A tale of mist and glass

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Before the mist settled in, before we learned to be silent, there was a stream, a fresh wound that connected dawn and dusk, covering with water the depths of the hills. It carried sounds and whispers from birds and trees alike, bringing life into the Valley from the Queen Mountain. Back then, the passages were not made of sharp glass and sheep were free to roam around the pastures. The bones of our livestock remained in their flesh, and there was nothing to fear, for the seasons kept us calm and the river gave us everything.

But summoned by a rumor, the dragons arrived. And by the time we knew, it was already too late.

They came at night, quiet as darkness. In the beginning, they were not to be seen, or heard, or thought of, not to be noticed beyond the tales we told our children when we put them to bed. In our stories, the dragons had horns, and fangs, and sharp claws that could rip the chest of a man with a single touch. Kids were told to be wary of the smell of blood near a tree, of the moonless nights and the warm days of winter. None of those things were true, at least not then, but we didn’t know better. When they arrived, the dragons were small like mice, no different from the crust in the woods or the pebbles in the bank of the river. Like snakes, they set their houses in burrows, growing steadily with scales made of smoke to erase their traces, fading away like the hint of a burnt-out candle.

But other signs were there, things not even their magic could make disappear. First it was the crows, fleeing the forest to find refuge in the cliffs. They drew circles in the skies, day after day, flying over our roofs to warn us about the dangers that were to come, though we were numb to their auguries. Only those who remembered the Old Songs were wise enough to leave the Valley. They spoke of draught and hunger, of fire and destruction, and we replied with the flow of the river and the fruits of the northern mountains. We laughed at them, sons and daughters of superstition, and after that they were gone for good.

Then arrived the Storm With No Clouds. We heard the roaring sound over our heads as if the skies were ripping apart, but no lighting was seen, and no tempest was found. Only our fields woke up covered in strange drops. We thought of dew, but this was different, for the water seemed heavier, darker, as if dirty animals had splashed the leaves with mud. Somehow we felt uneasy, and the villagers started to whisper stories of missing cattle, of chicken that laid black eggs and dogs forgetting how to bark. The tales of witches became more frequent, but so did the ones about trolls, ghosts, and demons, and as the water of the river washed away those mysterious marks, our fears became memory.

We only started to believe in the dragons after the harvest season arrived, and no trader from afar was there to buy from us. Worried by their absence, the Lords sent for them, but to our surprise we found no sign of the tunnels in the mountains that had once been walked by merchants. Walls of thick glass had sealed them, and it wasn’t until much later that we learned how fire had met stone. By then, the water of the river had also gone weak, and no ship could sail the stream. We turned to the Queen Mountain, but where we once had eternal snows that survived the warmest of summers, there was only rock and dirt, and a twirl of smoke that danced on top of it.

Trapped in the Valley, the villagers started to speak of the omens, of the advice hidden in the Old Songs that we had decided to ignore How did the rhymes go? We couldn’t remember. It was already too late for us.

After that, the dragons attacked quickly, no longer small like rodents but bigger than our strongest horses. There were three of them, each as terrible as the other, twisting their bodies over the trunks of trees like serpents ready to prey. They spoke in strange tongues, but somehow we could understand.

‘Give us the treasure of the Valley’, they claimed, and scared we brought them silver and gold, but nothing seemed good enough to them.

‘Give us the treasure of the Valley’, they repeated, with voices older than time, but even the most precious of stones gathered by the Lords were nothing but pebbles to their taste.

‘Give us the treasure of the Valley’ they insisted, but by then we had lost all hope, as there was nothing else we could offer. Moved by fear, some decided to face them, and convinced that the scales of the three beasts would surrender to our metal, they grabbed their guns and knives to take care of them.

But no human weapon can put away a dragon.

To our resistance, they replied with magic. With their fangs, they ruptured the ground, and the flames from the depths of earth were released upon us. Their mouths gathered the winds, and storms of ash and dust were thrown onto our villages. So tuned were their ears that not a sound could go past them, and if we tried to catch them by surprise they would greet us with death.

So we fled to the cliffs, just like crows had done before us. We learned to read the signs, avoiding the paths were dragons laid the bones of our missing cattle, now white and clean as if meat had never been on them. We left everything behind, and all things that once were dear to us no longer seemed important. Everything was lost to them, everything except our sheep, as the only verse we remembered from the Old Songs spoke of the charms made from the blood of lambs, able to protect men from the wrath of the dragons.

Whether that is true or not, we do not know yet. No lambs have been born in the time we’ve been here.

Now, there’s nothing else left for us but to hide. We feed on the plants that grow in the dark and the bugs and snails that have always lived here. Water comes from the rocks, and we’ve learned to gather it. It takes long, but we don’t care. Time is different here in the caves, and days and nights don’t make sense anymore. I can only guess how much has passed by looking at those who were children when we arrived, but even their growth seems slower, weaker. We, on the other hand, look much older, as if the youngest were stealing time from us. Our bodies are skinnier, our faces paler, and even the strong ones remain tired. Has it been days? Weeks? Years maybe?

Sometimes I sneak out for a moment, hoping to find spring in the Valley, to have a sense of seasons changing. But all I see is the deep mist that now covers it all. It’s a fog painted in orange, and I can only guess that fire is still out there. Just like the dragons.

At least we are safe here, waiting for the lambs to be born anytime. That is all we can hope for. And though our sheep are frail and there is no pasture in the caves, we still wait. After all, the dragons are too big to hunt us here. Or maybe they know about the sheep, and the magic we hold on to is real. We can only guess.

Every now and then we hear their voices echoing in the Valley. They speak in their strange tongue, and when they do I try to picture the mountains as they once were. I think of light, of the bees and the sun, and though I’ve never held a sheep in my arms, I think of the lambs. The lambs will protect me. The lambs will help me get out of here to save us all.

Then the voices of the dragon speak again, asking for the treasure they came for. What they don't know, what I haven't told anyone, is that I've been thinking a lot about the treasure.

And after all this time, I think I know where to find it.