The Nibiru Effect

Memory 88

I'm trapped. Stranded on an island with no means of escape. I desperately scan my surroundings, but there's no sight of the rowboat which I used to get here. I was so focused on the dragon I forgot to pull the boat onto dry land, and now I'm paying the price for my carelessness. Or am I?

Who needs a rowboat when you can shift into a dragon? Sure, I've never flown before, but how bad can it be?

Bad. Really bad.

Getting off the island is the hardest part. My wings slam into the ground, and I end up losing my balance. After a while, I manage to rise into the air, only to crash because I fail to correctly angle my wings. It takes a while, but I finally manage to master the subtle art of flying and rise high into the air. It's not until I've nearly reached the ceiling that I realize something.

I'm still afraid of heights. The last time I shifted into an animal, I thought my new body allowed me to overcome my acrophobia, but I was wrong. When I was a lizard, being high meant being two metres off the ground. That's not high. At least, not by human standards. The same can't be said about soaring dozens of metres above a vast expanse of glowworm poop. That's high by any standards. And one downward glance is all it takes to remind me of it.

Fear washes over me like a tidal wave. My wings lock up, and I begin to plummet. The wind whistles past my ears as I tumble with ever-increasing speed. My vision blurs with tears until I'm no longer sure if I'm a dragon or a human. All I know is I will die unless I can find a way to halt my fall.

I focus all of my attention on my wings—hopefully, they're still there—and will them to expand. I visualize them stretching out, filling with air. I imagine myself soaring at low altitude, weightless. I can almost see it, almost feel it.

I unfurl my wings. The effect of the wind filling my sails is jarring, but I welcome it. I fight the air until my momentum slows and I'm gliding forward, the lake less than a metre beneath me. I desperately want to land, but I know it's not an option, so I rise a little higher and get my bearings. Moments later, I'm on my way across what remains of the celestial lake.

Flying is fun when you're not worried about your wings locking up, but the sense of euphoria quickly fades. After hours of flapping, my wings feel heavy and sluggish. My muscles scream for relief, yet I can't comply. I keep going until, finally, I see it.

Dry land.

It takes all the strength I have left just to reach it. I crash-land and revert to my human form. I pant heavily and I'm drenched in sweat, but I'm beaming.

I made it.

I take a few minutes to recover. It's not until I stand and look around that I realize how close I came to dying.

I overshot the shore by nearly thirty metres and somehow managed to duck into the narrow fissure that links the Celestial Cave to the adjacent cavern. Like the grotto I left behind, my new surroundings are riddled with puddles of glowing liquid. Only this time the glow is orange, not white.

"Wow," I mutter at the sight of the lava. "That was close."

I take another look at my surroundings and spot the exit. It stands at the far end of the cavern. I head toward it, determined to reach it before my luck runs out, but I only make it a few meters before a massive shape emerges from the darkness and blocks my path.

It's a dragon.

Black scales. Embers for eyes. Razor-sharp claws and matching fangs. A long, whip-like tail. The dragon is identical to the one I encountered earlier but for one detail.

It's huge.

The fire-breathing reptile looks so familiar I can't help wondering if it's related to the baby dragon I encountered earlier. Perhaps it's the mother. Or the father. Then again, maybe—

The dragon roars, cutting me off mid-thought. The cavern shakes. Or is it fear that's making my body tremble? I can't tell.

I ponder my next move. The obvious choice is to shift into a baby dragon, but the exhaustion of my recent flight makes it impossible. I guess that leaves only one option.

I'm about to resign myself to death by dragon when a thought occurs to me.

I can't be killed. If I die, my older self won't be able to return to warn me, and since he already has, it stands to reason I survive this encounter. It's thus with a sense of invulnerability that I take a step. A second soon follows. Then a third.

The dragon roars, but I ignore it. It won't attack. It can't.

I keep advancing.

Another roar, followed by a jet of flames. At least, I think it's fire until the molten rock splashes down next to me. That explains the dozens of lava pools that riddle the cavern.

I guess folklore got it wrong, I muse. Dragons spit lava, not fire.

That explains why the baby dragon didn't attack. It wasn't too young to blow fire; it was out of lava to spew. Unlike its mother—or father. It spits a third column of lava which only barely misses me. My heart starts beating faster, but I refuse to let the close call shatter the belief that I'm invincible. I keep going until I'm standing mere metres from the dragon.

"Move!" I command.

Nothing happens for a while; then the charcoal dragon opens its maw and roars. Lava drips down its fangs, illuminating the inside of its mouth. But the glow pales in comparison to the one that emanates from its throat. It shines with the brilliance of a volcano, indicating the beast is preparing for another attack.

I suddenly have a doubt. What if I'm wrong? What if I'm not invincible? From this distance, there's no way the beast can miss. I wait for a miracle, but none occur. I hold out until the last possible moment before accepting the fact that I was wrong.

The dragon is about tospit, and when it does, I'm going to die.