According To Their Kind

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. At least, that’s what Logon says. He lies, sometimes, of course. I think he does it to impress me. Like the time he told me he had outrun a cheetah – which was clearly absurd because he had never shown any hint of Swiftness being his Grace.

But this is different. I had always assumed that the dragons had been with us from the beginning – that they were here before us, in fact. Wasn't that what we were taught – that the dragons awoke the first children of Elmira and gave them speech, and taught them the Law and bestowed the Grace? Though some think that the Grace is not the gift of the dragons but of Elmira. Logon says it comes to the same thing. He is probably right.

I think he is right, too, to suggest that the dragons must have come from somewhere else; or something else. All things have a beginning, don't they? But then, what about the beginning?

I am avoiding beginning this tale because, in order to tell it, I must tell you what cannot be told – but only felt. And if you haven't felt what I have, then it might not mean much – and if it does…well, I don't wish this on anyone.

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Grief is a strange companion. Not what you'd expect.

It isn't the big things that I miss, necessarily – although I do miss those. Everyone hopes to complete their Quest and have their Boon; most people hope to get married. I do. But these things may not happen. Sharing these moments might never have been possible. So, they haven't been stolen from me. It's everything else: the quotidian, hum-drum things that you are too busy to notice until you notice you won't ever not notice them again:

I'm beginning to forget her smile, and the sound of her voice. She had such a light voice - as if breathed through silver. I don't mean a dull, metallic sound. It's hard to describe, now. When she said my name, it was the aural equivalent of running your hands along fine silverwork. It was ornate but grounded – not like the rich, golden, voice of a lion; there is something rich and deep about gold which cannot be said of silver. Silver seems more...refined. Yes, that is about right. Her voice was refined. Musical. Ah - that was it: her voice had the timbre of a flute.

You see what I mean? Just sitting here – with my eyes closed, inhaling the scent of her tunic, it has taken an extraordinary effort to recall the sound of my name on her lips.

And I know that, by this very act, I am eroding what little I have left of her. I have been trying to hold my breath for as long as possible, after I drink in the last vestiges of her scent – and exhaling into the air. But I haven't been able to stop my tears – and the fabric has been getting damper, and the old, familiar odour of rose water which she used to wear has become saline.

And even if I don't do this – I know the air will get into the fibres and exorcise her. So why not my tears?

I haven't sniffed her boots. I was going to, but I thought I would start laughing because they are bound to smell a little of cheese – and the laughter would seem irreverent. No, it is not that. It is because I do not want to laugh at anything right now – because it would feel too normal. And then I would miss her laughter and I am worried, once again, that I would not be able to recall it perfectly.

No one tells you this.

No one tells you that you will be frozen, walking across the kitchen, by the stain on the floor from the last bowl of porridge she ate – arrested by the faint ringlet, shackling you to the past, as you try to place a foot forward and reach into an un-lived future – a future with her in it. Instead of this...emptiness.

No one tells you that you will walk around the house, oblivious to the ghosts of her presence: her touch, her little industries. I suppose it is because you are expecting her back at any moment, that the little, sequestered mementos of her past activities are perpetually waiting to be picked up again; and you are so used to them being picked up again that you cease to notice them – until...

I pricked my finger on a needle she must have dropped. The blood seemed a betrayal – at once a sign of my vitality, and her...(I cannot say the word). I had thought to leave it there. But someone else might catch themselves on it, too.

No one tells you that you will hesitate to pick up the book she last read, in case she loses her page (at first) and then – when you remember –you do not like to close the chapter. You do not like to close her chapter.

Above the fireplace in the hallway hangs a portrait Father painted of her when they first met. She is dressed in a simple, white gown. Her prasine skin is almost imperceptible against the leaves of the willow tree, and her brown curls fall on her right shoulder – which she leans against the bark. Her left-hand clasps a silver locket. In the future she will place a cutting of my fringe in it. But, for now, she is looking at Father, and all that is to come.

I wonder - how many times did she blink when he was painting it? What did the bark feel like against her back? Did they stop, often? Was she bored? In the sky, above, Father has painted the mountains; you can just make out the great dais, casting a faint shadow. Did they know, even then? It is said that No’om can see the future. (But the dragons are not permitted to interfere. Though isn't their very presence an interference?)

