Malenda

And there he was - a bare beast with taloned, varmint hands clawing at this young girl. Why, she was only 3 years of age. Her folds of fat, waiting to become longer limbs. Her teeth longing for a home in the crevices of that child's mouth, impatiently hoping to some day learn the word: Help.

For now, a gentle scream was all this girl could cry. With an ear accustomed to the hatred of these skin-covered monsters - she remained on all fours attempting to leave her father’s clasp. Whether out of negligence or divine intervention, the father turned back to view his house where there were plenty of other Beings waiting to be tortured. In fact, he could see, in his own attempt to clutch hold of this baby girl so determined to escape, that one of the other children had started digging beneath the fence on the far side of the court yard.

She won’t go far.

He ran back to the house. And it was at that moment, this toddler rolled herself beneath the wooden barrier that laid between the cottage grounds and the forest. Being young, all she could see was the truth. It was only natural that the forest trees would be safer than the scales of her owner.

She could hear yelling behind her, but it was not directed at her little body. The ‘father’ must have continued to chastise that other innocent thing. So, with all the grace of a young seraph, Malenda toddled, stumbling through the overgrown weeds, and into the bone-like trees. This forest, The Weorthan Forest, had often acted as a safe house for the unwanted, or the lost, the abandoned or the violated, in the Greater County of Varcouth. The trees stood over humanity like a judge, the ground was not unlike the marble staircasing found in your nearby supreme court of law. The animals, a thing often feared when thinking of the brutality in nature, were really quite peaceful. The only carnivore to enter the forest had been a siren, but that was many years ago now. The vines which held the wind above the ground laced the forest with beauty - blooming wildflower in the spring, and holding the icicles in a sweet, mellow embrace in the winter.

The villains of this county, for there are always villains in any county, were far too petrified by ideas of beauty and justice to enter this forest. Of course, Malenda was very naive to such things, being only three years of age. Well, not to the ideas of villains at least, but thankfully, she was born - like so many of us - with an acuity for love. And not love in any repugnant or manipulative sense: the love of wonderful things that are greater and far more beautiful than the soul of humanity.

As she crawled through the forest floor, however, the skin on her belly began to bleed, leaving a trail of red mud behind her toes. In pain, yet motivated by fear of that cottage county range, she slowed her pace. Exhaustion began to possess her body, and - as one would only expect from a world such as this one - the moment she began to rest, the yelling from that ‘father’ could be heard from the distance. Many words were screamed from his mouth, but her name rang clearly through the forest way.

Would he enter? Surely not. He was fructified by malevolence, he had no courage to be good - and thus surely he would not enter the forest. Unless, of course, this girl, this Malenda, was particularly precious. And so, her name was shouted closer and closer. Nearer the ‘father’s voice became. The girl began to cry, the trees and vines began to bellow in the breeze as if to voice her plea to the sky: help.

And there he was. Standing opposite the girl, the father had found her.

He laughed.

“How ambitious of you darling, to think you had the strength. Ha!”

The wind grew stronger, more violent, and yet - with an air of strength - the air became commanded by something above. The father, in an attempt to fight the wind, did not look above him. Indeed, he was determined to catch the girl, and the environment seemed to be inconsequential to him. He did not look around to see what was causing this breeze. The girl, curdling in the red mud, felt a talon on her shoulder. But it wasn’t cold like ‘father’s’. It was warm. What was this feeling? There was, all of a sudden, an end to the wind -

And there he was. A dragon, gentle, a conjured red of courage had infused its color into and through his wings, his body. The father, looking up from the ground, seeing only the large claw now encasing his merchandise, screamed (as all audacious malevolence does), and attempted to run away (as they always do).

But this forest was different, it never let some people go. Some people needed their time in the forest to learn. Or perhaps, to be punished. But that decision was left to the Owls at night. Until then, the dragon knew the protocol.

He grasped the ‘father’ and his lanky body with his other claw and placed him high up in an acacia tree, wrapping vines around him and commanding the air to hold him in place until the company of Birds could arrive at night for his final judgment.

He then turned to the toddler and commanded the wind rise, and placed her on his neck for the ride to come, to hold her there safely until they reached the center of Weorthan - a natural structure that was not too unlike a lake. Well, a lake does not do this place justice, really. It had two concentric circles of water, flowing like a river, whirling round the base of a yellow orb. As if the sun had fallen into the middle of the circular rivers, this portal acted as a gateway to another world - a world that Malenda would some day command.

But that was for her to discover, after the war. For now, she was a young, very young warrior girl on the back of a dragon’s neck, looking at the trees below in wonderment. No more crying or sorrow, not even pain or agony. Just beauty.

The dragon, whose name we will later learn in Yevarh, landed near an estuary, one which would lead to the rivers of Weorthan. But this estuary was different. It was the home of the skin-eaters. The fish that ate the wounded fragments of horror that clung to young warriors, and transmuted the sorrow in their bellies, leaving the young child whole - their soul open to the possibility of their glorious destiny. And so, gently placing Malenda into the water, the fish began to emit light as they nibbled at their toes. You would think that a toddler crying at the image of nibbling fish was normal. However, the dissolution of pain within Weorthan is so obvious, so easy to understand for any person, that fear and crying are no longer reactions. Only peace and balance.

Malenda, feeling the grief that once jarred her body became released, with the safety of a dragon guarding her soul, began to giggle. That honeyed laugh all youngsters take from their growing mouths when they learn what playfulness truly means. For that is something that trauma never teaches the young: life, even warriorship, is about play.

And there he was. Standing over her, Yevarh smiled softly as all guardians do, when they watch a future hero discover themselves, as they are, with no impediments - no horror - no hatred: for the very first time. For is there no other way to find your soul than in the watery depths of Weorthan? That was their next destination. The River.