Anointed

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. The phrase was on Cara's mind as she slowly roused from her sleep.

"Must have been a dream," she mumbled to herself, quickly dismissing the random sentence from her mind. She sat up on the edge of her bed and looked around as her eyes adjusted to the sunlight streaming in from the open window.

Her tiny shack was cluttered with furniture, clothes and toys. The rays of light from the morning sun illuminated the dust in the air. She sighed heavily as the reality of life in Miscar resurfaced after the brief nightly reprieve her slumber provided.

Things had always been difficult for Cara, the eldest daughter in a family of long-standing peasants. Her father, Teece, had been a farmer until the long hard days of unending labour took his life at 50. And her mother, Sucara, was, as far as she remembered, a lively woman with a joyful smile.

She was known throughout the island as a beautiful young woman, one of the most beautiful. Sucara had her choice of suitors but chose Teece, not for love, but out of some romantic notion of working and cultivating the land.

Finding the long lonely days and endless work of a farmer's wife anything but romantic, she left in the middle of the night on the eve of Cara's 5th birthday. She never looked back.

From that day forward, Cara became the woman of the house, cleaning, cooking, preparing medicines, anything that needed to be done, she did it.

She had no recollection of the woman that was her mother, aside from what she'd been told. But knew she favoured her. Cara was long and lean, with proud, strong thighs, a slender waist and cascading dark hair. But if she was physically her mother's, in all other ways, she was her father's daughter.

When Teece died, Cara took over the farm. Through sheer grit and 18 hour days, she was able to eke out a living on the family's tiny plot of land. For years, she was able to get by, just barely.

Then, something changed, a shift in the air, in the weather patterns. Over a handful of years, farming became first difficult and then nearly impossible.

Rain hadn't fallen in Miscar in almost 3 years. At least not enough to really be called rain. The once pleasantly moist summers had become dry and stifling hot. As a result, famine ravaged the island.

Elders opined that a dark cloud had befallen the Miscarians, a punishment for the previous decades of greed at the hands of their leaders, a clan of Warlords known as the Yranb.

The Yranb had ruled Miscar with an iron fist for centuries, always taking more than their share of everything either through voluntary tithing or force, whichever was necessary. But until about 20 years ago, they always left enough so that the islanders, like Cara, had enough to at least satiate, if not fully satisfy.

With each passing year, food became more scarce and the tax, officially called the Ruling Contribution, grew larger and larger. The Yranb continued to eat while their citizens lived on the brink of starvation. Such was the price, they said, for protection and governance. If they didn't eat well, they couldn't maintain the strength and alertness to defend the island.

Now, for Cara, and many like her food had to be carefully rationed.

She looked over at the baby sleeping in the crib next to her. He was just starting to stir. He opened his bright green eyes and a smile spread across his round face, exposing 4 perfectly white teeth.

The baby, Maverick, pulled himself up and reached his arms out to his mother. Cara plucked him from his bed, kissed his forehead and handed him the one slice of dark bread she had left. It wasn't much, but, with some small berries she'd found the day before, it was enough to satisfy the baby's morning needs.

The tiny cherub didn't know it, but this was a special day, June 21. Not only did it represent the Spring Solstice, but it was his first birthday, the day that would determine his destiny.

Cara, like all Miscarian mothers, was set to take her son to the Wise One, the local soothsayer for her clairvoyance and wisdom.

Boys of one, all shall come, Minerva shall see and it will be.

As soon as the baby finished his bread and was dressed, she bundled him up and made the 30-minute trek to the west end of Miscar, carefully following the directions she'd been given. Past the two oaks, across the creek, through the pine forest and turn right.

And there it was, The Wise One's home, tucked in behind a tiny grove of old-growth cedars, a tiny log cabin that looked about as old and weather-beaten as its aged inhabitant.

Inside it was almost completely dark, aside from a slender sliver of sunlight streaming in through partially closed curtains. A wooden table and two chairs sat tucked into a corner. The table was cluttered with various objects, a crystal ball, a collection of small pouches, piles of herbs, twigs, cards and books.

