Childhood 

I swore softly as the blood trickled down from my grazed knee to soak into my sock, pulled up high to keep the chill English air from goose pimpling my skin. 

 I hadn't slipped far; just enough to skin myself on the sharp rocks of the cliff face as I descended the perilous path to the stony beach far below.  The path was overgrown, testament to the changing fashions of an ever capricious public who had forgone the more remote tourist spots for places more chic and trendy.  Places a hell of a long way from my current coordinates, I snorted, wrapping my scarf tightly around the cut, where it soaked up the blood into a sticky mess. 

 It'd wash out, I knew, like most things in my life did.  A small hurdle in a cascade of them, starting from my childhood and continuing to this day; a day I had never thought would come, but yet again I was proven wrong by time as it passed fleetingly. 

 Ten years it had been.  Ten years of hell and suffering; of a missed childhood that should have been forgotten, but would never be so. 

 Still, I managed the beach without further incident, which given the remoteness of the location was a blessing in itself.  Not the sort of place to break an ankle, I pondered, tightening the scarf loosened in the final descent, then stretching back to stare at my surroundings. 

 It hadn't changed a bit, my memory sharp in its relief as I took in the raging, rolling surf dashing itself against the nearby headland, while breaking noisily across the coarse sand below me.  The hazy spray mist shrouded the cliffs above in gloom, the sun nothing more than a faint foggy blur in the distance.  Chill, too, in the late spring air; “cold enough to freeze your bones to popsicles”, my Nan would have said back in the day, and as kids we'd giggle and sit by the fireplace, sipping our hot chocolate and dreaming of pirates and princesses and dragons and all the things that came with a childhood holiday spent in such place, far from the bustling city the rest of my life involved.   

 With the stories she polluted our minds with, no wonder I became infatuated with such nonsense, my mother swore, cursing the old woman for corrupting our youth with such fantasy, and following it up with yet another prolonged series of appointments with the psychiatrist, whose first action was to throw yet another pointless medication at me. 

 Kids were supposed to believe in such things, I shot back as he probed my psyche, and crossed my arms in anger as he shook his head solemnly at my stubbornness. 

 Yes, they did; but eventually they grew out of them, apparently.

I guess I wasn't normal in that respect. 

 I dropped onto a rock, the cold a chill ache through my calves and behind as I unslung my pack, lifting the flap to unstopped my drink bottle and take a long pull of the icy water within.  My throat spasmed, and I coughed suddenly, spraying some of the liquid onto the sand in front of me as I spluttered my way to free breathing again. 

 But the place permeated my discomfort, and as I dropped into silence, my mind stilled as I gazed around at the sand, and the rocks, and the pounding waves of my memories, and I had a moment disquieting thought whether my intrusion was welcome. 

 It had been a long, long time, and an eternity of pain away. 

Pain, and an aching longing that not even all the therapy and prescriptions would numb. 

 My gaze shifted almost reluctantly down the stark cliffs to focus on the distant headland, where I half feared that my mind would trick me again.  Perhaps all the therapy was the cause; the root of my sudden self doubts, and I sweated as I strained to see the goal of my travels.  

But it was there, as I always knew it would be, deep down in the recesses of my mind where they’d never reached.  Even though the fact frightened me almost as much as the disappointment would have. 

 The cave, a dark slash against the bleak cliff side, beckoned. 

 Fuck, I swore to myself, shaking with more than just the cold as I wrapped my arms around my chest and shivered. 

 I knew I wasn’t mental. 

Regardless what the PTB’s said, so very often, for so many years. 

 Yet it hadn’t been the day I’d returned, accompanied by my accusers, all those years ago, dragging them in mute in defiance against all those doubts.  My parents kept telling me they were at their wits end, and the doctors shook their heads, and I cursed and swore at the lot of them, at first insisting, then pleading for them to just come and see for themselves the cave in the cliff side.  A cave that would silence all the whispers and the critics once and for all. 

 The cave that wasn’t there, the one time I needed it the most. 

 I remember dropping to my knees at this very spot, coarse sand damp against my skin and salt spray from the pounding surf drenching my hair to run chill ribbons of moisture down my neck, chilling my spine and my soul. 

 It wasn’t there. 

How could it not be there? 

 The vindicated satisfaction in the eyes of my adult tormenters I could take, and I never again spoke of the incident to them, or to anyone.  Ever again. 

