Everyone jolts, weapons are drawn, the inspector’s hand twitching to her own belt, “come out slowly-!”
It’s a man. He stumbles out from behind a tree, eyes wide and snowy-white. Blood has dried on his face and then he falls, body crashing down, the stump of his left leg hitting the ground with a horrible thud. A few seconds pass.
Then, they’re all at his side, turning him around, “ambulance!” someone yells. The inspector’s on her knees, barks a few orders.
“It,” the man whimpers. His mouth is full of dried blood. “It. Where. Are they.”
“It’s okay,” the inspector says. Her voice is calm now, she moves to let a policeman push on the stump where the man’s pants are tied to hold the bleeding. “Don’t move now. Where’s the ambulance, did they drive off with the kid already?”
A hand claws at her arm. “Hey!” Someone yells, but she lifts her hand, carefully pulls the man’s fingers away. “What is it? Stay down. Breathe.”
The man’s eyes are filling with blood. “No kid. There was no kid.”
“What?”
“Inspector,” a policeman yells behind her, “we have a call, the ambulance – “
“It,” the man sighs. A wave of blood and saliva gurgles out of his mouth. “It came, we, we didn’t know, they screamed and its fangs were there and it bit – ”
Everything goes quiet. The inspector stares at the man’s face. The last blink of light fades from his pupils. “It was so hungry.”
Moami 