We Knew Dragons

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. No one today remembers the year when the first ones flew in, black and ominous on the wing, and settled in the unoccupied northern forest.

There weren't always saviors to defend the villages and flocks against their menace, but there was the first savior born in my village. I remember the season of his birth though I was a young child myself. His birth coincided with a month of frequent attacks centered on the flocks of sheep in the mountainside summer pastures of our land below the forests. His mother was a young shepherdess, his father a wandering minstrel who stayed several weeks and never returned; whether by accident or by intention none knew.

His coming was remarked upon among the adults because he was fatherless, and a white mark like the sun with its multitude of rays was centered on his forehead. Another mark set upon his heel and his hair was white. His eyes were a clear blue, the color of the sky, which is unusual among our people. To acknowledge the marks of the sun's favor, and because her labor began with the setting sun and ended with its rising, his mother named him Anthelion.

We children called him "They" or "Day" with a sound somewhat in between the two in our language. He was fearless from the beginning of his life, yet had a kindness that could kindle into righteous anger over an insult or sorrow over a wound. His hair color made him easy to spot in the landscape for those of us who watched him, like a tiny lamb from our flock.

I still remember the chill in the air that early summer morning when the dragons swooped down from above. Day had just celebrated his 7th year. The archers brought one down as the sheep scattered. Most of the people ran to the shelter below ground within the stone walls of our village.

Day's mother was among the archers. She had a keen eye and a steady aim. She pushed back her long braid and let an arrow fly from the bow as her son stayed, crouched below at her feet. It was one of her flock the dragon had in its long black talons. A few arrows bounced from the glossy black scales, but hers found its mark and the dragon fell to the ground. Not yet dead, it was a dangerous thing, although lying on the earth.

The archers walked up to it slowly and silently, waiting for a sign that it would rise, but it only writhed slowly and weakly on the ground.

As it stilled the people gradually drew closer, Day unnoticed among them. They spoke in whispers. No dragon had ever been brought down to earth since their coming to the Valley. A haunting cry arose from the forest.

Day frowned. His eyes narrowed. He evaded hands that would hold him back and walked fearlessly to the exposed belly of the great beast. In repose, the rib cage was above his head. He grasped the arrow his mother had shot at the base of the shaft and tugged, trying to keep the arrowhead from twisting and separating from the shaft. After some effort, he was able to draw it out in one piece. The wound bled, so the beast was still alive. He placed his hand over the wound and pressed on it to staunch the flow. He began to sing a song none of us had ever heard. After what seemed to be a long-drawn-out period, the blood stopped.

The dragon opened its eyes. With a murmur of alarm, the archers took a step back and prepared to launch a final assault upon it, but Day didn't move. As his song became stronger and fuller, it seemed to answer the earlier call from the forest.

The dragon gave a great lurch and moved to its haunches from its side, still weak. Day stood back. He and the dragon looked silently at one another.

The dragon let out a cry which had the archers dropping their bows to cover their ears, but Day didn't move. The dragon raised itself onto its feet and looked at Day. It gave a low bow, its jaw nearly scraping the earth. Day bowed in return. Then it lifted itself into the sky with its gigantic black wings and flew.

From that hour forth, the dragons never attacked our flocks. We prospered in our village.

That is until a more deadly threat arrived.