Ignigena

      The boy sat by a fire picking meat from a set of bones with his fingers. Overhead, the stars provided him a luminous reminder that life was moving on. Hungry as he was, he found cat to be stringy, with a fishy, vinegar-like tang that put off his tongue. He wished some chickens had survived. But he only saw cats stalking the ruins of his village, nothing more. Like him, they seemed reluctant to leave. He finished cleaning the carcass and threw the bones into the fire. They popped as he drifted off to sleep.

      He woke with a chill, and an ashen dew coated his blanket. The dragon’s fire still burned in the forest towards Oakshire and the gray ash hung around him like a fog, even though it’d been weeks since the serpent’s visit. He’d lived in this valley that divided snowy-peaked mountains his whole life, all 13 years of it, never having seen a dragon. Now he divided his life into two periods: before and after the dragon’s visit.

      There was no denying the sadness he felt. It leveled him. Seeing the burned remains of his family—father, mother, and sister—took his will, and he wished himself dead, though he didn’t have the drive to do anything about it. In the days that followed, a thought formed and gathered strength: Maybe if he found the dragon he could kill it, and after the fight he’d die from his injuries, and the thought made him feel righteous and sacrificial, or at least better than the painful nothingness he felt now.

      He kicked through the remains of the charred huts picking up anything useful—though there wasn’t much.

      Two rows of fieldstone chimneys marked where the houses had been, like gravestones, and he walked between them and followed the path into the forest.

      He pictured the dragon’s lair as a cave high in the mountains. As he walked the path, he breathed deeply from the wide-spread ruination. The bag over his shoulder rattled with metal while his feet stirred the dust.

      As nightfall descended, he’d hardly made any progress at all. The mountain still loomed in the distance. It’d take another day to reach the base, who knew how long to climb it. He made camp in a glade under a twisty tree.

      That night, he dreamed his family was burning again and woke up in a sweat. Something crashed in the woods (running away) and he sat with his back against the tree until daylight, unable to sleep a wink more.

      The second day went slower than the first as he meandered in search of food and water. At midday, he entered an old wood his father called Shadowsnake Forest. It stood at the base of the mountain.

      He wandered along the path. The trees were crooked, but tall, and the grasses overgrown. Still, there was a path and he believed it must see use. He found comfort in this.

      He walked and walked and the mountain got incrementally closer. There were black raspberries and by the evening he’d eaten enough to be sick of their taste.

      Just before dark, he stumbled onto the cave at the base of the mountain while looking for a place to sleep. Its huge opening looked big enough to fit a large house inside. The rocks that rimmed the entrance were worn smooth. An amber light appeared inside casting a pall from somewhere unseen around a sharp bend in the cave.

      The boy shifted from one foot to the other nervously.

      “Hello,” he finally said, timidly.

      But there was only silence. It’d become too dark to see outside.

      “Is anybody in there?” He said, stepping a little further into the cave and closer to the light.

      More silence.

      He picked up a stone and threw it towards the bend.

      It ricocheted around the corner and the light suddenly went out.

      “Hello?” He said.

      But there was nothing.

      He felt the weight of this long day and the previous nights lack of sleep on his shoulders and it began to loom larger than his fear. After a long while of standing in the dark, he sat down against the wall and eventually fell into a fitful sleep.

      He woke to a girl staring at him from outside the cave. She had fair hair, and light curious eyes. Her arms dangled awkwardly at her sides, as if she didn’t know what to do with them.

      “Hello,” he said, trying to hide his surprise.

      But she said nothing.

      “Were you in the cave last night?” He asked, pointing.

      She continued to stare, and cocked her head like a bird, studying him.

      He stood up angrily.

      “I can’t play these childish games. I have a dragon to kill.”

      “D-dragon?” She said, as if it were the first word she’d ever uttered.

      “Yes. Dragon,” he said and flapped his arms.

      Her eyes opened widely.

      “Dragon,” she said and ran into the woods.

      “You know where it is? Wait! Don’t go!” He yelled, but she was already gone.

      She ran fast and he could hardly keep her within sight as she zig zagged through the heavy trees.

      “Wait!” He yelled, but she kept running. He nearly ran into her when she stopped suddenly near a grove of oak trees.

      She got down on her knees and he did the same. His heart beat rapidly, and he looked around with wide, white eyes.

      “Dragon,” she said pointing towards the grove.

      The boy hadn’t thought about what he’d do when he came upon the dragon. He pulled the bag off his back and located a small dagger he’d found in the ruins of his village.

      “Where is it?” He asked in a whisper.

      “Dragon,” she said, pointing towards a tight group of trees.

