Erik the Traveler

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. On an unremarkable morning, there came one, and on an equally, just as unremarkable morning the following day, came another. And then another one came. Surprisingly and unannounced, they flocked to the verdant doorstep of the fruitful valley domain and were eager to glut their appetite on livestock and to set up nests. They came in one-by-one and later in groups, and maybe in the end, it would have been best described as a burgeoning horde of plump, disgusting dragons.

The villagers of the neighboring area were overrun, overwhelmed, and pretty soon, overfamiliar with the aggravating vexation, ample agitation, and unimaginable, daily irritation that a mass influx of dragons must bring to a pastoral community of serfs, smiths, and independent farmers. The missing livestock was just one unwholesome result. Sheep and pigs gone would increase hunger in the Valley, sure, but dragons are not known for being tidy diners either. It did not take long upon the aftermath of their arrival and unwelcome encampment for the copious amounts of bones of their quarry to be littered and scattered all over the formerly pristine hills and slopes that ran along the Valley in numerous, mountainous piles. The stench was sickening, the eyesore repugnant.

There are all sorts of dragons, and luckily, these were not the sort that could be defined as man-eaters. They were pests in the purest sense. No, these were not the slender, long-winged basilisks of regaled lore. These were not the lucifer-like, fire-breathing creatures whose piercing, yellow-amber eyes and frightening features can give even a perverse air of elegance to their lethality. On the contrary, these were fat, sloppy, winged vermin with scales. Belching and bloated, they were quite a nuisance to behold.

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley— at least there hadn’t been any for a long enough time with which any one could remember with any great clarity. Even the elders who pined for and reminisced of the old days of when magic was thought to have been more prevalent in the world and adventurous tales more common– not even they could recall a time when their fathers or grandfathers had spoken of dragons as a nearby reality in these remote parts. They were just as baffled as the rest of the entire village was.

In the end, the only sensible solution was exodus. The villagers left. At first, one young villager set off early in the morning. Then the following day, another one was gone, but this time with their family. They began to leave in droves carrying whatever they could as they longed for a more suitable home that would somehow supply them a sense of joy which could resemble what was regrettably now referred to as their old way of life.

For everyone, the leaving was absolutely necessary but for most, it was burdensome on their hearts. Yet for a small portion of the villagers, however, the young men especially, they set out on the road alone without families, and in their minds, they greeted the prospect of a new life with a feverish hospitality. They welcomed whatever lay ahead with a vague, uncertain fancy that the trial and tribulation of leaving the Valley would be repaid somehow with the promise of a fulfilling adventure. In the end, there was but one traveler who secured this promise and saw it come to fruition, and his story would turn out to be quite an amazing one.

A few days into his inevitable escape journey from the Valley, he found himself walking in the merciless heat of the day. There could be only two sounds heard tearing into the dreary silence along the sun-flecked countryside road. Pattering and straggling in a calm rhythm and in contrast to the rapid and intermittent cry of birds resounding both nearby and far off in the distance, came the light steps of weary feet ambling along the road. They were the weary feet of our fatigued yet eager traveler. Our traveler’s name happens to be Erik.

To the east, a ways off from the road stretched an endless strip of woodlands and interposed between the road and the woods, was a shabby stretch of grass, sallow and dry in appearance. Varying patches of medium to tall yellow and yellow-brown grass scattered here and there where small critters no doubt tussled to and fro in a furtive manner avoiding the gaze of birds of prey overhead. The long stalks of drab golden heath provided them cover.

Yet no refuge was afforded to our weary traveler bending his way through the heat that came down. It took no small amount of effort to bear, and though his feet were sore, our traveler’s spirits were as cheerful as ever, his heart beckoned and filled with the thrill of his journey. He carried but a single satchel draped around his shoulder and hanging from his back.

Looking straight, he peered ahead. He sighed as a sudden breeze broke the hot stillness of the air. Clutching his satchel, he began to arch his neck in different directions hoping for a glimpse of nearby shade. He caught sight of a single tree resting amid the field of grass to his right not but a few paces away.

Hurriedly, he embarked in that direction. The earth began to slope downward as he realized the tree was closer than it had originally been. Dismissing it as nothing more than tiredness clouding his senses, he continued. Yet somehow the appearance of the tree began to subtly change. Had it been comprised of two trunks or only one?

His eyes playing tricks on him, he surmised, or yet could it be the trunks were now fused together, seamless though it were. The wide branches, thick and hard, now dissolved into stubby, tangled twigs. The tree moved but not as what one is accustomed to-- a subdued swaying against the wind, but rather an actual forward movement, and in essence, the tree developed a slow, steady gait. A chomping sound of something hard crunching the grass as it moved. The foot of the tree had shifted into two visible feet—human-like. Wooden feet with wooden toes, Erik saw.

