A Day in the Life Challenge: "The Long-Suffering Servant" -- by Lizzie Meddler

The Long-Suffering Servant

By Lizzie Meddler

Vlad! Vlaaaaaaad!”

I heard you the first time, Master. Shouting louder and stringing my name out like a hair removed from a bite of noodle won’t suddenly turn my hearing more acute, had I *not* heard you before.

“Vlaaaaad!”

What is so urgent this time anyway? Did your experiment escape again? I was certain that I had locked the double chains quite securely this time. We don’t want a repeat of last year’s All Hallow’s in Harrows Hamlet. They already tell stories of your foreboding manor, perched atop the ocean cliffs like a solitary bird of ill omen.

“Vlad! Are you even alive? Damn it, mongrel - come when I call! Vlaaaad!”

I will come, Master, as I always do; no need to twist your nose any more out of shape than it already is. Such a shame; I wager that it was a fine nose, once. Regal and strong; I believe society calls it a Roman nose. I don’t know how they know that Romans had noses like that. I don’t believe anyone has constructed a time capsule as of yet.

Oh blessings preserve us - is *that* what has gone amok, Master? Is that the cause of your bellowing my name in such a loudly plaintive fashion? I had thought you were in jest about that particular project, or I should have administered a forgetting tonic last night. Well, I suppose I must hurry down these stairs quicker then, mustn’t I?

Confound it, Master, why must your lair of nefarious schemes be *below* the ground level and my chambers so high up? I deeply appreciate the view, do not mistake me. It brightens my day to awake every morning to a vista of angry sea and to fall asleep to its tumultuous rumble. But these stairs - these confounded stairs - are ever so vexing when I’m in a hurry. Maybe we ought to revisit the idea of installing a lift box.

“Stir your stumps faster, Vlad! And bring a mop, damn it all! Bring a mop!”

Ah, so no failed time experiments or an escaped ponkeyman (I was always against stitching a pony, monkey, and human together; I’m glad we had to put it down). Something. . . .worse has happened; something messy and distasteful and horrendous. You have murdered someone again, haven’t you?

Really, Master, we talked about this. I am your devoted assistant; I will do the murdering and you shall focus on what is important - your diabolical schemes. You can never do the deed cleanly and that creates more work for my loyal self. I am not adverse to a bit of tidying up, mind, but I have so much to do already on a regular basis.

Look at today alone, for instance. Already I’m behind my usual schedule to feed the captives in the dungeon - you know how they rattle their chains when I’m late; it sets off your headaches - and I was meant to take the hydra out to play with the leviathan. Expressions of neglect on twenty heads is more than I can bear. The blood worms’ tank needs scrubbed, the vampire bats haven’t been out in two weeks, and I believe it is a full moon tonight, so I must release the werewolf to have his fun with the village children.

There is so much to do! And you’ve gone and murdered someone - ah, it simply will not do!

“Vlaaaaaad! Quickly! It’s getting all over the place! Ah! I can’t stand it! Such filth! It will never come out of the flagstones!”

What *have* you killed exactly? Blood isn’t so hard to scrub out - not with my special solvent solution - but if you’ve slain another vampire for medical research, I very well may quit.

But how is this? Where are you, Master? The laboratory is empty, the surgery as I left it the night past - all vital organs packed away and the body consigned to the ocean. You are not in the dungeons, surely, and the library is quite dark.

How odd - there is a light on in the kitchen. Ugh, there is a tremendously awful stench creeping from its maw. I see smoke - black smoke, as black as the depths of an abandoned well. Good heavens, what is this sticky goopy substance on the floor?

*What have you done?!*

“At last, Vlad! Help me this instant! Cooking is a nightmare - a veritable dark art for which even I am neither mad nor evil enough to master! Foul smoke and broth everywhere! I bow to you, Vlad my fine assistant, for grasping this art far better than I ever shall. You are clearly superior than I in demonic machinations.”

Yes, Master, I am where this is concerned. And as I am clearly the superior, *you* shall take the mop and clean your mess, and you will be glad that I am so lenient in my anger. I shall return to bed until you’ve done. And never again do I wish to see you in my kitchen, trying to cook, again.

