The Time of Fire

“There weren't always dragons in the Valley. Thatched roofed villages and trees once dotted the hills. Merchants and their horse drawn carriages busied the roads that connected the sprawling towns. The merchants’ carts used to be filled with every kind of vegetable and fruit. Walking along on the main road, while not dodging trotting horses, you could take a deep breath and taste lavender and honey before you ever reached the next towns tavern. Beautiful women would be washing gowns and trousers by the river, and if you were lucky, maybe one could get a glimpse of tenuous bathers splashing around, the sound of water complimenting the singing birds in early August. I remember all this.”

Timothy folded the fading parchment and grabbed a spear from the pile of weapons sprawled on the rocky ground.

“Sounds like a fairy tale old man.” Timothy spoke under his breath.

He clutched the old note close to his chest and looked up to the smoky sky. Deep down, Timothy knew that this paradise was true, but he had never seen it. The skis were never filled with the sounds of bird song. The fields were never harvested, for they were all barren. There were no busy roads or thatched roof towns. Everyone knows thatched roofs are not fireproof. All people lived in holes in the ground. When winter was over, no one would dare venture on open ground.

Timothy traipsed back into the mountain cave.

“Still dreaming Timothy?”

“Yes, Little Mark. One day God will take away our judgement. I believe it.” Timothy patted Marks head, who was standing close to the entrance of the mountain habitat, which was called Chorazin.

“The priest says hell is not satisfied yet.” Little Mark said innocently. “It says so in the Book!”

“Well, I have hope that we will see blue skies. If not me, then you Little Mark. We are all fighting for your future.”

Little Mark smiled with the few teeth he had and raised his arms. Timothy picked him up and brought him close to his leather-clad chest. Timothy's hard and lean arms were comforting for Little Mark.

“It's time to seal the cave, February is over,” Timothy spoke softly.

Little Mark looked out from behind Timothy's shoulder, the light of day slowly fading from his light blue eyes and they shuffled deeper and deeper into the mountain. The mountain is home to one of the Oikonomos, a refuge for those who used to live in the old Kingdom of the Valley. There are four other known Oikonomoses, all within a days ride of Chorazin. Each Oikonomos are led by an elected Exarchos, who rules along with a Bishop. Survival is the main occupancy for the citizens of Chorazin. If their time is not taken by hunting, or digging, they spent their time being faithful to the Church. The Bishops’ priests would bless the citizens for their good deeds and work, and preach from the Book while the men and women worked. Chants and hymns are hummed to the swing of the pick ax, forever digging deeper into the mountain, searching for groundwater, and for deeper protection from the fire. The all-consuming fire. Both Little Mark and Timothy knew the hymns well. Growing up in the mountain, it becomes a way of life.

Little Mark saw the last glimpse of light, as two burly men dressed in sheepskin, rolled the stone across the cave entrance. They hummed as they used their weight and momentum to move the stone, sealing them off from the outside world. Timothy's head hung low. The season of the Dragon had begun.