Child of the Dragon Prophecy

by Effie Joe Stock

  Unable to concentrate on any one thing, Stephania’s eyes strayed to the forest around her. The trees circled them, their shadows bending down around them. Strange dots of glowing light gently floated from the trees to the ground like fireflies, but stranger.

  As the light grew, she got a better glimpse of the man in front of her.

  He had an extremely thick head of curly, dark brown hair, which looked as if it might have grown from his shoulders as well. His bare chest was also covered in the same dark curly hair, though it failed to fully cover his lean, fit build. As he bent over ever so slightly to unclip something from his belt, a belt which was holding up a pair of odd fur pants, she was shocked to see something besides just hair growing from his small head: horns. Two small points jutted out of his messy hair and curved backwards. She blinked several times to see if they went away. They didn’t.

  “You must take this, Stephania, as a token of our allegiance. Release this spell, which has grown over the fathers, and bring us back to life.”

  She looked down at his hands.

  Held out in front of him was the most beautiful lyre she had ever seen. It was shaped and masterfully carved like a snake, the strings strung between the curves in its ‘s’-shaped body in all different sizes.

  “It will never go out of tune, nor will the sweetness of its strings fail you through decay or wear. Play it and remember that the fathers yearn to feel the warmth of their brothers again.”

  Convinced that she was dreaming, she reached out and ran her fingers along the instrument. It started to glow with a greenish hue under her touch.

  “Yes.” The man’s eyes widened in excitement. “It is time.”

  The lights in the forest began to dim and the little floating lights began disappearing. The trees and shadows moved in on them and Stephania felt herself slipping into emptiness.

  “Play it, Stephania, and do not forsake it. Do not forsake us.”

  Before she could say anything or ask any of the numerous questions that raced through her head, the man turned away.

  “Farewell, dragon child.”

  Effortlessly, he leapt over the brush in front of him.

  Shock paralyzed her when she caught a fleeting glimpse of his two goat legs.

  Before she could ponder what she had just witnessed, she fell to the ground, surrounded by darkness.

  Sweet forest, sweet woods,

  Where have you gone?

  Children of the forest, children of the stars,

  Where are your dance and songs?

  Deep within you we took refuge.

  Deep within you, you took us to fantasy.

  When I was a child, you held my hand,

  When I was a child, you moved my feet.

  Sing to me again, forest.

  Sing a song again, children of the woods.

  Play your music, frolic in dance.

  Awaken from your slumber,

  Lift your hearts from this trance.

  Come home.

  The fathers miss the warmth of their brothers.

  Chapter 20

  Nemeth’s Home

  New-Fars, Human Domain

  Nearly 7 Years Earlier

  Would you like a scone, love?”

  Stephania clasped her hands in her lap, shyly swinging her legs, which dangled down from the oversized chair. “Yes please, Ms. Nemeth.”

  The elderly woman gracefully turned back into her small kitchen and swiped one of the fresh pastries from the hot metal sheet. She grabbed a napkin on her way back to the sitting room and tucked the scone into it before handing the bundle to the young girl.

  “Now, what do you want to hear about today?”

  Stephania slowly bit into the delicious scone, her eyes narrowing. A crumb fell from her delicate lips into her lap. “Um, could you sing the Ballad of Condemned Love?”

  Nemeth’s wrinkled lips thinned into a smile. “Of course, sweetheart.” The aged woman moved with an odd bounce in her step as she plucked her lyre off the fireplace mantle and brought it to her large rocking chair across from Stephania.

  Stephania pushed herself back into the chair, closed her eyes, and let the soft duck feather stuffed cushions envelop her. Surely, she wondered, this is what it must be like to sit on a cloud.

  “Hmm, let us see, now.”

  A chord sang quietly from the lyre. And then another in a different key. A musical chuckle floated through the air.

  “It would seem, my dear, that I have forgotten the notes.” A sadness hung in her sweet, old voice.