What was the point?  No one believed me. 

I think, even my juvenile mind understood that they couldn’t believe me. 

Even I had trouble believing me. 

Believing both the truth and my sanity. 

 With the scarf holding the graze in check, and the water doing little to relieve the parchedness of my throat, I sighed deeply, bending to retrieve my backpack and tossed the weight across one shoulder where it lay heavily.  With a final glance around, I slogged my way through the soft sand, a workout with the tide so far out, weaving past the scattered boulders to the cave entrance, where I paused, uncertainly. 

 It looked darker in there than I remembered, the thought sprang involuntarily, and my lip quirked at the sudden adrenaline surge.  “Pussy”, I muttered, the humour of the situation clear. Hell, if a ten year old didn’t shit her pants all those years ago, the grown me had no reason to fear. 

 It still took a deep breath before I continued, plunging into the cave entrance while ducking my head, the barnacle encrusted ceiling a lot lower than I remembered. 

 Still, I continued as the murky light from the entrance dimmed, until soon I could barely make my way, pondering grabbing the torch from within my gear, but a few more steps had the illumination brighten, and it was only moments before the doorway came into view. 

 The timber looked more weathered than I remember.  The once shiny red was now a distressed patchwork of dull amber, with russet wood showing through the many patches where the paint had flaked away. 

I sighed again, knowing the feeling.  It was almost a reflection of the way my life had turned in the many years since I’d last stood here. 

Still the light above the mantle in its brass housing, verdigris marring the surface an olive drab, and glass stained from the elements, shone a welcome, and I unconsciously scrubbed my soiled boots on the rough surface of the hessian mat, sandy loam streaks the result. 

 I hesitated then, before reaching out my arm, my hand visibly shaking until I firmed myself, grasping the tarnished knob and turning it sharply.  I was almost surprised when the knob obeyed, and I paused again, remembering the first time I’d tried it, so long ago, only to fume as it stubbornly refused my entry.  But there was little hesitation now, just a slight creak as I pushed the door back, dull light spilling room the opening as I stepped inside. 

 In the moment, at first it looked exactly as I remembered.  But the subtle differences then intruded; the dimly lit interior harboured a coating of dust over what was once gleamingly polished mahogany.  The leather bound books, one stacked neatly and ordered on the shelves were scattered haphazardly, forming unstable piles that threatened to spill onto the discarded crockery and dirty mugs that adorned any free space.  Even the leather chairs turned to face the cold, unlit fireplace were threadbare, edges showing cracking through which stuffing had began its escape.   

 It was a shock for me, seeing the perfection within reduced to this.  It had always been meticulously presented, and seeing the slovenly chaos it had degenerated into almost had me in tears. 

 Perhaps the mirrored reflection on the direction my own life had taken since the last time I was here struck a little close to home. 

 It was involuntary, my cautious steps into the place.  I discarded my napsack on the dirty floor as I leaned heavily against the door frame and drew in breath after ragged breath.  The wrongness of it all was intolerable, and after a moment I found myself collecting an armload of books with shaking hands, returning them to their rightful place on the shelves as tears streamed down my cheeks to splash onto the slate below. 

 Perhaps it was the clinking of porcelain as I gathered plates together that alerted him that something was amiss, as a slight scuffling sound had me spin, near dropping my fragile load, to see him standing at the rear of the room, one arm supporting himself on the hallway frame as he turned shocked, reddened eyes on me. 

 But the shock lasted barely an instant before the eyes narrowed in fury, a hissing of breath escaped his lips as his free hand curled into a fist and he cursed “Who.....who are you?  How did you get in here?” before he stepped forward threatening and yelled “Get out!!  Damn you to hell, get....” 

 Then he paused, eyes widening in shock as he searched my face, recognition striking like a lance, as his eyes rolled upwards and he collapsed into an ungainly heap at my feet. 

 “Shit!” I cursed, dropping the plates onto a nearby coffee table where they slid across the loaded surface to shatter onto the floor below.  Ignoring the chaos, I dropped to his side, wrapping my arms around his chest and lifting him ungainly into my arms as I stood, grunting under his weight. 

 Even so, it dawned how much smaller he seemed now, so many years beyond my childhood.  He’d always loomed larger than life, a head and shoulders taller than my lanky young form, and so much more solid. 

