Legend states that a man of undefinable strength would hunt and slay the most powerful beast of all. A dark black scaly reptilian lizard that blends perfectly into the night, capable of breathing only the hottest fire—a flame so heated it glows the brightest of blues. Legend says it’s a creature of great wings and sharp claws, of teeth incomparable to a great white shark’s. Black all over with a white underbelly. Its body larger than a thousand persons combined.

     Goju.

     Goju is its name.

     “Who?” the boy asks, wide-eyed and eyes sparkling with glee. “Who will do it, Papa?”

     “’Tis a great mystery, my young ward,” his father answers, scratching the stubbly beard of his dark round chin. “Only the one with the heart of gold shall conquer the enemy to which all does seek. Whom is resistant and noble; a warrior like no other.”

     “What about me?” the boy exclaims, jumping up onto a rock adjacent to the campfire. “Do you think I can do it, Papa Sai?”

     His father lets out a short chuckle. “My dear boy, many have tried, and many have failed. It has been decades since our ancestors conquered a dragon. There remains only one left. But I’m afraid we no longer have the strength within us to defeat such an immortal foe.”

     “Well, I’m going to do it, Papa!” the boy cries, arms in the air, as if convening to the Gods to bring Goju right to him. “When I grow up, I’m gonna conquer that dragon and make you proud.”

     The old man smiles proudly. “I would have it no other way, Ishan.”

​

~ 11 Years Later ~

​

     “Ishan! Are you ready?” shouts an elderly woman from outside the tipi.

     “Almost, Mama!” Ishan yells back, rifling through his belongings. He hurries outside with a sack full of inventory. All the villagers await his arrival in the ceremonial garden.

     “Happy Coming-of-Age ceremony!” cries Saanvi, his childhood friend. They’re basically siblings these days; how well their bond has formed. But in reality, they are of different families and separated six weeks apart. Even so, he knows she is proud of him. She wraps her arms around him in a tight, warm hug, tears cascading down her cheeks already.

     It is said that when someone reaches eighteen years of age, they are sent on a quest; a journey to find one’s own destiny. But Ishan has had his destiny in mind since he was five years old. “It’s time to conquer ol’ Goju,” he says with such grit in his smile that Saanvi stops crying. He thumbs away the last of her tears, picks up his belongings, and walks into the throng of townspeople.

     There, in the centre of the circle, waits his mother, Aanya of the Southern Isle. She holds in her hands the traditional holy powder; it’s a deep red in colour and smells of citrus. Aanya Chowdhury is one of the only elders left in their small village, and moreover responsible not only for their customs and traditions, but also for her son. Her chest cries agony to let him free so soon, out in the wild, into the unknown, but as Mother Nature once and always foretold, birds must flee the nest at one point or another. It’s for this reason that she turns her tears into smiles.

     Ishan approaches her and kneels by her feet so she may reach his forehead. She chants a few words in their native tongue, then dabs at the boy’s forehead, tips of her fingers coated in the dusty powder. Ishan bows his head as the prayers commence. “We’re honoured today to give my boy, Ishan Chowdhury, a kind and wishful departure,” she recites from the book on the lectern beside her. “May he find what he’s looking for and return to us with ease. Wiingezin!”

     The villagers echo her, all shouting spontaneously. “Wiingezin!!!”

     Ishan stands, a smile on his face with the feel of the powder resting on his skin. He looks out at the crowd, appreciating the idea of becoming a man, eager to get his journey underway.

     Their village is a tiny one, consisting of only a few hundred townspeople; some of them old, some of them young, and some of them in-between. All of them tanned dark looking exactly as he, Ishan, proud, happy, excited, or a combination of all three. Spirits are high today, yet it’s bittersweet. Ishan will miss Lakota, the home of all homes.

     “Uncle Aum, look!” shouts a girl in the back vow, piercing the happy chatter with a spear of voice. “What is that?”

     Everyone turns to look at the girl—Little Maggie, they call her—and in turn, they follow her gaze up at the clouded sky, only to find a slick black tail slinking back behind the clouds. A dark shadow hovers above them all. “Quick!” cries Aanya. “Inside!”

     The ceremony is over.

     Goju has returned, and he roars a deafening roar.

​

***

​

     Desert. Savannah. Forest. Plains.

