A Father's Judgement

Aurelius had been gone for three days before Stan began to worry. Stan had spent his first alone time as Dyssa shaman gathering herbs, treating a bout of coughing sickness, and browsing the extensive handwritten diaries of former Dyssa shamans.

Stan had gathered all of the hand-written manuscripts on autumn herbs and laid them out, spine to spine to spine, on the long oaken operating table that served as the centerpiece to the shaman hut. It was the first time that Aurelius had been gone for this long, and as much as he missed the companionship, he also savored the absence of judgement.

He doesn't mean it, Stan could hear Mira's voice echo in his head. He winced a little. He really shouldn't be thinking poorly of his own father while he was gone. But it was certainly difficult to believe that he didn't mean it, when nothing Stan ever did seemed good enough to earn his praise.

His father had been expected back only one day after he had left. Delaying his return was not unusual, but delaying by this much was certainly strange. He had only been going to the next village over, Wissler, for some of the usual supplies needed. Even if he had stopped along his way to hunt, fish, or gather some rare plants, it shouldn't have waylaid him by more than a day.

His stomach rumbled queasily as he considered what could have happened. Had his father hurt his leg? Come down with the coughing sickness himself? Was he immobilized somewhere off the path? Had an odd, roving band of bandits caught up to him? Bandits had not yet been seen in the highlands, but it wasn't unusual for autumn to bring hungry, violent mouths to feed.

Looking guiltily at his mess, Stan decided that he would need to clean up a little, and then make plans to go find his father. The Dyssa could do without its junior shaman for a few days, and besides, his father could be in trouble. He hurriedly regathered the books and placed them back on their respective shelves.

"Mira!" He shouted out the door way and across the road. He saw her head emerge from the window. "I'm worried about father. I'm going to ride out and look for him."

"Now?" She called back to him, glancing upwards at the sun. "It's already late in the day. Why not wait until tomorrow?"

"I'll come back tonight if I need to, and go for a longer trip in the morning."

He could see other heads beginning to poke from their windows. It was not unusual for Mira and Stan to have these shouted conversations, but he realized that the topic of conversation might be inciting curiosity from the other villagers.

Stan moved across the road to the house. "Sorry. I probably shouldn't have been yelling. Decency and all."

"Oh, when have you ever been decent?" Mira's laughter sparkled in her eyes. Stan felt his heart flutter. Ten years later and he still felt like that shy young boy play-acting a man.

"Always around you, my sweet princess." He flourished an awkward bow towards her. She giggled, pushing him away, her face darkening a bit as she returned to reality.

"Go if you must. The sun will set in a few hours and I imagine you have a lot of ground to cover."

"Hey everyone!" Their conversation was interrupted by Brenda's slurred speech. "Where are you going and everything?"

Brenda's head poked nosily through the window where Mira and Stan had first started their conversation. Mira glowered at her.

"Brenda, what are you doing here?"

Stan did not find his father that first day, nor did his father return during the night. He set out the next day with three days of supplies, enough medicine to cover common injuries, and a notebook to record his autumn observations. Although finding his father was the primary goal, there was no reason that he couldn't record the season's comings and goings.

The trail between towns was well packed, but in some places, it was narrow and clearly needed maintenance. In the no man's land that was this wild place, it was hard to bring the tools and manpower needed to make real progress. The summers were hot and the brush grew thick around the trail, encroaching where it dared.

Stan's donkey was sure-footed though, and carried him with ease up and down the small hills. It was altogether a pleasant day for riding, if not for the purpose of the mission. Occasionally, he would go off pause and search for signs, but nothing along the trail looked like a fresh path. There was no disturbance to be seen anywhere.

It was when Stan stopped for lunch that he noticed the first thing awry. The riverside was warm and sunny, the water clean and fast flowing, but a strange smell permeated throughout the air. It was a new smell to him, but smelled vaguely of spoiled eggs and must.

He found his appetite, once ravenous, was now missing. His stomach broiled with anxiety: whatever that smell, he doubted it would be good for him or his missing father.

Rising from his patch of dirt on the river bank, he fingered the dagger he kept on his belt and walked towards the periphery. He looked up and felt his stomach sink towards his feet. Vultures circled lazily above his head. How had he not noticed them before? Had he been too preoccupied with lunch?

