The Valley

There weren’t always dragons in the valley, in fact there never were. Though many a weary traveler claimed there must be those manipulating the minds of passersby and turning them mad with savagery. Angsty and euphoric bound to strip naked and frolic through the wilderness, to never return, and boy did they. “The valley” was this special place between the top of the world and the pits of hell. A town like any other, with people who lived there and roamed its streets, jetting around to the local pub, and grocer, dirt strapped tires, a certain twang clinging to the words they spoke. Everyone knew each other, and if they didn’t, you could bet it would be their business too, after seeing you more than a time or two. Plenty of tourists went through these parts, but none really ever stayed too long, you see they had lives of their own and homes to get back too, and this place was amusing enough…for a while. They had real life ventures to take part in, business to instigate and follow through on. So the town was littered with sporadic, nomadic, venture filled fiends that raised the price of a common mole hole to far more than it should be. Clearly there was allure in these mountains that made them gather, but also, a darkness here that made them flee, it lived in the shadows of the trees and the underside of potholes, it burned down throats with the taste of whiskey, a certain kind of mania, just on the brink of reality.

These forests felt haunted, with the ghosts of fallen trees. A few years back, there was a massive extinction, something like a plague hit the land, and the trees were the ones to suffer, and their spirits with them. Wailing into the night like wolves, licking wounds and retreating. In this time, there were refugees of tree spirits, nymphs and fae, with torn and tattered appearances, trudging to the outskirts into greater wilderness. Seeking relief from the constant bombardment of fire and chainsaws, whirring in the air, puffing out smoke. Sawdust coating the lichen like the ash from Pompeii, and the hazard was, nobody really saw this, or seemed to care much, they were much too transfixed by the golden penny that fell into their pocket, but the land paid a far heftier price. So went all this culture, and with it then, though trees grew back, they were lifeless, and empty husks of what they should’ve been, farmed and trained through tactic, call it a survival mechanism. This is the lack of life that was slowly draining the valley of its vigor, the people too struggled with this though they knew not why, it was simply a symptom of their requisition.

On the outskirts of the trees, things stirred. A swamp land was expanding daily, swallowing whole bits of land with it, and there the fairytale creatures lived, changed and restless from the days of wandering. Faces sunk and rotten from water, mushrooms growing from behind their ears, skin flaky like ash and faces sunken like the ships of the past, laid to rest at the bottom of the sea. A craving for restitution was here. Spun tales of long lost times painted the breeze in colors of psychedelia, words from elder trees drifted upon it to those born in the swamp lands, lion's mane ridden teenagers by now. Nature craved a repentance, it was the humans of the Valley that would pay this price, whether they knew so or not. Through the eyes of a doe, these creatures knew the secrets of the town and all its inhabitants. The animalia conspired to get close enough to brush past the brinks of civilization just enough to know what it was that made it weak, and penetrable. Truthfully, order is temporary, and all of these things the humans made were merely illusions of order, if left to their own devices, they would do as all things do when left to the elements and succumb to the ways of the Earth. Like their forest home, the valley town would decay, and nature would have its day once again.

In the frost coated season, everything grew strangely hectic. At the first snowfall, there were huskies mushing, cocoa pouring, and all elements of tourists from all walks of life, pattering about, drawn to the promise the mountains would bring. There was a homey rural freedom to this place that supported things like a snowmobile club, for those that enjoyed jetting recklessly through the wilderness, and all matters of life seemed to bustle around the hills. It seemed to be a time of prosperity through constant activity, perhaps to keep the blood flowing, so nobody got too cold. It seemed, the type that would live or pass through this sweet valley town, were never much for sitting still too long. There was always a hike to be done, or a place to be traveled to, or a relation to be sought, even maybe a new career, or lifestyle, or a fresh start towards something new and exciting. What a bittersweet happiness it brings to feel the abandonment of daily life practices. Whether or not the dishes were done held little significance when juxtaposed against a massive rock, with an energy that couldn’t be ignored. What most people didn’t know is that within the epicenter of prosperity of this town, was a force greater than all human minds combined, an energy older than time itself. In fact, it had the ability to flux and bend time, manipulate it at its will to make some things pass so slowly and others in an instant, so that people felt like they had spent a lifetime on the hill and also no time at all within a short winter season. The bonds were bound in blood from the start for simply existing in this space, being of a similar kind, rejecting the ways of the world riddled with mindless and repetitive tasks, these people had substance, and worked hard through gritty days and nights, and partied ever harder, despite a hangover or a lack of sleep, they were rich in their eyes and in the eyes of their peers. Nothing more important than a life worth living, this was to be gained, regardless of the cost.