Dragon Bloom

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. At least, we never thought there were. My ancestors have been in this same Valley for over a thousand years and not a single one of us had ever seen a dragon.

Until the day I did.

On the morning I saw my first dragon I was shaken awake by my old patroon.

“Wake up, Snap, you lump of snores. I need your help.”

Yes, my name is Snap, Snap Humholder, and I live in the Sumpland Valley with my family and fellow Sumps.

“It’s not my turn.” I mumbled, snuggling deeper in my blankets to reclaim the dream I was having about surfing on a Grintlock spine.

“It is now. Your sister was sent on an errand to the Lake.”

I shot up out of bed, the Grintlock dream condemned to fade into unfulfilled obscurity. “The Lake? To the Skimmers?” I asked.

No one from the Valley had been to the Lake in a long, long time. I had to admit I was hoping when the time came it was me that would be chosen, as I represented the more diplomatic side of a Sump, whereas my sister was a bit more abrasive.

“You weren’t up.” My patroon shrugged.

I knew those dream beans I took the night before would be a mistake.

“You could have woke me," I suggested, knowing full well that wasn't my patroon's responsibility. "What’s going on?” I needed to know why Tisk had been sent to the Lake.

“We’ll find out when she gets back,” is all they said. "The council keeps its secrets for now and we aren’t in amongst the weeds. Now get up, lumpy. Grintlocks aren’t for Sumps.”

The legends all say dragons were gargantuan creatures. So massive, they caused eclipses when they took flight. So enormous they were mistaken for volcanoes when they slept. Their monstrous wings whipped up hurricanes and their snouts snorted fireballs. Their claws cleaved forests into splinters and their tails splashed lakes so hard they become empty holes in the ground. The legends also say that dragons lost their magic long before we ever came along and that when the magic disappeared the dragons disappeared with it.

That’s what the legends all say, but we all know legends can lie. Or rather that legends are really good at obscuring details and omitting entire truths altogether.

When my patroon said they needed my help I knew it was a misdirection. What they really needed was me out of the way. After I rubbed the sleep gum from my eyes I slurped down some thorax porridge and stuck a nippy root between my teeth to chew on. I needed to be alert and ready for anything. After my chores that is. The chores I could do in a state of brain dead pantomime.

I started with mucking the stalls and sweeping the front rock clear of night needles and stuckamuck leaves. Then I filled the troughs with water from the shared spring and slop for the roachlets. I said morning to Braid and Nucket who were stuck with their own chores.

“Did you hear about the Lake?” Braid whispered to me. His voice was gruff from morning mucus. He cleared his throat and spat against the cavern wall.

"Gross," Nucket said and slapped her younger brother on the back of the head. "Of course he's heard, you tadpole. They sent his sister.”

"Oh, right," Braid said. He scratched at the side his flat, broad jaw. "Haven't heard from her?" he asked.

Nucket went to slap him again, but held back. "She's just gone, Braid."

"I'll fill you in when I hear anything," I said. "I can't believe I slept in."

“Let’s hope it’s nothing.” Nucket said. Her head fin was was bent at an angle from sleeping and when she blinked her translucent second lids stuck slightly before opening all the way. Seemed like the early morning had got to all of us.

"We'd best be off. Duty calls." She winked as they headed toward the back caverns with a big net and torches meant for scaring off the bigger spiders. I blushed. "Later," I croaked and watched her speckled shoulders until she descended into the shadows.

Us Sumplanders live in a series of natural caverns between the valley walls and the river bed. Our ancestors found the empty caverns a long time ago and we’ve been here ever since. They are dry and warm and surprisingly comfy. They are cavernous as caverns should be and roomy, not like those claustrophobic hovels our neighbors in the hills seem to enjoy. No, our caverns include lots of nooks and crannies and gunkholes for storage and lodging and privacy. Enough space for everyone and everyone has a place of their own. There’s even a hot spring for bathing, warmed by the internal fires, and the shared spring as well, full of cool fresh water fed from the Glaciers. The only hang up is the spiders. We’ve barricaded most of the bigger lava tubes in the back caverns, but sometimes they get through. Rarely, but when they do it’s better to be prepared.

We live together in groups called hoards. A hoard can be more than just family. It’s usually larger groups of Sumps who have banded together for one reason or another. Love, friendship, collective experiences of pain and suffering. Those sorts of things. We get along with the other hoards mostly. As I said, there is plenty of room to go around. The caverns are much too big for one Sump hoard. We were lucky to have found such perfect accommodations.

There's one big room in every hoards' cavern where all the treasure is kept. A little bit of a hold out from the legends, I suppose. As dragons were known for their treasures too.