     Prairies that seem to stretch on for miles, never-ending.

     Ishan checks his sack. He’s running low on food. He hasn’t seen much of any animals or trees to seek fruit from nor has he come across a creek to replenish his thirst.

     He hasn’t seen much of Goju again either, which worries him the most.

     Perhaps he should’ve stayed in the village, helped his Mama and Papa rebuild. He still remembers the way the fire burned down their sacred garden, the way it almost glowed, glowed blue. It was just as his father had said it’d be, just as the old legend had predicted. It was nearly white-hot and scorched him too. His arm still burns at the elbow whenever he moves, his clothes torn from the two-day trek thus far. How much farther? he wonders. How much farther until I reach something? Anything. Any resemblance of food, or water, or even civilization.

     He knows he cannot survive out here for much longer, not at this rate. There must be something. He never anticipated his journey might end this soon.

     Ishan’s stomach growls, a constant reminder of how dire his situation has become. He’s sure he’s thinned out since the attack, since he became a man. He wonders if that’s normal: losing some weight off his body to make him look bigger and more toned. Perhaps so. Perhaps it’s his destiny, like fate. For whatever the Gods see fit, there’s no running from it. Please, he says, a silent prayer in his head. Grant me something so I may survive out here, and I will be in your debt.

     He sits upon a rock to catch his breath, his sack of inventory falling to the dead meadow. He pulls out his canteen to sip the rest of his water; there are but a few drops remaining. They do little to quench his thirst, but he’s grateful for them regardless.

     Ishan covers his face as he looks to the sun, trying to gauge the time of day. It’s near mid-afternoon. He best be finding shelter soon. When suddenly, a man calls out from afar. “Howdy there! You look lost.” The boy looks the man over, trying to decipher whether he’s friend or foe. He’s dressed in old clothes, a filthy rag in one hand. “I am the blacksmith of the town not far from here,” the man goes on, seeing that Ishan is examining him. “Who might you be?”

     “Ishan,” the boy explains, delighted at least to hear that there is a village nearby. “I’ve journeyed far the past two days. I am on a quest, you see.”

     “A quest, eh? What kind?”

     “One where I seek my destiny,” Ishan answers. “What about you? Have you found your destiny yet?” The man looks old enough for the answer to be yes.

     “Ah, no,” he says, which catches the boy’s attention. “I am Baatu. My people and I, we do not believe in destinies. It is not our way, but many others we meet believe in them. We have helped them, and they thank us in return.”

     “Oh.” Ishan can’t decide whether it’s a question or not. “So, what do you believe then?” he asks without judgement. “If I may ask such a personal question.”

     “We believe in the Universe and the present moment,” he tells Ishan. “It granted us life and the meaning to life. Thanks to the signs it gives us, it’s how I found you.”

     “Really?” Ishan cannot believe his ears. He has never heard of such a belief. “May I see this village of yours? I'm tired and hungry. If I may stay the night, I’d be grateful.”

     “Yes, of course!” Baatu says, and the boy picks up his things, stuffing his canteen away. “We would be honoured to have you.”

​

***

 

     Ishan walks with Baatu out of the plains and into a forest and begins to tell the man further what his quest is all about and what led him here. He tells of Goju and the Legend, and how he is destined to conquer him. “I will bring his head back for my father,” he says, raising a fist in the air with such courage. “He will be proud of me!”

     Later that night, Ishan familiarizes himself with Baatu and the townspeople’s ways, their teachings of the Universe and what it’s done for them. Though different than his own, he grows to respect them, and takes a spare room in the village inn with plentiful gratitude.

     There’s a bonfire once the sun has set to give him a warm welcome, as they do for every outsider. They wish him well. Many come to him that night to grant him safe travels and even offer bits of pieces to take with him in the morning—a loaf of fresh bread, a scarf to wrap around his neck, a chain mail tunic even. He accepts all these offerings with a bowed head.

     But still, as children run and dance around the blaze, he can’t help but wonder what his Mama and Papa are doing, if they’re safe. He thinks of Lakota and the burned tipis, wondering where his people are staying, if they’re sleeping on the ground, bunked up in his family’s house. He hopes their food is at an ample amount.

     “Is everything all right?” Baatu asks, coming to sit beside him on a carved log.

