Emerald Eyes and Golden Hoards

“Your father never told you that he was a dragon?”

“A what?” She chalks her calm, collected tone, even in the midst of the most bizarre statement to the fact that she is still processing her father’s death. She is still processing it, and the man’s funeral being less than six hours ago hasn’t made it any easier. So not only does she chalk her tone up to the somber occasion, but also the statement.

Because there is no way that Agnes Ackerman hears that statement correctly, at all.

“A dragon.” Short and to the point, the lady, dressed squarely in her green pencil shirt and white top holds a small black book to her chest, “From the Scottish Isles? You weren’t aware?”

At that, Agnes peppers the wetness from her eyes with her pink handkerchief, and catches the woman’s bright green gaze.

“Do you mean like, a fire breathing dragon? Like from Dragon Tales,” and for all her absolute horror and despair--at her father’s untimely death, at this strange woman showing up into her home with this outlandish revelation--Agnes cannot will herself to care. At least not physically. She’s just hearing wrong is all.

Yet her insides twist and turn in knots, but her expression betrays her little. Agnes is exhausted.

“Well what other dragon is there, Ms. Ackerman?” Pencilskirt has the nerve to turn her nose up at Agnes’s question, as if she’s the one who’s severely lacking in the knowledge department. Agnes bites back her komodo dragon retort, instead rising to her feet and crossing the space between her small couch and over to where the lady sits. Pencilskirt keeps Agnes’s gaze locked in her own, green eyes swirling into a dim jade as they’re caught in a stray sunbeam. She looks, unwavering. The corners of her auburn red lipstick mouth tugged upwards slightly, in amusement.

Agnes is sick, downright horrified. What emotion exhaustion had smothered, rage seems to reignite, and before Agnes knows it, she and Pencilskirt are feet apart. Agnes nearly boils at the seams, and rage must have rolled off of her like waves for Pencilskirt states quite plainly--

“You’re angry.”

“I’m furious.” Her tears do little to simmer down her anger, and even her voice is near drowned in her throat, “You’re making fun of me! And it doesn’t even make sense what you’re making fun of me for! Especially on the day I buried my dad! And on top of that I don’t even know you! You said you were my dad’s friend, but my dad was a kind man. And maybe I didn't know that much about him, but I know sure as hell that he wasn’t a dragon, and I certainly know he wouldn’t pick company like yours!”

Pencilskirt never looks away, though even under her scrutiny, Agnes finds a new resolve fueled by her rage. And yet, Pencilskirt’s red dipped smile deepens and her green eyes practically dance in the sun.

“I knew Erick picked well. A daughter to match his fire, his spark. There are others, correct?”

Agnes’s lids flutters, and against her better judgement she answers the women in a heartbeat, “Yes, I have siblings. Mom and dad adopted eight of us.”

Pencilskirt nods, her auburn curls bouncing, “And you’re the eldest?”

“No--I’m the third oldest.”

“Ahh.” She nods, clicking her tongue as she rises from her seat, “But it looks like he wanted you,”

“Wanted me to do what?” Agnes does her best to mask the tremor in her voice as the woman begins to rise from her seat. Angry as she is, there’s something unsettling about the woman that chills Agnes. Her green eyes--they’ve seemed to take on a life of their own--like a furnace of red and orange dance like embers.

“To inherit his legacy--his things.” She answers, “Did you not know that dragons keep hoards?”

“Hoards?”

The woman has gotten so close to Agnes now that she lets the back of her legs brush against the sofa, knees nearly buckling when she can smell her perfume. Up close, in Agnes’s personal space, there are certain things about the women she didn’t notice before. Like how her pupils are less round and more like elongated slits, and how this close, her skin seems to be made of small clusters of scales rather than actual skin. Or how her perfume smells of firewood and soot with a dash of grass, just like Agnes’s father. And how that smile, once distracting due to the lipstick, has morphed into an ear to ear toothy grin, with fangs.

Sharp fangs.

Now, Agnes’s legs do buckle underneath her and she claps her hands on her mouth to stifle a scream. Still, a shrill escapes, the sound only deepening the woman’s smile.

“Yes, my dear. A hoard,” her voice seems to drop an octave deeper as she speaks, the change alluring in a frightening way, “all dragons have them. Gold, jewels, treasure’s we’ve stashed over the years. My brother had one too. Let me take you to it, since it is yours now.”

She doesn’t even ask. One second Agnes is attempting to crawl over the couch, failing miserably at her escape attempt, the second, the woman--her aunt apparently--has grabbed her by the wrist and is practically dragging her out of the house.

“Hear, hold this, you’ll need it.” She announces, as she shoves the black book into Agnes’s free hand, “hold onto it, tight.”

Agnes protests. She does. She grounds her heels into the carpeted ground, yanks at her aunt’s wrist with all her might, but fails miserably. In the thick of it, Agnes catches herself in the mirror--tear streaked cheeks, dark brown skin positively flushed, braids fallen from their bun and now a mess over her shoulder.

This woman has unmade her, on today of all days.

