Mandolina's Dragons

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.

This thought keeps reverberating through my brain in time with the slow and steady rhythm of horses’ hooves muffled by mud. We are riding through a light but constant rain over the rough trail to the spring where we meet for the quarterly gathering (three days there, two days at the meeting, and three days back). Our horses are handsome, sturdy, and well-bred, unlike the mangy, bony ponies that the peasants own.

We are not royalty, by any means, but are better off than most people in the area who attend the gathering. My father is a skilled and reputable businessperson as well as an excellent equestrian. He buys our horses based on the beautiful bone structure of their heads, their gentle eyes, and whether they possess the habit of twitching their tails when they walk. His proven approach is to select calm instead of high-spirited animals, and he is willing to pay extra for an attractive horse, believing that form and function united is the secret to success in all matters, not just horse trading.

I am wondering what the focus of the gathering will be this time. We usually discuss ways to protect ourselves from the dragons and other intruders, but tensions were high at the last gathering, and people were angry when they left. There is talk of new leadership. This kind of talk often ignites war and death, so I am anxious.

My name is Mandolina. I am 15 years old and considered an old maid by the people in our village. I have one brown eye with gold flecks, and one blue/green eye, also with gold flecks. I am an outcast. People think I am the devil’s child, a witch, or possessed because of my mismatched eyes; so, I keep to myself and my family, avoiding public places except for the gathering. No one ever notices my eyes there.

I have never enjoyed the tedious work of needlepoint, sewing and mending, as I have been meticulously trained and considered an apprentice under my mother who is a member of the embroiderers’ guild. I’m an average cook. I can dump carrots, potatoes, onions, and garlic into a boiling pot for a decent stew, and I produce an edible flatbread, but I find no pleasure in homemaking skills.

My true talents lie with the horses, and with developing and conducting battle strategies needed to survive against dragons and our other enemies in this failing world. Fortunately, my father recognizes this in me, and even though traditionally females are discouraged from attending, he has enthusiastically allowed me to accompany him every quarter at the gathering going on four years now.

My father speculates that attendance will be low this time, not only due to the angry state in which most people left last quarter, but because of an illness that is infiltrating our borders and the surrounding areas. So far, our family has managed to avoid the outbreak by staying away from the village and keeping a fire going day and night in our home. Not coming to the gathering this quarter was heavily contemplated by my father, but in the end, he decided it was more important to show up as a voice of reason, in case things get out of control again.

We both wear heavy black bearskin hats and vests, my father and me. Fall will soon turn into winter, and although we do not expect snow on this eight-day round trip, the nights are nearly freezing. We also possess carefully crafted high-pitched bronze whistles that lightly dangle from rough jute around our necks. The sounds of these whistles keep the dragons at bay but attract wolves. Since our goal on this journey is to avoid both dragons and wolves, we ride as silently as possible, always listening, always watching for danger.

Most members of the gathering are subject to a branding. The brand is small and undetectable - three triangles to represent the three peaks which surround the Valley. It is made by heating the point of a knife in the fire, then applying the knife point three times to the left elbow crook. A ceremonial revelation of the brand is the only way to get past the sentries and enter the Valley. Because I accompany my father to the gathering, and due to his stature with the nobles as their consultant providing invaluable foresight in protecting our lands, and his reputation as the finest horse trader in the area, I have not been required to be branded.

We have ridden the better part of two days. Nightfall will soon be upon us and the quiet rhythmic droll of horses walking through rain is now interrupted by the haunting and distant cries of a lonely wolf. I was afraid of wolves when I was a little girl, thinking they were monsters; but the real monsters, the dragons, don’t sound anything like wolves.

There is a cave ahead where we will spend the night. My father and I won’t sleep well, as one of us will be on guard to watch over the horses while the other attempts to rest.

For the last hour of our journey, I let my mind drift, and instead of intensely focusing on our surroundings looking for any hint of movement, think about my sweet mother. Her reputation as an embroiderer is just as outstanding as my father’s reputation as a horse trader. In fact, people joke that she is paid more for her embroidery than the queen.

I was once dazzled by the fine blue peacocks and variety of birds, animals, intricate leaves, and dainty or even bold patterned flowers that she would bring to life with her colorful and metal threads, sewing for hours into each night by candlelight. I would watch in wonder as she drew the patterns on paper, pricked small holes along the lines, pinned the paper to the fabric, then poured finely powdered charcoal on the paper, transferring the design. After that, she would carefully study the drawing, painstakingly choose the perfect color thread, and slip stitch with her steady hand until the finished artwork appeared almost by magic.

While she stitched, as a very young child, it had been my greatest delight making up stories with my mother about the lords and ladies who would wear the extravagant clothing she embroidered. We would entertain ourselves with tales detailing how fine and fancy their weddings would be, how they would travel to distant lands and palaces, attend magnificent parties, and meet the most fashionable people. But, over time, she experienced miscarriages and even a stillborn child. I watched sadness take over my once hopeful and happy mother, until she became a quiet fixture in our house, like the furniture. No more smiles, no more laughter, no more stories.

When I started my apprenticeship at age 8, I quickly learned that I lacked the magical touch which was so evident in my mother's handiwork. She encouraged me to be patient, that I would improve with time – and I did. But my heart was never in it. Since my mother had lost interest in conversation, I would gaze out the window all day, watching our two baby goats cause mischief as they followed Thomas, our hired hand, around the property.

It was the lack of conversation that drove me to the horses for companionship, and ultimately, turned me into my father’s daughter. When my mother released me from my embroidery tasks each day, I went straight to our stone barn to share my thoughts with the dogs, goats, and horses. Then, when my father arrived home, he would explain to me in detail all he had accomplished that day – knowing I was the loneliest child in the world with a mother shrouded in sadness and no neighbors my age who were willing to accept me with my unusual eyes.

Suddenly, I am jolted from my thoughts by my father’s signal.

He holds his finger to his mouth and points to the sky. I look up and see a flock of five dragons, flying in a V-pattern like geese. They are far above the trees, just below the thick ceiling of dark gray clouds, which gives me some relief that we won’t be discovered. I realize they are headed in our same direction – to the Valley.