The Girl in the Red Scarf

“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. When I was a little girl, we had never even heard of such things. Back then, the hills were green in the spring and golden brown during harvest time. The rivers ran with water so cold and fresh, it was like drinking fresh snow. My friends and I would spend all day in the fields, playing between endless rows of wheat and corn. In summer, the branches of fruit trees would grow so heavy that even babies just learning to walk could grab a treat from them.”

“And the sky, Grandma?”

“Oh, Tysharra. The sky was my favorite. It was the clearest, brightest blue you could imagine. And when the sun went down over the mountains, it would turn every color you could think of: orange and scarlet, purple and gold. And then, at night, there were so many stars that it was almost as bright as day.”

“Alright, Mama, that’s enough,” Mother said, pulling the last pieces of Tysharra’s hair into a tight braid.

Tysharra squirmed in her mother’s lap.

“Hold still,” Mother scolded. “One more second.”

She yanked one final time before securing the braid in a thick cord. She smoothed her daughter’s hair out and gave it a last look.

“Alright, stand up and show us,” she said.

Tysharra did as her mother asked, spinning slowly in the middle of the room. The braids lifted up as she spun, so she spun a little faster to lift them up higher. She spun even faster, and her laughter filled the one-room shack.

“Settle down, girl,” Mother said, catching Tysharra when she got too dizzy and fell down.

“How do I look, Grandma?” Tysharra asked.

“Like a princess of old, baby,” Grandma answered, smiling from her rocking chair.

“But unlike those princesses, you have chores to do,” Mother said, kneading her palms to get the strength back in her hands.

Tysharra flopped down. “Can’t I go play instead?” she whined.

“I’m sure your friends have chores of their own to do.”

Mother grabbed a burlap sack half-filled with rice, a big wooden bowl, and an empty jug. She dragged the bag into the middle of the room and handed Tysharra the jug.

“Start by fetching some water,” she ordered.

Tysharra took the jug and trudged over to the door. As she passed where the sack of rice had been, she noticed a small package wrapped in an old red cloth.

“Mama!” she cried, picking up the package. “Baba forgot his lunch!”

Mother looked up at the package, then out the window to try and judge the time of day.

“It’s still early,” she judged. “Hurry up to the mines and give it to him. And then come straight back here. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mother,” Tysharra answered.

Grandmother handed Tysharra a long red scarf. “Tie your hair up in this,” she said. “Don’t want to ruin those pretty braids.”

Tysharra kissed Grandmother and threw the scarf over her head before dashing out the door.

Ash drifted down from a slate gray sky and the smell of sulfur was thick in the air. Tysharra drew the scarf tightly over her nose and mouth and walked quickly to the gates of the village. Even at thirteen, Tysharra knew the difference between good days and bad days. And today was going to be a bad one.

The walls of the village of Gobe were made of tough black stone dug out of the mountains when creating new mines. In the hundred years since the first mine was dug, they had grown quite tall indeed. Two guards with meager spears stood on either side of the gates, while a young dragon, perched a hundred feet up atop the wall, supervised.

As Tysharra passed through the gates, she felt a strange feeling on her back, almost like a heat. She was certain that the dragon atop the wall was looking at her. But she didn’t dare turn around to check. Better to go in and out of the village quickly before anything happened to her.

Because the valley outside the walls of Gobe was a different place than the valley in Grandmother’s stories. The green hills that turned to gold were now a permanent shade of gray. The clear rivers were blackened by slurry runoff. Long walkways were slashed into the mountainsides, leading to dozens of mine tunnels drilled into the hills. Tall black towers rose out of the landscape - metal refineries that belched black smoke into Grandmother’s beloved sky. There was no waiting for a sunset to change its colors or reveal stars. The only things to see up there was a feeble white sun and the dark forms of dragons circling.

Tysharra headed up the valley slopes, climbing quickly so she could catch the miners before they descended for work. Her father had just moved to one of the upper mines, which was a great honor for him, but made Tysharra’s job today more difficult. The mountains seemed impossibly high. How could the miners climb them every day without getting tired?

She passed the night shift returning home, accompanied by large carts filled to the brim with the results of their work. Veins of gold and silver glittered from within dark black stones. These would go to the foundries to be smelted down, leaving the pure nuggets of precious metals that the dragons so coveted and demanded as tribute. The miners were quiet, their dark faces covered in dirt and grime as they trudged home.

Tysharra climbed higher, passing other openings for different mines. Some were closed off, their supply of gold having long been exhausted. Others still had something to be dug up, or so the dragons believed, and therefore miners descended into them.

Finally, Tysharra arrived at the topmost mine. Lines of miners were getting ready to start their work. A fat dragon with angry red scales glared at them, growling and letting off trails of smoke from its nostrils.

