VIGGO

There weren’t always dragons in the valley.

For generations there had been no dragons, not since the Great War when the dragons were driven out across the mountains and oceans to the uncharted, dark lands controlled by the wizards and sorcerers.

Now, there were rumors and reports of incidents in the northern regions. After decades of peace, the dragons may have returned.

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I was leaving the mountains in the west, having just escorted a princess through the land of the scout birds to her father’s castle, when I heard the high pitched skree of the messenger bird.

As usual, I heard him before I saw him. His silver body blasted through the leafy boughs of the trees, and he appeared on my shoulder, nuzzling my neck.

I opened the small scroll which was attached to his leg with two red strings. The scroll was blank, but words began to appear in a bright red calligraphy.

The scroll said that the director of the Peaceful Ones had received warning messages from the regions of the north.

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The Peaceful Ones, as they called themselves, were dedicated to the arts; music, dancing, painting, writing, sculpting, and any type of creative activity they could imagine. Other than the arts their primary job was gathering the fruits and vegetables which grew so fast, they had to be harvested quickly for their families and the excesses shipped to the farthest regions of their land, and beyond.

The Peaceful Ones pursued a gentle life, enriched by the arts and a land of plenty.

I thought of these people not as the Peaceful Ones, but as the Weak Ones. They were a people so nonviolent they were helpless, totally incapable of defending themselves and their families. Paint a picture...yes. Sing a melody…yes. Defend their families…no.

Normally, the Peaceful Ones looked down on me and my type. Hunters were considered crude and wild, “not artistic” as they would say, which to them was a horrible insult. Yet, when their people were in danger or felt threatened, who did they turn to for help and protection? The Hunters.

The Peaceful Ones believed that I chose this “crude” life rather than their “enlightened” lifestyle. The truth is that I had not "chosen" anything. It had chosen me. I was called to it. I hunt the dangerous and I protect the weak. I do what I was born to do.

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Those messages from the outer regions to the director reported that livestock was disappearing. And then children. And then there were no more reports.

It was the “And then children,” part of the message which knifed me, right in the middle of my chest. That phrase caused unhealed emotions, buried and denied for years in the darkness of my heart, to awaken and to dig around in my stomach, like small animals.

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A few years ago, my wife experienced a premonition, warning her about a hunting trip I had planned with my daughter, Adira. She begged me not to take my daughter, on this one trip.

I don’t know why I didn’t listen, didn’t hear the desperation in her plea. Maybe because Adira and I had few opportunities to share time, and we had planned this trip for months. I judged the trip to be safe, a good experience for her developing skills.

We embarked on the trip and as a result, Adira, at the age of 14, died a horrible death. I can still see the gigantic bird carrying her away, Adira's legs kicking frantically as she tried to free herself from the clutch of the talons. I fired arrows at them, hoping to kill the bird, or maybe even Adira, saving her from a great deal of suffering. I missed.

The bird, now a speck in the sky, disappeared with my daughter's limp body into the clouds over the snowy ridges to the west. I tried to find them for weeks with no success.

I declared war on that species of bird, and they became so decimated that they had to leave the territory or become extinct at my hand. One night, when the moon did not show, they migrated to far regions. Never to be seen again.

This all happened about four years ago.

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During the night, I hear Adira's screams of agony.

In my dreams, I fire the arrows that could have saved her. I miss.

The villagers tell me it is not my fault, but in my heart, I know the truth.

My wife, ravaged with pain, could not forgive me, and so, in a search for peace, she left for other lands.

My heart has been ripped open and within my spirit, my pain rages on.

Every day, I carry the torment of losing a child.

My daughter has been torn from my life. Forever.

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The sun drops behind the darkening ridges of the mountains, leaving in its wake a trail of swirling colors. Viggo stands and faces the setting sun. He raises a fist to the horizon, and with a voice filled with power and anger, he yells these words into the face of lashing, cold winds.

"I am Viggo the Hunter, and on my daughter’s grave I swear an oath to myself, and to you, the parents of the lost children. "

“Whatever or whoever it was that hurt your children, will suffer, as you have suffered. I will be the agent of their misery, and I vow to you, I will hear them beg for death, their only escape from the horrific pain I inflict upon them.”

He mounts the navy colored mare, pawing the ground behind him. The rays of the sun catch in her white mane and unfurling wings as she raises them high and they flutter in the wind. The horse breaks into a trot, then a gallop and with powerful sweeps of her wings we break loose of the earth, leaving the sound of her pounding hooves behind.

The western sky is ablaze as we soar in a long arc over the darkening forest.

We fly north into a thickening blue mist.

A swell of emotion comes over me, tightening my chest.

It is faint, but I can hear the children. They are in a place of darkness. They are crying.