The Rifts

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. They were there sometimes, their translucent half-corporeal bodies reflecting the light of moon or sun like clear mountain water as they rippled across the sky, slipping between the curtains of reality that fluttered invisibly here and there around the edges of the foothills surrounding the Valley. Other times, however, they were somewhere else — where, nobody knew, not even the wisest elders or the most educated mages.

On the days when the dragons returned, school children would leave their classes early or skip school altogether to join their families in gathering the scales that fell, transparent and cold as ice-shavings, as the dragons pushed between the interdimensional gaps and scraped them loose. The scales were difficult to grasp, since they were the product of only partially corporeal forms, but children had an easier time grasping them than adults, and so were the primary gatherers. The scales were collected in baskets and taken to the local witches and hexes, who would prepare them to be shipped to the cities: the magic of the scales would, of course, fade over time (“go stale”, as the local witches liked to say), and so they had to be carefully preserved in large clay jars wrapped carved with runes and bound with spell foci for the journey. Once they reached the city they would be sold to wizards and mages, powerful magic-users who were trained to extract the arcane energy stored within them. In a valley where cross-dimensional magic storms could ruin (or fundamentally alter the nature of) its crops, this source of income was essential to the survival of the Valley’s inhabitants.

No one knew what happened on the days when the dragons weren’t there. Following instincts or whims only known to themselves, the dragons migrated through the rifts between this world and others, taking their old and young with them. Some scientists had attempted to track the timing of their migration, but over the years (one study had been conducted over a period of decades) no one had been able to determine a reliable pattern. Modern theories hypothesized that the dragons most likely had internal clocks set to another universe’s — or multiple universes’ — time and seasons. Of course, there was no way of ascertaining this, since humans couldn’t pass through the rifts themselves. As with most things dragon-related, they simply had to watch and wonder and resign themselves to their questions.

There was nowhere else in the World quite like the Valley — none with cross-dimensional rifts, anyway, and nowhere else with dragons. Its people had been flourishing for hundreds of years, and the dragons were peaceable creatures, preferring to spend their time in the air or in the icy mountaintops to the north; rarely did they come close enough for the humans to get a good view of them. And for the most part, the humans were content with this.

That was, of course, until the dragons disappeared.

***

“They’re not coming back,” Yvonne Cutcher said authoritatively. She always spoke with authority. Her mother was the mayor, and Yvonne was keenly aware of her family’s importance in the Valley. So were most of the other children, who listened to her half without meaning to. No one had elected her their leader; she had simply become it by sheer force of will and blustering personality. “My mother says it’s because the government infringed upon them and caused them to appropogate.” Yvonne liked to use big words. Not all of them were real, and quite often the real ones were used improperly, but the other students didn’t know that. They were just impressed by all her syllables.

“My da says they been killed,” Kiernan Ollis chimed in. He tossed the kickball up in the air and caught it again. “By a monster of the ether.”

“What’s an either?” Paulin Haverik asked distantly. Paulin’s mother liked to say that his mind must be like the dragons, only half on this plane of existence even at the best of times.

“The ether,” Yvonne corrected impatiently. “It’s the place beyond the rifts.”

“And it’s got monsters?” Paulin asked. “Monsters that could kill dragons?”

“No one actually knows that,” Yvonne said scornfully. She treated most opinions that weren’t hers with scorn. “It’s just stories. No one’s actually been there before, not even the archmage.”

The archmage had come down from the city six months ago to look into the disappearance of the dragons. He had left as mystified as anyone else was, but he had talked a lot about Possible Theories: rift closure; dimensional dissipation; spectrophotometric arcane fallout; phasmagoric pollution. None of them were really answers, though. They were just more questions with bigger names.

“Well, I think maybe they just found someplace more interesting to go,” Paulin said. “The Valley’s a bit boring, if you ask me.”

“We didn’t,” Yvonne said.

“Didn’t what?” Paulin asked, frowning distantly.

“We didn’t ask,” Yvonne snapped. “Anyway, this is stupid. D’you want to play ball or not?”

“I suppose,” Paulin said. “Kiernan?”

“Right, I’ll kick your arses,” Kiernan said, getting to his feet and tossing the ball up. As he did, he caught sight of another boy crossing the lawn in front of the schoolyard, and called out to him, “Hoi, Taryn, you wanna play catch?”

Taryn didn’t stop walking. “No thanks,” he called back. “Gotta get home. Thanks anyway.” He continued on past the group, picking his way towards the path that lead back to town.

Kiernan watched Taryn go, his expression guilty. “You think he’s afraid to play with me after last time?” The last time Taryn had agreed to play, Kiernan had thrown the ball a bit too high and smacked him in the face with it. He wouldn’t have felt bad about it if it were anyone else, but Taryn was blind. He hadn’t seen it coming.