Inanimate Objects Challenge: "Keeper of Dreams"--Lizzie Meddler

Keeper of Dreams

By Lizzie Meddler

Author’s Note:

This story was purely a whim inspiration. In trying to think of an inanimate object which would have the most thrilling story to tell, it entered into my mind to, perhaps, write from the perspective of a very important inanimate object in my “bigger” story project The Freelance Chronicles. For anyone who’s reading that series, they’ll remember that the protagonist, Myka Grayshield, wears a scarf, enchanted to protect her from nightmares (for she’s being hunted by creatures that can only find her through her dreams). I started to wonder: who wove this scarf? And what does the scarf see when it protects its mistress from the demons that hunt her in her sleeping hours? In writing this short story, I have to say that Myka’s valiant scarf has become one of my absolute favorite characters in The Freelance Chronicles world.

My birth was a gradual event. And as my beginning was gradual, so, too, is my death. Threads of spider silk were collected and dyed a gray as soft as clouds, and then these threads were put onto a loom and crafted into a length of cloth the finest one could conceive. As the cloth was formed, pearlescent blue and silver threads were woven into a complex pattern of symbols, completely unnoticeable save by those who looked.

            This is when I became aware of my existence. With each symbol, each pass of the shuttle, the threads coursed with power - a power that awakened me. The first thing I perceived from my loom was the room, which was as sparsely furnished as any poor hovel - and dark, save for the golden light which emanated from the tips of my weaver’s fingers.

            The second thing I became aware of was that my weaver was a djinn. And one whose life was coming to an end. With each silver thread, The Djinn’s remaining power ebbed from his form and into me. His fingers trembled the closer he came to completing my weave, but he did not cease. Not once, in those long nights, did he get up from his work.

            “You will have the grace of a butterfly’s velvet wings,” he sang softly, pushing the shuttle through. “You will have the strength of a dragon’s hide. You will have the warmth of a thousand hearth fires.”

            I felt his blessings settle into the symbols hidden within my weave, bestowing upon me just as what he spoke. The Djinn sang other things to me as well; old tales of his land and other far away ones. He told me of the past and of the future - what little his fading second sight could still perceive. I could not answer My Djinn, but he knew my thoughts as if they were his own, for a weaver knows their cloth better than anyone can.

            When My Djinn completed his weaving, he was frail and empty of all power, save one final blessing. His once blue-black skin was as pale as powder and the red-black runes once so deeply burned into his body were faded to mere ghostly scars. Slowly, carefully, The Djinn freed me from his loom and carefully folded me up.

            “Protect her, Keeper of Dreams,” he whispered. “When the Demons come for her in her sleeping hours, weave great labyrinths and speak beguiling lies so they may not find her.”

            I am hardly aware of what happened after that. I felt the last reserves of My Djinn’s power pass into me and then. . . .I could sense My Djinn no longer. How I came to travel from his weaving house to a silk merchant’s caravan, I cannot say, for it is all a muddle. The symbols, those things which kept my power safe, slept and I with them. I was vaguely aware of being loaded into a crate with many of my brethren, who were all silent and unaware of their existence. This crate was put onto a ship, which took me far away from My Djinn’s land of hot sand and spiced air.

            However, the port city in which I found myself was no less enchanting. I and my silent brethren were immediately taken to a merchant’s stall in an open market as vibrant and loud as any in My Djinn’s homeland. We were housed beside jewelers and rug merchants and perfumeries. But not far away, I could detect the sweet tang of fruit merchants, the pungent saltiness of fishmongers, and the beautiful heady scent of exotic spices, some which even I did not recognize. It was warm in this port city, but it was a pleasant heat, with a cooling sea breeze carrying the smell of adventure.

            My silent brethren were arrayed in an eye-catching rainbow, but I was set aside for a special purpose. The merchant draped me over a latticed sandalwood box fixed with bronze and mother-of-pearl. By this I knew that I was, indeed, quite different from my silent brethren.

