The Dragon Diaries

The black rivers run from Baseeta as if tears from the night sky, their blood covered in the basalt and rumble, a monster tumbling down the mountain. They say the town went up in flames, that it crumbled and collapsed but I remember it as a slow trickle that bled all life from the month of July.

- Beginning of the column 'The Black Rivers' by Abbas Habib

In the Aswad mountains there was a town nestled under the shadow of a volcano which had been dormant for centuries. The town was called Baseeta. It was an Arabic word which has no English translation. The closest would be the phrase: “I will unleash my revenge on you, when you least expect it.”

It seemed fitting for a town at the base of a volcano. But, the last few remaining humans of today know that the threat of revenge did not come from that fiery entity.

Our story starts in the year 19,000 on the planet Sahara. The town of Baseeta had been abandoned for 90 years.

But one fateful night, a girl slipped into the night market. She was dressed in a dark blue cloak which wrapped around her body like midnight and her eyes shone out from the hood like jewels.

The night market was in tatters, a forgotten heritage on the first tier of the town, the stalls were now half buried in sand with oil lamps smashed and scattered like beetles. The hot summer breeze had brought down a fresh covering and it softened every step. Barefoot was the best way to travel through Baseeta, Farah had been told to take slow, soft steps as to not wake anything below.

The black slate volcano towered over her like a cloaked figure hunched over a cauldron, slowly stirring. She imagined two red eyes suddenly blinking open at the top of the hillside, but this silhouetted sorcerer remained distracted.

Farah made her way up the steep, winding streets and into the heart of the town. Finally, she thought, she was finally in the ghost town she had read so much about. She could still smell the hot sun in the stone as the town took it’s first breath of relief in the night air.

On the highest tier was The Tamer Residence, carved into the side of the mountain. The four stories of balconies were crumbling and the zellijs were peeling but it towered over the alleyway like a goddess comforting a rat in the street.

She walked through the archway.

There was not a sound. What once was an array of walled gardens and mosaic fountains was now paralysed under the blanket of night and also ever moving under the touch of time. But decay is a silent act and so the garden remained still.

There was a side door which led to what once would have been the kitchens, painted on it was a hand holding upright a red rose and from the rose golden rays were painted.

Night 23

A ruptured rose

grew from desert sand

with no drop of water

just the touch of a hand.

And she bared her teeth

ready for the sun

“I’ll swallow you whole and glow just the same”

is the song she sung.

A feeling swelled within Farah, it was all starting to make sense. Not in the correct order, Hazif had written a poem for each night he was here and she was starting with the one on the 23rd night. But he had written many referencing roses and now she was beginning to see why.

She pushed open the door and slipped into the darkness within.

There weren’t always dragons in the cavern, that’s what we say out at the edge of the world, where the desert sands meet a crystal blue sea. We are refugees, existing in a line of shacks on the shore with fabric awnings billowing in the wind. We tell everyone, there weren’t always dragons in the cavern. People call us piteous in our attempt to cling to a history wiped out by fire. The cavern we speak of is deep in-land. It’s where the black basalt crumbles into a monstrous pit at the edge of the Aswad mountains. It was true, the dragons had been gone for 500 years. But, the dragons would say, it doesn’t matter how long we were gone for, we were here long before you.

- An excerpt from ‘A Baptism of Fire: The Dragon-Age ’ by Guda Badawi.

The Tamer Residence had heavy air, it might have been the dark or it might have been her fear but Farah felt it resting on her. It was dark, silent and still. It was a building trying too hard to pretend it didn't exist. She made her way through the shadows, her bare feet slid onto the cold tiled floors - from sand to ceramic - it was a boundary crossed.

There had been an advert posted in the local newspaper in the northern city of Albooma. An advert for a Death Collector, that was a name for someone who organised and cleared someone's personal belongings after they had died. 

By Caroline Hamar

After achieving a degree in English Literature and a diploma from The London school of Journalism, Caroline likes every kind of writing from short stories, poetry, articles and essays. 

Caroline welcomes your comments below...