they were too busy with their work —
and because — well — they were afraid.
There were times when the mountains seemed to spit flames
as they spiraled glowing ashes against the dark sky.
Because of this, but unknown to each other,
the Wongsu and the Makai shared a common legend:
that the mountains were the home of terrible and terrifying dragons
who came to the island before them, flying high above the storm that brought with it the great flood,
and who were now the last of their kind.
And like all legends,
there was some truth in this.
Deep in the dark and mysterious mountains there were, indeed, nine dragons —
nine creatures of wings and claws and scales.
When annoyed — which was often —
they would show their white teeth — as sharp as angry words —
and they would breathe fire into the night sky.
Their scent was as foul as swamp air, their wings were like leather,
and their scales glistened and gleamed like robes made of a thousand jewels.
Most of their kind had died in the flood
or were killed by adventurers
who mistook them for wicked creatures
because they were different from them.
So now only these nine remained,
comfortable but aging,
in the hundred arms of a great cave,
feeding on wild goats and bears that dared to wander too near them.
Now it happened that one year the Goddess of Rain did not weep
as she usually did at the passing of the springtime,
and the mountain streams that would feed the valley rice fields
instead slipped quietly into the thirsting earth or drifted away into the clouded sky.
The rhythm of life was broken like the surface of a pond
when the soft winds skip lightly over it.
The fields of the Wongsu and the fruit trees of the Makai produced nothing.
It was worse for the Wongsu.
Their field crops withered.
The wild game, thirsty and pained with hunger,
scampered higher into the mountains
in search of small pools or green bushes and berries.
The Wongsu hunters, on whom the village now depended,
did not pursue the game at first, fearful of encountering the dragons
or becoming lost in the deep ravines where the shadows
were as dark as the thoughts of jealous men.
But one day a Wongsu hunter, made bold by hunger
and pity for his starving wife and children,
tracked a small goat to the very crest of the mountains,
but he did not go near the dragon caves.
Now, and for the first time, a man of Wongsu looked down upon the village of the Makai.
Crawling closer so he could see but not be seen —
for this is the first rule of good hunters —
he watched the Makai tug their great nets from the sea, heavy with hundreds of silvery fish.
He watched them scale and clean them and leave some to dry, and he wondered.
Later,
wrapped in the mantle of the moonless night,
he slipped quietly into the sleeping village
and stole some of the drying fish.
He tasted it and found it enjoyable, though a little salty.
He quickly filled his game bag with them.
He also took some cooked flesh
of the many shelled creatures
in the great iron pot over the village’s common fire.
And then he slipped away.
When he returned to Wongsu,
he shared everything with Grandfather Elder,
the old ones, his family, and his friends.
He told Grandfather Elder what he had seen.
“Beyond the mountains,” he said, “there is another village
where strange people are given food by the Wide Water.”
“What is their secret for enticing the Wide Water to feed them?”
asked Grandfather Elder.
“I do not know,” said the hunter.
“Some throw blankets into the sea.
Perhaps these are gifts for the Wide Water, and so it feeds them.”
“Blankets?” frowned the Elder.
“Is the Wide Water so cold?”
“I do not know,” replied the hunter.
“The blankets were full of holes. If I were the Wide Water,
I would not think it such a fine present.”
“The blankets were
