Death in the Valley

There weren't always dragons in the Valley.

I spent my time wandering through the valley as a child, catching bugs and climbing trees. There were no dragons.

As a young adult, I walked home from work every day through the valley, occasionally stopping to pick flowers or simply admire the view. There were no dragons.

In the valley I met my husband, wrote my first fantasy novel, and chased after our two boys. There were no dragons.

There were no dragons in the valley, but there were other demons. At age 10, our youngest skipped down our front path to get the mail and never returned. We searched for years, mourned, and eventually buried an empty casket in the valley.

Anger, grief, and fear haunted our family, so when our remaining son wanted to go across the country for college, my husband and I followed. At 43, I left the valley for the first time. For twenty-five years we lived in our modest home, celebrating holidays as our family of three, as a family of four, and eventually as a family of six.

I spent time braiding my granddaughter’s hair, painting beautiful pictures with her, and telling her stories of princesses rescuing themselves from towers. My grandson and I found ourselves playing checkers, cooking meals, and reading stories of knights fighting dragons. When they were old enough, I let them read my fantasy novels, and eventually they were helping with drafts.

Our son eventually moved further from us, and my husband and I spent one year together living through a very delayed empty nest syndrome.

A heart attack ended our marriage, and I found myself alone, weekly calls from my son my only solace. With his help, I moved back to the valley. I had spent the first half of my life there, and I knew going back would bring a familiar comfort. My son stayed with me for a week, helping me settle into a small one bedroom house.

While it was also painful returning to where I lost my youngest, the beautiful memories I still had of him were brighter than ever upon my return.

I spent my time writing, gardening, and enjoying the scenery. I tried to stay active, taking some of the same walking paths I did as a kid, just slower now. I mostly kept to myself, visiting the farmer’s market every Saturday morning, the salon once a month, and the library whenever the desire arose.

I knew the valley by heart. Every path, every tree, every rock. The colors changed through the seasons, but everything else was the same…

Until it wasn’t.

I can’t remember the first time I saw one. Their arrival was subtle. One day I would find footprints in the dirt or see the end of a tail slip through the trees, the next day I’d walk over scorched earth or catch a glimpse of light reflecting off scales.

As time passed, I started to hear roars in the distance at night, smell the burning brush during the morning, cower beneath massive fast shadows midday, and feel eyes watching me as I walked home in the evenings.

Over months, maybe even years... Short glimpses gradually turned into longer sightings. By the time I came face to face with a dragon early in the morning, it wasn’t even a surprise. Its suspicious black eyes sparkled, as its neck lowered to line its face up with mine. The dragon let out a small huff, hot air blasted me in the face, but I did not move. I stood, admiring the way the rising sun glistened on the lustrous purple scales.

In a blink, it was gone, but I would never forget that face.

I saw them regularly after that. They’d fly above me, walk alongside me, even peek through my windows with curious eyes. I enjoyed their company at first. I appreciated the quiet, magical presence. I drew them, I wrote about them, but I spoke to no one about them.

I knew what would happen if I mentioned it to someone. They’d laugh, point fingers, and call me crazy. They’d put me in a cell, lock me up, and forget about me altogether. My things would be taken, my house sold, and my existence wiped off the face of the earth.

As time passed, weekly calls to my son and grandkids turned into monthly, and eventually just to holidays and birthdays. I didn’t know how to talk to them. I spent all of my time looking at and thinking about the dragons. They were beautiful, mysterious creatures, and I envied their strength, their beauty.

One morning I crossed paths with a dragon egg. I was so excited, knowing that the dragon population would continue to grow. I sat and watched the egg, waiting for its mother to return. I figured I could keep it safe, distract any other passersby from its existence.

When the mother did return, however, she must have misunderstood my intentions. Her shriek rocked me to my core, and I quickly left, as the familiarity that had been in her eyes had quickly turned to fear and. I, of course, wished her and her baby no harm, but I did not know how to communicate that to her.

I returned home. The other dragon roars, the shadows from above, and the whirlwinds of ashes created as I walked all seemed so sinister now. I was just a small, old woman. The dragons had allowed me to live this long, but they could take that from me in an instant.