“His nose did bleed an awful lot,” Paulin observed grimly.

“It’s not like he was actually hurt,” Yvonne scoffed. “My mother says his father’s in trouble. Lost a lot of money. I bet they’re going to leave the Valley before winter.”

Kiernan looked over at Yvonne, dismayed but not surprised. “Yeah?” A lot of their schoolmates had left with their families over the last six months. Another magic storm had come through a few months after the dragons left, an invisible flurry of arcane power that had turned most of their wheat and rye crops into larkspur and thistles — almost completely unusable. Many farmers had been left devastated, and since they were now unable to supplement their earnings with the sale of dragon scales, most of them knew they wouldn’t make it in the Valley over the winter. Six families so far had packed their bags and left, most likely for good. Kiernan’s best friend Tabitha had left just five weeks ago.

Yvonne shrugged. “That’s what my mother said, and she’s usually right.” She clapped her hands together impatiently and held them up for the ball. “Come on, Kiernan, toss it to me!”

Kiernan obeyed instinctively, as most people did when Yvonne ordered them to do something. He dragged his thoughts away from Taryn and all the troubles that had come upon the Valley since the dragons had left. They would come back eventually, he thought; they just had to wait and see. He would be an optimist about it. And as for Taryn, well. He’d just make sure to ask him tomorrow when he saw him in school.

***

Taryn had never seen the Valley he called home, not in the way most people had, anyway. Despite that, he knew it as well as anyone, maybe better; every road through town, every house and shop, every market stall. He knew which alleys to cut through and where the best shortcuts were if you needed to get somewhere — or get away from somewhere — fast. He was just as well-acquainted with the land outside the village, too. He knew the paths and the hills, the river and the creeks, the old mill. He knew where the rifts were, even the ones that no one else knew about, and he knew how to get to them quickly and secretly so that no one else would follow him. Of course, that was because no one else could see them the way he could.

Taryn hadn’t known about his special sight for the first ten years of his life. He’d assumed that everyone could see magic the way he could, the faint blue-white glow that grew brighter and clearer the more powerful the magic was. It was especially strong near the rifts, which he could see against the darkness of the unmagical surroundings. They looked like torn fabric, frayed and flapping in a constant breeze that Taryn couldn’t feel. The dragons, too, had a glow to them; Taryn had always loved to watch them, their slim bodies gliding through the air, smooth as liquid, achingly beautiful. He had always been the best at gathering scales, too, since he could see them better than most. He’d go with his basket before anyone else had realized the dragons had come back and collect more than anyone.

Not anymore, of course. He hadn’t seen a single flicker of magic in the valley since the dragons left, aside from the rifts. Those were still there, despite what the archmage hypothesized. The only thing that had changed was the dragons. They had just stopped coming.

Taryn had listened to the other students talking. He knew about the families who had left, and he felt the absence of the eight children who’d gone with them. He knew that if something didn’t change, his desk would soon also be empty. Not that that mattered to him — he didn’t care much for school, and he wasn’t especially close friends with anyone, save Kieran, who was nice but always busy with other friends, friends who didn’t have time for Taryn. No, he didn’t mind leaving the school. What he did mind leaving behind was the Valley, and his gran.

Gran wouldn’t leave. She’d told Taryn’s father that time and again, before he’d even suggested it: she had buried her grandparents in this valley, and her siblings, and her husband, and both of her children. She had been born here, in the same house she’d lived in all her life, and she would die in the bed she’d slept in for the last eighty years. She wasn’t going anywhere.

Taryn’s father was only Gran’s son-in-law because he’d married her daughter, and though he’d stuck around since Taryn’s mother had died, he had no great love for Gran. He didn’t seem capable of great love for anybody, and he didn’t mind leaving the old woman behind. He had argued with Gran many a night, threatening to take Taryn away with him, threatening to leave her on her own. She had stood her ground: she wouldn’t leave, not for anything. Not even for Taryn.

They had the same argument again that evening over supper. Taryn’s father was a frightening presence even when he wasn’t shouting, his voice somehow loud and looming, threatening like a thunder-laden storm cloud. Gran gave back as good as she got, of course, her voice rising above his: she was like the roots of the ancient valley trees, gnarled and grey and stuck deep in the earth of the Valley. She would not be moved, not unless she was cut down; her roots would not be pulled out.

The argument was the same as it always was: Gran would mutter something about how old she was getting, how hard it was to get by with her twisted hands and tired back. Father would snap back that if she came to the city, she wouldn’t need to worry about all that. Gran would retort that Father’s gambling wouldn’t get him anymore money in the city than it would in the Valley, and if he counted on the liquor being cheaper there he was sorely mistaken. Father would tell her to enjoy the winter alone. Gran would call him a monster for thinking of taking away the last of her blood, her grandson, and leaving behind a poor old woman. And so on, and so forth.

