A Serpent in the Garden

Amelie tastes blood. Far away from battle, an expecting mother wages war in her bed. East of the river bend, a path walks through the trees, down a hill to a window. Through the glass, three heads look down as she delivers her consequence to the world, scorned by the sword of an unknown wielder. Amelie’s mother, sister, and midwife are grabbing her, ogling her, spreading her legs, and wiping the sweat from her brow.

Amelie bears down. Chewing her cheek to stifle the guttural sound of life or death, she can’t tell which. Collapsing every few minutes to writhe and cry and scream out her curses. Then, in a last, bone-chilling contraction, a baby girl draws her first breath. The tinkling sound of her cries draws Amelie in. The sleepless nights leading up to this moment were forgotten, for this sweet sound turned nightmares into dreams. Instantly she knew this daughter of hers would forever be more her than him.

And yet…

“Elora,” she weeps. Bleary-eyed and wistful, she reaches out, but the midwife doesn’t bring her. Somehow, without notice, the air, smelling of sweat and iron, hangs thick with an unknown staleness. The clouds seize the moon, and the room dims, if ever so slightly. Everything falls silent. Not even the babe makes a sound.

“What is it?” Amelia said. Heaving herself onto her elbows. “Mother?” She calls, but the older woman, usually pleasant and sturdy, seems taken by something dark and troublesome. When they ignore her pleas, an inexplicable fury fills her belly.

Once more, Amelie bears down, “Someone bring forth my daughter. I’ll banish you as I did Elora from my womb.”

Her mother flinches. “My daughter…” but the words fall short, unwilling or unable to go on. It’s the midwife who breaks the news and a coldness washes over the women.

“Elora has the mark, my dear.”

Her body forgets itself and lurches from her post, forcing her sister to take her arm. “Sister, no,” but her protests are weak. Amelie is already moving, leaving a trickle of blood at her feet. When the midwife turns, Amelie lets out a wail so full of anguish it cuts deeper than a thousand births. Elora’s light brown skin was spliced with a bright pink birthmark—the insignia.

_____

Amelie’s eyes are sharp, but her voice is cool. “Elora, sweet girl,” she calls. Elora, now three winters of age, looks up from minding the crack in the floorboards by the fire.

The young girl is dressed in boy’s rags, every inch of her body covered and meant for her to look plain and unremarkable. But Elora is a jubilant child unwary of the world. She toddles towards her mother. Before she’s entirely within reach, Amelia scoops her up in a fit of giggles.

She embraces her daughter with a burst of unrelenting affection. She breathes in her sweet scent of soot, soap, and something else entirely. Amelie hopes never to forget this smell.

After a heavy sigh, Amelie pulls back to meet Elora’s eyes but instead catches a glimpse of pink licking up her nape and onto her cheek. She gets lost in it.

Somedays, Amelie can look upon her daughter and see only the same tawny amber skin and honey eyes that make up her own reflection. On other days, all she can see is the gouge of a setting sun cutting open her flesh. In the wake of Elora’s birth, Amelie was desperate to construe the slightest sign that they got it wrong. That her skin will return to normal, and they could live a happy, safe life.

Elora touches Amelie’s face, trying to coax her attention back to the pair, standing in the quaint home Elora’s never left. “Mamma,” she coos. Instead, Amelie’s face twists as her blood began to boil. Overcome by the threat of losing her daughter, of her inadequacy in failing her child, of bringing this beautiful force of nature into this world only to suffer, she imagines raking her nails against Elora’s scorched skin, as if she could wipe it away forever. Elora’s cry pulls Amelie from her trance to find her nails pushing deep into the soft pink. She sees fear flash across her daughter’s face and is overwhelmed by shame.

