Before the Mallows Bloomed

There weren’t always Dragons in the Valley. I guess there weren’t any Alma Puras either. Or Naturalists. Or… Magic.

Jack huffed a laugh from his seat at the edge of the granite cliffs that overlooked Valley, Idaho. The thought had been churning in his mind for long enough that he had not noticed the sun setting, casting waves of inky blackness over the horizon and painting the city below to look like one from his worn-out Noir comics.

His thoughts were ripped away at the sound of rocks cascading down the cliff face below. A young teen, still awkwardly unsure enough of his body to seem athletic, stood to his right grinning widely at the tumbling stones he had just thrown. His crooked smile, accented with slightly misaligned teeth, drew creases across his sunburned cheeks and made him squint hard enough to hide the bulk of his glassy eyes, wind-whipped from the gusting mountain air.

“You’re a clown, kid,” Jack said smiling. It made him happy to see Alex having fun, even with all of the madness in the world.

Being fourteen, Alex did not know anything else. Jack, however, being nearly a decade older, remembered how the world was before Magic was discovered. He remembered playing with all of his friends at the park, building snow forts, and trying to ride a bike without training wheels. All of that was just a memory now. These days, the only thing they learned was how to survive— how to fight.

“What do you think they do at night, Jackie?” Alex asked. His voice, still maturing, cracked as he spoke and caused him to stutter the older boy’s name.

“Same as anyone I’d guess. Hey, step back from that edge a little.”

The boy complied but gave no response. Rather, he turned and started to carelessly kick divots into the dirt that had compacted on the edge of the dark stone. There was silence for a moment before he spoke again, but his voice trailed off, carried away by the high mountain wind.

“Why do you call them ‘Dragons’ anyway?” he asked, only half listening for an answer.

Jack felt his jaw tighten and caught himself momentarily lost in his thoughts. Hopefully, you never find out, kid. he thought as he sullenly felt for the patch of raised scar tissue protruding from under the left cuff of his flannel. Burn scars rarely heal quickly, and his still did not have feeling. Once the skin graft had healed, he found himself constantly touching it; a nervous tick he had tried hard to rid himself of.

Jack, willing himself back into reality, turned to see the boy hop-scotching his way across half-buried rocks and into a clearing of sagebrush that bisected the cliffs and forest. He stood and slung a black lever-action rifle over his shoulder, following much more cautiously than his younger friend across the rocky outcropping.

By the time he caught up, Alex was standing on the edge of the tree line, facing the ever-darkening woods. Dancing across his extended arm were three small glowing orbs that mimicked fireflies and circled his open palm in metronomic circles. Two others dizzily approached, cutting jagged lines through the shadows. Jack walked to the boy’s side and watched the show with a blank expression, placing a heavy hand on Alex’s shoulder as he did. Alex, enticed by the rhythmic pattern, maintained a gaze that was as focused as it was enthralled.

Jack had always been large for his age, but he noticed it more while standing next to the younger boy. His height did little to benefit him, as he stood nearly a head taller than most of his platoon. This, coupled with his well-developed shoulders, back, and legs, made him an unusually noticeable person; a trait that he quickly learned was not beneficial in combat.

As if to say it was time to leave, Jack took his time adjusting the backpack on his shoulders and gave his friend a soft nudge. Side by side they stepped into the evergreen canopy, chased by the growing darkness of night.

Never having been overly fond of the dark, Jack withdrew a heavy metal flashlight from the pouch on his gun belt. The slap of its thick, plastic sheath compressing into itself drew an orchestra of chirping crickets to a sudden eerie silence. He quickly depressed the flashlight’s switch, illuminating the forest ahead, then fastened it to the webbing stitched on the chest of his body armor.

Ancient fir trees towered like giants near pines that were forced to grow upward or risk being starved of precious sunlight. Undergrowth tangled Jack’s feet and ripped at his boots as he tried to hop over ankle-twisting rocks. Waves of cool, mountain air cut through Jack’s threadbare flannel shirt and found their way deep into his bones, sending chills down his spine.