  Stephania opened her sleepy eyes. “Forgotten? How could you forget?” she asked, frowning. Nemeth sighed. “That is simply what happens when you get old, love. Some things just aren’t as clear as they once were.”

  Stephania wiggled until she was once more sitting on the edge of the chair. “How old are you, Ms. Nemeth?”

  The woman’s eyes grew distant, and the ghost of a smile decorated her face. A sigh left her lips. “Very, very old, love. Very, very old.”

  Stephania’s question went unanswered, but she decided to let it go. The air was simply too soft to wonder too long about such strange things.

  “I remember the notes.”

  “Oh? Do you now?”

  The little girl bobbed her fiery head. “Yes. Uncle Dalton has been teaching me the lyre. I think I could play the song if I tried.” Her cheeks grew rosy. “But I don’t remember the words.”

  Nemeth handed Stephania the small instrument, which now looked large in the young girl’s hands.

  “Don’t worry, dear. I could never forget this story.”

  Instead of sitting on the chair, Stephania sat on the floor, resting the heavy, wood, stringed instrument on her small thighs. She plucked a string and then another. She played a chord. A smile spread on her face, dimpling her cheeks.

  “Okay. I’m ready.”

  “Wonderful. Now, let’s see. Where did it all begin? Ah, yes, with a love that transcended Kinds, laws, and hate. A love between a Faun and a Human. A love, my dear, that was condemned the moment they set eyes on each other …”

  The sweet and sour notes of the lyre blissfully trailed out of the open window and onto the still air of the quiet countryside. Every so often, Stephania’s inexperienced hands would pick a wrong note, but somehow Nemeth’s mystical voice would softly sweep away the discord, making it seem like part of something bigger, as if it hadn’t really been a mistake after all.

  The notes turned into seconds. The phrases into minutes. The stanzas into hours. The suns sank low, hanging over the hilltops, hesitant to go to sleep.

  Stephania’s dark eyes blinked slowly as the song trailed off. An emptiness hung inside of her as the last notes faded into silence. The desolation, the utter lack of hope, the condemning loss of love hung over her like a dark but quiet cloud.

  Neither spoke, and it seemed like neither breathed as well. A bird chirped outside. The wind whispered, just once, through the window.

  Tears quietly streamed down Nemeth’s soft, dark, wrinkled cheeks, down her neck, across her chest.

  “Too often, Stephania, love is never given a chance to live. And, too often, love ends with the spilling of blood, and the desolation of lives. It would seem, more often, that love in our world is followed by the fires of destruction rather than cleansing water. This love was like that. And when she stood in the ashes of the city that mocked her and her lover, and when she stood on the bones of those who hated and tortured her and her beloved, the Faun realized that her lover was still gone, and that not even the power of revenge could bring him back. She realized that her wrath had only caused more to suffer and to feel the same hurt she herself had been dealt. After that, she was broken.”

  Nemeth’s hands turned to fists in her lap. She bowed her head, her shoulders slumped. “Never, Stephania little love, never let hate consume you. Even if you think the hate is righteous for the ones you love. You will turn into the monster that so deeply tortured you in the first place.”

/>   Stephania nodded. The air was too heavy to speak. The emotion was too heavy to think.

  “Come, darling. It is time for you to go home. Dalton will wonder what became of you.”

  Slowly, as if moving through a dream, Stephania stood up, handed the lyre back to Nemeth, and let the old woman walk her to the door.

  When they stepped outside, a cardinal took flight from an old stone under the large tree that often shaded Nemeth’s house.

  Stephania’s eyes strayed to the stone. It was covered in moss. Water had beaten all of its once sharp edges into soft curves. Shallow curves were all but faded away from the stone’s face. Something caught her eye. Are those … words? she wondered.

  “Ms. Nemeth?”

  “Yes, love?”

  “Is that a tombstone?” Stephania’s slender finger pointed at the stone under the tree.

  “Yes, dear. It is.” New tears collected in Nemeth’s thin, mystical eyes. She bit her lip, clearly fighting back unwanted emotion.

  “Of whom?”

