There Are No Dragons

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. And, there hadn’t been again for quite some time. Long before the Era of the Fire Lords, and long after the Frund Era that marked the exile of the humans, there where no dragons to speak of. No dragons at all.

There where no dragons in the Valley during the Neklend Era either. Nor even in the Hillsong Era— an era where every nook and cranny of the Valley seemed to occupy some sort of a gnome. No dragons in the Hillsong Era, nor when the Lake Longs migrated from the Great Lake of the North.

Throughout the ages, on and on the list grows of the creatures that occupied the Valley, but still no dragons.Happy eras passed, bad eras passed. Wars were fought, won, and surrendered. Races thrived and died. Life happened in the valley for 500 years with no dragons at all.

Bates, a human who lived in the Valley, saw them all.

Reasonably peacefully and very lonely, Bates lived in the Valley for 500 hundred years watching various creatures young and old, dangerous and benign move in and move out. He saw no dragons.

The various creatures heard of Bates, too. They heard of him through whispers.

“The strong man in the forest who likes to carves rocks,” the gnomes whispered to each other. Then to the Lake Longs the gnomes would say, “Beware the large rock man who lives in the forest.” So of course the Lake Longs relayed the hushed message as, “There is a man made of rock in the wood,” and the story grew over the years so large even the Demons of the South Land would not dare to go within miles of the forest having heard “There is a stone giant in the Valley.”

Bates was far from a stone giant, though he was a tall human. Six feet five inches he stood. “Six feet and 5 inches” was marked in ink now on the doorframe of his little wooden cabin in the woods. In this doorframe now stood Bates, his head leaned against the “6 feet and 5 inches” mark, looking out of his cabin to the thick, bushy wilderness of the Valley and the stone pathway he had cut through it. Bates siped his morning coffee there in peace, before tackling the day ahead.

Many smaller measurement where printed on the doorframe, as well, in his father’s neat hand. Around Bate’s thigh was the mark “9 years old”, around his knee “6 years old”, and all the way down the frame to his calf: “2 months old, sitting.”

Before Bates was born, his father had built this home and had built the doorframe extra thick to leave plenty of writing room for just this purpose.

His father had thoughtfully planned everything about their home. Knowing the Valley quiet well, he had even given special consideration to the exact spot where it was built. He’d chosen a great spot — the real estate between the largest oak tree in the forest and the smallest one. He ha stole Bates that the position of their home represented the balance of life, that good faithful balance between power and humility.

His father was just that kind of person. A warm smile passed on Bates’ face thinking of him now, coffee cup in his hand eyes staring glassily ahead. Bates’ appearance was distinguished by his kind eyes set in a rugged, worn, and hairy face, the very image of his father.

Bates breathed in deep and heartily, letting the warm calm wind press lightly to his face. The wind smelled of the Valley. It smelled of pine trees in the forest from which his father had taught him how to get food. It smelled like the soil in which his mother planted her garden. It smelled like the waters in which he learned to swim. So many, many warm, calm memories on this wind. His childhood truly was calm even though that WAS when the dragons were in the Valley.

Like a thief the memories of the dragon age stole his quiet, peaceful moment. Bates felt urged to step forward, out into the world, hoping the movment would push out the emerging smells of sulfure, of coal, of fire which replacing the pleasant ones.

Bates marched along the stone path for awhile but movement wasn’t working. The terrifying nights of the dragon age came flooding back reminding him of his mother pushing his little head down beneath the window of their cabin, of his father locking the little home’s doors, of his own heart suddenly lurching in him. The warning to “make no sound.” The silence falling.

Bates remembered the fear and the uncertainty that reigned when the Valley was in the dragon age. The whispers and the questions in the village. He remembered it all, every day of his 500 odd years in solitude in his cabin. He remembered the feeling of waking in the morning to see charred land and molten stone through his window. Destruction from the terrible dragon race. He remembered the paper’s headlines reporting the many deaths. Every time during the human age anyone ever spoke the word “dragon,” he remembered. Bates remembered it because no one else was left to remember.

He remembered how in his little-boy mind, he believed he just had to see a dragon. How strongly Bates felt the urge to peer up and out the window when his father was warning him to not look. He would slowly stand up, inch by inch, hoping to glimpse a pair of their yellow eyes. Then quickly, his mother or father would always catch him before he’d accomplish it. He even remembered praying that one day them he’d be able to see.

Shaking away these memories, Bates forced himself back into this moment. He had reached the place. His muddy boots parted from the stone path and made their way off into the woods. It wouldn’t be far, only a few steps then there. He’d been working this last pile back-to-front so the final stone to grab was closest to the him. Where the pine trees broke giving to a small clearing and where the sun shone full force, sat this lone rock. Bates heaved. The thing was very heavy, but it became lighter, thinking just what this stone could do. Back toward the cabin he went with it, his mind wondering naturally to the weight of the rock….and to its meaning.

When his father was alive he would tell Bates about the dragons, every thing he knew, anytime he asked. Except when he’d asked what they’d looked like, then his father would laugh and tell him, “You’re worried about the wrong thing son.” And he would rock in his chair, gripping the sides tight so he didn’t rock away. That memory wasn’t far from his last one of them when they had left him and died. Then all the humans disappeared, and the dragons disappeared, and Bates was left all along to know something far heavier then this rock. Still, he wasn’t too alone, his father’s tight grip still lingered on the chair in the form of bleached stain on the end on the arms of it and his mother’s books, she had hushed his father while she was reading them, were there too. Five hundred years they had spent his life with him.

Many would assume his refusal to leave had something to do with that stained chair and those books. In part it was, at least they brought him comfort as he stayed. But Bates always knew that he wouldn’t leave for a very, very long time. He knew he’d never leave the valley after his parents died, the first night after they’d died. That was the last thing to remember now that he was here, standing by his step, and on the path. The last thing to remember was that night. What a horrible night. It swelled his chest with anger, fear, sadness. He remembered it all horrifically and clearly, the night his parents had died. Because that first night, his parents were dead, and he was all alone, there was no one to keep him from looking out the window.

Bates had seen. Bates had learned. Those weren’t dragons at all.

Sweat dripped down poor Bates’ forehead onto his brow as he heaved the great stone in his hands into the air. High over his head he hurled it, giving a terrific scream and throwing it down just where it needed to go.

He had built the path , hundreds of miles long, and for hundreds of years, from the edge of the Valley (around the farms, the lakes, the villages, and the trees) then almost, just the one rock short of the step to his home. Finally after 500 years, it was in place. The stone fell to the ground with a deep, large thunk.

The whole path lit at once. Everywhere, all through the Vally, twisting and turning, the rocks grew red hot with color, with purpose, and with life they’d been missing for years.

Just like that, instantly, and finally, Bates could leave.