Amelie nuzzles her face into Elora’s neck and gingerly holds her head, running her fingers through a weft of curls. “Oh, sweet girl, I’m so sorry,” she cries. “Mamma’s sorry. She’s so sorry.” She gently rocks her daughter until all she hears are faint sniffles. Aware they don’t have much time, she brings Elora to the rocking chair. The warmth of the fire covers them like a blanket of protection. They sit down, Amelie whispering sweet nothings in her ear. “Shh, shh, shh,” she continues to soothe. Elora is cradled in Amelie’s arms like during those first inconsolable nights of her infancy. It’s the position of a mother’s love, Elora’s head resting on her breast.

“Elora, do you remember the Stories of Old?” Elora’s eyes instantly sparkle, ablaze with something Amelie can never decipher but distrusts anyway.

Long ago humans lived in peace with dragons. A special few were born with flames on their skin. The mark of a Dragon Rider. These women created balance among the land, having the natural ability to communicate with the beasts and harness their powers of flight and fire. That all changed when the King attacked. The Stories of Old take place when King Letcher grew wary of the slippery devotion of a dragon rider's heart. Soon he was plagued with fits of insomnia and poisoned dreams.

“I saw an angel come down out of heaven only to discover it a dragon, that ancient serpent, come to destroy us,” the King told his hand one morning. “It is my duty to bind the dragon for a thousand years, to imprison her in the Abyss, and to keep mankind from being seduced by its disobedience.”

Believing this was a message from the Gods, that these slithering things would ruin him, he ordered his counsel to set up a feast for the Dragon Riders, an invitation dripping in deceit. Gathering the distrusted markings of faces, hands, bellies, arms—a mix of deep umber skin with striking flashes of rouge and pale ivory branded with carnelian. They arrived with empty bellies and good cheer, only to discover the King’s guard rounded them up like cattle. The gruesome killing of an entire generation of women became known as The Fall from Grace. King Letcher declared war against the dragons and decreed all who bore the mark an act of treason against the King.

Across the Kingdom, violence bloomed like fields of poppies, blood spilling across the rolling hills. Villages of the North, South, East, and West were pillaged. Dragons slain or forced to retreat to the top of the highest mountain range. The last Dragon Rider execution took place in the town square for all to see. Though he would never be fully satisfied until all dragons ceased to exist, the King felt confident his war would end in victory. So he celebrated. Night after night in libations, feasts, and whores.

But on a full moon at the brink of winter, King Letcher had another dream. A prophecy of a girl born with the mark reuniting with the dragons, the first deserter of his reign. Then many. This foreboding message intertwines with the fragility of aging. And so he decreed once again: every female-born babe must immediately be relinquished for inspection.

A hundred years went by, and not one rider graced the land. An unsettling quiet spread across the Kingdom while two generations of Kings took a seat at the thrown. Some felt the mark of a dragon rider vanished without the proximity of dragons. Or that women closed their legs and lived like virgins, afraid to have the fruit of her labor destroyed. But that’s not to say there wasn’t bloodshed.

Young King Ori was hungry to prove himself. To finish what his father’s father had started. He sent hoards of men to the tops of the Novahan Mountains. And again, when no one returned. After the fourth platoon, one man finally made it back down, bloodied and broken, with a dragon egg in hand.

While some men fought dragons, others sought a different kind of violence. On dark street corners, behind locked doors, through the crack of a midsummer window. Thieves of lust. But no one birthed a dragon rider until Amelie birthed Elora.

She never wanted to tell her daughter about the dragons. Or about herself. When she was born, the midwife informed the guard Amelie had still birthed so that Amelie could raise Elora in secret. But she warned her that they didn’t have much time. One day soon, Elora would come to reckon with what’s in her blood and on her skin. She just didn’t know it was going to be today.

“We’re going away for a while, Elora,” Amalie tries to keep her voice neutral. For Elora’s sake, she tells herself. But Elora has always wanted to leave this home. At first, it was easy to keep her hidden. They lived miles away from the nearest village when she fled. Only her mother and sister come by to bring them supplies and news from the stirring Kingdom. Less and less these days as unrest took over the streets.

