Wildlight

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. I am often lost imagining what it would have been like for my father and the family I never met: a life in the sunshine, herding sheep, growing a garden instead of foraging in the woods, bathing in a sunkissed lake without fear.

Quiver and bow tight against my back, I reach for the next branch, pushing through the invisible wards and ignoring the barrier alarm invading my thoughts. It’s always there as a reminder that I have gone higher than allowed, and just as every other day, I quiet the fearful reminder and pause to orient myself against the tree.

One palm pressed to the rough familiarity of the bark, I close my eyes and reach into the magic of the tree. In the span of a heartbeat, I am gifted a vision of this tree's long life here in the densely packed forest, their little concern for humans or even dragons. A life ever reaching for the sunshine. Perhaps that is why these trees so often honor my request: they recognize the yearning in my heart to be free of life on the ground. To feel the sun on my face. I am returned to the present as my hand pulses with the tree’s quiet permission. Staying connected through my palm, my other hand quickly motions a ward to cloak myself in the tree’s camouflage. My body tingles as skin turns shades of brown and green, of bark and pine needles. My hand releases the tree to touch my arm, always expecting the same rough texture of the tree, only to feel the smoothness of my own skin and sturdy muscle beneath.

Safely hidden from sight, I continue my climb through the constant daydream of the life I could have had living in the Valley, before the dragons came. I think of the few stories my father shared from his youth. Joyful days spent in the sun, the homes and fields warded against danger, the dragons confined to the mountains. I would stay silent, eager to hear more, but the story always faded on his lips, a shadow crossing his features and the golden memory replaced by something he will not share out loud. He would shift his gaze to the roof of our hollowed out burrow, unseeing and clouded by whatever followed the wicked sorcery that freed the dragons from their snowy lair.

I see that lost look on every Elder in our small, hidden village. I often wonder about the life they had in the Valley, as traders and fishermen, gardeners and shepherds. Perhaps I am better off not knowing details of that life and how much was lost. The Elders still shield us from the truth of the years before settling in the hidden burrows of this ancient forest. But they don’t hesitate to sow that unknown fear in the heart of every child. To scold curiosity and punish any minor breach of our warded barrier.

I try to decipher their pain and fear, but I also see how it’s become a poison in their hearts. Turning on each other, banishing entire families for any transgression against their rules. Hiding in the safety of their burrows, sagging skin nearly translucent after so many years hidden from the sun.

I can no longer live in this all consuming fear. Of the dragons, of the unknown, especially of the Elder’s paranoid cruelty. I often feel the heat of their stare, their eyes narrowing at my day’s too successful foraging, or inspecting the rare medicine roots I find for the grandmothers. Most recently, I notice them scrutinizing the ever increasing freckles dusting my nose and cheeks. Something not seen on the young women living in the shade and safety of the burrow. I realize they have begun to fear me, too. My “reckless magic” or the uncanny way I can disappear from sight, no matter who they send to track me. Not to mention having a quiet fox as my only companion when I should be establishing my own burrow and starting a family.

I let go of that fear trying to take root and continue moving as a shadow up the tree. No matter how often I climb, I still get dizzy watching my tree branch disguised limbs pulling me higher into the tree. I quiet a sudden laugh bubbling out at how I must look: tree bark and pine needles replacing my suspiciously sun kissed face and cropped auburn hair.

Reaching the top of the canopy, I shift my bow and quiver to perch in the thinning branches, looking out over the tree tops to the Valley below. Scorched patches and bare earth interrupt fields of swaying grasses and battered old cottages slowly being reclaimed by the earth.

My eyes move beyond the Valley, quickly passing over enormous mounds of sleeping beasts, worried my gaze alone would wake them. I have yet to see a dragon in flight or closer than the few I scan past now in the Valley. Yet despite my nagging curiosity, I still hope I never do.

On the other side of the Valley is a beautifully sparkling lake I long to touch. I shiver at the thought of the freezing forest river where we bathe as quickly and efficiently as possible, often unable to breathe after working up the courage to jump in. Only once was I patient enough to reach my magic out for the river’s story of icy mountain tops and melting snow.

Instead, I warm at the thought of floating in the distant lake, feeling the sun on my skin, the unknown magic of a water I have never touched, the stories it would tell.

I close my eyes, turning my face to the sun, and briefly wonder how life would be bearable if I were caught crossing the barrier, unable to steal these moments in the warmth. Holding the swaying tree top, the breeze brings distant smells of a world I have barely glimpsed from this forbidden perch: blooming wildflowers, a briney ocean somewhere beyond my sight. Anything to clear the heavy suffocation of our burrows, air dense with growth and woodsmoke and decay.

My face heated by the sun, I feel as though the rays penetrate my skin to reach the deep inner well where my magic lives. Perhaps this is why my powers have grown when others seem to remain stagnant. On the next breeze, I imagine the wildflowers of the sunshine. What is their magic? Do they feel ancient like the beings in this forest? Or are they more like the songbirds who live in these treetops and never come near our warded barriers?

My skin begins to tingle and I am fully brought back to my senses only to realize the forest has gone eerily silent. No birds singing or squirrels chittering. Even the breeze has stilled and the trees are silent, as if in anticipation. A distressed yip from Juniper below pushes me into action, her sharp fox senses alarming, urging my need to get down immediately.

I move as quickly and stealthily as I can, though without other forest sounds, I feel as though I’m a bear tearing through the woods in a rage. The generous tree must sense my panic, as their branches no longer snag my hair or scratch against my arms in the frantic decline.

I must have ignored the warded barrier in my hurry to reach Juniper, as I was not slowed or alarmed upon descent into the foliage below. Jumping the final few feet from the last branch to the ground, I land on silent feet, knees already bent in a crouch. My palm is instantly on the earth, eyes level with Juniper’s, my magic feeling what her unusual expression is trying to convey: The barrier and safety wards are gone. All of them. And in their place, an unnatural magic is pulsing through the forest. It feels dark and revolting against my palm, the soil and decaying leaves turning into a slimy tar at my touch. This powerful magic is looking for something. Or someone.