            For days, I sat wrapped around my beguiling box, as passersby paused to look at my merchant’s wares. Women and young lads looking for a gift regarded my silent brethren with keen eyes, some tinted with longing and others with consideration. A few ran curious fingers along my cloth, gasping in wonder when they beheld how light and soft I was. But they all walked away shaking their heads when my merchant named my price.

            I soon lost any sense of anticipation when customers showed interest in me. I instead turned my attention to the strange glow which seemed to emit from mortals. My Djinn had had a glow, but it had been quite different from theirs. Mortals’ glows were mere echoes of what My Djinn had possessed, and its color changed from person to person. I knew, from the wisdom My Djinn had woven into me, that I was seeing the power hidden deep inside them.

            I became fascinated with these glows. There were four basic kinds, identifying them as children of the winds or the earth or the waters. There were even some who could lay claim to the powers of fire. But there was so much more to these mortal glows than their relation to the great elements. I had no name for most of what I saw, but I found that I knew things about these people because of what I saw.

            In this way, I wiled my hours as my silent brethren were bought and I still remained around my box. But things changed when The Boy came.

            His glow was like no other I had seen before. It was deep gold, shot through with undulating greens and bronze and burnt-orange. A boy blessed tenfold by the earth, a boy whose gold-green eyes sparkled with the power he possessed. I thought that I perceived an earth mage of legend, and indeed I later came to understand that his lineage stretched far back to one such person.

            Next to The Boy was a tall man with piercing ice-green eyes. His glow crackled with the vibrant red-orange and smoky-black of fire, stronger even than The Boy’s cool earth-toned glow. I was in awe of these two mortals and of what they were.

            I do not know what caused the man to stop, but he did, eyeing me as if he had at last found something for which he had long been searching. He beckoned The Boy over, asked my merchant what he wanted for me, and pulled out the requested amount. The man didn’t even hesitate once. My merchant bowed low several times, heaping praise upon the man. The man ignored him and took me from my box.

            “For you,” he said to The Boy. “You’ve been sleeping poorly. I think you’ll find that this scarf will help.”

            The Boy thanked the man and tied me securely about his neck. A curious thing happened then: I began to understand The Boy’s emotions and thoughts. I understood the past that had led to his present - and of his future I could only gather mere shadows. But I immediately liked him, this boy who had defied all of his family’s preconceived expectations and made his destiny his own. I was pained for the loss of his eldest brother and I admired his quiet resolve to continue on the path he had chosen.

            I would spend a mere year in the company of The Boy, before I would be asked to protect another. But even in that one year, I became very fond of The Boy. I had not, up to this point, entirely understood why My Djinn had created me; only that I was meant to protect someone someday. But that night, The Boy wore me to bed and I then knew my purpose.

            The nightmares came on silent feet as The Boy slept, eager to disrupt the pleasant dreams he now entertained. The symbols within my weave came alive with The Djinn’s power, and I built a wall around The Boy, barring the nightmares from his sleep. But the nightmares would not be deterred and I began to weave a labyrinth outside of the wall for the nightmares to become lost in until the waking hour. Nightmares cannot live in the waking hours.

            The Boy was not visited by nightmares often. And the ones which crept in at night were those of his brother and what their father had done to him. I was a Keeper of Dreams, tasked with weaving labyrinths every night to keep the nightmares away from The Boy. But to weave strong labyrinths I had to understand the nightmares and so I looked at them whenever they came knocking.

            The nightmare of The Boy’s cruel father beating his brother half to death was a violent, wailing thing, with sharp edges to cut The Boy’s sleep to ribbons. It was a nightmare made up of not one, but several reoccurring instances in The Boy’s previous life. The Boy had witnessed these willfully malicious beatings at a very young age and he had seen his eldest brother bear them with excruciating silence, for the sake of their mother.

            The other nightmare which habitually wandered into my labyrinths was of being forced to return home, to be beaten by his father as his brother had been, to lose the life he now had. This nightmare was as black and suffocating as a wool blanket.