Still, Amelie tried not to worry her daughter more than she needed to. “Never go outside where strangers can see you,” she always told her. “Your birthmark is dangerous.” But as soon as Elora could walk, she was taken with the land beyond their heavy iron door. Amelie’s warnings became more and more desperate. Filling with a viciousness that took her by surprise. She didn’t want to punish Elora for the world’s cruelties, but how could she keep such a reckless child safe? “One day, Elora. We’ll leave one day.”

As she explains to Elora that they are going to the mountains, she builds a wall around her heart. There is no time for weakness. She stifles her lip, pulls on Elora’s boots, and gathers their supplies: freshly baked bread and goat’s cheese from her sister’s shop, a lantern, extra kerosene, homemade soap, a blanket, and a hunter's knife. We’ve been living in survival for years now, she thinks. This is no different. She fastens Elora’s cloak to cover, as best it could, the visible mark on her face. Then she secures her own.

Amelie nearly jumps out of her skin when there is an unexpected banging on the door. Adrenaline surges as she pushes Elora behind her. Hard. She sends a quick thank you to the Gods when Elora doesn't cry out. She follows with a prayer that they aren’t too late.

“Amelie! It’s me!” Her sister's voice shouts. A pained relief floods her. Elora runs to the door before Amelie can grab her.

“Elora, wait!” Amelie moved to the door, but it felt like she was moving in slow motion. She shouldn’t be here, Amelie keeps thinking. The door opens. Her sister barges in. She’s frantic and crying. They’re holding hands now. Her sister is saying something she can’t make out. Everything sounds like an echo.

“Amelie!” Her sister strikes her across the face. The violence sobers her.

“What are you doing here, Delia?” There’s sweat dripping down her face. Her cheeks are flushed. Was she running? Delia’s skirt is covered in mud. It rained earlier, Amelie recalls.

“You have to go. You have to hurry,” Delia shouts again, pleading. On her way home from the market she saw the guard assembling in the square with armor, swords, and horses. She heard them whispering as they carried on about a “dragon rider” with ready excitement. Delia’s blood ran cold as she realized they somehow discovered Elora. A basket full of potatoes fell forgotten as she made haste to the stables. Delia galloped full speed down a secret path so she could give her sister and niece a 20-minute head start to escape.

“They know,” She said. “They know about Elora.”

Amelie is shaking her head. “How? When?”

“I don’t know. The midwife. Her son was lost in the mountains. She… She must’ve told them.” Delia holds Amelie's hands and squeezes.

Amelie’s ears begin to ring. Elora is tugging at her dress, asking about what’s going on. But she and her sister are deadlocked. Their eyes search for an answer they can’t know: whether or not they will make it out alive.

“We have to go,” Amelie breaks away first. “Elora, honey, we have to go.” After all these years, and on the eve of their departure, they’re discovered. What cruel luck. She curses Letcher’s grave.

“Delia, take care of mother. I love you.” She puts her hand gently on her sister's cheek. Before the tears could tumble down her face, she’s gone. Amelie grabs their travel sack, takes Elora’s hand, and steps out into the cold darkness.

“You too, sister,” Delia, still standing in the doorway, whispers to her ghost.

_____

Not far off, another mother grieves. A dragon known as Havu. A once beloved and powerful being reduced to nothing. The hateful sorrow plaguing all dragons as they felt their bond severed with lost riders festered into a vengeful heart.

When the men came up the mountain, the younger dragons, hungry for blood, put their bodies in the ground. But Havu had grown tired of war, so she retreated higher into the snowy peaks where no one would reach her. For many years she lay dormant. Growing weaker in a deep slumber, she hadn’t noticed the odor of man wreaking of sweat and must. She hadn’t noticed the sound of his creeping footsteps faintly echoing in the cave. His sword drawn, prepared to lunge for the kill. But then, something shimmery caught his eye. The glow of an unborn dragon. His eyes narrowed, and a new desire seduced him. Bring the king a prize greater than a thousand jewels, he thought. Easier prey, too.

