Quest for Memory

There weren't always dragons in the Valley.

Of course, just like anywhere, they had their fair share of gnome infestations and large pixie populations. The Chief even swore he had seen a unicorn once, but the Valley – creatively named after its location - had never once homed a dragon.

Strangely enough, every occupant of the Valley was certain that the loud rumbles and quakes, which had recently begun to plague them, were the efforts of a dragon. No tomes held any information due to our non-existent dragon history and so every bit of 'fact' was word-of-mouth; everything was gossip.

When confronted with something unknown, it's common practice for the strongest warriors to be sent out to hunt and annihilate it. Nothing can differ from the status quo, lest they be filled with fear and people cease their duties, causing our crops to fail. To combat this possibility, the chief of the Valley declared a payment to the one who could slay the dragon and restore peace.

He never specified what the payment was, but people spoke of jewels and riches beyond our imaginations, while some declared it would be an honorary title bestowed upon the victor, and a possible exemption from mucking out the stables.

26. Boys and men. That’s how many have been lost so far. They left one by one, their confidences high and the people of the village celebrating their future achievements. But none of them ever came back. And slowly, being chosen to save the Valley became a death sentence.

It wasn't long before people began to notice the dwindling number of men in the Valley. They had watched them leave, but never considered how little were left behind. Only the youngsters remained, and now almost a whole generation of girls and women would be left unmarried and childless.

To most, that was an issue. They had dreamt of nursing their babes and watching them grow. Some had only wanted to fall in love, to support their husbands and shower them in affections at day's end.

While adolescents and young adults mourned the loss of their future, mothers and fathers mourned the loss of their children. The villagers floated around the Valley like ghosts, empty and soulless, lost in their anguish.

The Valley became a mausoleum, housing the memories of the dead, but not their bodies. A fact which began to cause unrest, an anger which festered beneath the surface of grief.

Whispers began. Plans of leaving to find their children, rumours of nearby villages they could move to. As the villagers became increasingly disenfranchised with the situation, they noticed that the Chief's son was the only boy left.

The Chief's son, Damon, was a thin, delicate boy who had spent most of his childhood ill. It was for good reason he hadn't been sent on the quest, there would be no promise or even consideration of success - he would have been doomed from the moment he left the boundary of the Valley.

But angered parents and abandoned lovers do not see reason. They wanted the Chief to suffer the same pain that he had caused them. Damon meant little to them, irrespective of their newfound understanding of mortality. Revenge had numbed their feelings of guilt, and they were willing to sacrifice an innocent in the name of vengeance.

I watched as they forced the Chief to condemn his own son in the name of repentance. They gave him a small bag filled with food, water, and medicinal herbs, as well as a small dagger and a bow, paired with an arrow-filled quiver.

The weapons would not do much to ensure his survival. Instead, it was more likely the villagers gifted them in hopes of countering any feelings of guilt that might arise.

Unlike the others, Damon was sent without fanfare, without even a goodbye from his father. As the large wooden gates slammed shut in his face, Damon made peace with his inevitable death.

He knew that he would never be granted return to the Valley without having slain the dragon but turning around to face the openness of the forest was almost too hard of a decision. Almost.

After a minute or two of standing completely still with his eyes squeezed shut, Damon noticed the silence. Well, it wasn’t quite silent, but compared to the slight bustle of the Valley, all that could be heard was the rustle of trees and occasional bird song.

Finally, he spun around, only to be met with the beauty of the forest. Filtered sunlight through the treetops illuminated sections of mossy ground, littered with white-dotted red-capped mushrooms. Luckily, majority of those before him were aware that ingestion of these were fatal.

Damon was the first of the boys to stop and take in the view. The rest, objective-driven, had powered through, not acknowledging the environment around them. Where Damon saw a small rabbit dart in between fallen logs, the other boys had only seen food.

It was almost odd to see how in awe the boy was. His eyes were wide as he gently felt the damp moss, and they closed with a sigh when the sunlight streamed onto his face. Somehow, a split second had turned a fearful boy into one most at peace.

It was the beauty of the forest that beckoned him forward, he knew the direction he was supposed to travel, but whether or not he actually intended on trying to complete the objective or not was unknown, even to him.

With a lighter heart than before, Damon journeyed deeper into the woods.

It was nightfall when he found the first set of bones. They had once been Kristofer. He was the first to volunteer and had been sent out on the harvest moon for good luck. It was a sweet sentiment from the villagers, however, as soon as the gates closed behind him with a resounding bang, he was on the menu for a pack of werewolves. They caught up to him before the moon was at its peak. He didn’t stand a chance.

All the other travellers, after noticing them, had tried to not look at the bones. Once again, unlike the others, Damon knelt down beside the bones and searched through them for the necklace that had been bestowed upon each brave volunteer – himself excepted of course – and once he found it, placed it inside his bag.

It was as if the forest itself knew that he was different. The natural world generally does not care for humans, always continuing with its normal rhythms, uncaring if it costs humans their life. But somehow, the forest restrained from fulfilling its planned downpour. Instead, the trees seemed to pull together, creating a roof for Damon, and letting the boy enjoy a mild night.

Damon continued on in the morning, and it was easy enough to follow him. He surprisingly wasn’t skittish like some of the boys, who would turn and look over their shoulder if the wind blew differently, but he also wasn’t trained in the hunt like others, who after being taught how to track, could sense when they were being tailed themselves.

