Two strangers arrived at the shore of the lake. Do not think of a lake that sprawls wide some­where on the plain, nor of one that has found its bed among hills. No, this lake lies on one of the roofs of the world, ringed by sharp, jagged peaks, its mir­ror dark, its depth bot­tom­less, talk­ing back to the clouds, and the climb up to it is sweaty work. This is a magic lake, the high-moun­tain See­ing Water, which shows the future to those worthy of it, unveils secrets, tells of fate…

The two new­comers halt humbly a little way back from the water of the lake and peer about them. They take in the steep rocks of the far side, the pale patches of snow show­ing here and there. Glan­cing behind them, they catch sight of the path they have trav­elled so far: mute hours and days, while they clambered up, over­com­ing dis­tance and height. Half a life­time, to get this far. Look­ing back, everything seems straight, as if they had walked the path of the chosen. It is always straight…

Clouds sail swiftly across the sky and bil­low over the crags, a misty cloud tumbles over the ridge, here and there shafts of light stream out in all dir­ec­tions, and in places the clouds screen patches of the land­scape from the sun­shine. A sub­lime sight, peace every­where. Here all the outer con­di­tions for exper­i­en­cing inner peace first-hand are given.

Two-thirds of the lake's mir­ror lie under snow and ice, and a blue not of this world is reflec­ted at the edges of the ice floes – a match­less sight. Set­ting off to the left, they walk round the knoll of stun­ted grass that, like a sen­try mound, guards the lake against those who have no busi­ness there.

A tall hump, one of whose spurs curves towards the shore and lies almost beside the water, while anoth­er stretches a long way to the path that brought them up. It can be approached only from behind, and any­one might think it a gen­i­al mound offer­ing a lookout over the lake. Its top bends in a strange curve, a little lower lies a saddle, and from there its slope stretches gently down towards the water, steep­er than the other side, up which they had climbed.

This is the Dragon.

One of them, the elder, knows. They sidle fur­ther off, to where a view of the mound opens up. He speaks softly:

– Dark­ness does not dwell here; we walk in the sky, among the clouds. Your shad­ows, though, are with you. This place helps you over­come the shad­ows. Come with me…

He points out the Dragon. Its taper­ing tail, which it stretches out towards the world, its haunches, from where it can be approached, its roun­ded back, then its neck – this is the wave that a moment ago they had seen only as a saddle – then its head reach­ing towards the water, the way its eye sweeps the blu­ish mir­ror, and now no flame shoots from its nos­trils – the creature is quiet.

The young­er mar­vels, the elder bows his head and slowly sets off towards the saddle between the hump and the spur on the water side. His com­pan­ion fol­lows. They settle in silence on the rocks that bulge from the Dragon's green­ish neck like pimpled scales. Before they close their eyes, they notice the patch of snow on the far side: it is as if a huge wit­ness-bird were set­tling onto the water, the curving band of melt­ing snow its two wings, spread for glid­ing, between them its shapely head and beak, from whose tip the melt­water drips. Does it feed the lake?

Motion­less, they med­it­ate. Their eyes are closed, and at such times the world ceases out­wardly and opens inwardly. They do not stir, but with­in they are doing battle. The Dragon is the adversary.

All the shad­ows of the past loom up, the mis­takes, the weak­nesses. The many harms, the mis­un­der­stand­ings, outer adversar­ies, inner demons. Only their eye­lids flick­er when their adversary deals them a blow, or when they strike at the Dragon. Sword, com­bat, wounds and falls, the battle all but lost, but at last the broadsword bites into the Dragon's neck, the creature rasps, they did not come to die, its blood spurts, sweat on the brow, the brute writhes, gath­er­ing all their strength they struggle to their feet, with a final spasm the evil thing expires, a drop of its blood falls on their shoulders, and the inner dragon was van­quished…

All the while the green Dragon Hill gently endured its vis­it­ors' com­bat, embody­ing the etern­al beast with­in. Thou­sands have tri­umphed before, seated on its neck, thou­sands have plunged the sword of their con­science into its throat, thou­sands have been reborn in the com­bat.

And the lake, the See­ing Water, begins to tell its tale. So far it was only the past that unreeled before the vis­it­ors' closed eyes; now the lake shows what is to come. Bright, dis­tant pic­tures, trust, light, warmth, yes, to jour­ney from doubts all the way to the realm of love…

Their eyes open, and they gath­er their things. The myth­ic struggle is over, and what remains is the high-moun­tain set­ting, the howl­ing of the winds, the play of the heav­ens. The Sun tries to break through the lay­ers of cloud, and at last it tri­umphs. Just as it is about to burst out from under one layer, the clouds right beside it arrange them­selves like a face. That is why the moun­tain her­mits saw the image of God in every mani­fest­a­tion of nature.

If you do not know the frozen Dragon, you see only the gentle slope; if you do not know the secret of the lake, you look only at the water. But you do not see.