     “No,” Ishan replies, head in his hands. “All of this—the food, the water, the armour even—it’s great, and I am forever in debt to you. But my people never had all this, and I cannot help but think of where they are now because of it. If I don’t find my destiny… if I don’t succeed…”

     Baatu pats the boy on the shoulder. “I understand how you must feel,” he says, somberly. “Perhaps there’s a way we can be of assistance.”

     Ishan isn’t convinced there is. He shakes his head. “Not unless you know how to defeat an immortal foe that’s a thousand times bigger than you.”

     Baatu only looks upon the boy with sadness, at least until an idea comes to mind. “I might,” he chimes, grinning, and Ishan looks up hopefully. “Follow me.”

     Ishan does as requested, and the man leads him to what must be the blacksmith’s station. There’s an anvil in the centre of the hut with tons of steel weaponry hung on the walls. “What is all this?” Ishan asks, partially frightened at the sight of it all.

     “My work,” Baatu answers. “I design tools and craft them out of materials provided to us from the Earth. Granted by the Universe, of course.” Ishan looks to the man in confusion, feeling the edge of an Arabian saber he heard about in his father’s stories. “Allow me to explain,” Baatu continues. “This world you’re in contains many resources. From wood to stone to clay. Even the dirt and soil beneath our feet. Many take it for granted, don’t you think? But it is the dirt that gives us space to house our livestock, and the soil that allows us to grow gardens and farm food. And the ores, some believe them to be much more valuable than anything else, but the simple truth is that it isn’t. The simple truth is: All resources are one and the same, meant to be used to better our lives, to help us survive. We owe the Universe a huge thanks!” The man does a thing with his thumb and forefinger, brings them to his lips, and raises them in the air, almost like he’s kissing the feet of the Gods in gratitude.

     “But what do you mean ores?” asks Ishan.

     “Ores are materials we mine from the Earth, deep below its surface,” Baatu explains. “Like coal to fuel our cookers, iron to make our weapons, gold to grow our economies, and diamond to satisfy our women; amongst many others.”

     “So, why bring me here? You think one of these ores will help me slay Goju?”

     “Perhaps,” is all the man says, walking towards a large wooden chest. He soon pulls out a sword like no other; it’s a crystalline diamond blue but carries an ominous purple glow. “This is a blade crafted out of diamond and enchanted by a sorcerer. I forged it not for display nor riches, but for a dire situation like this because I knew that someday, someone may need it.”

     “How? How could you possibly know that?” Ishan asks. “We’ve never met.”

     “The Universe foretold it,” Baatu explains. “Here. Take it.”

     “What? Me? But I can’t.”

     “You can and you will,” the man insists. “Because if you are ever to survive and conquer this demon like you wish, you will need a greater tool than just your fists.” He hands the sword over to Ishan, lays it carefully in his hands. The boy takes it reluctantly but soon accepts the gift.

     “You really think this will combat Goju’s immortality?” he asks at last.

     “Immortality is but an illusion,” Baatu says. “At some point or another, everything must end. It’s only a matter of time before you find out how and when.”

     Ishan swings the diamond blade, feeling its weight. It feels good, like hot cinders warm on his face. He commits to saying a prayer to the Gods for allowing him to wield a weapon so mighty, for he is sure that with something of this nature, he’ll be able to return peace to his village and people, and just as he’s about to thank Baatu again, they hear it.

     The boy and the blacksmith rush outside to find the fire extinguished, bits of dust and ash blown outside the pit. People are running, screaming; one villager points up to the skies. Dark as it may be, they can all see it crystal clear. Goju’s underbelly is clean, white, like a silver-lining. It flies twice in circles before swooping away, up the mountain. “I must go after it!” Ishan cries amongst the chaos, hating to see the fires he’s brought to these peoples’ homes. “Don’t follow me!”

     Baatu only nods, and so, watches the boy race towards the mountain.

​

***

​

     The air grows colder the farther Ishan climbs, yet his brand-new chain mail tunic is still soaking in sweat. The landscape is steep; it’s been treacherous trying to scale the mountain at this speed. He’s almost slipped a few times thus far, but he cannot fall back down. He must keep pressing forward. Goju must die if Lakota is to be safe and at peace again. Not only that, but Baatu and his village must be safe as well. It’s Ishan’s destiny to restore peace to both their homes.