            And then there was the nightmare which was not, I discovered, a nightmare at all. The Boy’s death visited him quite often, almost nightly. Mortals are often visited by the foretelling of their death, but they rarely remember it. I knew The Boy would and so, I kept his death from him. But I looked at it every time it visited and I wept for The Boy. His death would be in the noble pursuit of saving those he loved, but it would be a violent death and it would be alone.

            When My Mistress came, I knew there was something different about her the moment I saw her. She arrived with a snow storm, a half frozen shadow as wary as a stray cat. Her glow was like a sheet of volcanic glass, deceivingly brittle until one touched it and cut one’s finger against its glittering edges. But buried deep in that volcanic glass was pure light, such as I had never seen, and I knew what she was and who had blessed My Mistress. I knew why My Djinn had told me to protect her. And I did not question how he had known, for beings such as he knew these things.

            The man, my boy’s master, fed the shadowy girl and cured her fever. But The Boy was who showed her the sort of kindness she needed most. The Boy healed her wounds with a touch of his gentle hands and watched over her as she slept against the hound.

            My Mistress was only a small girl, only a year younger than The Boy, but the horrors she had seen invited a whole host of nightmares. The Boy had tied me around the shadowy girl’s neck that night and the power woven within me immediately came to life. I could sense them even before she fell completely asleep.

            The Demons held the nightmares on leashes, like dogs baying for the rabbit. The Demons themselves were blurred at the edges, like wafting smoke from a heretic’s pyre, and they wore silver masks weeping black and crimson tears. They sought my shadowy girl and her nightmares would lead them straight to her, if I permitted them to enter.

            And what nightmares they were. Terrifying, writhing, sightless wyrms with blood dripping from their black talons. Every single one of them was soaked in the horrors of what her father had done, not only to her mother and brother, but to his people and other neighboring warlords. Hordes of blood riders massacred thousands, eating the marrow of their strongest enemies and setting the old and weak to the fire. All others were bound into slavery, to be used at their new masters’ whims. Still other nightmares contained the personal atrocities My Mistress had suffered within her father’s keep. Small, dark spaces became the only safe places My Mistress knew, to escape her father’s rages and later his personal guards’ unwanted attentions when she became a little older (and yet still a child). In these dark places, she witnessed the brutal punishments her father eked to traitors and whores who displeased him, and here also she saw her brother take whippings meant for her.

            I recoiled at these monstrous things, and I burned bright with My Djinn’s power. This was my purpose. I would not let these Demons find My Mistress and take her back to a living hell such as that. I wove a labyrinth as I had never once wove before. But the Demons were clever and they were always one step behind me. It took all of my power to keep the Demons out. They shrieked and hissed their anger, but I only wove faster. By morning, the power My Djinn had blessed me with was exhausted and I would wait silently until the next night, when I would gather my renewed strength and fend the Demons off again.

            I confess that I took my duty as Keeper of Dreams further than I was probably meant to. But My Mistress was important - to me and to the rest of the world, though she did not yet know it. And I kept out not only the Demons and their enslaved nightmares, but any dreams which might make My Mistress unhappy. These included any dreams of her brother and his sword-sworn, who had been as a second brother to her. These dreams were pleasant ones, but I knew that they would cause her to miss them to a point that would give her pain, so these I swept up in a golden net and cast back into the ether. The dreams did not understand; they only wanted to give My Mistress happy memories. But I was unrelenting.

            With this careful guarding, My Mistress only ever dreamt of her new family: of The Boy and their master. And, on a very frequent occasion, she would dream of ravens. I could not bring myself to cast these out, though I worried at their significance. But these were not dreams even I, Keeper of Dreams, was meant to touch. The ravens brought her no pain, no fear; only confusion. She often dreamt of a vast snowy plain, the azure sky covered in soundless ravens, and far in the distance a figure she could not make out.

            Even then he watched over her, though he could do nothing. I liked to believe that somehow he had told My Djinn to make me, so that I could do for My Mistress what he could not.

