All Echoes n' Bats

Drenching him from head to toe, the sticky substance—whatever it may be—weighs the fox down from sheer thickness. Still, his head is mobile enough to shake freely; and as he does, the fur of his face puffs up.

Say you, “Did you find anything in the cave?”

Says he, “Nope. Not a thing! All echoes n’ bats.”

He quickly shuffles past you, bumping into your shoulder on the way out of the cave mouth. You know something’s up. You look back to the fox: His silhouette becomes more and more distant, now; but the third of your trio who accompanied you on this venture, a wolf, stands still at your side.

Says the wolf, “Nothing’s in there. Fox said so. I guess we’ll go.”

Say you, “I don’t think so,” before marching into darkness. Disappearing.

Immediately you find an indescribably powerful odor that’s overcome this cave: like snakeskin. Like metal. Like jerky—you don’t really know. You’ve the urge to retch but, simultaneously, also the urge to continue sniffing. The air is pleasantly pungent. A grin creeps up your face beneath the crinkle of your nose. Shivers; the odor intensifies as you tread deeper. Deeper. Darker. You are 100% blind. By feeling over the many wrinkles of rock wall, you navigate, progressing one slow step at a time. Your foot kicks into a pile of something—metal bits? coins?—and the pile does clink. There’s a rush of clinks; you’ve apparently caused an avalanche.

What did I do? a little frightenedly, you wonder, wading backward in the puddle of avalanching—

Ooomf!

You back into a warm rock? wall. You feel behind yourself with a paw, up, up, the wall. Double around. Your fingers travel the smooth surface and find themselves in a thick gap that breaks the smoothness. A thump. You felt a thump, like a heart. Like a creature’s heart—like a—

A hot huff of breath thaws whatever chills you may have had. It steams down your left and right shoulders in separate streams. Nostrils. You gasp. Cover your mouth. Begin to back away when a grip like stone unseen snatches you up. And comes a cry from you! You feel vertigo, despite seeing absolutely zip.

Comes a grooooowl. The very growl sets your shoulders to stand at length with your cheekbones. That whimper might have been yours. Your eyes might have shut to make it all go away, but it’s dark and ineffective . . .

Finally, when the metal has finished clinking:

“Who are you and why have you disturbed me,” whispers a voice. But the voice is so huge—so powerful—it drowns out any chattering your teeth do make.

You say something but don’t quite finish,

for purple eyes each as large as windows blink open, shine over your face; you’ve been silenced.

A forced, unconvincing chuckle; “Hm-hm-hm. Funny story. Do tell again.”

Why are you here? A fox fairly your age flashes in your mind. A wolf. Exploring the woods when you chanced upon a cave, you were, and—

—and the rest of that thought process is cut off. It’s impossible to think with those reckoning eyes upon you. You feel as though they already know all truths, all reasons, and your answer is only evident, and requires a more fulfilling one which is not there.

A ceiling fan light flickers on. A large scaly paw holds the chain that clicked it on. Its owner is a black dragon. A black dragon whose head is aimed at yours directly. His violet wings outstretched touch one side of the cave and the other. A finely carved figure: underbelly, legs, tail, claw, fang, all impressive, striking, but frightening.

You’re able to glimpse away for one brief moment to see the spillage of “metal” you’d made earlier: gold, rather. As you return your gaze to the dragon, the dragon’s gaze returns to you; he looked with you, now shaking his head. Tsking.

“You came to steal gold from me, little one.” So indubitable, the way he speaks. For a second, you believe it to be the truth.

Shaking your head, “I didn’t, I swear,” you say, as if trying to convince yourself.

“Lookie, lookie”—

he says as you’re dropped to the hard floor with a groan. The dragon circles you slowly. Your palms cover your eyes the entire time but you hear him rumble ‘round you; make his way from your right ear to your left. You peek once. Purple claws. Keep your eyes shut and don’t peek again, is the verdict. Keep curled up in your ball . . .

