Ruxandra descends, a peridot sparkle carried by the breeze. She lands softly in the middle of the glade where distinguished dragons gather. “Thanks,” she whispers to the Dragon of the Wind as she furls back her wings.
The Dragon of Clear Water smiles. “You’ve been flying a lot lately, Ruxandra.”
The young dragon, still catching her breath, sends forth a bright jade plume.
“Yes, Clear Water, I wanted to be prepared for school.”
The dragons laugh, each in a glowing hue of flame.
“We’ll teach you that, too,” says the Dragon of Lightning. “Let’s meet your professor and the other two students. Hop on.”
Lightning extends his tangerine- and lime-coloured wings. The grass under his wingtips trembles into a fleeting filigree of sparks. Ruxandra climbs on his back and breathes azure as Lightning soars, southbound.
They fly for a long time, the sun shifting above them, lakes and streams scintillating below them. Ruxandra’s eyes follow the effulgent water ribbons, all in pursuit of a grand lake engulfing the horizon, more expansive than anything she’s ever seen. At the end—or the beginning?—of one such ribbon shines a waterfall, nestled among a patch of sandstone cliffs. Nearby, a dazzling golden dragon awaits, wings unfurled.
The Dragon of the Setting Sun is flying in from the west, bringing two other young dragons. As Lightning and Setting Sun touch the ground, they greet one another and the golden dragon.
“Welcome back, Murgatroyd.”
The golden one radiates joy. “It’s good to see you again, Lightning, Setting Sun. And meet you all—you must be Ruxandra, Smaranda, and Sabin.” Murgatroyd smiles.
Ruxandra’s eyes blink wide. “You’ve been travelling with the Dragon of Echo! What did you learn from them?”
Murgatroyd smiles. “They showed me the power of resonance and how far it reaches, even beyond sound.”
Days fly by as if still on the wings of Lightning. For now, the dragon school means walks through forests that resound with birdsong, lion roars, and snake hisses. Even the mosses rumble here, Murgatroyd tells them, the thrumming of life is everywhere, and dragons made it all. Someday, she says, the three young dragons will find their own powers and add them to this effervescence of the elements.
When mentor and mentees return from forest walks, retreating into the tranquility of a stalactite-adorned cave, Smaranda breathes crimson fire, just like her scales, and Sabin is settling into lavender hues.
Yet, Ruxandra’s flames are undecided. One rainy evening, she sneaks out from the comfort of the cave into the thunder of the waterfall, trying to listen to the shrubs and ferns that sought their home on cliffs. She sighs at times, but the rain tramples her indigo breath-wisps. Soon after, Murgatroyd’s golden light finds her, throwing swift shadows and just as quickly chasing them away.
They stand in silence for heartbeat after heartbeat. As the rain subsides, Ruxandra’s voice grows clear.
“I don’t know who I’m supposed to be. I’m afraid there isn’t a single thing I can do right, Murg.”
“Everyone knows and can do something, Rux. There’s no right way.”
“What if I’ll be the first who can’t do anything at all, in any way? I’ll end up nameless.”
Murgatroyd’s eyes flicker.
“No dragon has ever been nameless, except for one. But he has lost his name.”
Ruxandra shivers. “I’ve heard of The Hollow One. I don’t want to be hollow, too.”
“He had more powers than any other before him, and used them well for aeons. But he kept wanting more. He wanted them all, and built new magic meant to draw the others’. That’s why Echo banished him so he can never be seen.”
“Is that why you went to study with Echo? Because they overpowered Hollow?”
Murgatroyd hesitates to answer, if only for a moment. “Yes. We need to keep resonance alive.”
That night, she tells all the young dragons more. Every generation faces The Hollow One. He tries to prey again and again, but the reverberations that travel through the world keep him at bay.
“He will come after you. If you can listen carefully to what this world reveals—and to yourself—you will defeat him.”
Ruxandra’s words burst out in a kaleidoscope of plumes.
“What if we … can’t hear ourselves? I thought that your scales can tell you who you are, but so many dragons’ colours change … and sometimes even their fire is unpredictable.”
“Who you are is on the inside,” Murgatroyd whispers. “All of us carry the whole sky. Clouds and rain and all. That’s why we change, just like the sky.”
Smaranda’s wings flutter. “How does anyone find their own sky?”
“You can try to pick a cloud, any cloud, and see where it takes you. It might lead you into another one, into a storm, or melt into the sunlight, but it will still leave traces, crystals of song and flame.”
“Does that mean that … colour is music?” Sabin clicks his talons.
“Everything is both—and more. Just different kinds of scales… If your fire wants to be colour, you can try to sing it.”
In the silence that follows, the dragons’ minds and hearts are singing.
The hum of sunrise fills the next morning’s air, but a new whirr grows heavy. As every stalactite begins to warble, Murgatroyd listens for the unmistakable.
“The Hollow One has heard us and he’s here.”
She rushes to the entrance. The young dragons follow, scales rattling, colours at their shrillest, Smaranda’s crimson turned vermilion and Sabin’s amethyst about as bright as diamonds. Ruxandra’s shifting to metallic ruby. Wrath. A shade of fear. A minor scale. Her voice, distinct, inside and out. Note rising as she does into the sky, cloaked in scarlet fire. The sun is a red giant, but it’s on our side. It has to be.
The world is turning into—or has always been—a giant loom, and Murgatroyd begins to set aquamarine flame warps. She’s longing for what’s been, will never or forever be; everything weaved into one moment. Emerald. All connected. We can’t lose.
Thunder is roaring all around them. The cliffs now wail with ferns aquiver, wilting. Ruxandra sings a rainbow, then another, all sweeping, braiding with the others’. Call and response and call again. Joy, anguish, freedom, loneliness. All ours. We’re not hollow.
The voices of Clear Water, Lightning, Murgatroyd—steadfast, yet ever-louder. The thunder fades as dragons paint the sky.
The four are ready for their flight back to the glade. They leave the waterfall behind, until it’s long gone, way below the clouds.
Ruxandra smiles. Azure is gratitude. She flies a little closer to Murgatroyd.
“I haven’t dared to ask this of anyone. Do the other beings that share our world know that we’re making everything in it?”
“Some do know, Rux. Some do.”
(Note: Writing this for “Heavens to Murgatroyd!”, an anthology published by Lintusen Press in 2025 honouring the acclaimed Canadian poet, writer and spoken-word artist Murgatroyd Monaghan, was pure joy. Seeing my name as a contributor among those of artists I greatly admire was and remains exhilarating: Shawn L. Bird, Laurène Boutin, Finnian Burnett, Sherry Cassells, Renee Cronley, Susan Duffield-Lodge, Robyn Diner, Lindsey Harrington, Trevor Hodges, Zilla Jones, Alma Lee, Lavinia Leon, Trent Lewin, Tom McCann, Robert Runté, Donnalynn Rainey, Janet Richards, M. Gail Stelter, and T.L. Tomljanovic.)