Pilgrim

There weren't always dragons in the valley, and it seemed there were no longer.

There had been a town, nestled between the breast of the mountains, where a small contingent of humanity had thrived. Lives lived in bliss, dying at old ages and birthing children who fished from the blue mirror of lake to the south. Only taking what was necessary for survival and gratefully returning the little they could to the Earth that had blessed them.

The dragons however were gluttonous. Taking pride in their pillages, smiling at the genocides and atrocities they committed on all, but mostly the humans that remained. Raining their hellfire on the innocent and guilty alike. Their evil was unquantifiable and no one could escape it.

Shen stood in the desolation of what was once his town, his family's house smouldering where it had once stood, the charred smell of his community filling his nostrils and mouth and mind. His left arm was burned and he was bleeding from his face, but the blood that flowed from him was of no consequence, rather it was the blood inside him, hot in his veins, that really mattered. For Shen had done what no one else had done, he had survived what had been called 'flying death'. The murder of dragons had come and left only Shen behind with his rage and grief and yearning for some kind of vengeance.

The wind rolled quietly through the valley, whistling a monotonous melody as Shen made for the lake. It was beginning to rain lightly, almost sombrely, as if the weather itself was offering its condolences. At the lake he had frequented all of his life, Shen drank slowly, reminiscing on fishing trips with his mother, nights swimming with his brother, laughing uncaringly into the darkness and hearing his brother's laughter in return. A laughter that already he was struggling to conjure.

The rain grew in strength as his grief expanded and he stripped his clothes from his body before wading hip deep into the water. The fish were gliding around him, kissing the surface in reaction to the rain. He thought about his family’s faces and clung desperately to every inch he could remember, trying to preserve them in his mind. For if they were remembered, could they truly be gone?

There was no answer to this question, only a sob that forced its way out of Shen's throat harshly. And then the rain did pour, the mulberry sky opening like gates to heaven as his tears came, slowly at first and then rapidly, weeping uncontrollably for the immensity of his loss.

The fish had gone away and the water only rippled with the torrent of rain as he clutched fistfuls of hair and cried out.

'Why? Mother, why?'

But there was no one to answer him, only the mountains which returned merely his echo, skimming across the lake and dying in the rain.

*****

The pilgrim watched from the mountains as the boy wept in the water.

He had travelled many miles but it seemed once again he had arrived too late. The dragons had been and reaped the town of all it consisted, something he had seen often enough in the service of his duties, but one he never usened to. As usual they had left nothing in their wake, or so it had seemed, until the boy came crawling from beneath the rubble.

It took, the pilgrim knew, a special kind of luck or power to survive the dragons, it seemed in this case to be the former, but he had to confirm it. He had to see, with his own eyes, the boy's reaction to his tragedy. And so he'd watched the boy as his slender frame tremored constantly in the lake. No great power spewed forth from him in anger. Just tears and the usual human reaction to such horrific grief. It was evident, that there was only a mortal here and so the pilgrim kept his eyes on Shen only a moment longer, before saying softly,

'I am sorry, boy,' and turning his back on the valley, leaving its destruction and mourning behind him.

*****

The rain has stopped and Shen had just begun to compose himself when a sound broke loudly against his ear.

It was the voice of an old man, its words were not clear but it was obvious that it was a voice. Shen waited a few seconds, allowing the space for it to talk again.

'Who's there?' Shen said at last. 'WHO'S THERE?'

Nothing, only the splashing of a couple of fish as they made their return to the surface.

Shen climbed out of the water and draped his clothes over his sodden body. His mind was tired from the horror of the day, and was apparently playing tricks on his senses. He sat, his back to where the town had once stood, and contemplated what was left for him. He knew his dreams of vengeance were pious but the rage burned so harshly in him, like the flames that had licked his town and left it to become ash on the wind.

A mist unfurled like a blanket across the lake. Shen watched, perplexed. He had never seen the valley's weather be so temperamental, the air seemed to tingle with some form of power, atoms leaping around his head in mad pirouettes.

The mist continued to roll, silent and heavy, laying atop the still water. Shen watched as it came, settled and then split into two. The wind picked up now, roaring in a tremendous gale, but the mist and the lake seemed impervious to it. The new wall that had appeared before him constantly shifted and moved like something living and restless and hungry. An ever moving puzzle piece until at last it found its shape.

Before him a small passage had appeared, a simple box leading entirely across the lake. It enticed him, seemed to beg him somehow to step between it, although of course the mist could never hold him. He would drop like a stone to water.

It looked, however, incredibly solid. As if it had hardened momentarily just for him, stopping its moving and holding itself entirely still so he could cross. Slowly, a tendril unfolded from the wall and formed a hand. It began as a wisp of a fist until one finger curled out, beckoning him before disappearing.

Shen, amidst all of his grief and horror felt an overpowering urgency to follow. He rose from the lakeside and, taking one final look back at what was once a town- his town, stepped between the passage of the mist.

As he had hoped, he did not fall, instead it seemed he was walking upon a light rain. It wet his bare feet with a soft dew and small droplets splashed against his head. He began walking and as he did so the mist began to move again, flowing and running and changing like a great wave before him. The entrance behind sealed but Shen did not notice it, for there was only forward now, indeed there only ever was.

In the mist things began to form, first came the past. His mother's face was created, smiling as if reminiscing upon some memory of pure joy. Shen's eyes began to water again but no tears flowed, instead he smiled back and said, 'Goodbye, mother.'

Next came his brother, a fishing rod held over his shoulder, a huge carp dangling from his other hand. He seemed to be laughing but there was only the sound of wind, making something more akin to a moan.

'Goodbye, Meran.'

Then there was the present, the recent. An image of the dragons, swooping down, coming like a rapture on his home. All the horror and anger swelled up inside him. There would be vengeance for this.

The dragons gave way then to an image of himself sobbing in the lake. He wanted to look away, unable to handle seeing himself in such a state of misery. Fortunately, however, he didn't. He watched and he saw that there had been someone in the mountains. Someone watching him in the water. And again he heard the sound of the old voice, booming and echoing in the passage of the mist. He began to run. Someone else had survived the dragons, or worse, had watched it happen. Had known they were coming and had allowed it. Shen's feet tore through the mist as he sprinted, he felt it giving out beneath him. He ran harder, not watching the walls of the passage as they shifted again. His future remained a mystery as he burst out of the passage onto the mountaintop, the wind stronger than ever as he held stumbled and gripped a nearby rock for balanced. Had he seen the things prophesied on those walls, running and weeping with droplets of rain, he may have turned back. He may not have followed the Pilgrim, he may have forsaken his revenge and given up on the dragons.

But he had seen none of that and, instead, he stood atop the mountain, watching, as the Pilgrim fled between the tall grass below and, at last, into the forest to the south.

The voice came again, louder than the wind in his eardrums, and this time the words were clear.

'Do not follow.'

Shen looked out at the forest, the darkness between those trees was deep and ominous. He began to make his way down the mountainside to follow. He began to embark on his journey for vengeance.

Shen began his pilgrimage.