Everything valuable is put into the treasure cove. Not only traditionally valuable treasure, like coins and precious gems and bejeweled swords and festooned suits of armor, but also family heirlooms like my great patroons darning needles; family trees and family shrubs and family hedges; maps of all the regions of the Wayward World; illustrated field guides; garments for special occasions and above all else the history of each hoard. Including what has been found what has been lost what has been gained or gambled or tossed aside what has been stolen what has been sneaked or loaned or forgotten.

Squib was already in the cove and it was a mess. She usually had it nice and neat. Order is everything for an archivist and scribe, especially of her temperament. She was on her hands and knees, covered in muck and grime, digging through a muddy chest. There was a discarded shovel nearby and a mallet at her feet. From the looks of it she had been up all night, knee deep in the forgotten pool, unearthing the buried archives. There were chests all around, drudged up from the shallow pool with an elaborate hook and pulley system we often used for hoisting. The chests too, were smeared and caked with clay-like red mud and coarse sand. Their contents were dumped everywhere as she searched through them. What had gotten in to her?

I picked up an old cracked hand mirror. It was tarnished with age. Around the frame ran the pattern of my hoard’s sigil. A water spirit encased in a bubble. It was a protection sigil. Strong and reliable. I could barely see my bumpled face through the grime on the mirror’s face.

"You look ravishing, my dear, now put that down and crack those locks open. Use that mallet there,” Squib croaked at me. She paused her rummaging and wiped her brow firmly where her sweat was forming frothy bubbles on her skin.

“You need a break,” I said. “Look at you. You’re exhausted.”

“I’ll soak when I’m done.” Her skin was covered in the white film of a Sump that is beyond overexertion.

I set the mirror down. “At least let me help you.”

“Never mind that, Snap. Take care of the locks.” The chest before her was empty. She grunted, stretched her stumpy legs and turned her attention to the next one.

I hefted the mallet to do ask she asked.

They were tougher than I thought. I could tell why she needed me to do it. I don’t know how she managed to dig and pull them up in the first place. Necessity breeds determination, I guess.

I broke the first lock and pried the lid open. Inside was a stack of weather-proofed parchements bound in binding vines.

“What are we looking for?”

“We aren’t looking for anything. You are breaking locks and then you are gathering drabs. I’m doing the looking.”

“What are you doing searching the buried archives, Squib? Aren’t they buried for a reason?”

“And what reason would that be?”

“Because they’re old and meaningless.”

Squib grunted again, this time letting out a low burble of amusement. “Ah yes, old things usually hold no meaning to those that come after. If we respected things more just because they were old, I’d get a lot more respect from you wouldn’t I?”

It was my turn to be amused.

“You’re a curious one, Snap. You like being my apprentice?”

‘Yes, of course I do.”

“Then tell me, do you truly think our history is meaningless? Do you not have any curiosity about the past?”

“I guess I thought if we needed to know we would. If it ever became important to know someone would find out.”

“Who would that someone be?”

“You?” I ventured, still wondering what she was up to, but having an inkling of an idea. The buried archives were, after all, predominantly records of the past. Information to old to be considered of any real value. They were buried for preservation as well as practicality. To get them out of the way.

Squib sighed and her throat distended as she gulped down a thought.“I suppose,” She said. “But why not you, Snap, or anyone else for that matter. Why couldn’t we all know?”

I didn’t have an answer to that. At least not right away. Not one I ever got to get back to Squib with. I’ve thought and thought about that question a lot since she asked it. I didn’t set upon an answer for a long time. In the end I’ve concluded, there is no reason I can think of why we all shouldn’t know.

“Squib. What’s going on? Does this have to do with my sister’s errand. You were at the council meeting?”

“It may have and yes I was there. That’s the kind of curiosity I admire. You done with those locks?”

I gave the last one a final good whack and it fell off with a spulch in the mud. “All done.” I said.

“Good, now get going and find some drabs. A lot of them.”

Drabs were the flowers we used to make our ink. They were the most plentiful and, coincidentally, had the darkest pigments we could find.

"Drabs?" I said incredulously. "What for? This look more important. I'm ready to be more than an apprentice. Don't send me away. Let me help you." I admit I was upset about my sister being sent to the Lake and wanted to be useful in a consequential way. "I really am ready."

Squib wasn't having any of it.“Our job is to preserve the present, Snap. Preserve it for the future and sometimes, in order to do that we need to dig up the past. Now grab your stuff and go." It was enough of a reprimand from Squib I knew arguing would be futile. "I’ve already wasted enough of your time. Luckily you’re young and spry. The north patch should be the most promising. "And Snap…”

The urgency in Squib’s voice shifted up a notch. There was a desperation there I had never heard before, some knowledge, perhaps a secret Squib had been holding onto for a long time.

“...try to get back before your sister.”