What woke her was an intuition deep in her bones. A sharp pain pierced her heart as her kin was ripped from its nest. In a fog of sleep, panic, and maternal instinct, she flung her wings wide, letting out an unfamiliar roar. She saw the hideous beast disappear off the cliff outside. She checked her nest as if it could all be a trick of her mind, but the only trick was that man believed he righteous.

Screeching again, her battle cry reverberated through the cave. Knowing the others would come quickly, but not soon enough, Havu tore at the ground. Her claws dug deep, ripping up rock as she pushed forward to plunge into the sky. But by the time she reached the cave’s doorway, it was too late. In her frenzy, she hadn’t noticed the tremble of the mountain. She, too, was woken. When her flame hit the sky, it was snuffed out by a white powdered cinderblock. Havu went down as the avalanche ensued. Trapped in the frigid hell of limbo and defeat. Her vision went black.

Minutes turned to hours as she dreamed of her child and her failure to protect the one thing she had left. She felt suffocated as if drowning under water. She thought about giving up. The hope of peace when death comes for all like an old friend. But despite her best wishes, she didn’t die. Instead, a cool breeze hit her nose. Her thunder came; they just couldn’t save the innocent.

Havu spends most of her nights soaring high among the midnight constellations laying waste to the farmland below. She hopes to starve the Kingdom. Let them survive on flesh until spring, knowing they will be lost come harvest. Tonight she drifts into a different part of the land, flying above a clearing in the Dark Forest, a green velvet curtain where few men dare to go—fearing a matinee of otherworldly beasts and unknown enemies. Feeling attracted to its wild call, she swoops down to land on a bed of daisies like a serpent in a garden.

There’s music in the air. A crescendo of crickets, the harmony of an owl's song, leaves rustling in the wind, and faintly, a child crying. Havu’s eyes narrow. She spurts out steam against the cold air as her nostrils begin to flare. Where is it? In the treeline, a small child crouches underneath an ancient oak, like a fallen fruit. That’s exactly what it is to Havu. To man, even. This abandoned thing cast out in a treacherous land where predators could feast.

She towers over the child in two daisy-crushing strides, thrashing her raven-colored wings to make the treeline shiver. Maybe even the babe. She wants to hear the weak scream of protest and terror, but the thing just sits there. Pathetic. Havu’s pain is so great she had lost herself in it. Because only from immeasurable grief could she see this child and feel hate.

There’s nothing like the wrath of a mother’s vengeance. But when the child stands, still refusing to cower, she wavers. It is just a child, she admits with contrition. One Havu will soon discover also suffers from immeasurable loss.

Havu is hesitant but relinquishes herself to a newfound curiosity. She lowers her wings and steps back into the clearing. Surprisingly, this seems to welcome the child, drawing her into the cast of moonlight, leaving a flurry of leaves in her wake. The girl moves closer to Havu, meeting her with a familiar and puzzling glint in her honeysuckle eyes.

Even though Elora knows nothing of being a dragon rider, her blood reaches back through time, through the Stories of Old, through the wisdom of her ancestors, and erupts in a beacon of light. Havu’s heart starts to race. It couldn’t be.

Elora removes her cloak to reveal to Havu the truth. She whimpers, stammering back out of disbelief. Havu hasn’t felt this tingling warmth electrifying her veins in a century. It was like chasing something always at the tip of your tongue. Or remembering the shadow of a feeling you can’t quite put your finger on. But now, it’s like no time has passed.

She praises the Gods for answering an old dragon’s prayer. Rejoiced, she tilts her head in a makeshift rite and lets her fire shower Elora. Together, they become something new, like the alchemy of shedding skin. Elora’s pink markings light up with dancing flames. Born again is the sacred bond the world had long forgotten.

Elora moves closer to Havu. She reaches her hand up to stroke the dragon’s neck, unlocking a map of curves, rough edges, and smooth sides. Havu flinches at first, forgetting the gentle touch of a rider's fingertips running along her back. Havu is beautiful, feeling the precision in every muscle, the beauty in every scale. She leans into it, nudging little Elora to rest her palm on the dragon’s cheek. Through touch, dragons and riders created a divine tongue to reveal their thoughts. Havu wants to show her the dragons in the mountains. How amazed they will be to see her. How she is a precious jewel.

