The Archealchemist

There were not always dragons in the valley. And if, by the saints, trouble comes in threes and miracles abide alone, then there shall come a time when we long for their return.

The times of pestilence are past, but famine still lingers and the swords have not been turned to plows. Two young cousins lean over a great stone fence. They are the only children for miles. Their eyes, the only ones watching the fog gather over the vale, then lift to join the slowly-rising sun.

Sion speaks through unfamiliar gaps left by the loss of his milk teeth, "Father Bangor says our parish is too poor to be visited by all four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”

“Do not dare to call him ‘Father,’ for you know how he despises that title,” Anowedd replies with her typical air of confidence. Her unruly hair joins in the defiance. “Says it goes contrary to the teachings of Christ himself.”

Sion struggles to continue, leaning over the stone wall with feet losing their purchase, “What I am trying to say is that Elder Bangor thinks the worst may be behind us."

“Indeed,” comes a cavernous voice, “the worst is behind you. Ha! Good morning.”

“Fa– I mean, Elder Bangor, you frightened us,” complains Sion.

"Not me," adds Anowedd, her feet planted firmly on the ground, her arms resting easily atop the stones.

Bangor continues chewing on an apple until only the core remains. He whistles three times in succession, high and low, “Wee-ooh, Wee-ooh, Wee-ooh.” A coal-black mare steps out of the misty fields.

“Here she comes, my beloved angel of death." Pleiades trots up to the wall and plucks the core from a flat, upturned palm. "Together we will hunt the white stag and feign surrender until he falls before us."

"Can you teach me to whistle like that?" asks Sion, jutting out his jaw and sucking in his upper lip.

"Let us arise and prevent the dawn!" laughs Bangor. His bald head casts a hazy halo in the crisp air, his beard cascading in reds and browns and swirls of gray, speckled with flecks of fruit.

Anowedd leans away from the noise, resting her head on her elbow. Her eyes come to rest at the far end of the field, where a break in the wall of stone had been plugged with leaves damp from lingering snow. Her head tilts back into level as she narrows her eyes and whispers, "Hush. Look at that fox."

Bangor can only just make out something in the distance. "That's redder than any fox I've ever seen. Stranger still, I see no fur on our visitor."

Sion, sorry to end the whistling lesson, adds loudly, “I can't see anything."

Anowedd fires a quick retort, "Quiet. You will scare it away."

He sulks, "What does being quiet have to do with seeing anything?"

"Why don't you find out," hisses Anowedd.

"Let's all settle ourselves and see if our forest friend will take a step closer." As if following her master's gaze, Pleiades nickers and turns, moving both ears forward.

Anowedd moves the silence aside like a veil, "Feathers. Red feathers instead of fur."

"Is it a big chicken?"

Anowedd rolls her eyes. "Must you be so loud?"

"Hush now," whispers the pastor, both to the children and to his horse, who has begun to sense an unwelcome presence in her pasture. "It's too large for any fox or barnyard fowl. By all the saints, I think we are looking at a young dragon." Bangor places a calloused hand on the mane of his mare, willing her to calm her restlessness. Sion is hushed in awe.

Across the pasture, the creature reaches out a neck like a cormorant, shaking its head to project a fiery crown of feathers above darting eyes. A tiny autumn maple unfolds, stretching out first one and then another wiry yellow talon to the rear and raising a brick-red wing. The wing defies all sense, bending back midway like a dog leg. She stretches out her other wing in similar fashion to reveal a claw at the wingtip. Gingerly pressing down to bear weight, her feathery front feet kiss the earth. Eerie and beautiful, the creature looks up across the field and catches sight of the mare. The horse stamps nervously, flattening her ears and pressing herself against the inside of the wall.

From the far side of the stone, behind the red dragon, comes a sound like an owl sounding out a cavern, “Galoo, glu. Galoo, glu.”

The strange call sends shivers down Pleiades' spine, but the boy laughs. When a second creature leaps atop the stone fence, a flash of pale green, Anowedd gasps. Elder Bangor reaches for the cross at his chest. He intones St. Padrig’s Lorica in holy haste:

“ I arise today, through the strength of heaven;

Light of the sun, Splendor of fire,

Speed of lightning, Swiftness of the wind….”

The red dragon climbs the stone fence then leaps into the fog of the orchard beyond. The pale one arches its back and shifts its weight from leg to leg then follows, calling out again from the leafy boughs. Pleiades turns and bolts away at the sound, jumping the enclosure at a dead run in the opposite direction.

"Two dragons," whispers Sion in awe. “What do you think they eat?”

“Young boy, let us pray to the angels and archangels that these young dragons are less interested in breakfast than you.”

+++

If you tether your mind’s eye to the racing mare, you can trace a narrow creek deeper down in the valley. Cross with her into a broad meadow, still untouched by the dawn. Wheel with Pleiades to the forest’s edge and follow a farm lane winding up past a stand of birch into the hay pasture. There, she scatters swallows from their weaving until her frantic circles unwind. The mare stands, chest heaving, in sight of a castle tower. The swallows ascend the turret wall then fall again to their earth-bound gliding, tight above the bending waves of timothy.

Inside the tower sits a figure, attended by servants bearing a board of cheese and grapes. The man takes a single grape in his fingers and brings it to his mouth. He crushes it, tasting the sour flesh, trapping the seeds in his teeth and grinding them as grain.

His cheeks are clean-shaven in the Roman style, but lined with age. His shoulders are stooped, long years spent rowing the open water made them broad, but the recent burdens wore them down. Dark circles ring his grey eyes. Thoughts of crops lost to mold descend into brooding over losses in battle and sink into a mire of more personal grief.

"Eliau…Master, an urgent message from the gardener.."

"Show him in." Eliau shoves aside the breakfast board and rises to meet Demas, who falls to his knees on the flagstone.

"Master, you are praised as merciful and your justice knows no bounds…"

"What is your news?" Eliau interrupts.

"The cages, my Lord. The bars and locks were damaged, twisted by some unseen force…."

"What has become of my treasures? Are they injured?"

"No, my Lord. I see tracks here and there in the courtyard, but cannot place them precisely."

"The tracks or the creatures? Which is it you cannot place?"

"I see large steps, heading first one way, then another. I cannot find the youngest of your pilgrims."

"Find them. Find them quickly, but do not try to bring them back without my aid. Marcus, accompany this loquacious fool into the mountains, so you can send for help. You, there, Titus, fetch my colt for me. I will ride into the valley."

As he moves from shade into daybreak, look closely into Eliau's eyes. What do you find there? Anger? Weariness? Go deeper, behind the physics of sight, the optics of light and dark. Go where memories trace their patterns in neural knots, where generations lie buried in ribbons of genetic code. Where does sorrow dwell? Where does bitterness take root? Do you sense some terrible knowledge, a gnostic ganglion of grief? No matter how closely you look – past the reflections of grave markers in the family plot, beyond the fallen soldiers piled on the edge of the battlefield – you cannot locate his sacred sorrow.

The troubled rider spots something amiss on the ground and reigns in his horse, Hydref, to look more closely. He sees a large squirrel, disemboweled, the spine splayed on the outside of the pelt. Further down the lane lies an injured fawn, struggling to stand. Eliau closes his eyes and breathes out, leaning back in the saddle. He listens to the trees swaying, feels dapples of light cross his field of vision. Slowly, he takes in the scents of autumn: leaves, earth, the morning dew on the fields, and something foreign….

Suddenly alert, his eyes open and mind clear, he calls, “Hyah, Hydref,” and goads the red roan colt down the hillside. Rabbits dart through the underbrush.

Pleiades catches the sound of hooves and stands alert. She turns back to consider the farm below: so many disruptions to her morning, too much happening in the sleepy vale. She begins to walk, then trot, then race the sounds of the other horse drawing near her home.

Between the two horses, Hydref the young and well-groomed, and Pleiades the wise and well-loved, a pheasant begins to race. He runs the ground until he springs to glide between the trees, an arcuate angel bringing its warning to the valley.

Anowedd lifts her head at the sight of the red comet flying low, the sound of hooves coming into her consciousness. She has been transfixed by the sight of the two dragons, weaving their way through the orchard. Rust red feathers twine the branches as its snowy companion leaps from tree to tree. She turns to see Pleiades leap back across the wall, too distracted to notice the horse and his rider who have come to a standstill behind her.

Eliau’s eyes trace the distance between the girl and the rustling creatures in the apple trees. He approaches with stealth, snatches her around the waist and covers her mouth. With one arm, he lifts her and pulls her quickly back to Hydref.

“What are you doing down here, neighbor?” calls the calm voice of Elder Bangor. “Did you lose something?” Bangor stands in the shadow of an oaken shed, gripping an iron-headed shovel.

“Yes, old man. My daughter.” Eliau lifts her onto the saddle of his horse, motioning Anowedd to keep silent. “I need to get her home.”

“Don’t be harsh with her. She came down early to keep her grandfather company.”

Eliau’s eyes dart back to the orchard. “Take Anowedd with you and get to the house.”

The girl speaks up, "If you think I need protection from two old men, then you have a lot to learn!"

“Cousin Padarn’s son is with me as well. We have been keeping a close eye on some unexpected visitors.” Bangor reaches up to take Hydref’s reins without turning his gaze away from Eliau. “How will you catch them?”

“I think we should be prepared for anything. Please, get her safely to the house. Here comes the boy now with oats for your mare and not a care in the world.”

Sion takes giant steps through the tall grasses, swinging a bag of feed and trying again and again to whistle to the mare. At last, a single note, shrill as winter wind through the rafters, startles Pleiades. The two strange serpents stop moving and peer through the leafy boughs a stone’s throw away. Their eyes, bright as a pair of cats’, flash black and green as they descend from the apple trees. They make their way closer, tails darting through the dewey sea of tall grasses.

Bangor and Eliau exchange a quick glance and then on toward the advancing dragons. Bangor calls out, "Malus Malum!" and the apple trees yield a volley of small red cannonballs. Some fall with a dull thud, while others split open to envelop the feathery shapes in an inky mist.

Eliau grabs the bag of feed from the startled boy then throws an arm around the neck of Pleiades. As man and horse begin to run, a narrow ribbon of grain traces a boundary between the dragons and their prey. Eliau swings up onto the mare, then doubles back behind the creatures until the stream of grain completes a jagged ellipse. Bangor shouts, "Sursum Granum!" and the oats shoot skyward, growing into a copse of golden rods. The explosion of light spooks Hydref, who pulls the reins away from Bangor and rears back. Anowedd is thrown to the ground as the colt bolts away.

On some beautiful mornings, shafts of light shine through the clouds in tilted columns. This long day begins as the children see earth return this light to the heavens.

Eliau dismounts and motions to Pleiades and all the others to stay, then steps within the circle, his clothes illuminated by gigantic spikelets as he reaches through the veil. The dragons, dazed by the mist and surrounded by the ring of golden stalks, move with syrupy slowness and fall to the ground.

As Eliau approaches the creatures, Anowedd dusts herself off, calling out, “Do not hurt them, father.”

Bangor turns toward her, “Watch, by the saints. Watch these predators become your protectors.”

Eliau takes the red dragon by the scruff of the neck, cradling the wing-like front legs and avoiding the talons. The white-green dragon looks on in a daze. The man stretches out one wing and then the other, smoothing the plumage like a sculptor might work with clay. He curves the bone structure like a bow, straightening what once was bent and tossing away the taloned tips. He carefully gathers the tail, looping and shuttling like he is working a loom. Finally, he takes the head and refashions its shape so that it looks more like a hawk than an angry serpent.

Eliau looks up into the sky, becoming brighter now. “What shall I call her?”

“Name her Ffenics, for she is now y barchud coch, the red kite,” offers the older man.

Eliau lifts the bird above his head and calls her name to awaken her. As she gains her bearings, he releases her to the circle of blue above the gold. She rides the currents toward the mountains.

Eliau reaches for the pale green creature next, looking him over, lost deep in thought. "What about this one, old man?"

"Grab some water from the grass, for starters. Looks like it could become y ceffyl dwr, the water horse. Let’s name him Caru."

Eliau plucks a single feather and holds it up to the light, then stretches it into a single filament, which splits and bends into a helix. He threads the flossy fiber through the dew-soaked grass and holds it up again to the light, sparking with beads of color. Eliau leans down and weaves the thread into a watery net which descends on the sleepy white figure. He raises it up onto four feathery feet, then sets it down again as the feet lose their talons and take the shape of hooves. The figure remains shimmering and translucent, never fully solid, a living mist, a sweeping current of pale green.

Eliau steps aways from the creature before calling his name. Like foam rising in a flask of mead, the misty steed glides up the edge of the enclosure of light, then slides over the edge and into the creek beyond.

Pleiades announces the appearance of the roan colt's return with a whinny. Hydref steps closer to Eliau, curious and tentative, dragging its reins. Stepping outside of the shaft of light, Eliau’s strength falters. As he goes to his knees, he tolds up a hand to stay his daughter and young Sion from stepping any closer. Eliau lifts his sorrowful eyes, carefully grabbing the reins. When Hydref pulls away, Eliau stumbles and reaches out to steady himself. Where his hand touches Hydref's flanks, the horse’s coat turns a sickly white. A leprous stain spreads across the horse's body and its knees buckle. Hydref falls beside Eliau; the man begins to weep. Dark clouds gather and the golden shafts of grain drain back into the earth.

Elder Bangor drives his shovel into the ground then turns toward the oak barn. He signals for the young children to follow him. Pleiades remains transfixed.

"Will he cure Hydreff of that illness, grandfather?"

"No child, he cannot. It is the price of his power that the next living thing he touches comes to such an end."

Sion, pensively walking into the shadows of the barn, asks, "So you've seen him do that before? That kind of magic?"

"Yes, Sion, years ago now, when your father and Anowedd’s father went with my brother on pilgrimage to the Holy Land. They came home with the blessings of John the Patriarch and some special treasures from Cappadocia. That was before the yellow fever came."

"Could my father have used his power to save us from the fever? Could he not have saved my mother, my brothers?" asks Anowedd, stepping into the hay-strewn dirt floor of the barn.

"He tried, Anowedd, we all did our best, but Death was all around us. Those times are better left buried."

Stepping into the darkness of the barn, Sion offers another thought, "So you must have also seen the next person he touched fall dead."

Elder Bangor puts a finger to his lips, tears beginning to stream down his cheeks and into his great beard.

+ + +

Eliau leads Pleiades by the reins into the shelter, shovel dragging behind. He reaches into the grain bin and pours some oats into the manger. "We need to find who released those dragons."

"It was not me, Father," sighs Anowedd.

"I know, daughter. You are not strong enough to break open those cavern gates, not yet."

Sion speaks up, "Maybe it was a giant."

"What makes you say that, Sion?" asks Bangor, weariness in his voice.

"I saw one when I came to get the oats -- sleeping there in the hayloft."

Anowedd shoots a glance at him, akin to a basilisk flashing her evil eye, then gasps at the sight of a large head of hair rising up to the rafters.

+ +

Circling high overhead, a red kite trains her eyes on two men making their way through the foothills toward the spine of the mountains. On the other side of the divide, a detachment of soldiers breaks camp, folding their tents and gathering around the flapping banners of Gwyar.

"I know, daughter. You are not strong enough to break open those cages, not yet.

Sion speaks up, "Maybe it was a giant?!"

"

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