There seemed to be a clearing ahead, just outside of the riverbank's tree-lined edge. He stepped over brambles. More for comfort than safety, he drew his dagger. It had been a gift from Mira, and he used it for everything. He hadn't thought to bring an actual weapon along with him, but for some reason, his hackles were raised.

Why hadn't any vultures landed in the trees? Surely, some sort of food had attracted them, so why weren't they feasting? The stench was stronger. Whatever it was, it was definitely dead.

Stan felt the ground shake suddenly, violently. Small animals burst from the foliage ahead and he shielded his eyes from the explosion of leaves and sticks. Birds began shrieking their alarm calls. Chit chit cheeeeeeeit! Chit chit cheeeeeeeit! The sky darkened above him. He was blasted in the face by several rhythmic gusts of wind.

He instinctively gripped his small blade like his life depended on it as he looked at the sky. A …mass … was blocking the sun. How had that thing even fit in the brush ahead of him? Its wings beat weirdly slow, buffeting him with pulses of breeze. The vultures dispersed as the thing continued to rise, achingly slow, into the autumn sky.

"Dragon." His mouth made the shape, but if any sound came out, he couldn't hear it. The dragon flew higher and higher, the sky lightening with each elevation increase, until it rocketed off towards the western mountain where once, Stan, had rescued his future wife from a cave that might just be big enough to hold that monstrosity.

A dragon, a dragon
He smells from afar
The thieves who steal
Treasure he guards
A dragon, a dragon
He knows his friends
And his enemies tremble
As they come to their ends
A dragon, a dragon, 
High in the sky
Never forgets
Never asks why

It was just a stupid children's rhyme. But did a dragon never forget? Could he smell his enemies? Was Stan an enemy?

Stan stepped through the line of trees that had completely obscured the dragon from his sight. Surely there weren't more dragons just lying about. The vultures were happily feasting, and reluctant to give up their quarry.

It took Stan a few moments to realize what, exactly, the vultures were feasting on. It was a human corpse, for sure, but it was barely recognizable. Parts of it were charred, and the rest were sickly green.

But Stan didn't recognize that it was a corpse by its parts. No, Stan saw the brown satchel resting at his feet, adorned with the signs and sigils of Dyssa. It was his father's shaman satchel. Which meant that the mess that lay ahead? That was his father.

Stan was tired. He felt like an old man subjected to back breaking labor for fifty years. His hands were blistered, his blade was dull, and his eyes were burnt with a mixture of tears and sweat. All he wanted to do was lay his burden down.

Where a man of Dyssa died was intricately related to where he would rest. Men who died in Dyssa were buried just beyond its gates, set to guard its inhabitants for two generations before traveling home. Men who died out in the world, however, were burned near where they took their last breath, so that their souls were free to travel home. For Aurelius, it seemed that home was only a funeral pyre away.

The clearing where his body lay had plenty of wood for a fire, but Stan could not seem to light it. His hands were shaking by the time he found even the smallest flame. In the back of his mind, he wondered if -- or when -- the dragon would return to reclaim its prize.

He had no way to tell what had happened, or even if the dragon had played a part. Sure, some of the body had been pre-charred, but it seemed intact. There was no way to tell if the dragon, or something else, had killed him. Plus, if the dragon had been hell-bent on eating him, surely he could've gulped Aurelius down in one, maybe two bites. So why, exactly, had the dragon been there?

Aurelius' body smoldered as the sun set. Stan sat with his back against a tree, thoughts dulled by the day's pain. He was still young -- too young to be shaman. But that was what lay before him. The journeyman took the master's place. It was unusual that death was the cause.

And he was too young to be fatherless. Even with bandits and the risks of the road, Dyssas often lived into their seventies, saw their grandchildren grow up. Aurelius would have none of that. His own father, Rishne, had died only a few years prior. He had advised Aurelius and even Stan on shaman matters until the final year of his life. Stan would have none of that.

The dragon did not return, although truth be told, Stan wouldn't have cared much if it had. What would he do against a dragon that had clearly bested his father? He, too, would die and become a charred and green mess.

It would be wrong to say that Stan slept, but he did close his eyes for a time, until the sky began again to lighten. He gathered up the shaman's satchel, a few rings that he had plucked off of his father's fingers, and began the journey home.

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