—“you poor thing. Such a victim. Boy-o boy. I could smell your fear from a mile away, and your heart makes the earth shake,”

he continues, snatching you back up. This time you’re held upside-down. From two fingers you pendulate like a grandfather clock’s metronome above his maw, which outstretches with ropes of drool snapping away at its outsides. Your attempts to pull yourself upright, to scratch at his fingers, results in a deep coo. It saps your strength; again, you go limp.

“All tired out, little thing? Aww. AWW.”

The nerve! He is mocking you, is he not? Your mouth opens—but who’s to snap back at him? Surely you’re not in the position; your abdomen aches from leaning up and you can’t concentrate under the pressure of blood running to your head.

He slurps you with his tongue from head to toe.

A sound escapes your throat symbolizing something between disgust and bliss. His breath is foul but stimulating. In the thick coats of saliva covering you, have you his scent. And you’re sniffing. And you can’t stop—but why, why?

“You’ll like this,” the dragon says indubitably.

“No,” you protest, weakly.

“I said you will like it,” the dragon repeats.

If you’ve ever been punched in the gut and had all the air knocked out of you, you know the feeling. His command has that effect. And yet, you can’t help but smile. You shouldn’t be smiling. But there it is: a huge grin on your face, and you’re lying to yourself if you say it’s not there.

“Please,” you whimper.

“Ask nicer.”

“Pretty please,” you whimper.

“With sugar on top?”

“I’m sweet,” you whisper before realizing which words have come.

Before realizing you’re looking into another cave mouth—the dragon’s. His tongue grinds you against cheek to cheek. Your hand once slips over a stalagmite, a brief sparkle of white.

* * *

“MMM,” you rumble.

You suck on the little tangy thing like a lemon lozenge. Toss ‘em from one side of your mouth to the other. Salivary glands tingle sharply—and you can only imagine, drown the little thing—as you drool flows from your chin. Having haven’t eaten all day, your stomach growls, a reverberating rumble. Now swallow. Claws, kicks, elbows on the inside of your gullet you feel; and it’s quite soothing actually. You MMM just that much louder which doesn’t necessarily shut ‘em up but overpowers the prey’s euphoric moans. You hiccup; the tail irritated your uvula. Now swallow again. You feel limbs fold inward, give in, as your powerful throat muscles glide them the way through. Finally: substance to fill the emptiness of your stomach. A long, soft exhale as your prey slips down into the pit of it. Let yourself melt away, stretch your limbs involuntarily in all directions, as you lie on your belly with eyes half-shut, rumbling and rumbling and rumbling,

then belch.

* * *

“I-is master satisfied?” you ask.

There is a dull grunt from the dragon. Perhaps a nod of the head, as there’s some sort of shake-shake from up above. Good. His stomach is lovely. Full of gastric juices that stick to your furs, yes, but not painful at all. It’s like . . . like . . . jacuzzi. Good that the dragon should be satisfied, having offered you such a pleasant experience. How you once protested to this, and how silly you were. How you pleaded. But then, that pleading had become a different plead. And . . . and . . . you stop contemplating, allow yourself to sink into the pit of the stomach in all its juices. From around you comes a gurgle, a groan, then a second “BEEELLLARRRRRCH!” from the outside. You chuckle. A silence . . .

then the dragon chuckles too.

In that spot your paw is placed against the wall of his stomach, you can almost swear his paw is placed as well on the outside. Then his fingers lock over yours.

* * *

Drenching you from head to toe, the sticky substance—digestive juices and saliva indubitably—weighs you down from sheer thickness. Still, your head is mobile enough to shake freely; and as you do, the fur of your face puffs up.

“Did you see anything?” says the wolf.

Say you, “All echoes n’ bats.”

His mouth’s agape as you bump past his shoulder; as you grin too widely for your own good; as your silhouette becomes more and more distant.