The Roots of the Sky

“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.” Seeker spat to punctuate his point. Callum didn’t respond immediately. The few words Seeker chose to speak were rarely intended for anyone but himself.

The silence between them lay heavy, and Callum decided to risk a question. “Where did the dragons come from?”

Seeker licked his lips. “Same place all evil comes from. Complacency and greed.”

That wasn’t the answer Callum expected.

The two men stood on the shoulder of the mountain, cold rock above them and scrubby pines below. The ledge they stood on was bare except for a few desperate juniper bushes clinging to the cracked rock. The wind swept against them relentlessly.

Seeker spoke again suddenly. “I don’t know where the dragons came from. But I do know where they don’t come from. You ever hear of dragons stealing plump farms? A good orchard? The best fishing holes? Eh?”

Callum thought about that for a moment. “I suppose so. I heard this valley was rich before they came.”

Seeker shook his head. “The dragons don’t come for farms, or orchards, or fishing holes. Dragons don’t care for good land or homes. They crave treasure. Dragons come first for men like themselves. Men with hard hearts who hoard gold and step on folks beneath ’em. Once they take root, they burn everything else for sport. But greed is what brings ’em.”

Callum never knew when to take him literally. He nodded as though Seeker had made perfect sense and pulled his cloak tighter.

Callum crept to the edge of the outcropping and stared with wide eyes into the fog and wilderness beyond. Where the low clouds parted, he caught glimpses of a landscape as wild as he had ever seen. Treetops swayed rhythmically, making the hills breathe. A lush meadow tucked into the bend of a river where the water would flood in spring. A spit of rock erupted from the valley floor like the back of some great beast, carpeted in grass and shrubs. The fog offered only brief glimpses before stealing them away.

Somewhere in that vastness, Callum hoped his father waited for him.

Callum shivered and glanced back at his strange companion, Seeker. The older man stood back from the outcropping, wrapped against the cold in his travel-stained cloak. Any emotion Seeker might have betrayed was concealed by his gray, whiskery beard twitching as he chewed some mysterious substance from the pouch on his belt.

Standing on the mountain with Seeker, Callum felt completely alone. Seeker had no real name. He had no home or family that anyone knew of. He had no profession or trade beyond the living he apparently scraped from the wildlands. Seeker might as well have been a ghost, except for his cloak flapping and his eyes squinted against the cold air.

The wind rolled a bank of fog over their ledge. The moist air bit into Callum’s cloak and weighted the fabric against his skin. He gave up on seeing anything more and backed away from the edge.

“Will we climb down to make camp?”

Seeker nodded. “The wind’ll suck your soul out once the sun goes down. We’ll sleep in the gorge.”

Callum was relieved that they would finally escape the wind, but he felt a stab of panic at the thought of sleeping in the dreaded valley.

Seeker must have caught the flicker of fear on Callum’s face. “They mostly don’t range this far.”

Callum swallowed and nodded. “Might as well keep moving then.” His voice cracked.

Seeker slung his pack over his shoulders and started down the remains of the footpath that they would follow into the valley. He moved like a log floating down a river, drifting forward at a steady pace, bouncing off over obstacles without complaint.

Callum followed and wondered how the older man never winced or groaned at blisters on his feet or aches in his legs. As they trundled down the slope, Callum rubbed the handle of the small knife on his belt and thought the thin blade inadequate for the road ahead.

He wished his father had never led him to this wretched place.

------------------

The Night of the Torches, three months earlier

“Who will bear the flame?” The Torchkeeper spoke harshly, as though to scare the men off the task. His cloak of leaves fluttered as he paced around the fire. The flute-players warbled strange notes that sent chills down Callum’s spine. His father’s plan had seemed clever in the light of day, but in the black of night beneath the canopy of the Sidhe-Oak, Callum feared the price his father might pay.

Callum stood with his three siblings in the crowd of women and children watching the ceremony. One more winter and he would join the men for their annual Night-Watch. His father, Owen, winked at him from his place around the Sidhe-Oak.

Taking turns, the men of the village each stepped forward and spoke their part of the ritual: “I will bear a torch and guard the flame of my Watchfire.”

The Torchkeeper paced up and down the line of men, his own Hearthfire blazing behind him. “You swear this on the roots of this Oak and the honor of your family?”

The men all responded in unison: “Yes, Torchkeeper.” The flutes all played the same low notes in unison, sealing the oath with a solemn melody. A cold wind that did not belong to late summer swept around the ankles of the crowd, up into the rustling leaves of the Sidhe-oak.

Everyone in the crowd gasped at the sudden gust. Then the skeptics among them chuckled and elbowed their neighbors. The Sidhe rarely made themselves known. Many of the villagers believed them to be nothing more than old wives’ tales.