      He motioned for her to stay and walked towards the thorny bushes surrounding the small oak grove. It must be hiding, using some type of magic he didn’t understand. But if it was sleeping, which it must be, that’d be his best chance to kill it.

      A stick snapped behind him and he whirled around. The girl had a rock in her hand.

      “What are you doing?” He said, suddenly afraid.

      “Dragon,” she answered, and threw the stone into the brush where a group of partridge exploded. He jumped, startled. She walked over and picked up the dead bird.

      “Dragon,” she said, smiling while flapping the dead bird’s wings at him.

      On the way back to the cave, he told her that she’d killed a partridge, not a dragon. If she had a language of her own, she didn’t use it, and she didn’t seem to understand what he was trying to tell her.

      “I have to leave you, now,” he said slowly, with extra emphasis as if that would help her understand. “I have to kill a dragon.”

      She stood staring at him wordlessly.

      “Goodbye,” he said, waving his hand.

      “Goodbye,” she said, mirroring his gesture.

      He strode away, looking for a break in the steep rock of the mountain that would allow him to climb. She followed behind him.

      He turned. “No. You can’t come.”

      “No. You can’t come.”

      “Ugh. This is too dangerous. You have to stay here!”

      His brusque tone seemed to confuse her, and she looked down at the ground with glossy eyes.

      “No, don’t cry. Please. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. It’s just…you don’t understand. This dragon killed my family.”

      She looked at him quizzically.

      “Family,” he said. She repeated it.

      “Fine,” he said through gritted teeth and started up the pass he hoped would take him to the dragon’s lair with her following close behind.

      There’d be no straight path to the peak, of this he was sure. They walked for hours as the passage turned from smooth stone with soft grasses to jagged fallen rocks that tore at his boots. The girl for her part seemed to have no issue tiptoeing over the surprisingly sharp stones while his boots soon began to give out and his feet burned. They seemed to be circling the mountain instead of going upwards, unable to find a break in the massif that would take them to the peak. It’d be too rough to climb the sheer rock face. As they continued, the boy noticed trees growing and a lush green color ahead.

      The high alpine pool was fed by a waterfall and as he looked back the girl smiled at him. He looked down into the pool and found it to be deep, black water. The waterfall poured out above with enough force through the millennia that it’d dug this deep crevice in the rock. It appeared high but the boy, happy to find water, looked to the girl.

      “I’m going to dive in,” he said pointing up to the source of the waterfall.

      She just stared, confused.

      He stripped down to his braies and began to climb as the girl stood by the pool and watched.

      The shelf was much narrower than it appeared from below and much higher as well. He walked out carefully on the wet, smooth, slippery rock, centering himself over the pool.

      The girl began waving at him frantically.

      “I’ll be right—”

      A falling rock hit the boy between the shoulder blades, and he fell into the pool unconscious.

      The next few weeks the boy woke in brief, abrupt spurts, before wearing what little energy he had out and falling back into sleep. The girl seldom left his side, gave him water when he woke, and fed him mashed berries when he could eat.

      This cave was dry and well lit, different than the one where they’d met.

      It was sunrise on the 22^nd day when he woke for good, and found her by his side. He tried to speak, but nothing would come out, his throat felt scratchy and dry. She walked quickly outside and brought him water in her hands and he drank, coughing.

      “You saved my life,” he said, and she hugged him deeply.

      It was a most humiliating time. He needed help relieving himself and though she showed no sign of embarrassment, the boy sometimes found himself welcoming death yet again.

      The cave sat high on the mountain. He tried asking her how she’d brought him there, but she couldn’t understand his questions. Every morning she’d bathe him from a spring and sit him on a rock in the shade of the mountain while she gathered food. He’d stretch and writhe and work his legs until sweat broke from his brow, but still he couldn’t walk or do for himself. At night, he’d talk to her teaching her his language. Though she could repeat things near perfectly almost immediately, understanding them took time and repitition.

      One day, they awoke to a dusting of snow in the mouth of the cave. The cold air stung at the boy’s skin; he didn’t have clothes for this. The girl seemed unaffected.

      “It’s too cold for me out here,” he said away from the warmth of the cave. “I must have clothes.”

      “Clothes?” She asked.

      “Yes,” he answered, tugging on the ragged remains of his shirt and pants.

      She nodded and helped him back into the cave.

      It seemed she’d been gone for hours. The boy went about moving his toes and pulling himself up on the rock walls so his legs could bear weight. He hoped to surprise the girl one day by showing her he could walk again, and it seemed that day was getting closer.

      When she came back to the cave she appeared troubled. The boy asked her what was wrong.

