Out of the Ashes

“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley,” I thought with distress. I keep replaying in my head over and over, “There weren’t always dragons in the valley.” I must try harder to remember when all the carnage started. Where did it all begin? How did it all begin? I can feel the earth hardening, tightening against my skin. I am so tired but each time I close my eyes the horror of last night floods my thoughts, and the fear I saw in their eyes terrorizes me. My family, my friends, all those I loved are gone. Lying in this place, I cannot help but notice the blue sky filled with gentle white clouds. When I was a kid, I would lay in the fields around our valley home and imagine all the shapes I could see in the sky, welcoming shapes, images only a child protected from the world could imagine. Today, lying here, staring at the clouds, all I can see is smoke billowing from the homes in the valley, and images of devastation and destruction beyond what I could ever have imagined. I cannot make the images in my mind disappear, burned into my memory from the snarling hellfire of those dragons, those demons. My teeth grind, my fists clench, and I fill with rage and hate thinking about what those creatures have done to our world. I command myself, “Get up, get up now, move, leave this place!” I just cannot. I am too weak. My limbs are heavy, my body feels broken, and the mud hardening around my shape is becoming my tomb. I can feel myself slipping into darkness and I cannot fight sleep any longer. I whisper softly to myself, “There weren’t always dragons in the valley.”

The valley was a paradise nestled between distant, rising, blue mountain ranges visible in any direction. It was country, forest, field, and stream. I used to think of it as the most beautiful place on earth, a place where no harm could happen to myself or my family. It was a magical realm. Standing in the center of the valley, the distance to any mountain range whether north, south, east, or west was ten miles. I imagine from above, from the eyes of those beasts, the valley must look like a perfect bowl, a food bowl. Summer was always my favorite time of year but no matter the season, the valley was stunning. I could always predict when spring was just around the corner. The new buds on the soft wood trees would make branches appear a reddish hue, which contrasted against lingering patches of winter snow on northern slopes and riverbanks. Mid spring in the valley was breath taking. Butter cup and daffodil blooms filled the fields and meadows as far as your eyes could see. Everything became green and the forests were bustling with wildlife and activity. My sisters and I used to watch the baby rabbit’s and squirrels dart about our yard. I swear to this day they would taunt our German Sheppard, as if they were challenging her to a good chase and catch game. She was never successful. This animal folly played out hours on end. The smells of spring were sweet, and honey suckle filled every breath.

No matter how cold the valley winters, our parents made our home feel bathed in warmth and comfort. I remember my mother, God rest her soul, would make my sisters and I dress in the bulkiest clothing before allowing us to go outside and play. Every inch of our skin was covered, and I always felt like I could not bend my knees or elbows, as if my clothing were protective armor. I feel that way now, wearing dragon scales strapped to my arms and legs to shield from their inferno. I can remember my sisters and I sledding down the steep banks of Forge Dale Road, laughing, rolling together on the ground, and covering each other in powdery white snow. I can still see the smiles on their faces and red on their cheeks, but for the life of me, no matter how hard I try, I cannot remember the sounds of their voices. Oh God, what I would not give to hear, just one more time, the laughs of my sisters on those wintery slopes.

Summer was my favorite time of year. We were out of school, we had no responsibilities other than to play and explore, days were long, nights were warm, and lightning bugs filled the air. We lived in an old farmhouse surrounded by fields and woods and every night the lightning bugs put on a brilliant show just for our amusement. My mother and father would sit on the porch with an old silver radio, the kind with the old pullout antennae, listening to oldies, laughing, and talking while they watched us play in the yard. My sisters and I used to have contests to see who could catch the most lightning bugs in a jar. I always won. I used to attribute my wins to my speed and agility, but I grew to realize my sisters were letting their little brother have the upper hand, entertaining me. They loved me as much as I loved them. I cherish my memories of those summer nights and our family together. I cannot remember the last time I saw a lightning bug. The scorched, smoldering earth is not a good habitat for any life form whether beast or bug.