 But time hadn’t been gracious to either of us.  His hide lay loose on his bones, stringy muscles hard beneath skin like loose parchment as I cradled him against my chest while staggering down the  hallway to his bedroom.  Eyeing the soiled sheets with a jaded eye, I gently lowered him onto the mattress, ignoring the musty smell that wafted upwards as the bed absorbed his weight. 

 So frail, and so.... sad.  I could almost feel the despair from him, in this once magic place that had clearly lost so much joy in the intervening years. 

 I sighed again, looking around the room to spy an old stool near the closet.  Retrieving it, I dropped wearily beside the bedside and hesitantly reached my hand to him, tracing the backs of my fingers against his scaled jaw tenderly for long moments until he drew in a harsh breath, eyes fluttering open only to focus on my face, a swath of emotions visible as he took in the reality that he wasn’t imagining it; that his eyes indeed beheld the truth 

 I smiled timidly, and he closed his eyes with a long sigh, reaching up a clawed hand to grasp my own tightly, pressing it against his cheek as he whispered “You’re really here...” 

 A chuckle escaped me, involuntary but heartfelt, and his eyes shot open to regard me wryly. 

 “In all my glory, yeah.” I said, and he snorted, struggling to rise until he lay propped on one elbow, face level with my own. 

 “You’re a lot bigger than I remember” he offered tentatively, and I agreed wryly.   

 “It happens,” I said, but he didn’t reply further, instead searching my face as his shoulders slumped, sadness overwhelming him. 

 “I’m so sorry, Cara” he whispered finally, his eyes filling  as I nodded again, not needing any further explanation, but simply gripped his fingers reassuringly.  He knew what his silence had cost me, that day all those years ago when I returned with the others to prove to them my sanity.  He must have known the accusations levelled at me, even as he had sealed the entrance, preventing the others from confirming my story that he was real, flesh and blood, and not simply the fictitious imagination of an unruly child. 

 Back then, I hadn’t understood his rejection, his absence leaving me at the mercy of the authoritarian wolves, persecuted by my peers for my persistence in believing a truth they couldn’t fathom. 

 But in the many years that followed, the pain faded, replaced with a sad melancholic understanding that, while reluctant, was inevitable.  The world wasn’t ready for some truths, I finally understood.  Some realities were beyond their understanding, and he was one of them. 

 A dragon, in our world of technology and realism, was one truth that could never be. 

 As he dropped his eyes, guilt creasing his features, I released his hand, surprising us both as I wrapped warm arms around him, drawing his chest against my own as I buried my face into his neck.  I felt the racing beat of his heart against me as he shuddered, grabbing me tightly in return as the wellspring of pain within me burst, and I cried as I hadn’t in years, his gently murmuring into my hair as he stroked my back with gentle claws. 

 When the pain receded and my shaking stopped, he nuzzled me again and said softly “I missed you.” 

 I sniffed, burying my face into his musky hide again as I gathered myself together. 

 “I missed you too.” I offered, resulting in a tightening of his arm round me. 

 Eventually, I drew back and regained his hand in my own, squeezing it for reassurance. 

 “I had to know I wasn’t crazy, Drake.” I offered, and his lip quirked, a creasing of his eyelids testament to his amusement. 

“If you are, we both are, sweetheart!” he replied, and I smiled, relief lighting my face long moments as I regarded him fondly. 

 Finally he sighed, and I leaned back as he slipped from the bed to stand somewhat unsteadily on three legs to gesture for me to precede him as we returned to the parlour. 

 He noticed my gaze, my attempt at cleaning making little impression on the decrepit state of the room. 

 “I let it go a little, since you’ve been gone” he muttered, and I snorted in wry amusement. 

 “A little?” I asked incredulously, and he grinned toothily, the expression lighting up his face as he dropped heavily onto his daybed, the familiar pose leaving me oddly nostalgic. 

 “Well, perhaps more than a little.  I didn’t really feel like caring about it much.” 

 I understood that; oh how well I understood that; and I told him so, folding my legs beneath me as I dropped onto the floor beside him, to then lean back and regard him. 

 “Well, here I am.  And I’m not going anywhere, now or ever.” 

 He searched my face, and nodded.  “I’m glad of that.” He finally uttered, the relief in his reply palpable, and my return smile warmed me to the core. 

 “So am I, hon.  So am I.”