A Tale for the Two of Us

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. By the time they were free, however, that was the least of everyone’s worries–including yours.

It all began, as most things do, with a stranger. That’s how most folks would remember the start of things, anyway, and for the most part they would be right. What matters most is which stranger it is that you meet.

Sometimes the stranger is a bearded grandfather of a man, wizened and wise, wrapped in travel-stained robes and close-knit secrets. He has power of some kind, or at least the aura of it. Sometimes he is eager to display it for onlookers, and he juggles orbs of light or feathers of fire between his nimble hands. At other times he finds such displays vulgar, unnecessary, obscene. Perhaps even his piety prevents it, for sometimes he comes clad in faith instead. Sometimes he also arrives young (or young enough), garbed in black with swords on his back or at his side, projecting danger, promising mystery. Usually you can trust him, though sometimes you might wonder if you should. At other times he is a trickster or a con; his motives, noble as they might seem at first, turn out to be self-interested, or perhaps he has someone else’s interest in mind ahead of your own. Maybe he works for an organization. Maybe he works alone. The iterations are nearly infinite.

The stranger could also be a woman–that is possible, after all–and she might be old, young, or somehow ageless, dangerous or seeking danger. She has power too, some form of it, and though she might be someone you can trust, she might have also come to mislead you. Like all the rest, who she is and how she arrives usually depends on the story. Usually. In this tale, she was the first stranger to arrive. The problem is that she would not be the last.

She came into the Valley from the north. From the vantage of the people down below, she appeared first as a tiny shape descending out of the snowy mountains, growing steadily clearer and more distinct. Those on the outer reaches of town made visors of their hands and stopped their work to point and fret. She came down along the winding cobblestone path atop a black carriage pulled by a team of fierce black mares, and by the time she rolled into the outskirts of the township, children and gossips had gathered to stare. It was summer, bright and hot, but even at midday a midnight pall came with her.

Much of their gawking was born of surprise, for the northern mountains were known to be treacherous. No one from among the People of the Valley had ventured beyond the foothills for years, and they hadn’t played host to a stranger in generations. Some of the old timers, however–the most weathered and white of hair–felt the hint of a memory at the sight of her. Like a name lost on the tip of a tongue, they remembered the hazy impression of a day from their youth, also bright and hot, and it reminded them somehow of this one. Another stranger, another time. He had been carriageless, perhaps, or no, he’d had a carriage but no horse… could that be right? What had he wanted? From whence had he come?

It was not riches that he sought, for the People of the Valley had little to offer in terms of wealth or treasure. They weren’t poor, of course, just passed over, for while the Valley was their haven, the mountains were both prison and ward.

But he had wanted something, yes, all men do, yet no one could remember what. And just as indistinct as was his goal, so too was the old folks’ memory of what became of him. Had he gotten what he wanted and left them to their peace? If so, would this newcomer do the same?

So went their whisperings. Less gossipy than the gray-hairs, the young people trailed behind the stranger, keeping their distance, watching from afar. They wanted desperately to shout something to her, it burned in their chests but caught in their throats, so no one said a word. It was as if they were all of one mutually accorded vow of silence, for they recognized something deliberate in how she steered her horses onward. It was not a killing pace, but nor was it leisurely. Her head was covered by her cloak, black like the mares, and she did not meet the eyes of a single person she passed.

She came to a stop at the exact center of the township beside a great fountain of polished stone. She stood atop her carriage, motionless, while more townsfolk gathered, encircling her and whispering. Workers left their work behind while children crouched and skittered. Perhaps the entire township was there. Among them, at their center, she stood still like fountain statuary. Her gaze was focused in no direction in particular, but it cast a net of judgment onto all. Soon even their whispering stopped, and a silence that might have weighed more than one of the distant mountains settled over them.

Finally, she spoke, addressing everyone and no one at once.

“I take it I am the first to arrive?”

More silence followed, until one among the People softly replied. “The first of who, my lady?”

She turned to address the speaker, and he felt himself shrink into the crowd.

“The first of too many, I fear. Good. Then I am the first. I have come to be a friend to your people, and I bring both fell tidings and an offer of hopeful news.”