Pulling his backpack forward under his left arm as he walked, he started to search for a beanie when—crack. The sound of a low-hanging tree branch being fractured from impact echoed in his skull and left a dull resonance that temporarily muted his hearing. Visibly irritated, he grabbed the culprit and heaved it out of sight before wiping his brow and inspecting a gloved hand for blood.

“You okay?” Alex asked while taking a break from playfully bounding across patches of grass to look toward the noise.

“Yeah, just bumped it,” Jack said as he gingerly felt at the knot growing in his hairline to be certain he had not split the skin. “Too busy looking at the ground.”

“You wouldn’t have to if you let me make you some of these, Jackie,” Alex teased, theatrically balancing on a tree root while pulling one leg upward to show off his shin-high leather moccasins. “They’re thin so you can feel where you’re stepping.”

Jack provided little response, short of an exasperated grunt, as he trudged forward through a carpet of dried pine needles and undergrowth. He shoved past Alex, in no mood to humor the boy, and summited the last twenty yards of a shallow ravine.

The Eastern Mountain Divide walled in the horizon, making him feel like he was inside of a massive bowl. The jagged, barren faces and perpetual white caps seemed to reach past the clouds, which had since turned shades of indigo and lilac with the last filtered rays of sunlight.

Looking at the expanse, Jack wondered if life was any different on the other side. Had the discovery of Magic changed them, too? How many of them had died fighting in an endless war? Were they even in a war at all? He pushed the thought from his mind, unwilling to dwell on irrelevancies.

Turning back around, he looked to where he had left Alex, but instead found a small fox seated at his feet. Unmoving, it stared back at Jack with curious and expecting eyes, as if waiting in anticipation for something to happen. Jack locked eyes with the animal, shining the beam of his light lazily at the ground between them. A stick cracked in the shadows, just out of the flashlight’s reach. Before Jack could react, the fox had spun on its hips and darted away in a blur of red movement.

Alex, now mid-vault and in a frenzy of motion, had sprung from behind a tree and tackled the fox. The pair kicked and squirmed, rolling down the steep gradient of bear grass and debris until they finally came to rest against a sizable fallen tree. Now straddling the fox, Alex pinned its legs against the rotted wood and spoke through gasping breaths.

“Still not quick enough, Ty,” he panted through mischievous laughs.

The fox playfully nipped at Alex’s fingers, unsuccessfully trying to break his grasp. From behind them, a pinecone whistled through the air and struck the back of Alex’s head, causing him to wheel around in surprise.

Tyler took advantage of the distraction and wriggled free, running back to the ridgeline and the safety of his older companion. Turning to look down at Alex, he folded his ears down and yipped, taunting the boy to come after him.

Jack, holding two more pine cones, called down to where Alex had come to rest, “It’s getting late and they’re going to notice if you’re gone too long.” Without waiting for a response, he began his descent into the neighboring ravine with Tyler in tow.

Alex had just started to rejoin the group when the slope started its gradual change to level ground nearing the bottom. They gathered at a nearby spring and took turns drinking the cool, fresh glacial water. In the distance, the soft light of a campfire shone through the trees, and the rhythmic pounding of drums bounced off the steep mountain walls.

“You two better get home,” Jack said in his typically apathetic tone. The fox nuzzled his hand and trotted off toward the village. An unexpected flash half-blinded Jack, but through blotchy vision, he now saw a young boy, about the age of ten, barefooted and jogging into the woods. Pleased that one of the brothers could follow directions, he rubbed his eyes and refocused his attention on Alex.

“Why can’t you just come meet everyone?” Alex asked, deliberately stalling. “It’ll be fine, especially if you’re with me.” The hesitation in Alex’s voice was apparent. This conversation with Jack was not new, but he never liked the answer.

“It won’t ever be fine for me to spend time in your village,” Jack replied while pulling a military-style canteen from his backpack. He broke Alex’s stare and squatted by the spring, letting the fresh water fill his bottle. Alex tried to continue but lost his words before he could start.