The Torchkeeper continued his ritual undisturbed. He removed a torch from his bundle and thrust it into the Hearthfire until it hissed and crackled. He withdrew it from the flames, and the torch blazed with purple flames that spat smoking embers into the darkness. Callum knew that these torches were cut from the limbs of the Sidhe-Oak itself.

The first man in line, Eli, stepped forward to receive his burden.

The Torchkeeper barked, “You will take the East Watch. You will chase the Eye of the Wild Horse.” Each man would find his Watchfire by following the star assigned to him by the Torchkeeper.

“Yes, Torchkeeper.” Eli nodded his assent, took the torch he was offered, and set out into the darkness with his face turned upward to the night sky, his gaze fixed on the Eye of The Wild Horse.

The Torchkeeper distributed torches and Watchfires until he reached Callum’s father.

“You will take the North Watch. You will chase the Seed of the Great Oak.”

“Yes, Torchkeeper.” Owen grasped the offered torch, but the Torchkeeper did not let go immediately. It was a mere moment, but Callum watched the stern gaze of the Torchkeeper melt his father’s mischievous countenance. Owen nodded, and the Torchkeeper finally released his grip. Callum realized he had been holding his breath.

Did the Torchkeeper know the plan? Did Callum’s father change his mind in that instant?

His father turned north and searched the sky for the star that would lead him to his Watchfire. For an instant his gaze flicked to Callum, and he gave a nearly imperceptible wink. It was on then. Owen held his torch high and marched into the darkness.

He passed Callum as he left. His torch left behind the scent of juniper, honey, and ice. Callum’s last glimpse of his father was his profile wrapped in a flickering purple umbra as he disappeared into the pines.

------------------

On the edge of the Valley

Their climb down the mountain took them from the brink of winter back to late fall, and nearly to the edge of summer again. The pines at the start of their descent were desperate and frostbitten. As they trundled down the hill they found stands of aspen with a few brown leaves still clinging to their crowns. By the time they reached the bottom of the gorge, they stood among beech, oaks and maples whose leaves were full, and they bore only the barest red tinge of winter’s grip.

Seeker showed no sign of stopping, though dusk was upon them. Callum wondered why they were still walking. They usually made camp before the light began to fade. The sun fell low in the sky, taking on the fiery hue of dusk in autumn. Seeker abruptly stopped.

Callum froze in place, his heart pounding. What had Seeker detected? They kept still for a long moment.

Seeker sniffed the air, and then spat out the red substance he was chewing on. “Walked right past the damned place.”

Callum managed to croak, “What?”

Seeker didn’t respond. He simply turned on his heel and retraced the path they had just trod. Callum heaved a sigh and licked the inside of his mouth, which had gone dry from fear. His pulse settled, and he followed Seeker.

The shadows grew long, and the trees they passed between turned gray and smooth in the dusk-light. As the sun fell, the woods began to wake. Leaves rustled on the forest floor. Unknown creatures chattered in the darkness. A long, whistling cry echoed through the gorge.

Callum’s breath became ragged as panic took him. He was hopelessly clumsy. He could not see far enough. He could only follow Seeker’s footsteps ahead. At any moment he felt some beast would pounce on his back and rip him apart. Seeker was unlikely to notice, or care.

Callum nearly walked into a stone wall. He blinked and looked up. It was a tower.

“Get in here, boy.”

Callum followed Seeker’s voice to a hole in the wall and groped his way inside. He heard steel strike stone, and sparks showered onto the floor, illuminating the darkness. Seeker blew on a bundle of cedar bark and it glowed before bursting into a steady flame.

They were in a circular chamber of cobblestone, at least three stories high. Tall piles of cordwood and dead branches lined the walls. Rusty hand-tools hung from iron spikes driven into the stones.

Callum gaped, “Who built this?”

“I did.” Seeker barked. “The mountains take too much from a man to leave anything up to chance.”

Callum realized that Seeker thought he was asking about the firewood. He swallowed the rest of his foolish question. The tower must have been built by the old people.

Seeker fed his little fire, and then lit a pine bough caked in resin. “Grab some firewood, boy. We don’t sleep down here.”

Seeker started climbing a crude staircase hewn into the walls of the tower. It was so narrow that it had escaped Callum’s notice in the dark. He hurried to gather a bundle and followed close behind Seeker.

They emerged on the roof of the tower, where the brilliant stars shone down on them from the north. The southern sky was pitch black, consumed by the behemoth profile of the mountain they had descended.

Seeker rebuilt the fire, and Callum stared north. The Seed of The Great Oak twinkled green and blue, taunting him. A much smaller star with a purple hue flickered next to it.