A tiny bent woman stood up from behind the table. She looked to be nearly 100. Her thin, wispy white hair was tied neatly in a purple kerchief.

"Come," she motioned for Cara to come forward with the baby, "please sit here."

The young mother stood motionless, awestruck to be in the presence of the elderly oracle.

Her hand trembled as she held out a small cloth pouch. She lowered her head, embarrassed by her meagre offering and shabby clothing. "I've brought some silver," she stammered, "I've saved all year."

Minerva, The Wise One, nodded and pointed to the table. Cara set the offering down and sat with maverick on her lap.

The old woman shuffled toward them, reaching out to the child. She patted his head, gently stroking his strawberry-blonde down.

"Not much hair," she said flatly.

Cara stared at the floor, unable to meet The Wise One's eyes, "No, not yet, Ma'am."

"Minerva, please," the soothsayer, grinned, showing a cavernous, toothless mouth, "or Minerva The Wise, if you like."

Cara nodded solemnly.

Maverick cooed, his green eyes twinking.

The old clairvoyant sat down and wiped her hand across her crystal ball. She peered into it intently then paused to look at the child briefly before returning her attention to the glass orb.

"I see a man," she began, her voice creaking with age, "handsome, strong, with emerald eyes..."

"My husband," Cara replied, " He..."

The old woman raised her hand, silencing her. "Wait," she commanded.

"Fog," she mumbled, "a journey..."

Cara nodded eagerly. "Yes, yes!" she exclaimed, " He left weeks ago, in search of food." She lowered her head wearily, "He hasn't returned."

Minerva nodded, never raising her head. Her attention remained firmly on the ball. She continued to mumble to herself, single words, one after another, with no apparent connection between them, then seemingly meaningless rhymes, "emerald eyes, sent from the skies," and, "from the skies, Yranb's demise.

Cara sat silently, bouncing a restless Maverick on her knee. She thought maybe the oracle was casting a spell to bring about an end to the brutal regime that had plagued Miscar for so long.

She wouldn't have been the first to attempt such a thing. Mystics, wizards, witches and even peasants who had somehow gained some magical knowledge from all over the island had long been resorting to unseen forces to rid them of the Yranb. Cara herself tired, with no success.

But they were too strong. They had the island in a stranglehold. Nearby rival islands had been waging war on Miscar for at least 14 years, attempting to take over not only the land but what meagre resources they had. And the rogue warlord clan were the only real protection the island had against these periodic invasions.

The Yranb were indeed a formidable foe. They successfully defended Miscar against each and every enemy attack. And every time, the price of that defence went up exponentially.

Those that refused, or weren't able to pay were harassed into compliance. They were visited at their homes. Crops were picked from the earth if anything was growing. If not, food was taken straight off their tables. If there was no food, Miscarians were routinely shaken down for whatever silver coins they had.

Cara was visited frequently, but she was fortunate in that even the Yranb refused to take the last crust of bread from an infant.

Minerva continued muttering to her crystal ball, rocking gently back and forth in time with her utterances. She paused periodically to peer at the mother and child, her eyes dark and narrow.

Cara shifted in her seat, partly out of nervousness and partly because Maverick was quickly losing the will to sit quietly. He began to whimper as he tried in vain to wriggle himself to the floor and freedom.

"Let him down," The Wise one commanded, her eyes now squarely on Maverick. "I must see how he moves."

Cara set the baby down on the floor and released her grip. He took 3 wobbly steps toward Minerva, falling face-first into her lap.

The old woman gasped as if startled and grabbed the child by the face, a cheek in each hand. She tilted his face upward, to meet her gaze and smiled widely.

"It's you!" she exclaimed, "it's really you!"

She started bumbling awkwardly, reaching for the small bag of coins Cara had given her, and gently sat the baby on the floor. She shuffled swiftly toward Cara and lowered her ageing body to her knees.

