A Journey of Sorts

It had been the worst time of year for such a journey - the land cold, unforgiving and growing more difficult to cross once they were beyond the borders of their own land. Soft green pastures gave way to frozen scrub, jagged mountains and a sky endlessly, unrelentingly grey and heavy. Still the three of them persevered - the melancholic thump of horses hooves filling silences that increasingly spread between them. They had passed through small villages - the villagers unfriendly and suspicious; stopping only to eating colourless, greasy food in weathered taverns. There had been moments of regret for such a foolhardy journey in the dead of winter - their own voices united in doubt - what if - in the end - it was all for nothing? Wasted months on horseback, a relentless grind towards something that was nothing more than rumour.

Towards the end - before they knew it was the end - sleep had begun to evade them, and dark, starless nights became punctuated with their shared yearnings for their summer land and their homes on the gentle slopes. They began to travel longer - their thinning horses sore-footed and grumbling. They slept less, finding travel in darkness little different from travel in half light and began to talk of turning back. That it had been ridiculous - childish - to seek the truth of something only whispered about.

But then the dawn had laced thinner clouds with soft pinks and peach and unexpectedly - below the jagged promontories and an encroaching snow line - a temperate valley. Green, rich vegetation, a running stream that passed by a water mill’s steady beating. They had straightened in their saddles, exchanged relieved and hopeful smiles - the three of them daring to be excited that maybe they had found the place - that it did exist beyond the wild imaginings of foolish men.

So they urged their weary mounts on - finding a beaten road winding between green meadows where horses galloped away from them. Then there were small stone houses with wide open windows and then a tavern with vine leaves over the lintel. They stopped there, finding respite for their horses and food that tasted better for the feeling they were close. Around them voices murmured, occasional laughter and a gleam of something unrecognisable in the eyes that watched them.

They continued on their journey, armed with new information given to them along with wine skins and neatly packed food. Their destination, they were told, was less than half a day’s ride away. They would be welcomed by the family, the keepers of the stories that had wound through the land and brought them, as they had many travellers, to this place. Hope and excitement became their companions … as did the sense of being watched.

They were welcomed. The family - a mother, a father and their grown son - was waiting for them in the courtyard of their large, ancient grey stone home. The three men were given rooms to sleep in - comfortable, mattresses stuffed full of feather and wool, scented with thyme. In the evening of the second day, they were invited to a feast like they were prodigal children being welcomed home. They ate in a hall with ceilings so high the beams were swamped in darkness - the light from the lanterns lining the walls and that of the crackling fire in the hearth making no headway. The three men hardly noticed - swept away by the excess of food which was rich, roasted, basted with honey and seasoned like nothing they had ever experienced before - even in the palaces of home. The conversation was lively, fun - the father telling tales of he land - of the truth of the legends that often drew travellers to them, seeking truths. And they drank. And they ate. And they laughed.

Towards the end of the meal, their tongues loosened, they shared the story that had set them on their quest - bringing them to this place. The tale was well known in these parts, their host told them, glancing at his wife as her red lips turned upwards and she reached out to take his hand. There had been others, he told them, who had come to see if the story of the beautiful women and the twin boys she gave birth to was true. The one son, like any other from this land, strong, dutiful, committed to serving the land. They all looked to the young man sitting next to his mother, cheering and raising the glasses to him. When their cheers died down, the host continued with the tale. And the other son. A gift from the ancestors, able to shift between two forms - servant and protector: man and dragon.

The three cheered more loudly, and began sharing their wild stories of the dragon-son. They cheerfully disagreed about the size he took in dragon form, the colour of his scales - the sharp teeth and the breath of fire. Did he really need to eat human flesh to stay alive? Were his scales black, his eyes red? Red eyes to match the flames that blasted forth from a serpentine mouth filled with sword-sharp teeth? A long tongue, like a snake, flickering. They all laughed loudly, until the host’s wife spoke.

‘Green eyes,’ she had said softly, taking another sip of her wine. The three men turned to look at her, something in her expression, the timbre of her voice, making their laughter fade. She looked to each one, her eyes finally resting on the largest of the three men. “He has green eyes,” she told him.

Something creaked above them - a beating sound began in the rafters.

The journey back had seemed shorter, days, nights, months merging together. The two of them trying to recall memories that seemed to shift, hazy between what was true and what was story. They had known answers, they knew that, but the questions had slipped away and soon they had forgotten where they had been.

On the slopes and terraces of their summer land they were no longer at peace, and understood they never would never be again.