  Nemeth shook her head, unable to speak through her tears. Stephania squeezed her friend’s hand in hers. “It’s okay, Ms. Nemeth. You don’t have to say.”

  Nemeth’s smile wavered. “No, dearie. It’s okay.” Her chest rose with a deep breath. “It is the grave of a man I once loved more than life itself.”

  Red, soft curls bounced around Stephania’s face as she nodded, satisfied with her answer. Though she was curious, she respected Nemeth’s privacy and remained quiet.

  “Thank you for the scones, Ms. Nemeth, and for letting me play your lyre.”

  The woman wiped her eyes. “Of course, Stephania. You please visit me anytime.”

  Bouncing lightly in a way only the innocent can, Stephania stepped quickly down the stone walkway.

  “And, dearie, one more thing …” Nemeth’s shaking voice stopped the young girl.

  Stephania turned around, and cocked her head. “Yes?”

  “The Faun, in the song we sang, her horns were taken from her. They were cut off to shame her. If you ever see a Faun without any horns, remember her story, remember how she loved, and remembered how she raged.”

  A light frown tugged Stephania’s lips. If I ever see a Faun? she thought. Are they not mythical? She shrugged her small shoulders. “Of course, Ms. Nemeth. I promise I will remember.”

  Nemeth sighed in relief, a broad smile lighting up her face. “Thank you, Stephania.”

  As the young girl turned once more to the setting suns, skipping along the flat stones, a breeze blew softly through her hair. For a moment, just a moment, she thought to turn around, to see Ms. Nemeth just once more before heading home. But the wind tugged her homeward and the thoughts of dinner quickly smothered out all other thoughts; instead of turning, she continued down the path, forgetting what lay behind her.

  Chapter 21

  Present Day

  Yawning, Stephania pushed something from her face and groaned. The warm, wet object pressed back against her face. Her eyes snapped open, and Braken whinnied, his lips tickling her nose.

  “Ugh.” She pushed him away again and watched as he nudged her saddle bags until a carrot fell out. Content to eat his snack, he wandered off while she sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She reached for her water skin, and quickly unscrewed the lid. She drained the last sip into her mouth and grumbled in disappointment. That was the last of her water. Now she needed to find a stream. Not too keen on getting up just yet, she frowned at the trees above her. She didn’t remember going to sleep. Or making camp, for that matter. The lyre and the faun flashed before her.

  “What a strange dream.” Her eyes gazed skeptically at the still, quiet trees around her. “I guess it was just a dream, of course.”

  As she went to stand up, her hands brushed against something, and a sweet, perfect note rang out. The branches in the trees shifted above her.

  “Oh gods.” Her face paled. She licked her dry lips. She looked beside her.

  An intricately carved, black lyre lay beside her, the painted green eyes of the carved snake staring at her.

  She jumped to her feet screaming. It took all her will power to resist the urge to throw the instrument deep into the woods.

  “Gods of all. That wasn’t a dream. That wasn’t a dream.” Her chest rose and fell rapidly, and her hands trembled. She wiped her brow and began pacing in front of the lyre. As her eyes strayed around her, she spotted things she didn’t want to see: hoof prints. But not horse prints, goat prints. In pairs. Only one thing could have made such tracks and they existed only in legends: Fauns.

  Wringing her clammy hands, she slowly knelt down beside the instrument, nervously tucking her persistently annoying, wild hair behind her ear, though it only fell back down into her eyes.

  Gently, she ran her fingers along the perfectly carved scales of the snake and watched with fear and awe as the wood glowed the same way it had in her “dream”.

  Not sure what to do or think, she picked up the lyre, careful not to strike any of the strings. She was too afraid of what would happen if she were to play it.

  Braken trotted back to her and nudged her arm, as if he too were curious about the instrument.

  “What would happen if I played it?”

  The man’s words haunted her from before. “Play it and remember that the fathers yearn to feel the warmth of their brothers again … . Play it, Stephania, and do not forsake it. Do not forsake us.”