Taryn was sick of it — not just the yelling, but the sameness. He was sick of the same old arguments, as though they hadn’t been over this every night for the last two months. It was as though they were reading from a script that they’d memorized. Usually he could tune them out, but last night had been the first frost. Winter was coming, and Father wanted to leave before the snow. The fear of actually leaving was as cold as that frost, reaching deep into the roots of denial that had sprouted in Taryn’s heart. And that’s why tonight, he changed the script.

“I could stay,” he said abruptly. “I could stay here, with Gran. Take care of her and all.”

He could feel the two of them staring at him. He could hear the creak of his father turning in his chair and Gran’s raspy breathing.

“You’ll what?” Father demanded.

Taryn suddenly felt very small and very stupid. Father had that effect on people, when he was angry, and he was so often angry that he got plenty of practice at it. But despite his smallness and his fear, Taryn said, resolutely, “I’ll stay. I’ll take care of Gran. Then I won’t have to leave the Valley and she won’t be alone.”

His father’s voice was loud as the crack of a whip, but more incredulous than it was angry. “You take care of her? A blind boy taking care of a crippled old woman?”

A million protests came to Taryn’s head, all of them boiling hot with fury and indignation — I took better care of Gran and Mum than you ever did, I collected the scales, I made us money while you went out and wasted it! — but before they got to his lips each one fizzled out like a match pinched between two fingers. His father would never listen, and neither would Gran. He could be sharp as a knife and strong as a badger, capable and clever as any; none of that mattered. None of it mattered, because he was blind, and that’s all either of them would ever see.

Without another word Taryn got to his feet and went up to his room, leaving his supper on the table. And that evening, at least, the fighting stopped. There was silence for the rest of the dinner hour; then the sound of two bedroom doors closing.

In his room, Taryn flopped on his bed, buried his face in his pillow, and wished he had the energy to scream.

***

Taryn went out to the rift that night, the one he’d come to think of as his. He’d taken to sleeping beneath the one closest to his home ever since the dragons had disappeared. It was easy to get to: all he had to do was climb out his bedroom window and follow the well-worn path he’d made from the back of his house, out of town, out to the rift. It was only about a twenty-minute walk from home.

If anyone had asked him exactly why he did it, slept outside this way, he wouldn’t have a good answer for them. He didn’t exactly know. Perhaps it was because there was something comforting about the light of the magic — although, if he was honest with himself, the rifts were mostly frightening. There was a coldness that surrounded them, a chill that spoke of great dark depths more than it did of frost and wind and snow.

Taryn had once allowed himself to be persuaded to climb onto a rope swing near the pond behind the schoolhouse. Some of the other children would drag the rope back — back — back — and then let go. You’d swing forward, and you were supposed to let go once you were over the water so that you’d go flying off to land with a splash. It was fun in theory, but for Taryn it had been frightening — after all, he couldn’t see where he was going to land, and he had to trust the screeching voices of his classmates to tell him when to let go. That blind gut-twisting feeling, the weightlessness at the very end of the rope’s length as he decided whether or not to let go and trust the fall — that’s what it felt like, being too close to the rift. Like there was something beyond it that he could fall into, if he let go.

It was too cold to be sleeping outdoors, but Taryn didn’t want to go back to the house, with its brooding silence and closed doors. He would have to make do out here, he decided. If he froze to death, then they’d see, they’d all see. He wasn’t sure what they’d see, but he was too angry for reason. He curled up on the dewy grass beneath the rift, which was about three feet over the top of his head and about twelve feet in length. Its frayed edges waved ever so slightly in a breeze that Taryn knew wasn’t from his world.

It was nice outside, despite the chill. The air smelled nose-achingly fresh and sharp, and the grass under his hands was a pleasant texture. He sat there, bundled up in his coat and blankets, and picked dandelions, then popped off their heads. He hadn’t finished his dinner, but he’d stolen a piece of bread, some cheese, and an apple before heading out. He felt a bit guilty about it, since things were so tight and food was scarce, but it tasted good outside in the cold, and he was very hungry. He clutched his apple in one hand and a dragon scale in the other.

It was the last scale he’d ever seen. Its magic was faint, hardly visible now, but he could still see the flickering glow that seemed to come from its centre. It was large, about the size of his palm, with smooth sharp edges and a slight curve. It was hard as glass. He’d saved it, when he realized the dragons weren’t coming back, stolen it from the last basket of scales he’d ever gathered. There was something comforting about having it, this last souvenir. It felt like a tether, keeping him tied to something — something —

Despite the cold, and despite the anger still hot in his chest, Taryn found that he was sleepier than he had any right to be. Before he quite realized he was doing it, he was setting down his half-finished meal and lying down, his head coming to rest on the itchy damp grass. He hardly noticed it. He was asleep before he could reach up to scratch his ear.