She held out the bag, hands trembling, "I.. I...I cannot take this," she stammered, "It is I who must offer tribute to you, to you and the child!"

Cara pushed herself as far back in her seat as she could go, startled and more than a little disturbed by the woman's demeanour.

Minerva continued, her dark eyes wild, "Maverick, your baby..." she took in a deep breath, "when the anointed one shall come, all our troubles shall be done!"

Cara, confused, repeated the old woman's words, "when the anointed one shall come, all our troubles shall be done?" She relaxed slightly, "What does that mean?"

The aged prophet dropped the bag in Cara's lap and placed her hand on one of the young mother's knees, "Emerald eyes, the ball....it's him, Maverick is the Anointed One! He is the one to deliver us from the Yranb. He is the one to deliver us from our troubles. He is the one we've waited for!"

Cara shook her head, backing up in her chair again in disbelief. She'd heard about The Anointed One her entire life. The legend had been passed down for as long as she could remember, a child born of humble origins endowed with the power to restore peace and prosperity to Miscar. But Maverick? Her rosy-cheeked baby who could walk no more than 3 or 4 steps?

"How?" Cara whispered, "How do you know?"

Minerva kissed the younger woman's knee as the baby sat giggling with a long piece of cloth in his hand he'd pulled from the table. "All I can say now is to take these herbs," she reached back and plopped a tiny silky pouch into Cara's lap, "place them in the child's bath at sundown tonight."

Cara picked up the pouch and sniffed it gingerly, sage, thyme, cinnamon, something else she couldn't quite identify. "But, what..." she continued to question the oracle, "What will he do? How do you know?"

Minerva raised her hand from Cara's lap, "I am tired, I can say no more." She lowered her head wearily, "To say too much is to bring harm. Just go home, and bathe the child in the herbs as I've said. Say nothing to anyone. Not one word. To speak is to endanger the child and all who know him."

Cara nodded, a mix of pride, excitement and terror flooding her. "What, please, what do you mean?" Her voice squeaked, trailing off as its pitch rose beyond her throat's ability to contain it, "Please, I must know! What will become of my..."

The old woman continued her prophetic ramblings as the young mother begged for answers and then stopped suddenly. She brought her face in close, her breath hot in Cara's face. "No more talk!" Her voice was a mix of excitement and fear bordering on shrill. "The less you know, the safer the child."

Cara pulled back, desperate to escape the pungent air excaping the mouth of the elderly clairvoyant. She nodded.

"Do as I say," Minerva continued, " and know this, there weren't always dragons in the Valley.

The younger woman's breath stopped. Her heart jumped into her throat and her skin grew both hot and cold simultaneously as she processed the words coming from Minverva's mouth. The very same words that she woke up with that morning. The very same words that made no sense to her then and seemed to make even less sense now. There weren't always dragons in the Valley. "D - d -dra- dragons?" she sputtered, "my dream, this morning, what...?" She couldn't quite put it together in sentences.

The Wise One pulled back, stood up and abruptly waved her off almost dismissively. "That is all." she said, "You go now, I must rest."

Cara stood up, picked Maverick up off the floor and paused. She opened her mouth to speak.

"Go now," Minerva repeated her command before she could speak.

Cara nodded and left, her head swimming.

As the sun retreated that evening, she prepared Maverick for his bath. She poured the contents of the pouch into the warm water just as she'd been instructed and washed the baby with a cloth as he splashed happily.

She scrubbed him then noticed a spot on his neck, just below his earlobe. A brownish-red mark. She giggled and rubbed the cloth over it. "How did you get dirt back there, you silly boy?" She teased.

The mark resisted washing. It wasn't dirt. She looked closer. A large freckle maybe? A scratch? She peered quizzically at it, first sitting down beside the tub, then standing to examine it from an angle.

It was a birthmark. She'd never noticed it before. But there it was, perfectly shaped and unmistakeable - a dragon.