“Ma’am, please. I’m going to call the pol--”

And then, Agnes is off of the ground. And Pencilskirt--correction, Aunt Pencil skirt, has assumed the form of a rather large, scarlet, red dragon. Her claws, practically the size of a small car, have wrapped themselves around Agnes snuggly. Agnes thinks it would have been endearing, were she not soaring thousands of feet though the air in the claws of a fire breathing reptile.

“The book Agnes--open it. Tell me what it says.” The voice rings deep, reverberating within the dragon, then rumbling throughout Agnes’s body. She did not want to argue, especially not with the creature holding her above ground. With fumbling hands, she held the book, praying to whatever God was listening that she wouldn't drop it. There is a moment in which she chances another look at her aunt, taking in the deep red scales, the way her wings flap against the air with enough force to propel her through the sky, and the way those vibrant green eyes stare at her.

Her father had green eyes like that.

“W-What page?” She calls through wind and cloud, “There’s so many!”

“First, it should give you the name of a mountain range. Your father cast a spell so only you could read it.” Calls the dragon, “there should be a draw--”

“Eckleson’s grove?” Calls Agnes, as the drawing comes clear to her, “There’s a mountain picture under it! I don’t know if that’s what you mean though.”

“Ahh, Eckleson’s grove.” She laughs, a low rumble like distant thunder, and part of Agnes swears the scales underneath her breast come alive with warmth, “he buried it there.”

The ‘where’ Agnes makes to ask comes out as a scream instead, and suddenly she has pressed the small black book to her chest with one hand, and has wrapped herself around the dragon’s claw with another. They seem to plummet suddenly, crashing towards the earth as her tears become one with the cool air. The clouds part like curtains beneath her, and through their opening, she hangs suspended in the dragon’s claws, eyes beholding the most beautiful scene she has ever seen in her life.

They hover above the side of a mountain, it’s terrace covered in bright greens and talls trees, the floor alive with flours of blues, purples, and pinks. Water runs through a stream somewhere in the distance, and birds of all species. Hidden amongst them, though visible with some effort, is a small opening to a cave.

“Eckleson’s Grove.” Announces the dragon as she gently places Agnes onto the ground, “your father’s gift to you.”

“His what?” Agnes is near breathless, beholding the scene with such reverence. She stands out amongst the life, her black dress winded by her flight, dull mascara onto even darker skin.

“His fortune.” Agnes turns back towards the dragon, who is very much a woman now. The only indication that she is anything but are those burning green eyes.

“His inheritance--that and the $20,000 he left you and your siblings should he die unexpectedly,” spoke the woman, “It’s all there, in that little black book. This is the mountain he stayed in for the majority of his time. Go into the cave and I’m sure you’ll find treasures from before Man began to count time.”

“Because...dragons like gold? Dad was a museum curator. Did he do that because he was…” Agnes turns towards her aunt for an answer.

“A dragon? Yes. although your father wasn’t like us, he still kept hidden treasure,” She scoffs with a roll of her green eyes, “ I doubt he would even care if it was stolen from him though. Gold meant nothing to him. Wasn’t even his real hoard, come to think of it”

“What is his real hoard then?” And even at a distance from the entrance of the cave, Agnes can see the dim shine of gold, a few stray pearls and rusted crowns tossed nonchalantly around the mouth. Just one of those artifacts could pay off Agnes’s entire student debt.

“What’s worth more than this?”

“You all, silly. My brother valued love amongst everything.” She says, earnestly, “We dragons are solitary creatures, but my brother never wanted that. So he married a good woman and adopted children.”

“Like me.” It comes out as a statement more than a question, pieces of realization coming together to form a puzzle she never knew existed, “Why didn’t he tell us?”

“Because he wanted to live a normal life. And after your mother disappeared, he wanted to savor all he had.” Then the woman hesitates, tapping a finger to her chin, “ More importantly, he wanted you all to live a normal life.”

“Is that why we never visited you all?” Agnes asks, “because you were all dragons?”

“Unfortunately, yes. We would have told you what he was. Tried to convince him to leave you all, especially your mother.” Admits the woman, her voice thick with emotion, “I regret it now. Your mother was a good woman, gentle of heart. Like you. And your father may not have been like us, but he was still a dragon, and dragons are all fiercely protective. And he was protective of you all.”

Agnes yearns to ask what exactly their dad was protecting them from, who he was protecting them from. And why the other dragons hated her mother so much. The questions hang upon her tongue, the urge to blurt them near excruciating.

But Agnes stays silent. There will be another time.

Her aunt takes the opportunity to speak, green eyes holding Agnes’s dark brown gaze.

“I’m Veronica, by the way. Aunt Veronica, but Veronica is fine. I confess, I turned my nose up at him when I found out he'd adopted more children. But...but you seem worth it. I see that spark in your eyes.”

Another question dances on Agnes’s lips, but again silence overcomes her.

“Shall we go in?” Veronica extends her hand towards Agnes, no malice behind it. The sun catches the sheen of scales just beneath her pale skin, Agnes’s smooth dark brown arm a contrast to her aunt’s.

She hesitates, and takes her hand.