“At least let me give you some food for the walk home.” Alex offered, cupping his hands. Dim specks of light swirled from the surrounding forest and coalesced into a lump in his palms. Working the essence like clay, he pushed and molded it to shape before holding it out for Jack to take. The light quickly faded, revealing the crimson red skin of an apple.

Jack sighed and looked out at the distant trees, studying their silhouettes as he tried to find the right words. “You know I can’t take that. Alma Puras are disavowed from using Magic, and that includes taking anything made by it.”

Alex dismissively rolled his eyes. “Come on, no one will know. Just toss the core before you get home,” he argued as a second glowing ball began to take on a cylindrical shape. He still smiled, but that same slight frustration had started to creep into his voice. “Here, here’s a battery for your flashlight too.”

Jack stood and grabbed Alex’s outstretched hand, which now balanced the two objects. Gently, he closed the boy’s hand around them and explained, “Look kid, we’re never going to see eye to eye. There are things that we disagree on, but just because we do doesn’t mean I should demonize you for it.”

Alex’s face twisted as he pulled his hand away from Jack’s. He squared his shoulders in defiance but was interrupted.

“That also means you shouldn’t push it onto me,” Jack continued, his voice just loud enough to suppress any negations. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got to say no,” he finished, giving Alex a light punch on the arm to punctuate the statement.

Alex’s rebellious confidence deflated. Even though the younger boy was standing away from the beam cast by Jack’s flashlight, the disappointment on his face was obvious. Alex pouted but stifled any real emotion, which hardly surprised Jack. Everyone was used to disappointment these days. It seemed like a regular part of life.

“Anyway,” Jack carried on, attempting to change the subject, “how come everyone is always hunting in your village if you guys can make stuff? Seems like kind of a waste to me.”

Alex rubbed his arm where Jack had hit him, but forced a crooked smile. “Well, only Shamans can make stuff,” he explained. “Most people are like Tyler and can only polymorph. That’s why Shamans are celebrated so much. People who aren’t Shamans are vegetarians and it’s our job to make their food and supplies, but using Magic is really tiring so they have to hunt to keep us going. It’s really all kind of weird, to be honest.” Alex’s voice trailed off at the end, giving way to the silence of the night.

“Seems like you could be more useful if you weren’t tied up making everyone fruit baskets all day,” Jack chuckled quietly. He glanced at his watch as he turned to leave. “Same time tomorrow?” he called over his shoulder as he strolled into the night.

Alex shouted his response, affirming the question, and watched until the beam of his friend’s flashlight sank into the woods and out of sight.

*

Intertwined with the low clouds of an early spring thunderstorm, the smell of burning white phosphorous and decay hung low in the air. The rain fell straight with no wind to push it, causing pools of the humid odor to thicken in West Valley’s front trenches.

Jack, only three days shy of his fifteenth birthday, sat in a hollow of wet bentonite. He huddled beside a half-eaten can of sardines, his 30-caliber rifle, and an empty metal canteen. As he shakily fidgeted with a handwarmer, he watched a group of men, much older than he, seated around a portable butane heater playing spades and throwing belligerent insults to one another.

A man, so large that he was forced to bend forward so as not to leave his head exposed above the trench walls, approached and knelt in front of Jack. The men playing spades stayed seated, but quit talking and eventually forwent the game altogether.

“Hey, Dad,” Jack said, the fear in his voice apparent.

“I’m not Dad in these trenches, kid. I’m Sir. Pick your weapon up. If that thing gets muddy, you’re as good as dead.”

“Yes, Sir,” Jack said, his eyes fixed on the ground as he spoke. Grabbing the rifle, he attempted to wipe the viscid tan clay from its buttstock, but his efforts only proved to smear it in haphazard circles across the synthetic black material.

Jack’s father leaned in and dropped his voice to a low, gravelly whisper. The essence of sweet tobacco had long since embedded itself in the man’s beard, causing him to perpetually smell like raisins and molasses. What was once a familiar and comforting scent now cut through the damp air and nauseated Jack.