With each set of bones, Damon collected their necklaces. Luckily, time had granted him the luck of not finding decomposing bodies. The forest and its inhabitants had done their duties and ultimately let the boys rest eternally within the forest floor.

Damon had come to realise that he could locate a body by larger groupings of mushrooms, almost acting like grave markers. At this moment, he stood on the edge of a lake, surrounded by small, spread-out groupings of mushrooms, unlike any he had seen before.

After deciding to take a closer look at a particular group of mushrooms, the bones of a hand greeted him, and taken by surprise, Damon stumbled to a nearby tree to empty his stomach of the small piece of stale bread he had had for breakfast.

Damon turned back to the lake. It wasn’t too large, maybe 100 metres across. The shore was lined with dead trees and the banks were made of grey stones. Across the murky water, and through the steam that seemed to rise from it, Damon could see an island. On this island, was a figure.

He could see the figure leaning up against a tree, it was the size of a man, but it’s strange colouring and movements made him nervous. Damon reached into his bag, searching for the dagger. He knew attacking from long distance would be a safer option, but he had never learned how to use a bow.

His fingers trembled as he finally clasped the wooden hilt, and his grasp failed as he pulled it from his bag. It hit the water with a dull ‘plunk’, but it was enough to alert the figure of his presence.

In a panic, Damon glanced up at the now figure-less island. His gaze flickered left and right as he tried to find the stranger but was a split second too late when he saw the ripples in front of him.

Damon had never seen a mermaid before. All people knew was that it lived nearby water, since everyone who had ever gotten close enough to one, never lived to speak of it.

It launched itself out of the water and knocked Damon to the ground. He crawled backwards on his hands and knees, being pursued by the monster.

As it clambered towards him, he could see its white eyes, with only light grey pupils, directed on him. There were two small holes, right beside each other, where a nose should be. Its mouth was big and lip-less, but not big enough to fully contain all the long, needle-like teeth it housed. All of the skin of the mermaid was stretched tight across the body, grey and almost translucent - so the small amount of light there was, shone through its body and highlighted where its bones were.

The mermaid was bigger than Damon expected, and it caught up quickly. A hand wrapped reached for his left ankle, the fingers and nails had no separation, rather they combined into long pointy stakes. They pierced his skin, puncturing the muscle, and Damon screamed in pain. It felt like being stabbed with a dagger.

His dagger.

As he was being dragged feet first into the water, Damon’s head and upper body moved around as much as it could trying to see where the dagger had ended up. As he leaned his body to the left, ignoring his pain, he could see the wooden hilt just by his waist.

Damon reached for it, and without a moment’s hesitation, plunged it into the throat of the mermaid. It was then that he noticed a green half-moon pendant dangling around its neck. It was Micah’s. Micah was quite talented with a spear and good tracking abilities. He had only been 10.

The mermaid tore its fingers out of Damon’s leg and tried to grab the dagger without much luck. The weapon was much too small, and its nails were far too long. Damon reached out and grabbed the amulet before he ripped the leather cord from its neck.

The mermaid writhed in pain, now ignoring Damon’s presence. Damon looked over at the spilled contents of his bag and was able to take hold of the strap of his quiver. He tugged it over, eyes trained on the chest of the mermaid, its heart. He could see it through its skin. One big push of an arrow, and it would all be over. Justice would be served.

He could vividly imagine how the mermaid had killed Micah. The poor unsuspecting boy, parched as anything, had probably run to the edge of the lake in search of a drink – maybe he’d even gone into the water in all his excitement. It would have been easy for the mermaid. Easy for the mermaid and horrible for Micah. Drowning is not a slow death. The child would have suffered immensely, overwhelmed with pain and fear. His leftovers washed up in different places along the shore.

Yet he could not do it. He could not move his hand, could not take an arrow, and plunge it in to the heart of the mermaid. Instead, he pulled his body over to his bag and began to repack it. The dagger could stay where it was.

As a child, even in his early adolescence, Damon would be sick at even the thought of violence. He could never fathom why adults fought or how farmers could bring themselves to slaughter their cattle. But now, he could sort of understand. It was out of necessity. He’s not sure revenge could really classify as necessity, but maybe it did. In a way, he needed to restore Micah’s honour. To bring him back to his parents, even if it was in the form of a necklace.

He had walked for a while, before Damon dropped and propped up against a tree. He looked down and gingerly raised the left leg of his once navy-blue pants, now dyed a dark black. From his bag he removed his water and took a swig before pouring some onto the wounds. A small whimper managed to escape his lips and he dropped his bottle, curling his fingers into fists around the fabric of his shirt.

With unsteady hands, he reached into his bag and retrieved the medicinal herbs and the last of his food. He took a deep, shaky breath and lifted the food to his mouth. There was the crack of a twig and Damon’s gaze shot to his right and landed on an injured fawn, not far from the tree. Its eyes mirrored his, full of fear and pain, and without hesitation, Damon gently tossed the food over to the little deer.

He was able to see the fawn eat before he passed out.

I dropped down from the branch I had been sitting on and approached Damon. Taking hold of the medicinal herbs, I began to apply them to his wounds. Maybe Damon was going to be successful. He had the forest on his side, and his own personal goal. A worthy cause of returning the lost travellers to their home.

Maybe I’ll stay and be here when he wakes up. Take him to meet my people, the Keepers. I’ve watched over him long enough, he doesn’t seem like a threat, in fact, he may even join us. The first thing I’ll tell him is that there have always been dragons in the valley; we’ve protected them while the slept. And now, they’re finally waking up.