My friends are all very kind, but they forget me. Not when it first happened – of course, they were kind. (There's that word. Everyone is kind. I don't know an unkind soul. It is our nature). But they seemed to take particular care. They don't do that now. At first, I found the sort of tip-toeing round me uncomfortable. But they acknowledged it – me – at least. Now that her body has been returned to Ereth – it is as though the music has started playing again and everyone has resumed their jigs.

And the other thing which they forget is that I am not yet, come of age. My Grace has not yet manifested. If only I had not been born in winter, I could join them in their little ventures. It has been a long autumn. So long, I did not notice the retreat of colour until, last night, I looked out and saw the last, solitary, red leaf of the tupelo give up her perch and bow to the earth.

I used to be thrilled to see this. As a girl, I would rush to the window each morning and count how many leaves there were, and Mother would tell me that, when I could see only six leaves, she would start to bake my birthday cake. Father would always stand, silent and sentinel, with his hand on her shoulder as I climbed onto the windowsill and peered out. He did not need to look – because Farsight is his Grace – but I think he liked the ritual of asking me to count aloud what I could see.

This year, he did not ask.

I did not expect him to. So many people make the mistake of thinking that loss brings people together. “At least you have your Father,” they have said to me. But the truth is that our griefs are different. I cannot understand his, nor he, mine.

Although, when it first happened, I wondered if Empathy was my Grace. There was a moment, before I said the unforgivable thing to him, when I saw him looking up at her portrait. He was playing with his ring, twisting the bezel; and I could see the colours refracting in the solitary tear running down his left cheek. As he turned towards me, and I caught his eye, I felt something, deep within me - that did not seem to spring from my own grief. It was like remembering a dream that someone else had told you and then having it play out in your own mind's eye. I must have inhaled sharply because he asked me if I was all right. As soon as he spoke, the connection broke. Had I been given a glimpse of Empathy? Our Grace is not meant to be hereditary, but I know of two people whose Grace is the same as one of their parents: Ilaya and her mother both have the Grace of Farsound and Jerwan and his father both have the Grace of Swiftness. So, it is possible.

But perhaps I didn't want to feel what he could feel. Yet, if I could, perhaps I would know whether his grief were attended by other feelings. Specifically, guilt.

It was thinking this that led to my outburst. Once blame has been laid, there is no taking it back. I should have known better. Aren't we taught from our cradles that, "What we exhale is what others inhale" and, "We cannot purify the air we breathe in"? I have always though the Dragons are a little obsessed with breath. Perhaps it is in their nature.

But they were right. I could almost see my petulant accusation leaving my lips and entering my father's. The tips of his ears went brown. He didn't dignify me with a response but that night he did not come to the window to count the leaves and I had not spoken to him, since.

#

“Alethia.”

His voice startled me, and I instinctively leapt up from the chair.

“The dragons have called you.”

I felt my heart rise to my mouth. I was expecting them to, of course, but I didn't think it would be quite so soon.

“When?” I asked. I could hear my voice crack in my throat. I hadn't used it all day, and it was sundown.

“Tomorrow.”

I bowed my head in reverence.

“I...I wanted to ask if we could perform the ceremony together?” He took a step forward. His voice was soft, and almost as sonorous as it used to be.

“Of course, Father.” I was going to say that it wouldn't have been quite proper for me to perform it alone, but the truth was that I wanted him but was afraid that he still hated me for what I had said.

“I know it isn't really my place, but...”

He didn't need to complete the sentence. I took a step towards him and offered my hand. He took it and kissed it, gently.

“Oh, Father, I’m so sorry for what I –”

“Shh...it's all right. It's all right.”

I buried my head in his chest (I stopped growing four years ago) and wept.

We held each other for some moments, and I felt the guilt that had wrapped itself around my private grief unfurl and slip to the floor. The russet beams of the low sun warmed the back of my head, and then bounced off something bright, forcing me to look away, and up.

Father was holding Mother's locket in his hand.

“I think she would have liked you to have had this,” he said. I bowed my head, and he placed the chain around my neck, as, I imagine, he did for her so many times.

“Is there anyone you would like to join us? I'm sorry, it is a little at the last hour.”

“Logon,” I said. “If you don't mind?”

“It would be delightful. May I – ?”

I nodded, and he lifted his head, rolling his eyes upwards so all I could see were the whites. It was the first time he had used his Grace in my presence since Mother. I kept quiet. It didn't take him long.

“He is at home. I’ll ask a robin to fetch him,” he said, and walked out into the hallway and I went to my room to change into something befitting the occasion.