The valley was home to farmers who grew wheat, corn, and soy on rotation. A sign that Summer was ending, and Fall was just around corner, was the change in sunlight. The light cast different shadows and the distant blue mountains turned to black. I was always sensitive to the seasonal changes in the sun, and I could tell when its zenith shifted further south. As a child I remember the August sunlight taking on a golden hue, a fullness, and it felt less intense. To my sisters and I, these seasonal changes foretold an end to our tireless summer play. At that age I thought the change in sunlight was magic. Science later taught me the properties of light and how it bends through the atmosphere at different angles. I often wonder, “Does the angle of the sun have anything to do with the beast’s yearly arrival?" The chilly Fall always made me feel something sinister was happening. That was a forewarning, like a hurricane flag raised on a tall ships mast. Autumn colors in the valley were breath taking and everything seemed as if painted by hand. Leaves of red, orange, and burnt sienna drew attention to every wood line. Piles of falling leaves provided cushion for my sisters and I to jump, dive, and wrestle in across our secluded property. Farmers harvesting their dried crops in September and October revealed picturesque and forgotten views, and my father started preparing for hunting season. Fall used to be a beautiful time, and a mysterious time. Now, the few of us that remain understand the end of summer golden sunlight and evening chill are signs that death and carnage are approaching for those not prepared. I owe my father everything for teaching me how to hunt, how to survive. I pray that I have the strength and will to continue fighting.

Stoney Fork was situated at the dead center of the Valley. Any pictures I could paint of Stoney Fork would leave you feeling as if you just walked through a Norman Rockwell exhibit. The barber shop with antique, red, swirling stripes, had a massive store front window where we could watch our fathers gather and talk over a buzzing electric razor. The post office with old Merl, the Postmaster, wearing his uniform with such pride you would have thought he just returned from war a decorated hero. The candy shop, owned by the Dixon’s, was our favorite early teen hangout. I can remember my neighbors, Wayne, and Eric, and I, searching through the crevices of our living room furniture, and the pockets of our parents clothing, as we tried to find spare pieces of change. Wayne would yell, “I found twenty-five cents,” and in seconds we were on our ten-speed bikes racing to the Dixons candy shop. Twenty-five cents would buy us a handful of Redfish candies which we treated like our last meal and supper. Strange that the last time I would see Wayne would be while we shared food rations in the caves. His last supper.

The church in town was my favorite building. Stoney Fork was an old, Revolutionary War era town, and all the buildings constructed from brick or stone. The church was the oldest stone structure with towering walls of perfectly cut granite, adorned with beautiful, crafted lentils. There were three spires towering high above the slate roof with golden crosses positioned on the top of each spire, the one in the middle the highest and most spectacular. The church had large oval stained-glass windows which shined with brilliant colors in direct sunlight. The church was both beautiful and fortified. I felt safe in that Church. We all did. Who would not with a ten-foot, Jesus statue looking over us from the front center wall? That is why, on the first night the beasts appeared, ninety-five percent of the town congregated at the church, hiding, and praying in the rock-solid basement. My parents and sisters went to church that night. It tears at my soul wondering whether they, and the rest of the congregation, perished quickly by fire, or slow from heat as if in a stone oven. We could not tell as we sifted through the rubble. I tell myself it was a quick death, but no matter how they died, my thoughts, and those images, power the rage I feel toward those God forsaken beasts. I will kill each one of them, one by one, until I have no more breath in my lungs. I will exact my revenge. I will find their weakness and I will walk this earth, alone if I must, until I take off every dragon’s head. There were never dragons in the valley. I will find where they came from, where they started, and make that place their grave.

It is time to get up. I wake screaming aloud, “Get Up!” I pull myself from the hardened mud, stand tall, grind my teeth, and clench my fists. It is time to kill a dragon. I resume my walk south, trying to stay ahead of the approaching Autumn chill, because that is when they awaken. I must try harder to remember when all the carnage started. Where did it all begin? How did it all begin?