Arcadia: and the Druid of Soleil

There weren’t always dragons in the valley of Geal-Tani, not that the young man was aware of, that is. The dragons, more commonly referred to as Dreki; an ancient faction of unholy warriors, created from the smoke of obsidian. Alistair had learnt about the Dreki on the same day that he caught sight of the girl with the leather black book.

Paris - 1914: Conscription was under way.

A dense sheet of grey covered the sky, concealing any form of light possibly waiting on the other side. Alistair darted through a back alley, onto a quiet street avoiding the predatory eyes of soldiers. His nostrils burned with the fresh scent of rain and the kind of dampness that navigated its way into every nook and cranny. Desperation was the only thing Alistair felt in the weeks leading up to the preparation. He knew it was imminent but hoped his lack of history would serve him well. Raised in an orphanage and only doing odd jobs to make money, kept a young man such as himself off the radar.

"Excuse me young man, you fancy some jewellery?" Asked an elderly woman with a sharp, feline tone. Her head scarf was dyed the colours of autumn, and he could see the paisley pattern on the fabric she was so close! Alistair swirled in a frenzy to slip past the gypsy-mother, maintaining his stride as the curt man she was with gargled something he couldn't quite discern. A few firm steps later and Alistair froze, it wasn't due to fear; but as a consequence to the glance of beauty captured in the corner of his eye. A young woman; yet, mature in the way in which she carried herself, waited under the shield of a small umbrella, entertained by the bustling street outside the dimly lit coffee shop where she had once found refuge. Now braving the storm with folded arms to capture the remaining warmth while bitterness wraps its unfriendly arms around her, seeping through her knitted sweater.

The girl had an almost porcelain complexion with crinkles of dark espresso pulled back into a loose knot. Alistair continued to observe from the safety of the pavement, the water dripped from his hair and gathered on his eyelashes - turning the boys vision into a rather splendid oil painting. Watching the young woman had a somewhat soporific effect, the cars, pedestrians, and lights were all but blurs flashing past as the world around her slowed to the pace of a snail. Alistair could hear the sound of his own heartbeat pumping blood, while the air exhaled was restored to his lungs - the tender kiss of calmness which tranquillises a soul. Then, with the world returning to its regular tempo, a chauffeur slowed to a halt in front of the girl and she preceded to climb in. The extravagance suited her very well Alistair thought, and after mentioning her name the slick black car pulled away, never to be seen again.

Breaking from the trance that her radiance bestowed, Alistair noticed a book laying on the footpath of where the girl formerly perched. After checking both ways he crossed the cobble way - trying not to make too much of a splash - his trousers and shoes were already wet enough. He leaned down parting his tweed coat to one side so as to not be restricted, picked up the sodden book and tucked it under his arm. Alistair decided quickly to escape the rain and like a little field mouse he dashed into the shop where the girl herself had found a warm place to dry. A tiny brass bell above the door made a metallic ring as he entered the store. He wiped his feet on a doormat that read: Welcome to La Belle Juliette, in cursive letters, the words were almost indiscernible amid the curls of iron that framed them. Alistair scanned the room to find no trace of another human being, no patrons sipping coffee; nor having lunch, not even the staff were anywhere to be seen. The front of the shop was a cafe which he only wished that he had found earlier. It was slightly more inviting than the usual spots that he would frequent, especially in the bleak winter months that consume Paris at this time of year. Walls painted in a bold, dark red and old furniture made of rich mahogany, surmounted by a sumptuous antique chandelier that illuminated the room with a warm glow.

Where the hell is everyone ? Thought Alistair, running his hands through the dripping lengths of onyx black that filled his head. His forehead pinched between his brows, as he wondered if the shop was even open at all. If it was, surely the creak of the weathered floorboards would have given him away by now. Alistair's thoughts soon returned to the item held within his hand, an alluring sense of desire, the same urge cast by the elegant young lady with the fair skin. He meandered down a narrow corridor toward the back of the store, where a quaint little library was hidden away in the form of a snug. It had the same decor as out front, save for the endless rows of leather bound pages and an old pincushion couch, directly in the centre of the room. Surrounding the hidden library were artefacts of pendants, ceramics, artworks and an array of odd taxidermy; the rhinoceros head was his favourite by far.