------------------

The morning after The Night of The Torches

“He never returned from his watch!” Callum fought to keep his tone respectful. He stood just inside the doorway of the Torchkeeper’s home, where the Torchkeeper himself sat at a simple oak table, and received Callum’s plea. A small fire crackled in his clay hearth, bathing the room in orange light. The room smelled of juniper, honey, and ice.

“I know that.” The Torchkeeper remained infuriatingly calm, and took a slow, deliberate sip of his tea. “Owen never lit his Watchfire.”

Callum bristled at the accusation. “How do you know that?” It had not been lit, but he had searched for his father at first light and he was certain the elderly Torchkeeper had not followed him to the pyre.

“I know it because I have known Owen longer than you have been alive. And I know it because the pyre was not lit, and this is the consequence of his foolishness.” The Torchkeeper’s voice had steel in it now.

Callum bit back his reflexive protest and studied the shaman’s face. All but the Torchkeeper’s eyes and brow were hidden under his dense beard. Wrinkles grew from his eyes like the roots of a tree, and his tanned skin was red-brown like cedar bark. He appeared stern, but not angry.

Callum’s eyes prickled again. “Has no man ever left his Watchfire?”

“They have.”

“What happened to them?”

“Nothing.”

“Why has my father disappeared?”

“I do not know.”

Callum let out a ragged sigh. He rubbed his face and stared at the floor, unsure of what to say or do. The fire hissed and shot purple sparks onto the dirt floor. The smell of Sidhe-Oak burning stung his heart and left a pit of fear in his gut.

The Torchkeeper broke the silence. “Other men will say he fled his debts.”

“I know.”

“They will come to you for payment now.”

Callum had not thought of that, but he lied, “I know.”

“Did your father flee his debts?” The Torchkeeper arched a single gray eyebrow and fixed his eyes on Callum.

“No!” He did not dare tell the Torchkeeper what his father had truly planned that night.

“I knew that too. I wondered if you knew it.”

That surprised Callum. He thought the Torchkeeper mistrusted his father. “How did you know?”

The Torchkeeper stared for at Callum for a long time, motionless. Then he narrowed his eyes and came to some kind of decision.

“Because I saw Owen in the stars last night, alongside The Seed of the Great Oak. He is farther from us than you can possibly imagine.”

------------------

On the abandoned watchtower

Seeker dragged a panel of lashed-together logs over the stairwell and began stacking rocks from the crumbling parapet on top of it.

“What are you doing?”

“Giving us a moment to wake if something finds us.”

Callum shuddered and helped weigh down the panel.

Seeker threw his bedroll down next to the fire and sat facing south. He produced another clump of the same stuff he had chewed on all day, and stuffed it into a wooden pipe. He used the glowing orange tip of a twig from the fire to light it. Seeker took a long draw and held his breath until smoke curled out his nostrils. Callum was reminded of the dragons lying in wait.

“Have you ever fought one?”

Seeker rasped and choked on his pipe. He kept coughing, and Callum realized it was a tortured laugh. “No, you young fool, I’ve not fought them. Y’know how ya can tell? I’m not dead!” He shook his head and took another draw of his pipe.

This was the most talk Callum had ever heard out of Seeker. “Have they ever found you?”

“They’ve caught wind of me. Never got more than a snap at my shadow.”

“How can you come back here so often? Don’t the dragons scare you?”

Seeker chewed his pipe and then spoke slowly. “Folk talk about the dragons because they’re easy to understand. They’re hateful beasts with a thirst for blood and gold. Simple enough.”

Callum nodded and waited for more.

“Folks spin tales and chatter about dragons at the pub all day. But you’ll notice it isn’t dragons that took your father. The Sidhe did that. Why don’t folks talk about them ‘round the fire?”

“I don’t know… because we never see them?”

“They’ve never seen a dragon either!” Seeker scowled and puffed on his pipe. Whatever he was smoking smelled like cinnamon, apples and sour vinegar. He growled to himself as he smoked until his mutterings took form.

“Folk don’t talk about the Sidhe ‘round the fire ‘cause they can’t understand them. If you were smart you’d fear the Sidhe, not dragons. The Sidhe are beyond your reckoning.”

Callum squinted one eye at Seeker. “The Sidhe also don’t breathe fire or rip your belly out, as far as I know.”

Seeker actually laughed again. His coarse rasp improved to something resembling a real chuckle.

“You don’t understand. Give fire a voice, you get dragons. Put anger in the rocks, you get trolls. Those beasts? They’re like us. We’re nothin’ more than mud with an opinion. The Sidhe aren’t like that. They’re made of the stuff that makes us more than mud. They’re everything you don’t understand and more. The dragons are the least of your worries, boy.”