Logon's mother (who has the Grace of Flight) brought him over before sundown and Borlik (our cook) prepared a feast in my honour. As he lifted the lid of the great silver platter (we only have one) in the centre of the table, he tickled my ear with a wet snout, and said, proudly, “This, 'ere should keep ee fit for yon journey!”

It was a smorgasbord of potatoes and fruit, encircling a mountain of cheese, on top of which, he had fashioned four shapes out of cucumber.

“Oim not too gud at doing animal loife.”

“It's wonderful!” I said. “Thank you.”

One of the pieces of cucumber fell off and landed in Logon's bowl of soul, splashing his tunic. Borlik looked crestfallen.

“Oh, dear. Sacril'ge that be. Oim sarry. It must be moi clumsy paws – I –” Here, Borlik stopped himself by clapping his left paw over his nose.

“It's all right,” said Logon, softly. “‘All creatures have their Grace, and to each, their nature.’”

“Aye, ‘and no nature is higher than another's.’ tis very true, dat. ‘Elmira's greatest glory is most apparent in the plenitude.’”

(We all muttered our assent to that).

“Yes,” continued Logon, “But I have also been reading one of the ancient sages who has said that, ‘Variety entails inequality.’”

“What's moi tail got a do with et?”

I couldn't help chuckle at this; in fact, we all did, and Borlik – whilst not understanding the joke, knew us well enough to know we were not laughing at him cruelly, and joined in – which made us laugh all the louder, of course. (Badgers' laughter is deep, and wet – a little like blowing a raspberry).

We ate and then, after lighting the four candles of the tetraphos, we stood, and held hands, as Father recited the ancient words:

"Blessed be the Four Dragons, under whose wings the Valley lives: Blessed be No’om, by whose sight there is governance; blessed be Ruaca, who watches over our spirits; blessed be Somatha, guardian of our bodies, and the mountain; and blessed by Mensos, who speaks to, and knows, our minds.

“And blessed are we, who are called to their Dais. For though they sit under the governance of the One Throne, we, the children of Elmira, are humbled by our Quests.

“From our time of our awakening, from Ethnia and Panon, so have we been called. For this reason, a –” here, Father paused, and cleared his throat. We have all learnt the words and we know that mother should come next. He blinked, slowly, and continued: “a parent will listen for the word that comes from the breath of the Four. Each has her Quest. No Quest is the same, for no life is the same. Today, Alethia has been called. Will you answer?”

I knew I was supposed to stand at this bit and bow low to my mother – father – and then, to each of the cardinal directions, and declaim my assent in joy and earnest. But I could not. My knees would not bend. I could feel the others' eyes turn to me, searching me out. How long could I remain in my seat, before what seemed like a reverent pause became...something else? Had anyone ever refused to answer their Quest? I don't think so. Sometimes children at school would try to egg each other on to refuse the Quest. There were always rumours that someone's second cousin had heard it said that so-and-so in the next village – who once visited for Festival – had it on good authority that the recalcitrant daughter of a distant relative had refused her Quest.

It was always possible. Quests are not easy. Many did not complete it and only a few did not return; but since there was no shame in failing your Quest (Quests are not easy), and everything to gain if you do, it was practically inconceivable that anyone would simply refuse it.

Yes, there was everything to gain. Perhaps it was this which held me fast to my seat – the hope of my Boon being granted – and the fear of failure, and of missed opportunity.

I suppose everyone must think about this. We are versed in lore from the cradle: every child grows up knowing about this. An image came back to me of my legs, swinging on the end of my bed as Mother and Father read from the book of Elmira. I must have heard the words a score of times – in fact, I knew most of it off by heart but, in that moment, I remember seeing my legs stop in their swinging as I asked:

“What is a Boon?”

“It is a little like a wish, or a favour. Anyone who completes their Quest may ask of the dragons, a Boon.”

“Can it be anything?”

“Anything Lawful.”

“Can I ask for another Grace?”

“No, Alethia. Each creature has their Grace. It is not earned and cannot be bought, or won, or traded.”

“But what if you wanted to fly and it wasn't your Grace?”

“I suppose you might be granted the power to fly for a day, or something. I'm not sure,” Father had said, looking at Mother, who nodded, slightly.

“So, is it just ordinary things you can ask for – like toys?”

“Well, of course you could ask for those sorts of things, but the Boon is only given once in a lifetime, so most people ask for something that only dragons could give.”

“I see,” I had said, and continued to swing my legs. I didn't really see.

“What did you ask for?”

“That is not a question that anyone asks,” Mother had said, gently.