"No wonder she came here." Alistair mumbled, with the chill in his bones subsiding and the weather outside all but forgotten. He pulled a chair out from one of the desks and brushed away the dust, cautiously sitting down and taking a moment to make himself comfortable. The book was different to any other that he had seen before. There was no writing or pictures on the cover, just washed black leather with a small symbol imprinted on the front that resembled a sun.

"Surreal..." He whispered to himself, acknowledging the same shape of the necklace his mother had given him before she passed. When Alistair was almost too young to remember, she handed him a golden chain with a medallion of the sun hanging from the end. His mother told him that during dark times of doubt or loneliness, that all he must do is hold onto the necklace to find the light. And that one day, when he is strong enough and others are in need, he himself, will become the sunshine.

Alistair opened the front cover and the first thing that he noticed was how old the book must have been. The edge of the pages were worn and beige in colour as though they were stained with coffee. But that wasn’t the only clue that labelled the book as old. There was a paragraph of writing in faded black ink, the letters flowed freely upon the page forming fine tales that drifted off and were nonetheless exquisite. Alistair began to read the first page, his inquisitive mind had taken hold and the room around him soon disappeared.

The door appears when you least expect it. Without warning it’s there, when before it was not. Hues of oak and umber that peer through the weathered top coat suggest the doors age, but it’s hard to believe that anyone else has laid eyes upon it. Even if they had it’s impossible to imagine the secrets that they would know. The knowledge that they might hold, of what is beyond the little blue door. When the correct amount of time has passed, the little blue door disappears just as quickly as when it first arrived. Without a trace, no strips of paint or marks left behind on the surface of where the door once hung. Vanishing into thin air, unsure, of whether or not that one day the little blue door might return. But let me tell you this one last thing, the little blue door is not for everyone. It is only for the ones who seek to find, what someone else has left behind.

The boy wasn’t at all sure of what the words on the page meant. All he could feel was a sense of guilt about how the girl would react when she had realised that the book was no longer in her possession. After all, it must have been important to her right, maybe a family heirloom of some kind? He knew that he would feel as much if he ever lost the necklace that his mother gave him. Alistair began to take his leave a little more confused and uncomfortable than before, his breath shortened and mind scrambled, unsure of whether or not he had overstayed his welcome and desperate to evade the attention of soldiers patrolling the city. After a single step the boy stopped dead to observe something which was overlooked when he first arrived, at least, he didn’t think that it was there before; all though he was distracted by the copious amount of ornaments that filled the room.

A little blue door in the corner of the library peeped out from behind a silk rug that hung on the wall. The door was very much like the one in the book, but he thought to himself that it must be some sort of coincidence, or maybe it was all part of an elaborately themed venue. The boy with hazel eyes which melted green under the correct light, couldn’t help himself but to examine the door. Pulling the delicate sheet to one side he clasped onto the rusted bronze handle and opened the door with care - a slight screech emitted with a crack at the end. Nothing could have ever prepared Alistair for what was to lie behind the little blue door. No matter how many therapy sessions he had with Doctor Cornelius for the night terrors which left him slick with cold sweat, and his heart pounding with such fierce that he feared it would escape his chest. They always seemed so real the inky silhouettes, engulfed by wisps of smoke which straggle and trail off, tormenting the boy while he sleeps. The all too familiar feeling arose when the chandelier in the front room flickered of something sinister, followed by a breeze that blew out the candles on every table. For a moment in time there was no sound, no light, nothing at all, as if the boy had fallen fast asleep, to a clocks tick slowly drifting behind.

A dazed Alistair peeled open his heavy eyes, awaken by the clamour of a bustling room and the sound of a man’s voice that was loud and clear. “Here we are once again my friends, with a drink in our hands and food in our bellies!” Preached a man behind the bar; dressed in rags with an unkempt beard to match. The crowd of fools that gathered around looked no different in appearance, resting their mud-soaked elbows on the barroom counter; the wood was scarred and splintered with an ornate trim running along the edge.

"Aye... an we hivny seen eh bloody Dreki for nearin a week!" Raved a burly man with zeal for an unknown cause.

"Not that you would stick around to see, ehh Tavish!" Another man conveyed with humour as a roar of laughter erupted.

