Stories in the Walls

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. In fact, there still aren’t dragons in the valley. But there was a short time when I was a child, when the dragons came from all directions. You knew they were coming when you saw smoke mixed with clouds on the horizon. When the edges of the clouds glowed a darker black. When the river ran faster and the shadows were darker. They traveled in the shelter of clouds and when the clouds reached overhead, it was too late to run. Cracks that others would think was lightning would begin and fire would fall from the sky. Screams from the village would drown out your own thinking and the heat in the sky would force you to your knees. Your only hope was to make it to the caves on west end of the valley, and that was after you made it across the river.

Eventually the clan moved to the caves, and we all expected it to be the dark age. When my eyes didn’t see the light of the sun for eight years, and my feet didn’t touch grass. Only the greatest warriors were allowed to travel through the mountain to the highlands where they gathered food, they salvaged anything from the old life that they could. They would leave for months, not to be seen or heard from and we would wait anxiously to see who would return. In the time that they were gone, the caves became home and we worked every day carving, polishing, and grinding; they were a kind of Paradise. The floors were smoothed over and cold to the touch, in the hallways they had had been covered by bear and sheep skins. The walls were covered in intricate carvings reaching at least thirty feet in the air. Candelabras were welded to hang from the ceilings and lit the walls and the stories they told. The grand hall always smelled of ciders, meat, fresh breads, and steaming fruit. The fruit was always being cooked in the hall, and seeped so deep in the stone you could smell it for years to come.

When the men would return a feast was prepared and celebration and rejoicing tore through the halls. I will never forget the relief on my mother’s face every time my father walked through the grand doors. Time would stop as tears would stream down her face and she would run to him, months of missing and hoping all crashing to a stop in joy. But I never forgot those less fortunate. Once dinner began, my mother and father would walk around the tables comforting and crying with those wives whose husbands did not come home. It was a time of joy and a time of great mourning. Fathers met children for the first time, and mothers wept that their children would never know a father. When the feasting was done, everyone would gather around and the stories would be told. Stories of bravery and stories of tragedy. Every man who lost his life was carved into the walls and the greatest acts of heroism were carved as stories in the hall. My father covered the walls and everywhere I looked I was reminded of his bravery.

My father was the hope of the clan, every evening he would take his seat at the head table and my mother would sit down next to him. He would bless the food and begin the night’s festivities while my mother would begin walking around pouring drinks for everyone. Many times she would make me help her, telling me that you can not lead a people until you can serve a people. Once you know their needs and are willing to serve them, then you have a heart to lead. I would complain but she would make me anyways, telling me that one day it would be me at the head table and I must be ready.

Then after a few short and joyous weeks, the men would ride out again, taking the oldest sons with them to train. We would have a farewell feast and once they left, we would spend a week in constant prayer for the safe return of those who left. I dreamt of hunting the dragons and the stories I would bring back, the stories that would be carved on the walls. I waited my turn for years, waited for the day when I would ride out by my father.