Start Walking, Keep Walking
Samantha Brooks, Group 3: Fiction, South Island School
t school they used to say that there was no such thing as the Great Wall, and that there was only the
grey dragon, running through the everlasting trees and onwards. They said there were only the
smoothed grey scales of the dragon’s back, withered with age and crumbling at every step. Some
people said that if you walked to the end, if you could find it, you would see the shimmering head of
the dragon, its breath rising in the grey smoky air and every so often breathing out small licks of emerald flame.
But if you attempted such a journey you would get lost amongst the twists and turns of the dragon’s back,
gaining height and climbing in dizzying circles for hours on end. But if you were to stay at the bottom of the
mountain and embrace the dragon’s beauty from there: breath-taking views stroke the horizon, the soft hush of
reeds against the dragon’s side, the taste of long forgotten oolong tea tickling your tongue. You may catch a
glimpse of one of these many tails, flicking behind a bamboo grove to lure unwary travellers into its depths, or
you may spot a clawed hand of stone, basking in the sun, but when you blink there is nothing but dense grass
and mossy rocks.
When we youngsters heard the stories, we queried in hushed tones of the wonders of the grey dragon. While
it slipped past the other children’s minds like wisps of fog being washed away by the Monday morning rain, to
me it stood out bold and clear, imprinted on my mind. What was it like to feel the breaths of a majestic beauty
vibrating under your feet? How did it feel to have jasmine winds soaring past your ear, whispering secrets in
every language except yours, to have the history of the dragon unfurled before your very eyes?
What does it matter if the dusk of today is grim, when the bright sun of tomorrow shines warm and new on
the edge of the globe? If I did not carry a walking stick or walk hunched and shrivelled with age, my wrinkles
twisting my face until I am contorted and weakened, I would be running along the paths leading from the beast,
sprinting up to the top of his breast, throwing my hands out to feel the warmth of the sun beating a pulse on my
fingers and casting rainbows on the dragon. My age does not distort my thoughts or feelings though, no matter
how it may seem, and I still am able to invent my own world inside my head.
As I long ago pondered the extravagancies of the great dragon, I wondered when I would be able to step
into the light and onto the softly singing twist of secrets, and when my chance would come to hear the rustlings
of the birds and see the fire of his body. But I never did.
* * *
A
Shortlisted