But instead, Elora is bombarding her with images of Amelie. The two of them running in the woods. You can hear guards shouting in the distance. Elora trips on a fallen branch. Amelie turning around to grab her, scraping her leg against the jagged rocks. She’s holding Elora now. Trying to run but limping. They’re covered in dirt, tears streaming down their faces. There’s no way the two of them would make it out of these woods, but she’s desperate to protect her child. Moved by the same maternal instinct, she knows all too well, a power far stronger than fear. Havu sees the ending of a nightmare before Amelie acts. She stops running.

“What’s wrong, momma?” Elora asks. She’s tugging her mother’s hair.

“I love you, Elora.” Amelie kisses her head.

“Momma, I’m scared,” she cries. Havu winces.

“I know, baby,” Amelie is moving towards an oak tree on the edge of a clearing. “Remember all the times we practiced hiding?” Elora nods. “Good girl. We’re going to do that now, okay?”

Havu can hear the shakiness in her voice as she tucks Elora into the nest of a hallowed out tree. “See? It’s just like your hidey-hole at home.” Amelie is pulling leaves and twigs to cover Elora.

“No matter what happens, I need you to stay here okay? Just like we practiced.”

“No, no, no, Mommy,” Elora insists, pulling Amelie’s hand. “Don’t leave me.”

Amelie crouches down, sucking in a sharp, painful breath. “Mommy will never leave you. I will always be in your heart.” In the seconds between words, she’s forcing every ounce of love into the air. “But Mommy has to protect you.” She adjusts the leaves and pulls Elora’s cloak to cover her in the tree trunk further. “I’m going to go stop the guards. No matter what happens, do not get up. Okay?”

Elora just keeps crying. “Elora, honey, you have to be quiet, okay? Promise me you will be quiet and close your eyes.” There’s a finality in Elora’s look at her mother, almost knowing it’s the last time. “Promise.”

Amelie nods. But as soon as she’s away from the hiding tree, the guard has descended upon them. At least twenty men coming for her daughter. All upon their horses with their swords and their armor.

“Where’s the dragon rider?” the knight in the front shouts at her.

“I’m the dragon rider,” Amelie said. Level-headed. No room to waiver.

The man squints at her before letting out a short laugh that sounds more like the snort of a stout pig. “We’re looking for a girl,” he says. Two men break rank to seize her. “Who are you?” She fights against their restraint, but they pin her down.

“I am a girl,” Amelie toys with them. The senior-ranking knight gets off his horse, looking forward to using this moment to gain favor with his platoon. He draws his sword, pinning the tip against her jawline.

“Don’t be smart,” he spits.

She repeats herself. “I am the dragon rider. I fled when I heard you coming to my home.”

The knight uses his sword to tear off her cloak. Amelie stifles a gasp as the moonlight reveals a berry-stained neck. The guard thrums with greedy excitement. The knight smiles.

“How did such a wretched thing creep among us for so long? The king will be pleased to be rid of you.”

As if suspended in time, Elora replays her mother’s sacrifice over and over to Havu. What would have been the most fruitful years of their relationship were cut violently short, and Elora was left alone to decipher the secrets of life without its key. Havu didn’t realize she started crying until Elora cradled a crystal tear in the palm of her tiny hand.

_____

That night marked the beginning of Stories New, where an old, defeated dragon found a clandestine child in the forest. What happened next would cause King Letcher to roll in his grave. The destroyer of worlds would finally be defeated. It’s the tale of two mothers. One who showed incredible bravery through the ultimate sacrifice: passing on the reigns of motherhood to another. Another, who suffers the vast emptiness of loss, only to find the strength of opening her heart to the smallest spark of hope. There’s not a cavern deeper than losing your child… or losing your mother. What a terrible miracle. Because of them, the Kingdom will see dragon riders grace the land once again with their wisdom, intellect, bravery, independence, and, of course, fire.