            This was my life for more years than I can recall. My Mistress took to only ever taking me off when she needed to bathe. I did not mind. I wanted to be close to her at all times, so I could protect her from the Demons. The Boy became her champion, defending her against those dangers which can be seen by mortals, and slowly my shadowy girl opened like a shy clam and became his champion, too. In this way, they grew together at their master’s house, ready to take on the world for one another.

            And their master watched with quiet pride. Only I saw his eyes darken with unspoken sorrow. Only I knew what that sorrow meant. Only I saw all of the secret preparations he made - preparations for when he would no longer be there to keep My Mistress hidden from a threat worse than the Demons. Only I saw him come up to their little loft and watch them sleep, My Mistress often having abandoned her bed to curl up next to The Boy. I found that his power gave my own strength, as if he were subconsciously lending it to me so that I might better fight the Demons off.

            I witnessed the many adventures My Mistress and The Boy went on. I was there when the spectre wolves attacked and My Mistress fought them off with her untapped power. I saw their first contract without their master, when once again My Mistress’s powers awakened. And I feared for her, for with every use of her powers the Demons became harder to deceive with my labyrinths. And the closer the danger their master feared crept in.

            My Mistress allowed me to see the world and I saw her strengthen with each new adventure. My fear for her lessened as I saw her bond with The Boy intensify to something far deeper and far stronger than anything I had ever witnessed. When I could not protect her in the realm of the immortals, The Boy shielded her. I breathed a sigh of relief when the Mark of the Raven appeared on her brow and I knew, now, that the immortals could never touch her.

            All of these things I witnessed. But as My Mistress grew stronger, I grew weaker. The Djinn had poured every last bit of his power into me, so that I, Keeper of Dreams, could have one purpose: to protect My Mistress until she became strong enough to step into her fated role. It was in My Mistress’s seventeenth year that fighting the Demons became too much and I could not always keep the unhappy memories at bay as well. I could feel the pearlescent blue and silver threads weakening. Not even being close to The Boy’s glow helped.

            And now, I am afraid that the end comes. I have seen My Mistress through the immortals’ trials and I have seen her to the doorstep of her past. It is there that I must leave her. I weave one final labyrinth, to buy My Mistress time before the Demons come for her. My threads are as dulled as My Djinn once was when he gave me my purpose. It will not take much for the Demons to unravel this labyrinth. Already several of their nightmares have slipped through and I weep for My Mistress as she is tormented by their horror.

            But even as I feel the final threads slipping, I smile. The Demons once hunted a faded shadow of a little girl, frightened by her own abilities. But now - now they will face The Raven’s chosen, his beloved daughter in name. I do not leave My Mistress unprotected. I leave her with the strength of a thousand warriors and with the earth’s own blessed by her side.

           

The End

Copyright© 2017 by Lizzie Meddler

Song to Story Challenge-- "Burning Snowstorm" by Lizzie Meddler

Here's another lovely story from Miss Meddler with a flare of an original fairy tale. Check out her other stories on the Writers Page. Also, if you like steampunk fantasy adventure, she writes a serial series called The Freelance Chronicles that is awesome, and I encourage everyone to check that out!

Burning Snowstorm

By Lizzie Meddler

(Based on the song “What If” by Emilie Autumn)

Author's Note:

