This story is by Ariana Hutchins and was part of our 2023 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.
With her mother’s warm body at her back and a crackling fire toasting her belly, the crisp fall air outside their cave barely tickled the little dragon’s tail with its chill. Tellora sighed, content, and snuggled closer to her mother.
“Sing me a story, mama.”
Her mother’s lungs expanded as she crooned, “Long ago, a dragon’s life began with a crack and an onslaught of noise as the former shell of her existence broke to pieces. She hatched alone. After crying for parents who didn’t come, she listened. Drumming, dripping rain and rolling thunder rocked her to sleep.
She grew, exploring and facing life alone. No parents taught her to speak, but she learned to sing. She understood the creaks of trees, the burble of rivers, even the whispers of moonlight.
Sometimes, when she sang her emotions, she wished someone could hear them. Not just rivers and rocks, but someone who felt those feelings too.
The clouds cried and thundered like the day she had hatched. She had never feared storms; she loved the peace the sky’s unrest brought. The rivers running down her scales and the steady tumbling of rain as she flew made her feel alive.
“ROAR!” She boomed. She was the storm!
An orange glint caught her eye, glaring against the landscape’s dark gray-green. She circled lower, then reeled.
It was a dragon! Like her!
She held her breath and watched him. The poor dragon was crouched under a tree, trying in vain to stay dry, and shuddering at every thunderclap.
She alighted behind him, humming curiously. He jumped, startled.
His eyes captivated her–golden orange and so, so…full of feeling, intelligence, and music! They were a window into a world that no other creature held inside them. She wanted to understand that world, and wanted him to know hers.
He brought her back to reality with a question, but it wasn’t sung; It was just just sounds.
She trilled her confusion, unable to interpret his words. But she understood his heartbeats, and his breath. He shifted from foot to foot, unsure how to communicate. He smiled sheepishly, but it was replaced with a wince when the rain began to pour even heavier.
She sang a welcome song, with an invitation. He cocked his head.
Why wouldn’t he sing back?
He took a small step towards her. He meant to follow her, even though he hadn’t answered? He was so strange. But…she didn’t want him to leave.
She lifted into the air, calling for him to follow.
He sailed beside her for the short flight to her home. She wished he would sing something. But still, she loved the sound of their synchronized wingbeats.
When they reached her home, she watched him take it in: her nest, perched on the edge of the cliff she had hatched on; her pool of water, lined with colorful stones; the instruments she had crafted, from claw-carved windchimes to maracas made of pebbles inside a shell.
Waving for him to follow, she dived off the cliff’s edge and swooped into a cave halfway down the side. She made a fire and they sat on either side of it, heat drying their scales. Slowly, he stopped shivering and relaxed. She would rather have been in the storm, but he sent her a grateful look that said he didn’t want to be alone.
Who was he? Where had he come from? She sang her questions, but he just babbled.
Ahh…it wasn’t that he wouldn’t sing, he couldn’t. How could someone not know how to sing?
What was she supposed to do? She’d been so excited to meet another dragon that she brought him home without thought. But now silence stretched between them. When she couldn’t stand it anymore, she started making music. She thumped her tail against the ground in rhythm as she sang, the cave echoing.
The orange dragon watched in awe and confusion. She saw in his face the desire to create music with her, but he just listened. When her song tapered out, he cleared his throat nervously and pointed at himself, saying, “Cedar.”
What was See-dar supposed to mean?
“Cedar,” He repeated.
“…Cedar?” What was he trying to tell her?
He nodded excitedly. Then, thinking for a moment, he rested her claw on his chest and slowly repeated “Cedar.”
Ohhhh. He was Cedar.
He placed her claw back on the floor, but for some reason, her heart was racing like a hummingbird. With a rush of warmth, she realized she had never touched another dragon before. It was so vastly different from touching anything else.
“Cedar,” she said, finally meeting his eyes. She understood. Sort of. How could anyone be summed up in one word?
Cedar smiled, then pointed to her. “Name?”
She didn’t have a name, didn’t know what a name was. But she realized that Cedar was asking about her, so she opened her mouth and sang her heart out. She sang of her love of music and life, her years of growing up and learning to thrive alone, her delight in rain and birds, and her deepest desires that she wasn’t even fully aware of: how her heart yearned for someone to understand and share her songs. She held nothing back. When had she ever?
When she finished, she studied Cedar, hoping. For once, she had nothing else to sing.
Cedar stared at her, silent. The silence stretched and stretched until the cave felt empty except for the charge of not knowing. She hated silence.
She launched herself out of the cave, crying freely. She had trusted him with everything she was, and he had given her nothing.
She drowned out her thoughts with wind, wings, and heavy breathing. She roared her anger into the storm, but it turned into a heartbroken cry. She’d had so much hope, but now it was all gone. He wasn’t like her.
She didn’t realize that Cedar had followed her until she heard him right behind her.
She growled and flew harder, but he was faster than her and kept up easily. When he started flying beside her, she glared at him, singing her hurt.
He stayed next to her, shaking and shivering but refusing to leave. She didn’t look at him, but she listened. He was there. And she wasn’t sure how she felt about it.
Finally, the rain slowed and a fat drop plopped right between her eyes, breaking her mind’s angry circles. Maybe…it wasn’t Cedar’s fault–maybe it wasn’t anyone’s fault. No one taught him to sing, just like no one taught her to speak.
She would learn his language–but she would teach him hers, too.
With that conviction, she landed beside the river and lifted a wing to silence Cedar’s burst of apologies. She smiled at him and sang forgiveness, then pointed at the river.
He paused, taken aback by the sudden change. “…River?”
“River.” Now it was her turn. She sang how it felt to her: powerful, refreshing, and delightful. Then she pointed at him and sang a short note.
He smiled shyly, hesitating. She splashed him, and he began. It started out as a croak–and then evened into a rocky, unsure song. She could tell he was embarrassed, but she could teach him.
Over the next few weeks, they discovered that Cedar had a nice voice–he just didn’t know how to use it. She learned more and more words, although they were strange to her and everything she said was sing-songy. She sang feelings and he named them: friend, anger, dreams…
They learned more than speaking and singing. Cedar taught Lyra to dance, and she even taught him to play the maraca. Through songs and stories, they came to understand one another.
“You need a name,” Cedar decided one day.
She nodded.
He waited, and then realized that she was waiting for him. He was the one who named things, after all. This new responsibility seemed to shock him, and they walked for a long time.
“Lyra?” he asked at last.
A bright smile filled her face. Lyra sounded like music. “Lyra,” she agreed.
They were walking beside the river again when Lyra looked at Cedar and felt a spark deep inside her heart. She realized with surprise that the formerly empty space inside her was full. With a deep breath, she sang her heart out with joy, longing, and deepness. She watched Cedar, waiting for a name.
“…Love,” he whispered.
This word felt like it had meaning. “Love.”
Understanding zapped her like lightning.
“I love you, Cedar,” she sang, all her tenderness and understanding of him filling her voice.
He jumped up and wrapped his wings around her. “I–” he started to say, but then stopped. He sang instead, “And I love you, Lyra.”
“But mommy, your name is Lyra!” Tellora cried.
Lyra smiled. “It is, my songbird. That’s why I sing. Our souls understand music, are filled with music. Never forget: when words fail you, music can say things you never could.”
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