***

As Taryn slept, he dreamed.

He was on the rope swing again, but it was different this time. He was swinging much higher, and the rope was much longer. He couldn’t see how far the drop was going to be, but somehow he knew that it was much further and deeper than the pond. Every time he reached the limit of the rope’s trajectory, his stomach would flip. His heart pounded faster and harder than it should. It was thrilling; it was terrifying; it was so vivid that he wondered distantly, in that semi-awareness one sometimes has in dreams, why he wasn’t waking up.

After a moment he began to realize that he wasn’t actually hanging onto a rope, now — he was hanging onto a hand. And he wasn’t swinging, he was floating. He was at the edge of the rift, so close he could feel the cold breeze. It moved against his skin like a giant creature’s breath, moving back and forth over him: inhale, exhale, inhale.

He also realized that he knew the person whose hand he was holding. Though he’d never seen his own reflection, he somehow knew that the person standing just below him holding onto his hand was — himself.

“Let go,” the other-Taryn urged. “Let go, Taryn. It’s the only way to get through. You’ve got to let go.”

Taryn tried, but he realized that he was connected to himself — there were a million tiny threads connecting him to the other-Taryn, strong as steel cords. “I can’t!” he cried. “They’re tying us together.”

“The scale,” the other-Taryn whispered. “Use the scale.”

Taryn reached into his pocket and felt the familiar shape of the scale, it’s sharp ridged edges. “How?”

“Cut the cords,” other-Taryn urged. “It’s the only way.”

Taryn tried, experimentally. He cut through a few of the cords. They snapped easily, and he felt the cold breeze from the rift across his skin.

“You have to get all of them!” other-Taryn insisted. “All of them!”

Taryn slid the scale across his skin, along his arms and his legs, all down his front, everywhere he was connected. The scale cut through the wires like a hot knife sliding through butter.

Finally, there was only one thread left. “Cut it,” other-Taryn whispered. “You have to cut it so you can fall.”

“Why would I want to fall?” Taryn asked.

“It’s the only way,” other-Taryn said.

So Taryn cut the cord. And he fell.

***

Taryn woke up with a gasp, his heart in his throat, his body damp with cold sweat. The dream had felt so real, so wonderfully, terribly real. He had gone through the rift — but he’d woken before he’d had a chance to find out what was on the other side.

He, like many others, had tried to find out what was beyond the rifts. Most people couldn’t see where they were, and only knew their position by seeing where the dragons came through. Scientists and wizards had magical tools and spells to see the position of the rifts, but even they with all their knowledge and magical technology had no idea what lay beyond or where the dragons went when they left. Taryn had wondered if he would be able to see anything if he tried looking, since he could see the rifts themselves, but he’d had no luck: the rifts were incorporeal, untouchable, and he couldn’t part them with his hands to look through. He could see them, but he couldn’t touch them, and when he tried to look through them there was nothing but the same darkness he saw everywhere.

It was only a dream, one he might otherwise have dismissed, had it not been so vivid. But it was cold, and the world felt very big and strange, and the magic around him seemed very real and strong and powerful. And so he took the scale and scraped it along his skin, just as he had in the dream.

It hurt. It hurt terribly, in a way that nothing had ever hurt before. The pain was strange — its source, he knew somehow, was not in his body. The scale hadn’t cut his skin, there was no blood. But when he looked down, he saw a cut outlined in a soft magical blue-white glow, just like the scales and the dragons and the rifts. Taryn grit his teeth and kept cutting. It burned across his body but he kept going, slicing through invisible bonds, cutting himself free of whatever was binding him here. His heart was racing and his mind was crackling with disbelief and pain and terror. But he kept cutting.

As he did, he noticed that he was starting to become lighter. He could see the outline of his body now, where he’d cut — or rather, the outline of something that was shaped like his body, but wasn’t. It was as though he had an incorporeal skin of blue-white magic that he was cutting away, peeling it from his body. And as he freed more and more of this skin from his body, he began to feel lighter, as if he were a kite being tugged by a strong wind, just some paper and sticks and string. That’s when he realized that he wasn’t his body — he was the blue-white glow. His body was just a thing he was attached to.

“I’m going to fall,” he said out loud. He laughed almost hysterically. “I’m going to fall into the rift.” It terrified him, but at the same time, it was thrilling. And there was that voice, the voice of the other-Taryn, still lingering in his mind: You have to cut it so you can fall. It is the only way.

At last he had cut away the entire skin but one place, one final connection at the tip of his index finger. He was floating, tethered to his body by only one thread, being drawn irresistibly to the rift, which was now threatening to suck him in. His body was a deadweight, the only thing holding him to his world, like a weight tied at the end of a balloon or the person at the end of a kite.

Taryn took a deep breath. Then he severed the final connection. He fell, up — up — up — into the rift where the dragons had gone.