This story was inspired by two things: Emilie Autumn's song "What If" - about a girl whom people are trying to force her to be someone she isn't, when she's all these things that are impossible or contrary, and she's challenging them, asking them what they'd do if she was, say, a snowstorm burning. Something that doesn't fit the traditional view of what is perfect. It was also inspired by a specific character in my serialized story series "The Freelance Chronicles." A girl born of an immortal and a mortal, who is raised in the mortal world, and then is taken to the immortal kingdom, where she's expected to forget her mortal heart and become like all of the other immortals. But she can't, no matter how hard she tries to fit their vision. It's a concept that, I think, a lot of us can relate to, and I know I really, really do. I don't fit into anyone's picture frame and the lyric - "A snowstorm burning" - really stuck out in my mind, because it's how I so often feel. So enjoy this short story, dedicated to all of us impossible girls - us burning snowstorms - who simply won't ever fit into someone's "perfect vision."

~~~~

How is it fairy tales begin? Oh yes. . . .

Once upon a time, there was a girl whose imaginings became reality. They leapt from her mind and into existence before her very eyes. This was nothing strange to the girl or to those who saw it, for she lived in an enchanted world, where the impossible was quite possible indeed.

However, the girl’s particular sort of imaginings were not liked in the enchanted kingdom. For the girl much enjoyed imagining the contradictory. Sirens who sang lost sailors to sleep, so that they might forget their woes just for a time. Demons with warm, kind hearts, who offered weeping maidens flowers rather than tempted them into destruction.

These things the girl loved imagining most, for they reflected her own heart. For the girl was not like the others in the enchanted kingdom. She came from somewhere quite different, somewhere less magical. But long ago, those from the enchanted kingdom came and took her from her loving, warm family and told her that she was one of them. And yet, she was a girl with a contrary heart - immortal, raised by mortals.

Horrified by her contrary creations, those charged with the girl’s education sought to change her. They told her that her imaginings were quite impossible, even in a land where the impossible was possible. They told her that they knew her best, even though they could not see into her heart. They did all that they could think of to turn the girl into someone she was not. Finally, they forbade her from imagining anything else impossible.

The girl tried to please them. She wanted to belong. But she could not understand why her mortal heart in an immortal body was so wrong. She felt as if she were being torn in two, the more she tried to comply to what her keepers demanded. And when she was forbidden from imagining shallow oceans and deep rain puddles, she thought she might break entirely.

It was under a weeping willow that the boy found her. The girl knew instantly that, like her, he was something impossible. He was dressed in fine clothing, but bore an expression no one who has everything in the world ought to have.

But the boy’s sorrowful eyes brightened with curiosity when he saw the girl under the weeping willow, curled in on herself, quite despondent. She held before her eyes a small corked bottle, which held something glittering with bright white fire.

“What is that?” the boy asked, captivated.

The girl startled and tucked the bottle away. Quietly, he sat down across from her and silence stretched before them - uneasy at first, then slowly, strangely, comfortable. The girl removed the bottle again and handed it to the boy.

“It’s me,” she said.

It held a snowstorm, its glittering crystalline flakes burning with white cold fire. It was impossible. And beautiful. Impossibly beautiful.

“Why have you bottled yourself up?” he asked, returning it to the girl’s small hands. She hugged it close to her chest.

“Because,” she whispered, “I mustn’t be something that cannot exist. I don’t understand why the impossible cannot be possible,” she continued. “Why can there not be angels without wings, or shepherds who keep something other than sheep? Why can there not be a mortal heart in an immortal body?”

The boy’s gaze turned hauntingly sorrowful again. But rather than voice any sympathy, he said instead, “What would happen if you let your burning snowstorm out?”

“They would not listen,” she replied, sad.

“They couldn’t deny the reality of your possible impossibilities forever,” he replied. He tilted his head back to look up at the weeping willow. “And does it matter if they don’t agree with who you are? So long as you are content with yourself.”

The girl dared not believe his words. But he echoed what she knew, deep in her contrary heart, that he was right. Did she dare? Did she dare take flight and let her snowstorm burn bright and without restraint?

Smiling, she uncorked the bottle. The snowstorm, released from its prison, swirled out of the bottle and disappeared high into the sky. Joining the thick clouds above, it rained down burning snowflakes, pricking their skin with cold heat.

The girl laughed. What impossible thing would she make reality next? She jumped to her feet and ran to the weeping willow’s trunk.