The day was overcast, but not sullen. It had rained a smattering overnight and there were pools of water reflecting the clouds above. The spring was good for us Sumps. The return of the water was welcome. The dry winters were bad for our amphibious dispositions. The air was fresh with moisture and I felt rejuvenated as I traveled with the handles of a woven basket around each shoulder. I had my belt too, equipped with snippers, gloves, a short knife and a root saw. I always loved the task of foraging, but I didn’t have time to dawdle. Squib had said to hurry, so I was doing my best.

I took the western path along the hillside, avoiding the bridges that would take me across the river or the switchbacks down to the fords where it was shallow enough to wade across. It wouldn’t be long before the bridges were the only option, as the glaciers continued to melt and the water levels rose. Sumps were decent swimmers, but the river’s current became too strong for our pudgy arms and legs. Even the Skimmers would have a tough time with their longer limbs.

I could tell something was different immediately upon arriving at the north patch. It was up on a flattened rise a few miles from our cavern. Small waterfalls cascaded from the Valley wall here and gathered in a swampy morass at its base. The runoff fed the field which bloomed with all manner of flower, including, Squib was dead right, loads of drab flowers. They were small like daffodils and black as thrust spiders.

I should have started harvesting right away, but I stood agape instead, for, sure, there weren’t just drabs in the meadow. There were goflings and sapseers and mimpmaps. And rightfuls with their nearly invisible needle sharp thorns that would stick in your hands if you weren’t careful. Only a pincer slug can get them out. There were two dozen other varieties of flowers, common enough and easily identifiable and a few rarer types, in appropriate proportions. The field glowed with a grander power than even the fertility of spring alone could provide. It was an uncanny sight, one more appropriate for midsummer, when time has supplemented the field with its incomparable endowments.

None of that really mattered. If it wasn’t for the obvious, I wouldn’t have given a second thought to an unseasonable amount of abundance in a Valley known for providing such abundance often. The real problem was the other flowers. Flowers I had never seen in my whole life. Flowers that didn’t actually exist as far as I knew, and I knew way too much about flowers.

They were intermittently scattered amongst the rest. A handful in the scheme of things, but they stood out because of their hypnotic power. They were half a foot taller than any of the other plants and grasses around and seemed to sway with an unseen energy. They pulsed with light like some sort of river jelly, which couldn’t be true, for what flower glows like that? It must have been the sun reflecting off the leaves or a trick of the wind. Even the bees seemed more intrigued, clustering around the stamens as they vied for the undoubtedly richer pollen.

I hovered over the field, entranced, in doubt as to why Squib had sent me here. Was it for this all along? These flowers? And if not, surely she would want me to bring one back to log into the records. No, I had to get to work. Squib wouldn’t have been so insistent about the drabs if she had an ulterior motive. I was here for the drabs and the drabs I would get.

Yet, there was one of the flowers right there, a rock shadow’s step away. I looked up and down the meadow for any witnesses and, satisfied with my guilty conscience, snipped away. It might have been the greatest or worst decision of my life. As soon as I severed it from the earth, the flower wilted in my hand and the light went out. I could almost feel the essence plummeting like a knocknut falling from a tree. I thought the petals were falling away as a product of my disturbance, and in a way they were. Something inside was disturbed and shaking the petals free. A faint glow appeared and then, to my surprise, the tiniest head appeared, followed by the equally tiny body of a dragon, a real dragon.

How did I know it was a dragon? I had heard all the legends. I knew dragons were fire-breathing monsters. I knew they ate boulders and bathed in oceans and ate whole packs of ghasts in one gulp. I knew they were fierce, conniving and to be immediately ran away from. This puny creature was easily identifiable as none of those things. I knew all this and, still, I knew this was a dragon.

I looked up and down the meadow at all the flowers just like this one, then I looked back at the dragon. They had returned.

“You’re the size of a cricket,” I told it. “That can’t be right,” I said in way of announcing my doubt. “Can you understand me?”

The dragon gave me a look I interpreted as inquisitive, which neither confirmed or denied it understood. “Where have you been?” I said. “No one is going to believe this.”

At that moment, a shout came from the rocks stacked above the far side of the meadow.

“Oi, Sump. What’s got you traipsing around in the flowers like a humpnog? And talking to yourself as well?” The Valley walls echoed the yell a handful of times too many.

I turned, shielding my eyes to get a better look at the figure, although I didn’t need eyes to know who it was. It was my sister, Tisk, and I was in trouble.

I have been writing frantically for hours, trying to get the whole story down. I have so much more to tell. My hands are drenched in ink. I'm, confused, tired and afraid. I might have to pack up and flee at any moment. Remember that part about immediately running away?

If you’re reading this, beware. There were always dragons in the Valley. They had been here the whole time. We thought they had disappeared, gone extinct or never existed in the first place. They were hidden, so small we couldn’t see them. We couldn’t even suspect.

There have always been dragons in the Valley. They came back when the magic returned and the magic grew stronger, and the stronger the magic grows, the bigger the dragons get.