     And he will not fail.

     The moment he steps foot on the levelled edge, he sees it. Its black body, scaly to the touch, surely, but he dares not touch it. Its neck protrudes like a venomous snake, curled around the plateau, facing away from him. Ishan breathes a sigh of relief. Even from this distance he can hear it breathe, but at least he has surprise on his side. The beast won’t see him coming, and by the time it does, it will be too late.

     Ishan steps forward, the sword gripped tight. He makes no sound to awaken the beast, yet the dragon still hears him. Its big pointed ears perk back.

     I must be quick, Ishan notes and hauls himself forward, bringing the blade high above his head. But just before the diamond edge makes contact, its tail swings out and swipes his legs out from under him. Ishan crashes to the ground, the sword clanging with him.

     Ishan, it seems to say in recognition as he desperately tries to regain his footing. I've been waiting for you.

     Ishan says nothing. He can’t be certain whether this voice is his imagination or not. “How—How do you know who I am?”

     The beast sits up like a wolf might, already it towering over him. Ishan looks to the sword by the cliff's edge, trying to decide if he could make a run for it.

     I am an enlightened spirit, boy, it says, though, with a lengthy yawn. The Yin Yang. Hard and Soft. Push and Pull. I balance out Good and Evil in this world.

     “You attacked my village,” Ishan screams, hands hardening into fists. “You nearly killed me!”

     And your people have killed thousands of my own, it roars, silencing Ishan as the two lock eyes. For the longest time, neither breaks their gaze away.

     “My ancestors were afraid! They were only trying to protect themselves!”

     And what were they afraid of exactly? it asks, its voice seeming to ring now in his ears. We were only flying freely. Yet you became the aggressors. It was yours that started the war. For, once you killed one of us, the others followed, turning genocide into sport.

     Ishan's hands are shaking. He doesn’t know how to convince it otherwise. He takes a step towards his sword, but the beast roars, demanding his stillness. Stay put, human! it bellows. I’m not finished yet.

     “Arrgh! What do you want?!” Ishan yells out of frustration, studying the beast carefully. “Just tell me so we can get this over with!”

     I am a rare being, Goju says. I have lived for centuries. I am the defender of peace and the thwarter of violence. I balance the two diligently.

     “Peace?”

     The dragon breathes out a plume of smoke, then turns its head, looking out over the valley's landscape. In simplest terms, yes. I wish to restore it.

     Ishan steps backwards, relaxing a bit. He thinks it strange: this creature—Goju. Could it be possible everything his People taught him is untrue?

     Not everything, Goju reassures. But you have been misled. Everything you have been told about my kind has been from only one side, one tribe. One family. You must learn to see things from others’ eyes too. The dragon lies down, almost somberly. I am old, Ishan. And I am tired. I cannot last forever, and when I perish, war will return, eventually.

     Ishan nods. He thinks he understands. “What can I do?” he asks.

     The dragon stares, seeing a glimmer of hope and determination in the boy’s eyes; they’re like the flowing river in the valley by the village below, and that’s when Goju realizes: This boy is no ordinary boy, but an extraordinary man. He may not have all the answers, but he has his authenticity. He means well. And so, Goju tells him, Speak to your People. Make them understand.

     Ishan thinks about this. Can he accomplish it? Was the Legend wrong? Is this what his destiny was meant to be? All along?

     All his People know is that dragons are destructive and dangerous. Would they believe him if he said otherwise? If so, would they be willing to change?

     He looks at Goju, who he thinks has fallen asleep, but he hasn’t. The dragon is listening, waiting. Until finally, Ishan decides, “Okay. I’ll do it.”

     Goju swings its tail along the plateau, slowly, and slides the sword over to his feet before telling him to climb aboard. And while unsure, Ishan does as he’s told. He can’t slay this beast if it’s the last one, especially not if it just wants peace. Is that not what he came here for? Goju promises peace between all species, not just Lakota.

     And so, he retrieves the sword and returns it to its sheathe, then climbs onto the creature’s back, settling in between its wings. Strangely, he feels safe. “Where to?” he asks then, resting easy.

Goju takes a calming breath. To the land you call the home of all homes, it answers, flapping its wings before taking flight. We shall set the treaties between our species, and there will be peace once again to the world.