As the tree came towards Erik, a baffled expression of wonderment and cautious pause took over him. The tree stomped forward, giving a slight pause, and then the chomping sound of its feet were drowned out by the sound of what could be likened to ripping cloth. The light gray-brown bark of the tree, so scabby and soft as an outer sheath, was cracking and peeling away fast. Underneath the bark of the tree, the tone of a man’s flesh was visible. A shape appeared. That of a nose, a wooden nose at first, but then a fleshy nose and eyebrows made of bark.

The jagged cracks and peels jutting throughout the bark of the walking timber took on the look of wrinkles and maybe even a smile as finally, the visage of an old man became superbly apparent. Then the elements of the tree faded away until the cracks on the stern of the tree that resembled wrinkles were indeed wrinkles, the eyebrows of bark were thistly, graying, white hair. The branches now completely gone save for two rigid, long branches tilted downward like arms with leaves for fingers. The leave-fingers transformed into delicate, green fingers and finally, the fingers of a man and then the palm and the hand.

The tree was gone. It was an old man and most likely a wizard at that.

“Such a marvel,” Erik said. “You sir, are no doubt skilled in the arts of some sort of sorcery, and a benevolent form I pray. Never have I seen such a feat of magic with my own eyes before.”

The old man who possessed such a wizardly air about him wore a green and brown tunic somewhat faded but overall, decorative with designs and patterns interweaving. He wore fine, pointed leather shoes curled at the ends almost like those of a royal jester. On top of his head lay a flat cap that extended over his baldness with the earflaps protruding downward.

The old magician coughed as he looked down paying no heed to our traveler at all. His white, long beard was tinted in some places with still dark splotches of black hair particularly at the part closest to his chin. Collecting himself, the old magician removed his hat to wipe the dribble of sweat trickling forth from his forehead and sat down under the blazing sun.

The blistering heat of the early afternoon had given way to a feeling of drowsiness as the sun began to hover higher. The magician hunched in the grass coughed again. He seemed preoccupied with his shoes at the moment. Though he was not alone, he appeared undisturbed by the presence of Erik nearby. Removing his shoes one at a time, Erik caught a glance of what had been troubling the magician. Ever tiny tree twigs lodged in the bottoms of his shoes came tumbling down as he shook them.

Finally, a few words emanated from his mouth not to punctuate but rather to coincide with his restful, detached mood.

“It’s an old trick. I haven’t tried doing it in years. I didn’t expect to have an audience today.”

“Sir, I meant not to disturb you yet given the circumstance, here I was to witness it. And fine it was indeed. A most thrilling transformation to behold.”

The magician caressed the soles of his feet with a slight approving nod as if to half-heartedly welcome this accolade. Before he could digress back into his noiseless state, Erik spoke again.

“I must admit that given the heat overhead, the shade of a tree would properly be of use-- though the sight of a tree-turned-wizard more than makes up for the disappointment in no rest from the sun. Would you permit me to ask: why transform into a tree?”

The old magician answered. “On a hot day such as this, I figured I could either grow a tree or be a tree. Would you rather lie under the shade or be the shade itself?”

“Whichever is cooler, I do not know.”

The magician laughed. “I do not know either. I suppose our only salvation lies not in the tree but in the water. I know of a cool stream of river nearby. Let us go there to relax and refresh ourselves from this dreadful heat. Enough tree shifting for one day.”

To the sound of the word stream, Erik the Traveler hastened after the magician who had suddenly straightened up and stole away into an eastward direction.

“We will have to cross through those trees in the forest and after the forest ends, we will not be far from the river,” the magician said. Erik took his satchel, and from it he pulled out a parchment. It was a map. He unfolded it and inspected it.

“The forest seems far off and rather dense, and besides, there is no river marked on this map. Wouldn’t it be better to continue along the road until we reach a tavern perhaps?”

The magician made no reply as he continued his brisk walk in the direction of the forest before stopping, the sun behind him. As he halted, his gaze stayed focused in the distance as if he were making a calculation.

Still receiving no answer, Erik then said, “With the distance before us, by the time we reach the forest, the sun will already be down, and there will be little need to refresh ourselves near the river.”

The magician’s concentration seemed impenetrable, his attention still being locked in the direction before him. He momentarily looked with only one eye open trying hard to observe the tilting angles and shapes of the trees before turning his head to his concerned acquaintance.

He smiled and said, “It’s not a matter of distance. The real problem is those trees. Luckily, as you have become aware, I am knowledgeable in the manipulation of trees. Bending them to my will so to speak.”

Erik pondered this for a moment, and then he became startled as a pouch manifested itself near the hips of the magician and with his hands, the magician reached into it. What followed next produced a slight gasp that escaped Erik’s mouth.

In his bony but thick fingers, the magician revealed a small grass snake from his pouch. He held it in his fingers and his firm grip did not allow it enough slithering room and thus the opportunity to bite him. Green and scaly, a vicious hissing accompanied its ugly appearance– not the less off-putting even with its unthreatening size.

“Have you ever heard of a mud pill?” he asked Erik.

“No, I haven’t,” Erik said.

