The Way Home

Chapter One

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. I know. I asked. Discreetly, of course. I didn’t want my new neighbors to think I was weird, after all. Well, any weirder than they were.

I‘d been living in my reclaimed Black House for less than a month, although I’d closed on the property over a year earlier. The Black House was an absolute ruin, one of those traditional Scottish stone houses from the 1800s. It took thirteen weeks just to get planning approval from the local Council, and getting the work done was a real bitch. I mean, try finding people skilled in primitive building techniques in the 21st century. Few and far between, they are. But I managed to get it done by offering my place as a training project for a Highlands architecture program. That might have gained me a bit of legitimacy, supporting the local economy and preserving traditional ways, but I was still an outsider.

I had to tread carefully.

American expats aren’t very common on the Isle of Lewis, the locals were pretty insular, and since I’d invested my life savings in this place I didn’t want to be ostracized in my new home. Going around asking, “Hey, did you ever see a dragon in these parts?” was not the best way to make friends, I was pretty sure. So, I kept my questions vague.

To Michael, the roof thatcher, I said, “Did you happen to see any wildlife around when you put the new roof on the house?”

All I got was a shake of the head as he went back to finishing the thatching on the cowshed, which I intended to use as a workshop for my collage art.

To Iain, the beekeeper down the Valley who sold jars of honey from a table in his front yard, I said, “You must know the folklore of Lewis. Anything strange go on around here?”

He gave me the side-eye and looked at me as if I was just another crazy American.

To Aisla, one of Lewis’s traditional weavers, I said, “Did you ever hear any stories about fairies or trolls or dragons from people living here on the island?” I was getting desperate by this time. She seemed pretty friendly, so I took a chance.

Nothing doing! She suddenly clammed up, told me she didn’t have any cloth to spare for my cottage curtains, and shooed me out of her workshop.

My last hope was the older woman who ran the used bookshop I stumbled across in Stornaway. I figured I was on my own by then and went straight to the Local Interest section to browse the shelves. When she asked what I was looking for I kept it kind of vague.

“Oh, just…local legends. Folklore. That kind of thing.”

She tilted her head to one side and looked at me appraisingly for a long moment while I started to squirm. Finally, she nodded once and led me toward the back of the shop. Ducking behind a table piled high with old books pulled for repairs, pots of glue and brushes and clamps crowding the workspace, she pulled out an old book with a cover that looked like mice had chewed on it.

“I think you might find what you’re looking for in here,” she said.

I took the battered volume from her and brushed what looked like a century’s accumulation of dust from the front, holding it close in the dim light to read the title on the frontispiece. History of The Valley.

As far as I knew, there was only one place on the Isle of Lewis known as the Valley. THE Valley. I looked back at her suspiciously.

I hadn’t told her where I lived, or what kind of folklore I was looking for. So how did she know?

A tiny smile quirked the corners of her pursed lips. “Take it,” she said. “I think you’ll need it.”

After that, things got a bit hazy. I somehow found myself out of the shop, on the busy—for Stornaway—sidewalk, and walking toward my car. The fresh sea air cleared my head enough that I registered I hadn’t paid for the battered book I was holding close to my chest, but when I looked back, I couldn’t find the bookstore along the sidewalk crowded with newly arrived tourists just off the CalMac ferry from the mainland. I must have gone down one of the side streets, but just didn’t remember it.

The bookshop lady had said, “Take it,” so it must be okay that I didn’t pay for the book. No one was running after me shouting for the police. And anyway, the book wasn’t worth much, honestly, in such a terrible condition. I promised myself that I’d find the shop again the next time I was in town and buy something to make up for taking it. Gift or not, it was the right thing to do. Reciprocation.

Support the locals. You never knew when you might need their goodwill.

When I got back to my Black House, I headed up the hill behind my property, to a quiet place on the peak of Tiorga Mor. From there, I could look back down at the Valley, over Loch Chliostair and Loch Aiseabhat, all the way to the top of Ulabhal on the other side. Settling back against the trunk of a wind-gnarled tree, I opened the battered old book.

And there I found dragons.

Chapter Two

Yes, there were dragons in the Valley. Many, many centuries before, there had been dragons all over the Isle of Lewis, all the way down to the tip of adjoining Harris. That was before the knights came and slaughtered the gigantic beasts. The islanders kept to the outer beaches for the most part, careful not to encroach on the dragons’ territory in the center of the islands, in the valleys and hills. But as the human population grew, and the conquering knights arrived, the dragons were pushed back into smaller and smaller areas.

Until one day, there were no more fire-breathing giant lizards soaring through the skies above Lewis and Harris.

No more fire-breathing giants.

That was the pertinent bit of information I’d been looking for, I realized. Because the book was very specific. No more giant lizards.

No. More. Giant lizards.

I smiled then and shivered at the secret only I knew. There were still dragons on Lewis.

They lived in my cowshed.

And they were very, very, very small.

***

Was it any wonder that I had mistaken them at first for dragonflies? I mean, you just don't expect to see dragons, of any size, in the 21st century.

{To be continued...}

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Author's Note: This story was inspired by a trip I took to Scotland's Hebrides Islands, and the actual ruined Black House I saw on the Isle of Lewis. Someday I will get back there. Will I find tiny dragons in a cow shed? I certainly hope so!

I have challenged myself to write twenty-seven dragon prologues/stories for the Vocal.media Fantasy Prologue Challenge, one for each day the challenge runs. Here's a link to my next entry: