What Monsha Lit in the Dragon Pit

What Monsha Lit in the Dragon Pit

By H. Leigh

Chapter I

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. Nor the pulses of heat drifting through the atmosphere. Their presence sent the cool breezes far beyond the eastern mountains.

The land is drying from the heatwaves. A great war escalates in the south. Evil King Marrin binges on chaos and blood, just like his grandfather. I suppose madness only skips one generation.

Marrin slaughters the innocent. Then celebrates and watches villages burn to ash. His campaign brings him closer to the north. Though, he’s leagues away from the mountain villages.

It is King Mondo’s head he wants. He’ll also take Mondo’s: able men, fair women, vulnerable children, resources, and all of Mondo’s hidden treasures. It’s the best time to be young and hopeful.

As a decorated war hero, my father was forced out of retirement to lead troops. My mother is one of a handful of medicine women in the north. King Mondo ordered her into service. Though, she would’ve gladly volunteered.

It’s been three months. I wait for a sign of life like a farmer waiting on an order of rain from the old gods. There’s enough grain to last two more weeks. Two weeks. That’s it!

That place where the heat beasts lay waste to, in the plains beyond the mountain peaks, I’ve been thinking. Most likely not in my best interest. Oh well. I have a brother to care for, Yaro. He’s only thirteen.

Father gave me one instruction before the troops headed out. “Monsha, you must hide your brother. No one is to know he is of age to fight in the war.” Mother kissed me with lips wet from warm tears. She whispered to me, “Monsha, only do the best you can.”

Of course, mother knows the power of my father's words. Commander Dox. He is just as respected as feared.

Though, at home, he is a moldable force of love. Whether it be our sword lessons in the backyard or the sweet muffins he likes to make every Sunday morning, Commander Dox is a family man. That is how I know, if he were alive, he would’ve sent word.

*

Villagers gather in the square during the early mornings. They hope to see the blue feathered horses of King Mondo’s fleet. Royal steeds of servitude carry the fearless warriors. The hardened iron clad soldiers who allow their swords to dance with death.

They will save the sleepy village of, Ajma. The dwelling wrapped in the lush of nature, attracting the likes of: retired sword makers, honored and respected families of high-ranking soldiers, specialty farmers, and noodle masters.

How’s my hope tank looking? Like the squat hole corn farmers use when they can’t make it to the outhouse. So, reality says, I have two more weeks of food, no money, and a crazy idea.

The dragons overrunning the mountains. Those scaley, ridged skin creatures with their planet sized eyeballs. That’s exactly what I’m talking about. The ones that breathe fire, destroy towns, and sleep like cats in dark holes. Yep, we’re on the same page.

Fear travels through the village like waste in sewers. It’s sits underneath us all. Though out of sight, we never forget. Our hearts bounce in our chests. Our minds ruminating over the same question. What will we do? What will they do?

No one knows why the dragons aren’t killing people. They don’t even fly into the village. People just see them flying in the sky at night. Not a single farmer has lost a sheep. Of course, there’s the heatwave. Everyone blames it on the dragons, but no one knows for sure.

The thing is, these dragons are living amongst a resource, that in total, values five hundred mounds of uncut diamonds. What they harbor is sought by all the wood makers, bowmen, fisherman, and coachman. Though, this resource doesn’t sparkle, nor does it melt.

The trunk of a single Hickahu tree is the bread, butter, and silk. I’ll have enough money to care for Yaro through the winter and spring, and to help us migrate to the eastern villages, if things get worse.

To get to the trees, one must journey through Jing Forest. A place that is known to house exiled witches. Since good witches only kill in battle, they banish the bad witches who commit heinous crimes. You can imagine how problematic that’s become for me as well. Bad witches don’t mind stealing the youth from thirteen-year-old boys.

Once I make it out the forest, I must climb YaYa Mountain. A beast of nature that lures men maxed out on masculinity. They climb cliffs like children who climb the backs of their fathers, thinking them to be invincible.

These men lift and reach with the muscles of overfed apes. They train for years. Years.

YaYa takes two weeks on average to climb. Most get used to sleeping in the nooks of mountains. They say they become the eagles of the high trees.

I’m going to be the first woman to climb YaYa Mountain. Me and my muscle weakness prone arms. My nut butter mopped skin. My perfumed pores of lavender. A papercut still drops a few tears from my eyes. A long day in the sun turns my tongue into the very lash of disdain.

I’m only seventeen. My goal in life before the war was to start my apprenticeship at Miss Ray’s farm. I don’t want to be a farmer, but women either become teachers in my village or they farm. There’s no career track for master swordsman.

Secretly, I’m the best one in the village. Father always says so. He always tells me to imagine the day when women can carry their swords in public. He tells me this as I throw the same fit I’ve been throwing since I was six.

It’s simply not fair. The penalty, by law, dictates the cut of a finger, three hot rope lashes on bare back, or a hand. Jury’s choice.

*

Yaro succumbs to his dreams quicker than a fool chasing luck. I’d have to hit a gong over his head to wake him. In his sleep, he travels and fights demons unseen to closed eyes. Grandma Uji called him a spirit warrior. I was too young and confused to request an elaboration.

Before Uji died, she let me lay beside her for a little while. We didn’t speak. I just cried as she cradled my head close to her chest.

While she hummed, she told me to listen to the rhythm of her heart, so that I would always know the sound of her spirit. She also said, “Never tell Yaro the things he sees aren't real. Never.” She made me promise.

My nightly ritual is simple. The tips of my toes stick to wood like tacks on a board. Gracefully, I avoid the cricks the old house likes to mumble. Some lonely little girl nesting in my soul enjoys pretending my parents are in the next room.

Mother sleeps heavy like Yaro. Father can hear a cricket stomping on polished wood floors. Especially the ones that get too close to his whiskey.

He keeps his barrel honey browned liquor in a small bronze chest. He tucks it in the corner beside his reading chair. There’s no lock. No secret code. What’s to be found are the detectable traces of mistrust my hands leave on each bottle.

I take five gulps each night. The smooth liquor ensures my fears don’t haunt me in my sleep. Uncertainty is the thief robbing me of all my milk and honey. I’ll shoot it down when I catch it. I’d bet on it.

There were eight full bottles and one-half bottle in the chest before my parents left. I’m three gulps till empty with one bottle remaining. I’m not afraid to drink the last. I just hate endings.

“Cawwwww, ca, ca, cawwwww.”

Exaggerated echos of a croaking bird were coming from the backyard gate. I grab the nearly empty bottle. The sound of my breath becomes trumpets of happiness blaring in my ears. I skip to the back door in the kitchen.

Not minding my way through the dark, I trip on the ball I asked Yaro to pick up at least three times, before he went to bed. The whiskey bottle slides across the room.

Giggling, hardly able to catch my breath, I get back on my feet. Still stumbling I make my way out the back door and through the yard.

Eager for affection, I flip the top lock on the gate. The door swings open. Reece’s smile is all I see. It reminds me of how I feel when I see one of those flowers that only open their blossoms in the morning.

Reece is two inches taller than me, so she always crouches a little when we hug. She smells of the rosemary she picks and plucks all day. Her brown skin goldens after a long day farming in the sun. Despite the tough work she does, most assume Reece is a tea maker’s apprentice or the daughter of a silk trader.

Reece is neither. She is the daughter of commander, Juju Rain. He is best known for his covert operations. Reece’s mother serves as the leader of the Ajma Women’s Council. The highest level of political power a woman can achieve.

Two weeks ago, Reece’s parents told her she was to marry General Bone. A soldier rising in the ranks. Once married, the two will move south, to the frontlines of the war.

Every time she hugged me, she let her body go weak. She’d never say, “Monsha, help me! Hide me like you hide your brother from misguided laws and politics.” Reece wants to explore the lost forests to find plants that could save lives. The idea came to her when she was just a little girl.

“Don’t let me go yet,” cried Reece.

“Never. Not even in your dreams.” Reece’s warm tears fell on my shoulder.

“I have bad news,” choked Reece. I jerked away, holding her hand tightly in mine.

“No. Don’t say it.” I shouted. Reece put her hand on my cheek, calming my angry spirit.

“The carriage will come in three days.”

“Three days.” We both fell to our knees.

“Monsha, I don’t want to die for nothing. I don’t want to be married. I just want to be Reece.” Her body shook like leafless trees in the winter. We held onto each other, sobbing until our sockets ran dry like desert lakes.

We took sips of whiskey until our eyes were drunk with moonlight. Helplessness stiffens the body. Yet, soft grass and stars have the power to ground two anxious souls. Sometimes, it can ease them long enough to help them sleep.

*

Sweaty palms pulling my arms? My hands reach for the rock jutting out a foot above. Only the tips of my fingers can touch the base of the rock. Ankles stretch again. I still can’t reach it.

My body falls. A spiked rock on the ground waits to pierce my heart. The sweaty palms hit my face.

I open my eyes. Yaro’s tears fall onto my eyelids. His lips shivering wildly. I reach my arm out to my side. No Reece. The only thing beside me is the empty bottle of liquor. I pull it underneath my sweater. Yaro’s eyes roll to my misconceptions of his naivety.

“It’s a little late for that.” He snapped.

“I promise it’s-

“Monsha, there’s soldiers at the door. They’re asking for me.” Father just said to hide him. He hadn’t left the house in three months. I needed people to think he was away. I did everything right. How could something go wrong? The banging from the front door was getting louder. “Monsha!” Tears flow from Yaro’s eyes like a waterfall in rage. “MONSHA.”

“Everything’s going to be okay. We’ll hide in the forest.”

“MONSHA.”

“Mom and dad will be back soon and everything-”

“MONSHA LISTEN TO ME.” My body became still. Uncertainty slowing my joints again. “I had one of those dreams.” Yaro held his arm. The sun radiating behind his body. What’s illuminating pains me with fears. I see the empathic boy I describe as angelic to others.

“You had a scary one?” I asked. Yaro nodded.

“Yes, but it’s like the ones that have come true.”

“Don’t worry. I bet it was just a bad dream.” The banging at the door became violent pounds of shoulders and padded hips.

“Monsha, I know what’s going to happen, but I want you to know I’ll be okay. I’ll be okay.”

“Yaro, what do you mean?”

“They’re going to take me!” The front door ripped from its hinges. Soldiers with bows and fine tipped swords swarm the house. They spot us in the backyard. I try to get Yaro to run with me, but he won’t move.

“Yaro, what are you doing?” I tug at his arm. Then I yank.

“You have to let them take me Monsha, it’s the only way.” A guard hit me over the head for kicking and going for the knife strapped to the back of his calf. Yaro held onto my hand as long as he could.

My head thuds on the ground. I felt grass underneath my skin. Memories of my father chasing my brother and I drown out the horror. The time I spent with my mother in the garden. She spoke softly when she talked about the way strong roots dug into the soil.

Whenever I was scared. That’s when she’d say...

“Dig Monsha. Dig your roots into the soil.”