Tales from Virdinia

The Wings of a Dragon

Only the insects spoke, their whirs and chirps filling the rainforest with a vigour the old man no longer felt. He crouched in the gloom of his cluttered wooden shack, surrounded by all he had, clutching all that was important. In his hands were those of his wife, yet each hand could not of been more different. One was wrinkled and leathery, skin that proudly displayed a life of work under the harsh sun. The other was now the home of a thief, a slow, methodical intruder that would slowly consume its host.

She had the wood blight, and only the insects knew what to say.

Her hand, it was like holding the branch of a tree, he thought despairingly. It had started as a blemish, a small patch of skin that slowly hardened until it was no different from bark they had built their home from. It would spread, work its way along her skin, hardening into wooden scales until she returned to the forest.

She was sleeping now, her wizened face peaceful as her breath scattered silver hair across her wrinkled cheek. The old man stood, letting her hands slip from his and looked at his home. They had been so proud when it had been built, all those years ago. They had been many then and full of life and laughter. Friends had come and gone, the old man returning many to the forest. Their settlement had bloomed like a flower, a brief explosion of youth. Yet its petals had been caught by the wind and slowly the beauty had faded, the colour snatched away. Now it was just he and his wife, alone amongst the ruins. Only the insects had voices today, only they knew what to say.

Outside, the man worked away the day in the shadow of a mountain. Their mountain. He tended the rough patch of ground they had stolen from the rainforest, harvesting what plants he could. The sun climbed in the sky and the rains came as they always did, cascading in a flurry of grey down the mountain's steep slope. The same as every day, except that it was not.

'I will not become a tree,' she whispered to him in the night, her mouth against his ear.

Morning came, and the weight of his heart grew. She had lost her arm to this intruder. She slept again, and he went outside to tend their land and feel the sun. She had been so beautiful when they had met, so full of life's joys. Life had given her to him, and he to her. The sun rose and the rain came, the mountain watching as it always did.

'My heart is too free to be rooted to the ground,' she murmured in the dark that night, her mind lost to dreams and memory.

The sun did not show itself the next morning, it hidden behind a blanket of grey. She had lost her legs and a hand in the night. What words could be said, the man thought with despair. The insects seemed to know, but they never shared. She would have known, she always had. She would have danced and laughed, worked and cried. Each day could be their last, she had always whispered. But it had never been, their time together an endless haze of dreams and pleasure, of loss and sadness. A community built, a child lost, a garden grown and a life lived.

'My legs want to wander, my feet itch. I will not become a tree,' she promised to the night, 'I will grow the wings of a dragon.'

She had promised the night, yet it had taken it all. Only her face remained. Her body was more tree than woman, encased under wood, under what should have been life. She slept that day, as she always did. The old man worked the land and watched the rain, it same as it always was. The mountain stood and the trees grew, the rain came and the sun climbed. The world would not stop, and he could not go on.

That night she said nothing, but he knew her words, they carved in his heart with the certainty of love. He held her in those old arms of his, as he had on their union. She had danced that day, and laughed and loved. What was love, with no one to love? What was a dance, with no one to watch? What was life, at the end of it all? A tree, hard and cold, a promise of life.

He lay her down amongst the trees that morning, besides the others they had once known. This was not his wife he thought, he would have to find her. He packed the food they had grown, and locked the door of their home. The mountain stood and watched, and the sun began to rise. The insects had words, but he had none. He climbed instead.

His legs were weak and his body was frail, the mountain steep and rugged. He could feel it pushing him back with every step, yet on he climbed. That night he sat beside a fire, only the trees and mountain for company. His legs were ablaze with pain and his chest was tight. He wondered how much he had to give, how much farther he had to go.

The next day he met a traveler, a woman as young and as beautiful as she had been. She had words, many in fact, and she tried to use them on him.

'Go back!' she pleaded, 'You're going to die!'

But he ignored all she said.

'I'm going to find my wife,' he replied, the words coming to him suddenly. He had known them all along.

It grew cold as he climbed and the old man knew he had little more to give. The summit rose above him, ringed in cloud and promise. It was strange, he thought, when you could no longer feel your legs. They worked though, not as they had, but well enough.

The top was flatter than he had imagined, a mound of rock and withered trees. The clouds broke and he saw that the sun had climbed, just as it always did. The old man sat heavily and looked out across his world, a canopy of emerald trees and grasping branches.

Later, it would be too cold and the night would take him too. For now he would sit and watch, his wife would be here soon. The sun climbed, the rain came and went below him. As they always did. Yet, on the horizon there was a flash of silver, a glimmer of hope that snatched at his heart. A dragon rose on shining wings, it sweeping over the canopy with effortless grace.

'I will grow the wings of a dragon,' she had said, and as night came for him, he wondered if he would too.