“Why must willows weep out of sorrow?” she wondered. “Why can they not be weeping from laughter?” And the willow’s drooping branches shivered and began to wave in the breeze, throwing shining droplets of water through the burning snowstorm, rainbows dancing from its sparkling surface.

The boy smiled and the sorrow lifted from his dark eyes. The girl made the impossible possible, and he saw the impossible. What he saw now was a gilded picture frame trapping the girl, and now its frame shattered. And the girl was growing wings, brilliant golden ones, to fly far away from those who would trap her into someone that she wasn’t.

A snowstorm burning. Something entirely impossible. A mortal heart in an immortal body. She could not be contained. And though her tutors covered their ears and would not see what she was, the girl soared ever higher above them. And her heart was lightened for it.

THE END

Copyright 2016 by Lizzie Meddler

Modern Mythical Creature Challenge: "The Girl and the Leaf Dragon"-- Mara A.

Starting off the second week of our new challenge, here is Mara's contribution involving adorable baby dragons :-)

The Girl and the Leaf Dragon

By Mara A.

Author’s Note

I got the inspiration for this story from something that happened a long time ago, when I was a kid at my first Renaissance Faire. There was a storyteller there, and she wove a tale about orphan dragon eggs and how they needed to be adopted (for a low price of $25). Being the dragon-crazy, imaginative child that I was, I desperately wanted to "adopt" one of the dragon eggs she was selling (the fact that they came in fancy, awesome boxes did not factor into this desire whatsoever). But of course, I knew I wouldn't be allowed to have one, so I dreamed of all that could have been if things had been different.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The girl has never known such splendor. It has been a long day of endless color and light and sound. Jesters have tried to make her laugh; skeleton men have startled her; the queen and her handmaidens invited her to the knighting ceremony. But best of all was the royal joust and the gypsy horse acrobats that came after. The girl had been swept away by the thunder of hooves, the thunderous shout of the crowd. She had been moved by the lulling, exotic music, the bright costumes, the astonishing skill of the acrobats.

            It had been a day filled with wonder indeed.

            But now the girl was tired. The sun beat down mercilessly and she could not consume one more ice cream cone from the kind friars even if she had wanted to. Her ears were deadened to the shouts of the pickle lady, her eyes could not take in one single more bizarre site. She was simply overwhelmed - and yet, not at all ready to leave this place and return to the mundane world.

            With tired feet, she made her way to a single shady tree, but it was of course occupied. A sizable crowd of other children were gathered around a woman in a dress made of earth-tone patches. Her thick black hair was braided simply down her shoulder with gold and green glass and fine bone beads. Compared to many of the strange inhabitants of the faire, she was nothing remarkable in her worn leather boots and dark blue cloak. And yet her careful, quiet posture; her dark, fathomless eyes; her gentle, mysterious beckoned the girl to draw closer. And she did, settling herself on the ground with the other children until they formed a small circle around the woman.

            There was an expectant hush. The girl didn't know what would happen next. But soon the woman began to speak; her voice low and soft and melodious. Gentle and captivating. She asked them to listen; to hear her words as she wove a tale of magic and sorrow. From her the girl learned that there was a place - a distant, magical place - where creatures she only dreamed of lived. Unicorns and faeries and little fire imps - and yes, dragons. Dragons of every sort and every size. Great, majestic ice dragons whom the northern lords claimed as their steeds for battle; gentle, shy coral dragons who dwelt deep in the sea and played among the merfolk; dragons the color of midnight, dragons as bright as jewels; dragons that spat acid and lived deep in swamps or high in the mountains; dragons the size of cathedrals and dragons the size of the girl's thumb.

            But this was long ago, the woman said. Now, the world had changed; kings had turned against dragonkind. Knights hunted them for sport; merchants sold their scales as adornment, leather-workers as armor. Healers imbued their potions with choice pieces and emperors devoured their hearts to gain the strength of a hundred men and the wisdom of a thousand. What led to such a travesty was unknown, but it had caused great destruction and the dragons were now a dying breed. No more did the northern lords command the respect and power they once had with their mighty mounts; no more did sea captains pray for favorable voyages as the coral dragons hid instead of protecting them from misfortune. The luck dragons had disappeared long ago into the clouds, the Nightwings into their caves and mountaintops.