The People pressed in to gather nearer, waiting. She seemed to be waiting, too, as if, like a player, for a cue.

Players… had there been players in the Valley once, garbed in bright costumes and singing merry tunes? Their tongues would have seemed made for poetry and their lips for wine, but not one of the People gathered now could remember a bar of their songs.

The People pressed in closer. Dogs and horses quieted, sheep stilled their baas and goats their bleats, for even the beasts were mute. One man near the front stepped forward, his limbs quivering–he had been among the first to see her, had followed her descent all the way into town, and now it felt as if every atom in his body might burst at the pressure of their silence. “What news?” he asked. His voice was desperately quiet. “What news, great lady? What news could you have for us?”

She turned, parting her dark cloak to free her black-gloved hands. Deliberately, she removed each glove, and, as if to show the doubting People that what she had beneath her gloves were hands, she held them out, palms upraised. Then she spoke, and her voice rang with something that made every person lean towards her. “You are the People of the Valley, and this is your land. You know this, of course, and I also know this is true. I am here to help you remember other things that you must know.”

She paused for another beat of silence, and then continued. “This is your land, but there is also something that you may not remember, though I suspect some of you know it in your hearts. Great power sleeps here, under your hills and green grasses, buried long ago. The whole of your Valley is set in a stony slumber that keeps it under guard.”

They crowded even closer to her now, all of them cheek by jowl. A hush fell heavier on them, and every one of the People seemed to lean in on the tips of their toes.

“What… what kind of power?” asked the shaking man who had spoken before.

She turned, and though he could not see her eyes inside the blackness of her hood, he felt her eyes upon him. Under her gaze he felt the screaming vibrations of his body freeze, inert, and he knew that he would die before he could ever break her gaze. She held his eyes a moment longer before she turned her head to look out towards the north. “Many things slumber here. Great things, big things, and small things too. Some of them are terrors, others less so, but all that are buried here have terrific power. I asked if I was the first because I come here to keep them buried, but I will need your help. Others like me will come to free them.”

She did not point, but the lilt of her words and the angle of her glance might as well have. All eyes turned to the north, to the edge of the Valley where green hills met snowy rocks. Several black, amorphous shapes were descending into the Valley from above.

In the silence that followed the People could hear the wind begin to stir the Valley's grass. It snaked around their ankles at first, coiling upwards until it blew back the hems of their garments and whipped at the braids of their hair. It was a hot wind, and though the People of the Valley were used to its heat, none of them could recall so hot a wind from the north.

“What price?” an old woman asked, and her voice was faint even in the quiet. “There’s always a price. What’s yours?”

“Your young people,” the stranger answered unswervingly, and the People made noises that registered their shock and surprise. “I don’t come for their lives, don’t worry. But just as there is always a price, there is often always a prophecy. Such a thing exists about this place and about one of your youths, and those who come after me will seek them out. I do not know which one they will seek, and I suspect those who come after me don’t either. Let me take your young people south, deeper into the Valley where I will do what I can to keep them safe, and those who come to free the sleepers may let you be.”

The hush over the crowd began to unravel then, and their rising whispers became a crescendo of shouted questions. Their children? How? When? Why?

She let them ask their questions, and then she held up a hand until there was silence once more.

“Do you doubt me?” Her quiet words weren’t a question, but a challenge. For the first time the People heard her power, and they felt it at their core. “Need I show you what will come to pass if you don’t heed my words?”

The black shapes descending out of the mountains had become even more numerous, spreading out across the snowy caps and the narrow cobblestone road. They were still indistinct, though moving steadily, and the People felt a unanimous surety that more were coming behind them.

“You think you fear for your children,” she said quietly, and raised her hands above them, fingers outstretched, this time with palms facing down. “I will show you fear.”

And that was when it enveloped them, all of the People, all of the possibilities all at once. They saw it unfolding before them in a waking dream of her design.

Fierce strangers arrived at their township and put one of every three to the sword. Some came and burned their crops, their homes, their flesh. Others enslaved them. Almost all were brutal, and few of them were kind.

One stranger came alone and promised protection and prosperity, and in return he asked only for the life of a single Valley child. Once, when they refused him, he brought down upon them a lashing rain that never ceased, and the Valley became the basin to a sea; another time he raised a red moon and flooded their fields with blinding fire and ancient blood.