“Really? Well, look no further. Here one is.” In his opposite hand, the magician clasped behind his thumb and pointing finger a small, ovular ball of mud in the shape of a pill.

“Do you see how the land slopes downward in the direction of the forest? That will play to our advantage. Unfortunately, I have to sacrifice this unpleasant though harmless, little creature,” the magician said.

With the snake in his hand, the magician squeezed its neck slightly, agitating the reptilian pest to the point where it let out a shrill hiss and its meager fangs were exposed, its mouth open. The magician gritted his teeth and looked intently at the snake with no lack of distaste.

The magician then tucked the mud pill down the throat of the snake and immediately, the snake’s body went limp and the hissing ceased. Its lidless eyes went blank. Its sleek body and serpentine, green scales turned a shade of dark, brackish brown—a muddy brown.

The snake’s body then became bloated and squishy, and the magician tossed it at the feet of Erik wherein the snake’s body disintegrated into a splash of mud, and in the snake’s absence, only a puddle of mud remained but not a calm puddle. No, it began bubbling and brewing, the spuming sound of its bubbles growing more and more furious, gurgling and intensifying within the brief moments that followed.

Confounded, Erik had hardly any time to look down at the mud puddle building at his feet, when the magician said,

“By the way, you might want to sit down,” but no sooner had he said this, then Erik’s feet were swallowed by the mud, and he felt his body topple backwards landing on his rear end. He gasped, and he hollered, but his body didn’t remain sunken in the mud. Quite the contrary, the moment his rear end touched the mud, it had propelled him forward, and he saw himself sliding along a carpet-like, shallow trench of mud that materialized in front of him snaking its way like a long, winding path of mud through the field and to the forest. It was an incredibly long path of mud.

He was gliding at a high speed and felt frightened. Soon his fear was supplanted by exhilaration as he managed to sit up sliding along the muddied path. He turned to look around at the dry expanse of grass that he was so easily traversing. He felt a sense of calm and laughed to himself. The mystical force that propelled him so smoothly along this winding mudslide, he did not know or understand, yet felt its soft hand shoving him at a steady speed.

The only worry was this– that his pants and the elbows of his shirt were sopped in mud as was his face. He wiped gobs of mud away from his eyes and off his chin as he sailed downward in a smooth, continuous motion.

Due to the high speed by which he moved, he swayed a few times side-to-side, and the mud splattered in all directions creating a blend of smack and squish sounds. In front of him, he heard the cawed trilling of birds. The sound grew as he wisped closer and closer, faster and faster in that direction.

He saw the brown mud before him, the pale grass, and the green forest in the background, the tranquility of the scene interrupted by that awful cawing. Then suddenly, only a rapid, fierce fluttering of black feathers took up his vision. He had been whisked through a small flock of black birds obviously startled and disturbed by the sudden, inexplicable appearance of a mudslide, and the unlikely passenger. Barely missing his head, as they fluttered and beat their wings, their shrill cries confessed no small amount of irritation and outright befuddlement.

"Puh!" Erik spat out half of a black feather. Then he grimaced in disgust. Wiping away more mud from beneath his lower eyelids, he rubbed his hands along his shirt to free his fingertips of the ever-present mud.

Up ahead, he saw the forest approaching. Directly in front of him, which he would soon reach was a stiff, tall mountain of a tree.

“Oh no!” he yelled. He felt a rush of air overtake him as the rate at which he was being propelled increased, and this time the force was too strong for him to remain sitting up. He fell backward, toppling, twisting and turning in all directions, yelling and shouting. Gushes of mud flowing over him, he repeated,

“Oh no! Oh no”! Waiting to collide into the tree, anticipating the pain that would inevitably follow from thudding into it, he braced himself. Yet there was no thud, no pain, no collision. Only a deep creaking sound, as if an old cabinet were being opened for the first time in a decade, and its unoiled hinges were bellowing like a banshee. It was the sound of the trees mysteriously swaying as if the entire forest were sighing. Trees swayed to the right and to the left making a path for Erik and the flowing belt of mud before him.

Overwhelmed by the accelerated speed at which he flowed along, he managed to look upwards for a brief moment and see the clear sky above him, the canopy of the trees to the sides. He lifted himself again to view the forest bowing around him, bowing away, and finally, he saw the mudslide reach the edge of a cliff.

“Oh no!” He yelled. “Please stop!” The sound of his yells echoing throughout the swathed forest and over the precipice was the last thing he heard until he heard the rushing of a river beneath him. He flew off the mudslide and flew through the air and then down and down. He lost his breath and then crashed into the white, foamy water below, its coolness overpowering him.

His head came up from the water, and he let in a deep gasp for air. He swam to a shallow part of the river and managed to stand up brushing his hair backward away from his face. He let out a groan. Saved from the merciless heat of the day, he was also startled and shaken, shivering cold, and had mud in his ears. He bent down to rinse the mud off, and when he looked up, he saw his newfound acquaintance, the magician. He was smiling at him.