I didn’t leave the house for a few weeks, fearful of the mother dragon’s retaliation. When I started to run low on food, I risked a trip to the farmer’s market. I didn’t dawdle on my walk, walking purposefully to the market and back. A few of the townspeople tried to speak to me, to see if I was okay after spending so much time inside, but I kept myself, muttering only short responses in return.

While I resumed my normal daily activities, I pretended not to see the dragons for a while. I kept my head down, and stayed inside as much as I could. However, one day I stumbled across another egg that had rolled slightly onto the path. There was a small crack in it, and there wasn’t a dragon in sight.

I sat under a tree near it for at least four hours. The mother did not return. I couldn’t bear to think of the poor baby dragon hatching, alone and afraid, so I picked up the large egg and carried it carefully to my home. Once home, I snuggled it in a blanket in a warm spot in the sun.

As I got ready for bed that night, I heard the mother’s roar. Her pain sliced through me, as I remembered the pain of my missing son. I peered through the curtains, but I couldn’t see much in the darkness. Multiple roars erupted throughout the valley, and then there was silence.

I stayed so still and quiet, all I could hear was the sound of my own heart beating. I slowly crawled into bed and laid there, terrified of what to do with the egg. Should I return it? And risk the dragons finding me? Or should I keep it? And risk the dragons finding me?

I must have fallen asleep during my internal debate. I woke up to the smoke alarm. I quickly got up and rushed to the kitchen - a fire had started, but I was quick enough with the fire extinguisher to put it out. I scanned the room and quickly realized the dragon egg was gone, only the blanket remained in a crumpled circle.

Without thinking, I ran outside and started pounding on doors. “The dragons are attacking!” I repeated over and over as I ran down the path, stopping just long enough to strike every door in sight. Confused, drowsy people started coming out of houses. I knew I looked crazy, barefoot with my hair every which way, but I was fearful that the dragons would destroy our town in an instant. I tried to explain, but before I could help them understand, I was alone in a jail cell.

All night I sat on the cold, hard bench, afraid to fall back asleep. The next morning, I said nothing to the officer who let me out of the cell. Another officer walked me home, and I said nothing to him as well. My fear had come true - the people in the valley thought I was crazy.

A dragon shadow flew over us as we walked, and I glanced over at the officer, but he didn’t seem to acknowledge it. He seemed annoyed and bored, but there wasn’t a hint of fear or even curiosity in his face.

Once home, I locked all the doors and windows, shut all the curtains, and sat quietly in my living room holding a small ax - the only thing in my home that could maybe be used as a weapon.

Every gust of wind, every twig snap, every footstep made me jump. I stopped leaving the house. I taped newspapers over my windows. I kept furniture pushed up against my doors. I rationed my food.

Sometimes neighbors would drop by and leave “gifts” on my doorstep, but I didn’t know what they were or why they left them there, so I let them rot on my front step. Eventually, people got the idea and left me alone.

I had no concept of day and night. I only slept one or two hours at a time, afraid of what might be waiting for me to let my guard down. Eventually, I ran out of food. Every time I tried to open my door to step outside though, I couldn’t do it. The hunger pains turned to numbness, and fatigue took over. I curled up on my bed for the final time and fell asleep to the sounds of the dragons.

*****

Rumors of the dragon lady have been passed down from generation to generation, spreading far beyond the valley. She had kept to herself, innocent enough, until one day she snapped, claiming that the dragons were out to get her and the town. She locked herself in her house, and no one ever saw her again.

By the time her body was found, she was already starting to decompose. She didn’t have any friends or family in the valley, so she was cremated and buried in a simple grave without a funeral.

Despite countless days spent cleaning and airing out the house, the smell of death persisted, so her small home was eventually burnt to the ground. Some of her dragon paintings and stories were removed, but the rest of her belongings burned with the house.

Some of her early drawings are still displayed throughout the town, and a few of her fantasy novels are in the public library. However, the more afraid she became, the scarier her art got, and by the end it was not fit for public consumption.

The demons in her head destroyed her over time.

There were never dragons in the valley.