“Why not?”

“Well, first – it's private. And second, not everyone has had a Boon, because you have to earn it through completing your Quest – and Quests are not easy.”

From then on, I desperately wanted to know whether my parents had had a Boon – and if so, what it was; and I would daydream about my own.

Now, the dream was, perhaps, within my grasp. If my Quest could be achieved – my Boon, granted.

And this is what was holding me to my chair.

Logon sneezed very loudly, and without putting his hand up. This made Borlik sneeze even more loudly. Badgers are not very dexterous, and he was not quick enough with his handkerchief. A large projectile of snot landed in my lap. I stood up.

“I shall answer!”

Father smiled. “It is well said. Eat, and drink. Tomorrow, we set on.”

I took my seat, and everyone applauded (although Borlik, somewhat tentatively).

#

It had been years since the Four had given a proclamation, so I had never heard them speak. It is difficult to describe - unless you have also heard them, you won't quite know. But, in a similar way to how badgers and foxes sound a little earthy, and we, a little, windy, the dragons sounded fiery.

They are huge. This is, perhaps, obvious but I don't think I had ever thought about them as being creatures of flesh and blood, who took up space. They dwell on the Mountain. They govern. They bestow. But the mountain is far from our village and the Dais is only a little larger than a forefinger from my bedroom window, so the only images I have of them are those in books, and they are not good at communication scale.

“Welcome, Alethia, Daughter of Charsia.” It was Mensos who spoke, once I had completed the ascent and recovered my breath, and knelt before the dragons.

“You have come in answer to our call.”

“Yes. Although, I – I”

“Proceed, child. I know your mind but the other three do not. Do not be afraid.”

I swallowed hard and said, quickly, “I have not, yet, received my Grace...so I...I wondered if there might be...you know…some…” I trailed off, immediately regretting saying anything at all.

“There is no mistake,” said Ruaca, reassuringly. “It is not Elmira's nature to make mistakes.”

“No, of course not. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to suggest that.”

“We did not call you here to chastise you, Alethia, but to give you a Quest.”

“This Quest cannot be undertaken by someone whose Grace has manifested,” said Somatha.

“And it is more dangerous than any we have called someone too for four thousand years,” said No’om, whose voice seemed lower than the others, and more grave. I gulped.

“I see,” I said, stupidly, because I couldn't think of anything else to say.

“You do not see,"”said Ruaca, and I felt as though an arrow had pierced right through me. “Yet that is not to your shame. It is well that you want to see.” She winked her great, yellow, eye at me, and I saw kindness and wisdom in it.

“You may still refuse, with no dishonour,” said No’om. Did they always say this? Was it a trick? It felt more dishonourable to accept the offer of a way out than to simply refuse.

“How...dangerous do you think it is? Am I not likely to return?”

“Even we cannot see all ways,” said Ruaca. “Only Elmira knows all things.”

Knowing that Mensos could see my mind, I thought I might as well ask – it seemed that I might be able to strike a bargain if I was going to undertake an especially perilous Quest.

“Then, would you grant my Boon? Because, what I want, is –”

“Child,” said Mensos, interrupting me, “Do not be hasty to utter your Boon now. It is better to ask this once the Quest is achieved. That way you will not be fixing your eyes merely on your Boon – for many have lost their Quests this way. And if you were to fail, you would think that you had lost something promised.”

I hung my head. I could see the sense in what she said but it wasn't very helpful.

“What Mensos says is true; yet it is also because the process of Questing changes your heart. What you think you might want now is not always what your heart desires afterwards,” said Somatha.

“Well, that might be true for others, but I know what I want,” I blurted out, a little rudely. “And, quite frankly, if the Quest is going to change my heart so that I'll stop wanting to see my Mother, then I want no part of it!”

“Child,” said No’om, softly; and then, “Child,” a second time – more firmly; "It is not our desire, nor Elmira's will, nor your nature, to stop you loving your mother, nor long to have her with you, still."

“Well, then – you know what my Boon will be,” I said, sniffing, and catching the tears and snot in the back of my throat.

“Child!” This time, I sensed I was being told off. I stopped my sobbing and examined myself. Perhaps I had been sounding a little petulant.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound like that.”

“We understand,” said Somatha, moving her blue head forward to me and bringing it low to my shoulder – as if to nuzzle me like a speechless hare. She exhaled a little smoke which seemed to invigorate me.

“What would my Quest be?”

I don't think dragons smile but No’om’s eyes certainly twinkled when I asked this.