      “No clothes,” she answered, tugging on her own ragged dress.

      “It’s going to be too cold for me up here,” he said, feigning a shiver and opening his hands to show her here meant the cave.

      “Yes. Too cold,” she answered.

      She took a moment to think deeply. The boy had mistakenly thought her a dolt at first, but over the time they’d spent together he’d found her exceptionally smart. Still, he wondered why she didn’t have language.

      Then the girls eyes lit up.

      “What?” The boy asked.

      She nodded giddily, walked over, and swooped him up on her shoulder.

      Though he’d surmised she somehow carried him to the cave, it was much different experiencing a girl about his age with an average build carrying him down a mountain. She must’ve had hooves that looked like feet he decided, the way she maneuvered down the steep stones so quickly and gracefully. As they made their way down, he noticed an old cottage near the base of the mountain.

      “Clothes,” she said, pointing at the cottage.

      With blood rushing to his head, while flopped over her shoulder, he just laughed and said, “clothes.”

      They found old wood covered with dust by the fireplace and he showed her how to light a fire with his dagger and a piece of flint. The fire crackled and warmed him, but she seemed reluctant to get close.

      “It’s okay,” he told her, it won’t hurt you.”

      She began to reach her fingers towards it and he swatted them away.

      “No. You can’t touch it. It’ll burn you.”

      “Can’t touch. Burn,” she said, looking down at where he’d hit her hand with hurt in her eyes.

      “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

      He held out his hand and motioned at her. She put his hand on top of his and he kissed it as her face flushed.

      By spring, the girl’s vocabulary had grown and he was beginning to walk again, albeit slowly and painfully—nowhere near ready to tackle a dragon. During many nights by the fire, he’d taught her that his name was Thomas; she said he could call her, Lily. They’d lived most of the winter on rabbits and partridge and a deer the boy couldn’t believe she killed.

      When the ground broke, Thomas forked up the forgotten garden and thatched the roof.  As summer bore on, his face grew a scraggly beard and the girl’s belly began to grow. The baby came in the fall—red, bloody, and screaming. Together, they named her Anastasia.

      Though they had a daughter now, Lily remained a mystery to him. The time before they met was never spoken of and though he still remembered the dragon and his old family, time and his daughter distanced him from their fading images.

      Anastasia was a remarkable little girl, with the strength to haul firewood nearly as soon as she could walk. She followed him everywhere, bowlegged at first, then matching his stride, soon running in circles around him through the woods as a dog does. Lily hunted and spent her days alone, but Thomas so loved Anastasia he hardly noticed. At night, Thomas would tell them stories and as Anastasia learned to speak, so too did Lily, though she remained quiet unless spoken too.

      One evening, a fire broke out in the cottage while Thomas worked in the garden. His daughter screamed for him, and he ran. Thomas beat out the fire with his coat, realizing what could have happened. Lily seemed to take it the hardest, blaming herself.

      “What started it?” Thomas asked his girls.

      “It just started from nothing, papa,” Anastasia answered, while Lily stared down at the floor. “Me and momma were talking and all of a sudden it got quiet and the fire sprouted out of the floor.”

      Thomas felt a curiosity trimmed with fear rise in him, prickling his skin. It made his sternum tight, like he’d taken too big a breath and couldn’t exhale. As he and Lily lay in bed that evening, he turned to her.

      “Where did you grow up?” He asked.

      She didn’t answer. He could see her eyes were open, but she just lay staring at the ceiling.

      “Lily?”

      She took in a ragged breath and smoothly exhaled. “In the mountains, Thomas. I grew up in the mountains.”

      “Where did your family live?”

      “In the cave, where you recovered from your accident.”

      He realized he’d never questioned her before. When they’d came together he’d not cared about living or dying. Each day had been taken at face value and that became their routine. As their daughter grew, she tied so much of his attention and love that these things seemed trifling. But now as he lay a thought began to nag him and he couldn’t let it go.

      “What about your mother and father?”

      “You can not ask me this, Thomas.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “You’ll ruin everything. You must let it lie.”

      But Thomas, lying in bed that night, with his daughter sleeping mere feet away, thought of his own mother and father and baby sister that died years ago. A realization fell over him and he felt a burning that refused to relent.

      “Oh, Lily,” he said, his eyes tearing. “I must know where you came from.”

      He heard something snap. When Lily opened her mouth a dull amber glow poured out and grew to engulf the room.

      “Lily?”

      Thomas watched as Lily’s skin began to change and in a guttural tone, she uttered, “I love you, Thomas,” before jumping out of bed, through the window, and running into the forest.