“Now listen, kid. It’s going to get crazy out there today. These Dragons—they don’t fight the same way we do. You just remember your training. Keep your head down, aim for the torso, and never stop moving. If we can hold off this attack, we should be home by dinner tomorrow night.” He flashed a lop-sided grin to Jack, that made the metal half of his prosthetic jaw more prominent. Jack forced a smile, swallowed hard, and continued to scrape at the mud from his rifle.

The first shots sounded just past midnight and rattled Jack’s insides. Cannisters of white phosphorous indiscriminately peppered the trenches where Jack took cover. He watched in horror as crowds of men, their identities concealed behind gas masks and full-body hazmat suits, advanced through the dense plumes of smoke. That day, Jack learned why they were called Dragons.

The waxy clouds left chemical burns on everything they touched. They spread like wildfire and were nearly impossible to escape. The Dragons, protected from the toxins by their specialized uniforms, were masters at fighting in the opaque fumes—a skill they ruthlessly executed that day as they descended into the muddy trenches.

Bordering panic, Jack slumped into the bentonite hollow where he had previously sat. His eyes strained, jumping from side to side as he listened to the cries of the men already overtaken by the chemical veils. Gunshots rang out from where the group of men had previously been playing cards, but they were quickly drowned out by the deep roar of an approaching inferno.

Incendiary grenades ricocheted off of the trench walls and ignited the phosphorous, sending a flurry of heat that scorched the hair on Jack’s arms and seared his lungs as he gasped for breath. Waves of fire spilled over themselves and rolled toward him, threatening to push Jack into the clouds of white that filled the other end of the trench.

The sight of it paralyzed him, petrifying his body with icy fear. He wanted to hide, or run and find his dad, but instead, he froze. He pressed himself further into the muddy hollow, buried his face in his arms, and wept like the child he was. The sounds of the chaos around him blurred into deafening grey noise, a perpetually flat tone that accompanied him while he awaited his fate. The same fate, he knew, the men to his left and right had already suffered.

*

Jack was already reaching toward his light as he awoke, slick with sweat and entangled in his sheets. The double click and subsequent yellow glow of his lamp strained his senses, but it was better than sitting in the dark. He let his eyes travel to a thin stream of early morning light that slipped through his curtains as he reminded himself of where he was.

It was just a dream. It was just a dream. he repeated, letting the thought circle in his mind until he could no longer feel his pulse hammering in his ears. With hands still shaking from adrenaline, he untangled himself from his sheets and turned to sit on the edge of his bed.

At this point, the nightmares were not abnormal, but that never made them easier to deal with. Jack wiped the residual sweat from his hands and donned a faded pewter necklace of Saint Christopher with the initials “E. J. D.” engraved on the back face. He held the worn pendant to his lips for a quiet moment before tucking it into his shirt and standing.

Crossing the small room, he pulled the single window’s heavy curtain fabric back to reveal a wash of colors from the waking sun. From his second-story window, he could see North Valley below—its normally plain brick houses now splashed with rays of crimson and gold. The town, albeit shaken, had been relatively untouched by the war. The Snake River, which divided the valley into three parts, proved to be an especially formidable barrier in the spring when it was high with snowmelt, making North Valley the last true sanctuary in the area.

Jack focused his eyes on his reflection in the window. A patchy beard and baggy eyes stared back at him and made him wonder when he had started to look so old. The past eight years of stress had hardened his once boyish face and turned him into someone almost unrecognizable.

His last cycle on the front lines had been the hardest one thus far. After being carried out of the fray on a stretcher, and placed in a medical center for two months, he was assigned to security duties in North Valley. He was told it was a chance for him to decompress and heal, but that was just wishful thinking. No one seemed to heal from this war.

Jack turned and stretched his stiff muscles before getting ready for the day. Methodically, he organized, cleaned, and prepared his gear, and then staged it by the door before leaving to get breakfast. Training was in an hour, and he could not afford to be late. The Dragons had been quiet for too long, and he knew something big was on the way.