The days were starting to run into each other. They consisted of walking through unknown forests and towns, stopping in places off the beaten path and sleeping under the stars at night. Bartholomew always looked forward to the end of the day so that he could be with Shadow. They would often just sit together by the fire until Bartholomew would fall asleep against Shadow's large body…dragon and rider bonding even in sleep.
Bartholomew had also been noticing something else that was changing or maybe it was just him making the connection that had always been there but he had never given it much thought. The last couple of nights he paid particularly close attention to when his hand would start to throb and when Shadow would appear. He came to the realization that there was a greater physical bond that was developing between them since they left Dragon Mountain. The marking on his hand was becoming more visible as was a matching marking between Shadow's eyes. He remembered the summer festivals that his village would have and a lady would be there to read your palm and tell your fortune. He recalled the one time she read his. She said that it was strange-looking and not normal compared to others, something about his life, heart, and health lines all being connected. At the time, he thought that she didn't know what she was talking about. However, now he wasn’t so sure. The lines did look as if they were connected at the ends forming a triangle shape. When Shadow arrived each night Bartholomew's hand was drawn, as if by some invisible thread, to the spot between Shadow's eyes. The throbbing would stop the minute the triangles touched. There was a strange, soft-glowing energy that flowed between them whenever they stood together like that; touching their triangles, cementing their oneness, creating harmony.
There was nothing about the glowing mark and its significance in any of the readings he had come across. There were no stories told of the type of relationship between riders and their dragons. He thought that it was still very strange that he could find so very little to help him understand why Shadow and he were the way they were. Since he did not have the answers to his random thoughts of why and what and how, Bartholomew tried to put it behind him and rest with his companion. As they settled down for another night under the stars, he wondered how much further they had to travel. How far had they already covered? Bartholomew yawned, his muscles relaxing in Shadow’s warmth. He knew they still were heading north but that was about all he was sure of. As he drifted off to sleep, he wished he knew more – more answers.
Knowledge
Bartholomew was completely surrounded by trees; their sturdy trunks thick with age, their branches connecting each to the other. The forest floor was verdant green from ferns, grasses and moss with splashes of color as the flowers reached their heads to gaze at the world around them. Filtered sunbeams from above made pools of light and moved gently as soft breezes blew. Everything was vibrant and intense. He could smell the flowers but could not recognize them by name. That’s when he saw her. She approached him with measured steps. She wore garments of green and almost blended into her surroundings. Her long blonde hair glistened when she passed through each sunbeam giving her a special glow, an aura of brilliance. He felt his eyes squinting as she passed through each beam. She wore a unique headpiece nestled in her hair. It looked like the sparkling stones were in the shapes of flowers; flowers that winked at him as she came closer. He couldn’t look away; he was mesmerized by the sight of her. She stopped in front of him. She stretched her hand out and combed her fingers through his hair, connecting with him. He felt her touch send a current through his body, warming him. Her hazel eyes gave him nothing to fear as he looked into their depths. Her rose-colored lips turned up as she smiled. Then, she began to sing. Oh, what a sweet melody. He wanted to close his eyes. But she held his gaze. Her voice was soft, clear and pure. He did not understand the words she sang but he felt a peacefulness pervade his whole being – calming his fears, giving him confirmation that he was doing the right thing, that this was his time in history.
He woke up with the last few notes of her song resounding in his head. He had to take a moment to figure out if what he experienced was a dream or reality. He lay there and could hear Shadow’s steady breathing as it was not yet dawn. It was then he knew that it was truly a dream and the Elf Queen, for that was who he thought she was, disappeared into the night.
He found that sleep now eluded him. The words of the Queen’s song kept repeating themselves in his mind even though he didn’t know what they meant. Why did he dream of her? Did he have this dream to help answer his questions? Was the dream a way of calming him down or was it just wishful thinking on his part? Was she preparing him for something to happen or for nothing – success or failure? His journey thus far had shown him that there were many things that he could not explain. Did this dream, her words, fall into that category? Questions came fast and furious in his mind. The answers were not so quickly resolved. Maybe he needed company other than his own. Was this what it was like just before a person went crazy like Old Yerik back home? Yerik did not come into the village often; in fact, no one knew exactly where he lived. However, when he did he was always talking to himself, sometimes saying things that made no sense and sometimes arguing with himself and losing! He would look off into the distance with a glazed look in his eyes and sing songs in a language no one knew. His clothes were torn and unclean and hung from his body. Mothers kept their children on the other side of the street fearing that whatever he had, it was contagious. His unkempt white hair and scraggy eyebrows added to his crazed look. But Yerik always took the time to look Bartholomew straight in the eye and raise one brow when he passed by him. And for that moment, and that moment only, Bartholomew thought that Old Yerik might not be as crazy as he seemed. Bartholomew could see the look of deep intelligence in his glance. And every time that this had happened over the years, it sent shivers up Bartholomew’s spine and a tingling through his arms and legs.
Bartholomew decided that he would go ahead and start his journey earlier since he couldn’t sleep and he couldn’t wait for Shadow to wake. He gathered his meager belongings, taking stock of his bread supply. He had one small piece left and that would be gone before mid-day. He knew that he would need to find an inn to replenish his food. He hadn’t spent any money, his leather coin pouch still jingling with unspent wages. Before donning his glove, he went to Shadow and touched him, telling him goodbye. Shadow opened his dark eyes and blinked twice. Bartholomew turned and started making his way through the brush as he put on his glove.