“Baba!” Tysharra called.

A man near the front of a line turned around. Tysharra ran forward toward her father. His face was like old leather, but his smiles and his eyes lit up when he saw his daughter.

“What are you doing up here?” he asked.

Tysharra handed him the wrapped package. “You forgot your lunch,” she said.

Baba took the food and tucked it into his overalls. “Thank you so much, princess,” he said, giving the girl a kiss on her head.

There was a low bellow, followed by a puff of hot, smelly breath. “Stop wasting time,” the dragon growled.

“Forgive me, Lord Drex,” he said, bowing his head. He added in a low voice to Tysharra. “Be careful outside today. They’re drilling a new mine up there.”

“I will. You be safe too, Baba,” Tysharra said, before quickly running away from the mine.

“Alright, down in the mine!” Drex roared. Tysharra looked back to watch her father disappear into the tunnel. She stifled a feeling of dread, then started the walk back down the mountain.

As she neared the valley floor, Tysharra spotted a small patch of vibrant red on a small flat clearing above the village. She smiled. They had to be ashflowers, the only kind of flower that could grow under the perpetual shade brought by the dragons. She didn’t realize it was time for them to bloom. Wouldn’t Mother and Grandmother be surprised by some?

Tysharra ran to the edge of the walkway and lowered herself down over the ledge. When she was extended as far as she could, she let go and slid down, kicking up clouds of ash. She slowed and stopped as the mountain flattened out into the clearing.

Tiny stems broke through the surface of the hard gray earth, their delicate red petals waving in the breeze like tiny dancers. Tysharra saw the biggest and prettiest flower and kneeled down to pluck it, taking in its sweet perfume.

A shadow passed over Tysharra, followed by a low impact that shook the earth. Tysharra turned to see Gorvax, the village guard dragon, behind her in the clearing, patches of flowers crushed beneath its sickly green paws.

"Well, aren't you a little far from home, little girl?" Gorvax sneered, its voice dripping with menace.

Tysharra tried to stand, but she couldn't. Her legs refused to rise or run. She could only stare at the great beast as it walked towards her. She could feel the earth shake beneath it, smell its hot, fetid breath. She could see the smug look in its eyes. This was a creature used to getting what it wanted. And now, for some reason, it wanted her.

Gorvax flapped its wings once, sending a rush of air that blew Grandmother’s scarf off of Tysharra’s head. She scrambled to catch it and held it tight to her chest.

"Oh, I know where I’ve seen you before," the dragon cooed. “A village girl. But this is the first time you’ve passed through my gate.”

It extended a claw and stroked it against Tysharra’s cheek. "My, but you are a beautiful little thing. I collect beautiful things, you know. Perhaps I should add you to my collection."

Gorvax chuckled, blowing breath that stank of rotting flesh over Tysharra. She wanted to vomit, but the razor-sharp talon as long as her arm kept her perfectly still. She somehow managed a smile. If she played nice, maybe the dragon wouldn’t hurt her.

Tysharra heard shouting from high above. She looked over the dragon and saw a group of miners on a ridge overlooking the valley, carrying a massive drill. The drill teetered back and forth along the edge. The shouting became louder and more frantic as the drill began to tip over the side.

Tysharra watched as, almost in slow motion, that ten-ton drill designed to bore through mountains tipped fully over the side and began falling down into the valley. Tysharra watched in horror as it fell end over end, its wooden supports breaking, its ropes snapping, until all that was left was the wicked, powerful drill itself, crashing towards them and growing larger every second.

Tysharra found her legs and her voice in the same moment, shouting "Look out!" as she dove to the side. Gorvax only had time to turn its head and see the drill barreling toward it before the impact.

There was an ugly sound, a dissonant klunk as metal found something solid. Ash and dust flew into the air, creating a massive cloud that blanketed the whole clearing. Tysharra covered her mouth with the scarf to keep out the dust. She took shallow, frantic breaths as she tried to find her surroundings.

After a few moments, the dust finally settled. Tysharra could see again. She got to her feet on shaky legs and turned around. She gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth. What she saw made her regret sight.

The drill had fallen directly onto poor Gorvax. It had not fallen point-down, which might have killed it quicker. Instead, it fell on a blunt end, breaking the dragon's scales and bones and crushing it against the earth. Its face was still distorted in a now perpetual scream, blood gushing from his mouth and the holes where his eyes once resided, though now they dangled out of their sockets. The clearing was littered with blood and guts and shards of bone and scale and hundreds upon hundreds of dead, flattened ashflowers.

Tysharra trembled. The miners had heard the commotion and were coming out of the mines and gathering on the ridges to look down at a previously unimaginable sight. In the hundred years since the dragons had enslaved the valley of Gobe, this was the first time anyone from the village had killed one.