"Ahh sod aff ye wee cretin!" He replied.

Alistair found the man's accent to be quite amusing; yet silent and mousey is how the boy remained, keeping low within the shadows where he felt most comfortable. Wide-eyed with a faint tremor pulsing through his hands, Alistair tried to make sense of where he had found himself. The same overwhelming spike of adrenaline fuelled by the harrowing nightmares was beginning to haze his perception.

"Ok focus, what did Dr Cornelius say?" He asked himself in a flurried state.

"Bring awareness to the breath flowing in - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4... hold - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4... out - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4... hold, and repeat again." As Alistair regained clarity his curiosity met with the sour scent of ale wafting through the air of Arkenside Tavern. A warm and inviting refuge set in the rolling hills of the Arcadian Globe, at the southern most end of Geal-Tani or The White Valley as some of the locals had called it. There wasn't much else in the village of Arken, save for a few farmsteads scattered here and there, and the accompanying temple that always seemed to have a place in every settlement.

“Go on then, tell us a story!” said an eager voice surfacing from the low-lit room.

"Aye, go on!" The men shouted. Alistair watched as the barman searched the intimate setting, to find a pale-skinned woman galavanting amidst the group of boorish men. He could tell that the man was pleasantly surprised to see such a woman in his establishment. A head full of fiery locks cascading down and falling just shy of her distinct collarbones, protruding beyond the lace of her white blouse. His usual company was clearly not so easy on the eyes.

“Please?” she so desperately requested, attempting to distract the men from her misleading intentions.

"Alright then, because you asked so kindly my dear." He accepted, as if he couldn't stand the sound of his own voice; but Alistair sensed that it was just a front. The barmen didn't seem like one to shy away from the gullible ears of an audience. In fact! Alistair could almost guarantee that the rather large and hairy man relished the days to recite the countless stories that have passed through his very tavern, whether they were of truth or not, was no concern to him.

“Which tale would you like to hear?” he replied, pausing his daily chores while he spoke.

“Would you like to hear a frightening fable of a pirates journey across murky waters? Perhaps the history of a cruel and gruesome beast, which some would call warriors?”

“I heard the Dreki used to live among the ancient clans in peace.” Another villager added after taking a swig from his ale - the flickering of candlelight casting harsh shadows upon the features of his face.

“Nothing but an old wives’ tale,” The barman chuckled under his breath.

“They were ghastly creatures used as weapons of war and nothing more!”

Alistair was lost and confused, out of everything that had happened today, Tales of Dreki and ancient clans were the most bizarre. They weren't often a topic of conversation on the streets of Paris, he thought to himself before dismissing the gossip. All that he cared about was finding a way back home while staying out of sight; yet the tiny blue door was no longer visible.

“Barkeep! Tell us more!” the witty woman demanded, while she continued to work the room free of its coin.

“Tell us about the Druid!”

The boys ears pricked up immediately as if they had a mind of their own. From the depths of his buried mind, he recollected the tales of a druid his mother had spoken of when he was still quite young. He assumed they were just children's stories, yet, the alehouse was silent for the space of a few seconds, save for the sound of a crackling fire that played on in the background. The patrons looked from one to the other, lowering their mugs in response to what the frank woman had asked. It was as if it wasn't often discussed the matters of druids, especially not the one she was clearly referring to.

"Ahhh... The secrets of blood and desire are what you wish to hear?" The barman affirmed.

"I wouldn't know, I've never heard them." She replied, her attention now turning away from the profit of gold to the acquisition of knowledge.

"Stories of skeletons hiding within royal wardrobes, and giving rise to the days that are not so friendly." He continued with an increasingly mellow bravado. "Days that have tormented the very land on which we convene. A dismal age! Under the oppression of the Dreki Imperium and its unforgiving decent." The barman swallowed the words as he spoke, his voice was broken and shaky with a disconcerted tone.

The husky man wiped his dirty hands on an overused towel that was slung over his left shoulder. He placed a freshly cleaned mug back on the shelf above his head, then pulled up a stool which scraped across the ale-slicked floor; sending shivers down the spine of each individual.

"Very well my dear…"

“I will tell the tale of Druid of Soleil.”