As he traveled, he took stock of his surroundings. It looked like he was coming out of the forest area. The trees also looked different. He paused. Something was not quite right. Why didn’t they look right? He looked to either side of where he was standing. And then, it hit him. While the trees were tall, they had no leaves. There was no canopy of branches and leaves. They looked like forlorn skeletons standing in rows and groups. The green he saw was not leaves at all but moss clinging to the trunks and dead branches giving the illusion of leaves. The darkened sentinels were broken and lying on their sides, like old, broken soldiers. He had never seen a place with such a sad, forsaken look about it. He felt a pain close to his heart and sensed that some great tragedy had occurred here a very long time ago. He was shocked to see no new undergrowth trying to rebuild. No healing. No birds calling to their mates. No rabbits hopping around the ferns. It was as if this place, this land, was cursed by something evil.
It was then that he smelled it – a sickly, sweet smell. He sniffed the air, turning around trying to discover the source. Why did it smell so familiar? Where had he encountered it before? He was puzzled. He inhaled again. If only he could remember. It was quite distinctive and not a common tobacco smell at all. He stood there for a few more seconds. It came to him in a flash of remembrance! Old Yerik!! The tobacco from his pipe!!! Someone close by was smoking. Yes! That was it! He squinted his eyes and looked around him, trying to find the source of the smell. And then he saw him – the old man. He was sitting on a fallen log, his legs swinging freely as he smoked his pipe. Bartholomew slowly made his way over to where the stranger sat. The stranger didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge Bartholomew’s presence but just keep sitting and smoking and swinging.
Bartholomew ventured, “Ah, good day, sir.”
The stranger continued to sit. Holding the bowl of his pipe, he now looked intently at Bartholomew, his eyes moving slowly from the top of Bartholomew’s head to his toes and back up again. Bartholomew felt uneasy under the old man’s scrutiny. He had never had someone give him such a stare. The stranger took another puff.
While the old man looked him up and down, Bartholomew was fascinated by the pipe. He was well versed in the forest and recognized the wood as bog-wood. Bog-wood came from trees that grew near or in bogs and were usually preserved oak, pine or yew. The wood was naturally stained brown and when it dried out, it could crack or split. The knife-maker back home often used it for the handles of his daggers. But this was the first he saw it as a pipe. The bowl was large and fit in the palm of the old man’s hand and it had a long, long, curved neck and a small nub at the end. There were strange designs carved into the bowl but, without holding it, he couldn’t make them out.
Holding the bowl of the pipe in his hand, the old man pointed the tip at Bartholomew and asked, “So, boy, you hungry?”
It took Bartholomew a moment to realize that the old man had spoken to him. “Yes I am. I am also running out of food supplies and will need to buy some more before I can continue my journey.” Bartholomew raised his eyes and met the old man’s stare, square on.
“Then come with me.” He hopped off the log and started walking, not once looking back to see if Bartholomew was following him.
Bartholomew wanted to ask the old man his name. It would be so much easier for conversation. As he was about to open his mouth to ask, the man said, “You can call me Kirey, for now.”
Kirey’s quick response to Bartholomew’s unspoken question surprised him. It was like the old man knew what he was going to say before he had the chance to say it. He shook it off and asked, “Where are we going?”
“This village is Morridin and we’re going to the Inn of the Sleeping Dragon for your supplies. Ever hear of Morridin, boy?”
“No, I’m from the south. Is Morridin famous, Kirey?”
Kirey took two puffs, raised his bushy white eyebrows before he replied, “You didn’t read about it? Hmmm. It was the last battle in the War of the Dragons. Those trees back there have been that way since the last battle. And you’re right, it has been cursed since that day.”
The older man walked briskly so they reached the village square in fairly good time. He watched for Bartholomew’s reaction when he first saw the square. It wasn’t the square in general but the tree that stood in the middle of it that caught the young man’s attention. Bartholomew stopped dead in his tracks. His jaw dropped and his eyes grew big. He found his right hand was rubbing his left. The throbbing was so intense that it radiated up his arm. For there, standing in the center, was a tree. It was not a tree like any he had ever seen. It was massive, with a gnarled and twisted trunk. Its roots reached out along one side of the trunk, its branches bent and intertwined. But the most amazing thing about this dead tree, what caught and grabbed Bartholomew’s attention and held him breathless despite the pain, was its shape. This tree with all of its parts looked like a dragon as it was dying! The ground on which it stood was scarred by deep gouges of unhealed earth, no doubt the result of a long ago battle.
“That, Bartholomew, is the Tree of Sorrow. It will forever stay like that to remind all mankind of the destruction that was caused during the War of the Dragons. That was the place where the last known dragon died. Ah, but enough of this, the Inn is just over here. Come.” Bartholomew slowly followed Kirey to the Inn of the Sleeping Dragon. There they ate in relative silence and Bartholomew purchased the items he needed to continue his journey.
As they left the Inn, they went back through the village center. Bartholomew walked over to the tree, Kirey watching intently. Bartholomew squatted down and reached his left hand out to touch the tree’s root. The pain was so acute that he bit his lip, closed his eyes tightly, and tried to not shake from the sheer intensity of it. If Kirey asked what was happening, Bartholomew would have to tell him that he could feeling the dragon taking its last breath as it lay dying. Being a dragon rider must have made him sensitive to the tragedy of this place, this tree, and the war that claimed the lives both of men and dragons.
Kirey came up to him and put his hand on Bartholomew’s shoulder. In a soft voice filled with emotion he said, “Take Shadow and continue north over the Tonathium Mountains until you come to the home of The Castle Angels. Look for the tavern called Diova Gruss and ask to speak to Carl, one of the proprietors of the tavern. He will be able to take you on the next part of your journey.” With that, the old man named Kirey walked away from Bartholomew.
Bartholomew stood next to the Tree of Sorrow and watched him leave. Only when he was no longer in sight did Bartholomew realize that not once had he mentioned Shadow to Kirey. So, how did he know?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RugSclNY4y8
created originally 1 June 2011
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