            She, the woman said, was one of very few who still hoped for the return of dragonkind. It was her sworn duty to protect them and take them away to other lands, in the hopes that they might thrive and humans could once again live with them as they once did. But fledgling dragons needed careful tending and only a very few were courageous enough to undertake such a task. She felt that maybe some among them were up to it.

            With care, the woman took from behind her a large ebony box engraved with intricate filigree and inlayed with goldleaf. The girl would have given anything to study the box closer, but the other children blocked her view as they crowded forward to peer inside. Nestled among the blackest velvet were small, delicate eggs, ranging from the deepest bronze to the lightest of rose. Leaf dragons, the woman said; orphaned and in need of care. But she could not give them over for nothing, though she wished she could.

            The girl sad back sadly when the woman declared the price. She knew that they were not real, of course, but still she would have liked to have had one. She watched sadly as eagerly the children sought their parents and wheedled and pled until they were given what they asked. The woman carefully placed the claimed eggs in smaller, less intricate boxes, also lined with black velvet. These she locked with a small key and gave that and a small scroll over to eager hands. It was not long before all of the eggs were claimed and the girl was the only child remaining, watching the scene with a yearning heart.

            With sadness, she turned away, trying at least to feel glad that the draclings had been claimed at all. But the woman called to her and beckoned her over with a hand clad in a curious leather armband. Hesitantly, the girl drew forward. With a secret smile, the woman drew from behind her one last box. It was honey-blonde and simple, with a single intricate star burned on the lid. The woman removed a key on a gold chain from a pocket and handed it to the girl. Carefully, the girl unlocked the box and stared in wonder. Amid a bed of sapphire-blue velvet was a slightly green-tinged egg veined with gold. It was no bigger than the girl's hand and it thrummed with heat in a way none of the other eggs had.

            A dragon, the woman said with a serious stare, needs much tending. And it takes a very courageous sort of person to do it. And she gave the box to the girl.

            She did not know what to say, and so she said nothing. But the woman understood. She smiled a secret smile and turned away. Happily, deliriously, the girl tucked the box close to her chest and walked away to find her parents. They were not far off, watching a smithy craft a buckle. They asked if she was ready to leave; if she had had fun. The girl nodded mutely, tucking the box closer. They asked about it; she said a woman had given them to children who listened to her story. She did not say what was inside. It didn't matter. Her parents would nod knowingly and exchange a look she did not like. She knew it was not real, but she wanted to believe that it was.

            When they returned home to the mundane world, the girl placed the box carefully on her nightstand. She opened it, rearranging the velvet around the egg so it was snugger, warmer. Then she burrowed under the covers and stared at it until her eyes became heavy, never turning the bedside light off. It wasn't real, she told herself. She would entertain the fantasy for a little longer, and a dragon egg should have warmth, shouldn't it? Her eyes grew heavier. And then they were shut.

            At the witching hour, the egg chirped. It rustled. It rocked as much as it could in its bed of velvet. Then a tiny hole appeared at the top. And then it widened. Finally, a small horn was soon followed by a persistent arrow-shaped head. With a determined trill, the egg was shattered open and the girl woke. Sitting admit the ruins was a small creature mottled green and gold like a leaf turning to autumn. Its delicate wings were tattered and veined like an oak leaf, its body narrow and flat as if to blend in with foliage. The creature trilled at the girl, expectant.

            Was she still asleep, she wondered? Had her imagination finally gone too far? She rubbed her eyes, pinched herself, but the little leaf dracling did not disappear. Instead, it had turned from her and started sniffing at her strawberry-shaped clock. It took an experimental bite, then huffed angrily when it turned out to be inedible.

            The girl slid from her bed and removed the scroll the woman had given her from the nightstand drawer. She had been too tired to look at it earlier. In beautiful, looping script the care of her dracling was described. Bundling the dracling in the velvet, the girl crept on silent feet outside and to her father's greenhouse. The dracling chirped excitedly when it saw the rows and rows of tomato plants, heavy with round, ripe fruit. It wriggled out of the velvet and glided to the nearest plant, snatching a tomato and devouring it.

            The girl watched in wonder. She turned the scroll around in her hands, marveling, until small, neat script on the other side caught her attention: "Legend exists for the ones willing to believe. And it will bring you luck."

            The girl looked over at the leaf dracling again, its snout dripping tomato juice and seeds. She smiled.

Copyright© 2015 Mara A.

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