At least once they assented to his demand, albeit not before the culmination of their own bloody debate, and in return he gave the People an immortality that robbed them of their youth. They withered as the world spun on and the Valley sank beneath mountains, and the People lingered on into ash.

Many men and women also came to save them. Some died before they ever descended into the Valley, left to bleed in great halls or on the backroads of country lanes, betrayed or set upon at random. The why mattered little more than the how, for in any case they never came.

Others did come, and some stood bravely. They faced great beasts and dark powers, and they splintered their spears and shattered their swords against their foes. Men of power called down heavenly lightning, and they summoned fire and iron out of the earth. They stood unyielding before their enemies, arms outstretched, and it looked each time as if they were trying to hold back the force of a gale. Never were their efforts ever enough.

Once, however, one man appeared victorious. He fought his adversaries for seven nights and seven days, wielding a fire that might have been welded from the stars. Finally, and though the Valley lay in ruins, he returned to the People to proclaim their hard-fought victory. It was only after he lay down before them, scorched and bloodied, hanging onto life by a shade, that he heard it before all the others–a sound that he knew most of all to fear. The distant snap of tremendous leathery wings, the crackling boom of sleep-stiff hide….

He knew what rough beast lumbered up towards its awakening, and now the People of Valley knew it too. For there was not one instance in which that beast’s mountainous shadow did not eventually blanket the Valley in darkness and ruin.

There were more things too, for she showed them everything. Everything that she had seen. They saw it all in the space of an eyeblink, and after it was over the strongest of them began to weep.

And so it went, and so it goes. The young people gathered to follow her, some still trance-like, for no one had been spared from what she revealed. Their parents hugged their necks and kissed their heads. They were of all ages, young toddlers to nearly grown, but all of them gathered to follow her. Some shuffled their feet, uncertain, and others ran, thinking it at first a game. Others followed out of careful fear, either for their families or because they felt certain that her power still held them.

She had shown them truth, or something that had the ring of it. But because she was still a stranger, we can imagine that one of the People–at least one–would begin to grow ill at ease.

Perhaps that person is you.

It begins at first as a nagging doubt that creeps into your skull. Like everyone else, you too have seen your People’s future, and you know what might lay ahead. But wisdom sometimes comes from pain, and by now this woman of power has shown you an entire world of it. You have seen a lifetime of honor and treachery, have even seen how one begets the other. How are you to trust this woman when so many others will fail?

Your question, of course, becomes overwhelming. Perhaps yours is a child among the gathered children, or perhaps you are a child yourself.

“I know what you wish to ask,” she says, and you can feel the weight of her attention. She turns to address you, the edge of her hood revealing the faintest shadow of a smile. “It’s a good and fair question, but the truth is, you can’t. What I have shown you is what might come to be if you trust the others. I come to offer something that hasn't been written.”

A buzz of murmurs begins to stir among the People, especially the young. She opens her mouth to say something more when you feel the earth itself begin to groan and creak, and the soil shifts under your toes.

The stranger climbs down from her carriage now, and you’re staring towards her eyes. You can see, perhaps even feel, the gleam of something in the dark of her hood looking back. “As I told you, so much depends upon who arrives first, for that may change the terms of the story. It is good that I am the first.”

The black shapes descending out of the northern mountains are closer now, moving quickly, spread out like scores and scores of ants atop rock and snow. The earth shifts again, more noticeably now, and you think you might even hear the echoing crack of miles-off leathery wings.

“Come,” she says, “trust me. Just this once.” The northerly shapes shuffle southward, and the earth moves in waves beneath your feet. She is closer to you now, and you can see the words forming on her lips, can hear the pulse of her nervous breath.

“Trust me,” she repeats, reaching her hand out towards yours. A cloudless shadow falls across the noonday sun.

“Trust me,” she says one more time, and her thrice-said words have weight. You cannot break her pitiless gaze now, try as you might, even as an otherworldly twilight envelops the Valley, and her fingers wrap around yours. “Trust me. Let’s make this one a tale for just the two of us–you and me.”