Killing the Darlings

"There weren't always dragons in The Valley.

"Sometimes they left. Went shopping.

"Sure sent the Buy-O-Rama aflutter. Like most of us fools ever saw more than a penny for ourselves.

"'They might wink all wise, saying, 'Here's a taste of the wealth of dragons!' pass you a wunny tip like they're Maga the Nagnanimous.

"'Sorry to not be all blushing and gushing and falling over about this,' I'd tell them--acid enough for a dragon, too-- 'but rest assured, I'll be buying myself a piece of celery and showing off my wealth for a few glorious seconds.'

"Have to wrestle off the masses, trying to shred that celery with the one or two teeth they've got among them.

"My heart bleeding then, such a waste of celery." Uncle cackled and grinned his toothless grin.

More stories of 'life outside.' But we were in The Valley. And the dragons were always here--always watching. I wished they'd leave and 'go shopping,' whatever that was.

Uncle sputtered, lurching from side to side, as the cart he was towing began to leave his control. Quickly, I leaned in beside him, bracing my back into the handle.

But we continued to slide down the hill, our precious cargo threatening to spill. I grabbed a nearby tree trunk and held on, shoving my foot into its base, merging my strength with the soul of the earth and tree.

It was just enough to slow us to a manageable descent.

We continued sliding across the mud, grabbing small tree trunks or the odd metal post, doing our best to avoid jarring movements that would disrupt the load. I worked to keep my mind quiet, focusing on absorbing the motion of any unavoidable jolts.

The path was always bumpy with debris. Uncle said that once upon a time, there were places like the Buy-O-Rama even here. But that was long, long ago. Before any of us had dreamed our way into this life.

Sometimes I picked up things from those ancient days. Pretty precious things. For practicing "killing with a kind hand," as they say. It isn't easy, that. It hurts the heart, but saves the soul.

The cart's smell seared my eyeballs. I never got used to it, whatever Uncle had promised.

Every time we hit a tree or piece of junk, my stomach made a quivering effort to exit through my mouth.

I had counted on an easy trip, but things weren't working out that way.

And then we hit that rock I forgot about every time we took this trail.

We stopped. The cart stopped. The dragon slops...? Did not.

"Dragons! Too important to bury their business like everyone else! Got to have a bloody parade for their filth." Uncle had a new brown cape, and I had one to match. In an instant, slimy wretchedness had crept into every crevice I had. I was shuddering in my next life. I would certainly never be clean again in this one...if I'd ever thought it possible anyway.

Uncle's angry bluster continued. He was enjoying the rage, all red-faced and spitting oaths of insurrection. Slave to his art, he was.

"Honest work rarely looks clean," he always said. I just wished it felt a little cleaner. Not that this was really honest work anyway. Like it was even possible. He said I would understand someday.

We were almost to the river. I heaved the cart onto a more lateral path and continued on; the sooner we dispensed the remains of our cargo, the better. The river would do its best to clean our lot.

I couldn't give in to how I felt. My cells were mutinous. Billions of horses, each with their own escape plan.

This whole walk, my mind had been preoccupied, despite my efforts to focus. Last night. Callie. We'd walked up the mountain together. Our steps heavy as stone. I'd felt nothing, just trudged forward, empty. No life left in either of us. We were both already dead, going through the motions.

Even the ground around us looked defeated--like it was just there because no other options had presented themselves yet. The trees had given up reaching.

But I'd bumped her arm--skin so soft it was freaky. So gentle, it would stop sound. The surprise of it had made me jump.

She smiled, and traced her finger to the inside of my palm.

Such things had been new to me, but she...knew things. Her fingers continued until she found the spaces between mine. Our fingers interlaced; it felt like so much more than the touching of two hands.

I began to sweat, suddenly feeling so alive, in a garden of dead things. What a lie that feeling was. We were the deadest things of all. We'd been dead since before we were born.

The eyes of the forest warned us not to linger. Our hands came apart like a tree split by lightning. The two feelings flickered back and forth in my being. One so lovely and so new, the other a familiar, constant dread.

We got to the service doors of the palace. There were no servants to let us in. They were all dead.

We walked into the kitchen, a small flame the only light. A squirrel was chewing loudly on metal foil on a high shelf. His shadow dominated the ceiling; he was at once a vast creature casting an evil spell, and like all the other insignificant vermin, spinning vain plots to end the world.

Otherwise the place was frozen, tomb-like. The huge table was covered in flour and dust. My sisters had slept there, had bragged about the luxuries of their new life. Another twisted feeling among many.

Callie and I approached the next door slowly.

It opened, by a force of its own.

From the darkness, a voice crept forth, with cruel and oily confidence:

"Have you come to kill your darling?"

What is it with dragons and maidens and testing young men's worth?

Now I carried the remains of that moment; what need had there even been to test me? I pull a dung cart. I thought the Sisters could have answered their questions from that.

Just a few hours ago, that test, and the night was still not over--not truly. We neared the river, its breaths were hanging thickly about the shores, diffusing the first rays of dawn.

Uncle and I pushed our cargo the last few feet of the journey, wading into the river, past our ankles, then knees. With groaning effort, we tipped the cart, dragon dung spilling forth, spreading into the water. Of course it touched us, it always did. There was no avoiding it.

Callie's form was carried downstream by the current, and pulled into a stand of lotuses.

We looked on, with shame and sadness, her body encircled by the green leaves, the pink flowers.

And then she arose from the water, pulling a caul from her face, gasping, tearing herself from the mysterious sac the Sisters had crafted for her. Hours immersed in dragon dung? No matter, it all slid off her enchanted mantle like it was nothing. She was radiant--gleaming!--transformed to be more beautiful than she'd ever been, more beautiful even than the flowers surrounding her.

And there I was, robed in a magical cape of dragon dung. What a fool to think I might get the girl. She'd been birthed into some kind of goddess, and I--I was still nothing but a boy. I lived to tow the filth of tyrants, day after day, and still cowered at the thought of killing rabbits for my dinner.

But what a beautiful thing I had just beheld.

So I asked myself again, what is this business with dragons, and maidens, and the testing of a young man's worth? Might there, somehow, be a way into it for me?

Thanks so much for reading! I hope that you enjoyed it. Your comments are welcome and appreciated.

Theis