“The Quest we would ask of you lies outside the Valley.” No’om stressed the word outside. It struck me as a little unusual. We are used to talking about the sky, or land, beyond the Valley, but not outside it. Of course, the furthest anyone I know has gone is to this very Dais – on their Quest Day. When we were children, some of the boys would make up adventures about going on quests in the mountains, but no one thought about it seriously.

“But isn't that...” I was going to say, “forbidden” but I knew that it wasn't forbidden. Very few things were. It was simply never desired, and we knew that nothing lay beyond the Valley – for the Valley was everything that was. Yet, if the dragons wanted to send me outside of it then it couldn't be everything, and the outside could not be forbidden. My heart was beginning to race.

“Yes,” said Mensos (reading my thoughts, I'm sure). “The Valley is neither everything that is, nor are your people, all who are. Most of you do not think of what lies beyond, and that is, partly by design. For these mountains were not made to keep you in, but to keep them outside.”

Them. Them, who? My mind raced: Were there other people - malicious people? There were stories of giants and goblins and all sorts of other creatures but we knew them to be just that – stories.

“You are frightening the child,” said Ruaca, which made me laugh – for I thought at once how much I disliked being infantilised, and how little I truly knew – how childlike I really was. To the Four, of course, we must all seem like children.

“Are...they...to be feared?”

“They are different to you. As different as Borlik is to you, or you to us, or the speechless beasts. Each has their nature.”

“’No nature is higher to another's,’” I chanted.

“So we have taught you, and so it is. The Second Children are not as the First, in body or in spirit.”

“These things you will learn,” said No’om. “But, for now, the history that concerns you: Years ago, there was a girl from your village who was born with a great curiosity. She would look to the mountain and see, not our dais, but a boundary. Each year she would venture a little further. She could obtain no answer from her elders because, of course, no one had crossed over the mountains. On her twelfth birthday, she came up the mountain and spoke to us.” This was shocking. No one would dare approach the dragons unless they had been called. No’om ignored my gasp and continued:

“We granted her permission – for it is not for us to keep you prisoners, though we guard the Valley from the outside world – and we changed her appearance – for they do not look as you do – and tore back curtain that keeps this Valley hidden – and let her pass.”

“But now," said Ruaca, "we would know if she would like to return. Your Quest, therefore, is to go into that other world and seek her.”

“Is the other world as large as this Valley?”

“Far larger.”

“Then how –?”

“We will teach you. If you decide to accept the Quest. You should have some time to think over it.”

“I see. Thank you.”

“There is another thing,” said Somatha. “By now, the young girl's Grace will have made manifest, and whilst we thought it prudent to send someone after her whose Grace has not yet come, it may be that yours manifests before you can return. You must not use your Grace, nor let her use hers, publicly. It is for this reason above all that we have called you, now; for their world has changed and it may not be easy for her to remain in it for much longer.”

“May I ask, why?”

“It is in their hearts to exploit what they consider power – and to seek to harness it. Theirs is a different Grace – and it is common to all of them, although few know it. They have another word for what your Father, or Mother, or any of your race can do: They call it, 'magic' because they do not understand the Abundance.”

“What is magic?”

“It is, not,” said No’om. I was confused.

“Do you think it strange that a bird can fly, or that Logon's mother can?” I shook my head. “It is her Grace, and their nature,” I said.

“We are used to seeing these things and do not think it strange but none of their race can fly, or see across distances. Still, some of their practices would be impossible for us. They use machines. Some of these machines replicate the Grace you have - but it is an imperfect copy. More men fly, than your kind; and they can all speak to each other across great distances without the Grace of Farspeech. But these are bought and traded. And they have learned to love these shadows of Grace rather than their true Grace.”

“And what is that?”

“That is another story,” said No’om, quietly. “Some of them have a Farsight of a kind. Indeed, many of their poets have seen the Valley but they cannot perceive its splendour. They consider it a dream of a memory, or a memory of a dream. But it is those who are most awake who can see, and they sing songs that remind them of the Song they knew here.”

I noticed, at this, that he had been singing - though the words were imperceptible. As the strange music rose and fell, so did the mist which lay at our feet. It is difficult to describe how a melody can seem so unmusical – or, rather, so much more than music: It was calling, and commanding. Birds answered; the trees seemed to dance, and my spirit was stirred with hope and awe.

Then he stopped singing and, bowing his head low, asked: “Alethia, Daughter of Charsia: Will you go?”

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