  “Play it. Play it. Play it.” The wind seemed to speak to her, and she felt lost in the mystery of the lyre.

  What would happen? She was afraid to play it in case something terrible happened, but she wanted to. It called her. The woods called her. The wind called her. But she was afraid that if she did, she would be disappointed if nothing happened.

  Almost slapping herself, she jerked back to reality, a nervous chuckle parting her bloodred lips. “It was just a dream. I must have found it late in the night and then dreamt about it later at night.” She wiped off the unwelcome sweat that beaded on her pale, clammy face. But she had not had the “dream” at night—it was the middle of the day. It was only just now evening. She had only been asleep a few hours.

  Shaking, she stuffed the lyre deep into her satchel after wrapping it in a blanket, and mounted Braken. He seemed as nervous as her. Wanting to be away from this haunting place in the woods, she pointed the stallion in a random direction and spurred him into a canter.

  Fauns were only something you heard of in legends and bedtime stories. Not as a sighting report or in records of recent incidents. The only person she could remember who loved telling those stories more than Dalton was Nemeth.

  A smile bloomed across Stephania’s face. Nemeth. She was the only civilian of New-Fars to ever truly take Stephania in and make her feel welcome. Stephania had often spent long afternoons sitting in the sun with her friend as the older woman sang ballads of myths—a far more interesting way to hear stories than just Dalton’s reading.

  Nemeth loved telling one particular story the most and Stephania loved hearing it. And she could remember one specific, strange day when they had played the ballad together. Though it was nearly ten years ago, Stephania could still hear the beloved woman’s hearty voice as if it were yesterday—the Ballad of Condemned Love.

  After riding for a while, the steady drumming of Braken’s hooves hypnotically soothing her, she soon heard the miraculous sound of a bubbling stream. Elated, she licked her dry lips and guided the stallion toward the refreshing noise.

  A gasp escaped her lips at the sight that she beheld after they broke out into a clearing.

  “By the gods.”

  The stream she had heard bubbled directly in front of her. All across the clearing, waves of green grass rolled in the breeze. Little pink, white, yellow, and purple flowers dotted the small pasture and collected thickly around the stream. Most spectacular of all though, was the stream’s origin.

  A roaring waterfall about fifty feet tall poured over t
he edge of the small rock cliff and washed into a quaint pond beneath it. A mist rose into the air, and the suns’ light caught on the water droplets, creating a shimmering rainbow. Toward the pond’s edge, hundreds of little lily plants thrived, their small green leaves and white and pink flowers glistening in the water spray.

  Birds twittered in the trees, as if they knew this was the perfect sanctuary from the dark and strange forest the humans so openly despised. A squirrel bounded out into the field, until it saw Stephania; it then stood perfectly still before very slowly and cautiously hopping back toward the tree it had come from. Another more courageous squirrel threw a couple of bark pieces at Stephania and Braken, chuckling angrily from his perch high on a tree.

  Through the hole in the forest’s canopy above her, she could clearly see the sparkling blue sky, along with Shadow Mountain as it loomed about a day’s ride north.

  Convinced she was dreaming again, Stephania slowly nudged Braken into a walk, and the horse gladly ambled into the tall, thick, green grass.

  Overwhelmed by the feeling that she had certainly been here before, she slowly dismounted her horse, letting him walk freely in the pasture, her eyes fixed unwaveringly on the scene in front of her. Something like a memory almost flashed through her mind.

  She could almost see four more horses in the field along with a man. One of the horses was … she strained to remember. Was it a buck—skin? The vision faded as quickly as it had come, just like all the others.

  Disappointed that the strange vision remained a mystery, she sighed, shaking her head. Curse these visions. She grabbed her meager pack and carried it with her over to the pond. Her heart racing, she hurried to find a large, warm rock to sit on so she could drink in the stunning scenery around her.

  “I know this place.”

  She closed her eyes and let the silence consume her. Faint voices whispered in her ear, but not from the wind or the trees this time.

  “Not … life … your home anymore … part … us forever.”