Shattered Dreams

There weren't always dragons in the Valley; there weren't also the ill spirits that fooled the noble's minds, transforming them into a cocoon of delusion, either.

I had studied the obsolete pages of bewitching drawings which were kept hidden. Some were of keen interest, and others of ancient symbols too much in ruin to be read. Medieval markets had the most importance in the dragging path of pebbles and fine gravel. However, years withered away, and the land became stale and corrupted, yearning for moisture to let it thrive anew. Gazing upon the vibrant little cottages in the distance, with budding sprouts and gleaming apple trees, I thought of how once that place was a marketplace, with a mob of salesman announcing their prices to start the day.

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"Make haste! Make haste! Limited wool shawls only this hour!" A thin middle-aged man drawled about his goods, which were laid orderly on his wooden racks under a roof of rags. "Six shillings, I'd rather farm my own wool," a ruffled looking old woman approached the man, filled with disgust. "The rates are rising; you won't get a fairer deal than this," he grabbed a small ceramic pot from his shelf and held it high, "I had made this with my own two hands, the last of what I remember before it was all stolen away."

The woman gave a slight nod, "I remember in my time that freshly caught fish was of one shilling and a few small coins for greens to go with. They say it is a scandal now for anything to be a shilling." A cluster of villagers had now gathered at the stall, attentive to the woman's story and giving a few whispers of agreement. The sky wept lightly as the middle-aged man felt a tinge of sympathy, "Would two shillings be possible?" The woman shook her head and held her palm out, "Have three and a few quarters, must have enough for your family to feed, dear."

Thunderstruck a few miles away, the man wrapped up the shawl cordially with some lavender soaps as extra. "There. Name's Dunstan Isis." The woman smiled graciously, "Idalia Atarin." Rain dripped dry though clouds were built up like a painted lagoon in the sky.

Unexpectedly a young boy ran up and down the markets hysterically. "What's all this clamour about?" Someone asked eventually from the horde. "Our lives are in peril! The devils have brought havoc in the Valley!" The boy mumbled this all very fast. "Raids?" Another abruptly questioned; the word spread as fire would with its flames. "Dragon raids?" Dunstan answered the quivering crowd. "Ahoy, I saw a fleet of them…." A sailor hollered, it was at that very moment the thin ice of silence shattered, and the pandemonium began.

"Their ghastly claws…."

"Grotesque scales…"

"Revolting breath…"

"Dargons."

Silence fell as they wondered who made the blunder. "Dargons all right, half of warmth and half of cold," the familiar voice came from Idalia, who was now given the utmost significance from the lull. Her wispy silver hair matched the sterling pendant she wore around her neck; the woman grasped it with sudden sorrow. "Foul beasts feast on dreams; their bulky beetle-like wings causing deafening sounds that tear apart the most stable homes."

Blast! A low ring echoed in the muted ambience. The air coughed up dust and grime. It had begun. Dunstan scraped to get up; groggily, he examined the event. All market stalls were in ashes, yet the debris was unparalleled to the occurrence. Various shapes in sorts of formations that could be interpreted as a symbol. A faint cry disrupted the man's thoughts.

"Here!" It was Idalia. She rose her hand from beneath the clutter. "How I ought to free you?" The man fell to his knees in dismay, gently grasping her hand.

"Luck was never on my side. I knew each morning could be my last," her grip lightened, "you will face a similar choice as when I was your age, but you must not make the mistake I did. Wickedness cannot be created or destroyed yet can be transferred like an orb of energy to those who find themselves deeply devoted to the fables. Fables in which you must trap the dargons and free the lost souls." Her hand twitched as she let it go; the life drained away.

Unsure whether to be mournful or dazed, Dunstan dug around. At last, he gave up only to find something sparkling knotted between his fingers. The sterling pendant.

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Night had fallen by the time I realised I had forgotten to visit Grandmother Honara. She would scold me if I told her that I spent the day at the borders of the Valley. " Axelle," she would always begin. " Gran Honara," I, too, would reply. Her thought reminded me of the songs she used to sing to us in her modest cottage with unique relics. The pieces of shattered dreams.

Knocking on the door, I took in the scent of her hyacinths and gardenia softly planted below her window. " Axee!" A surprised squeak came as the door creaked open. Little Harriet was small but delightful; her curly chestnut locks nearly hid her golden eyes and rosy cheeks. She always wore her innocent white dress with lace ribbons decorating the rim. " Axelle, please close the door. It is rather chilly tonight," Grandmother Honara said, wearing a sweater I had knitted for her last winter.

We sat around the round marble table, playing chess after a chicken curry and rice dinner. Little Harriet beamed as she moved her knight, " It's been too long since I saw you last, Axee." Then, finally, I played my pawn into her trap, " I saw you yesterday; we went to the bakers, remember?" She paused, giving an immense thought to her next move. " Oh Axee, you left your king open," Little Harriet placed her knight over, " I win! Also, yesterday is still a long time." A delicate glow came over her smile, making me chuckle.

Glancing over my shoulder, I watched Grandmother coming over with cups of tea. The taste of ginger washed over my worries. This is particularly why Gran Honara's tea skills were remarkable; I wished to be her apprentice when I was younger. However, it was proved to me my future doesn't lie in tea making. " Some were born with essential qualities that can be used in more crucial areas," she mumbled that day when she put me to bed.

There were more scrolls on her bookshelf than books; the parchment material fascinated me more than the writings. A few were a shade of coffee with a waxy feeling, but my favourite was the flower printed ones. " Gran Honara, tell us more about the Dargons." I gave a pleading look so did Little Harriet.

" Dargons aren't just tales, Axelle," she whispered, giving an anxious peek outside her window, " beyond the Valley is where they exist..."