Once Upon A Time... A snowy tale

I spent my early childhood at Happy Orphan Home established by the royal family of my country, Brothentigar. The orphanage's name was a cruel irony, given the cold grey walls of the big house we dwelt in, and the towering twelve-feet-high fence that shut us out from the world.

The man in charge of the orphanage was one we called the Grandmaster whose presence caused us great trembling. He was a tall, slender man appearing always on a fearful-looking, multicoloured mask that concealed his facial features save for his eyes and mouth. His elbow-length gloves and knee-high boots of the same dark shade of colour added to his intimidating appearance.

Notwithstanding, life was quite dull and simple as long as you adhered strictly to rules and kept your feet in check, always being in the right place at the right time. There was only one thing that troubled me in those early days – my parentage.

In my head I formulated a thousand theories on possible reasons as to why I was dumped in a merchant's delivery cart on its way to the orphanage with just a piece of paper bearing a name, my name, and my possible day of birth. I imagined a hundred scenarios in which I was finally claimed and the truth explained.

This orphan home I was offered to which happened to be the best in the entirety of the country of Brothentigar, grouped us into close age ranges in both learning and sleeping arrangements, and offered us sound education comparable to that of the rich folks, something our teachers or masters as we called them, were always quick to point out.

"Mere filthy orphans you are", the history teacher, Master Tedd would tell us, his eyes blazing, “try to be more grateful of your escape from the life of struggling you wretched, parentless children deserve."

We would remain silent while Master Tedd vented, not daring to breathe any contending words. Getting beaten up was never a delightful trade for going off at a master.

On such occasions, I sat wondering at the source of his deep hatred of us. It was no secret that at the end of our orphan stay, just before we clocked fifteen, we took a leap from orphans to end up as slaves to be sold, among other not good endings.

One memorable day in Happy Home was when I turned six. I was jolted awake by our room's matron bursting in that morning with a bang to the door, just as the distant bells rang out six times which was the time we were expected to wake each morning. After the last loud 'gong' died down, she leafed through some parchments, an irregular part of her routine, and turned straight to me.

“It's your birthday sometime this week, Don Lee. So pack your things, you'll be moving to the upper rooms." She said.

I had been waiting for this news for long as most of my friends had transitioned up already, but I was too groggy after just awaking to feel excited about it.

I slowly got out of bed and then made to pack up my very few belongings in the small moving box we all had, while the matron snapped her fingers at the other sleeping boys, giving them instructions. I had always been the only one born in the seventh month when it was time for transitioning to a new age range. I was also the only one to have started out in Happy Orphan Home as a little baby among my age group.

When I was ready, she grasped my hand firmly and helped me with the box in her other hand, swiftly herding me out of the room away from the few cries of "bye, Don."

So this was it. I was finally leaving the ground floor and was going to a higher level. My little chest swelled with pride as we ascended the stairs leading to the upper floor.

The brisk walk to the sleeping quarters I would be sharing with fellow six and seven year olds was enough to get me fully awake. We halted in front of a thin wooden door at the beginning of the corridor. Some metres in front was another similar looking door but for the girls.

The matron pushed the door open, letting me into a small circular room, holding about a dozen boys or more. Most were awake already and they jumped to attention once they noticed her which I understood to mean she was also the matron in charge here. The room wasn't as warm as where I was coming from. I looked at the fireplace and I could see no glowing coals.

She handed my box to me and pointed at a free bed in the midst of the rest, for me to make my own, then proceeded to leaf through her parchment once more. There was no one among them moving out of the room either. The matron gave us instructions similar to that of the boys back at my former room. She ordered us to line up in a single file before she got back, then she made her way out.

The rest of the boys immediately got into an excited frenzy, swarming around me, welcoming the one who had just added a year. I smiled cheekily at this.

There was a loud interrupting sound of metal scraping against hard floor. The wrought iron gates were being opened! We immediately dispersed, climbing on the beds by the window to struggle for spots to see through. There was always this unexplainable delight of watching grown men pull against the double doors with all their might.

We watched as a strange new carriage rode in and a man stepped out with a boy our age. From what we could make out, he had long black hair and was holding a big bag. They walked into the ground floor of the building. Few minutes later, the man came out alone and rode away.

Our first lesson that morning, the Grandmaster walked in with the boy we saw earlier. He watched the class stonily as the master introduced him, dark eyes meeting our gazes without flinching. His name was Zenilson, and he seated himself at the free seat beside me to my left as directed by the master.

The Grandmaster did not leave immediately; instead he regarded each of us silently. I watched enthralled but quickly looked down when he looked in my direction. I didn't dare raise my head until the master handling the lesson cleared his throat, seeking our attention.

Sitting upright once more, I glanced at the now retreating figure of the Grandmaster. He was almost at the door. The little light pouring in from the doorway highlighted his profile. He had on a short sleeve tunic with the usual elbow length glove. There was a marking on one of his arms of a thin but beautifully drawn sword, just beneath his sleeve, the sword's hilt disappearing underneath his gloves. My eyes got drawn to his shadow and attached to his figure was what looked like a tail. Long, curly and menacing.

My eyes widened and I opened my mouth, preparing to let out a scream when someone stomped hard on my foot. I let out a howl of pain instead, attracting the attention of the rest of the class. It was Zenilson, and he quickly apologised. I was still in a state of shock or I would have pointed out that it was definitely deliberate considering the force he applied.

Or had he seen something at that moment also?

I waited till everyone's attention was back on the droning Master before venturing to ask.

"Did - did you also see that tail on the Grandmaster's shadow?" I whispered.

He turned and regarded me strangely,

“You saw a tail?”

“Yes.”

“You're sure?”

“I think so."

"What's your name?” He asked out of nowhere.

“Don. Don Lee."

"I'm Zenil." He informed me, like his name hadn't been announced to the class just a few moments before. He turned his attention back to the master and no more words were exchanged between us for the rest of the lesson.

That night was also remarkable. We watched enraptured through the dorm windows, hundreds of dragons illuminated by the full moon, flying about, criss-crossing each other and forming patterns, huge streams of fire pouring out from their nostrils creating symbols. That was the first Dance of the Dragon display I could strongly recall. It was an event that took place on a special day in the seventh month of the year, otherwise Dragons were rarely seen and stayed away from human inhabitation.

One of us was refusing to take part in the delight of the show. It was the new boy, Zenil. He sat at a corner crying softly. Moments before, in our little way, we had tried to comfort him but he shrugged us off.

Time passed in a blur after that incident. The memory of the man with the shadow tail got chucked in some hidden corner somewhere in my memory. A new case file had been opened, powerful enough to keep off thoughts of the unknown events of my birth.

Zenil was my new point of interest. It was something to note that he still didn't speak to any of us except it was absolutely necessary, even to me he had introduced himself to. One days we had traded stories of how we ended up in Happy Home, Zenil wouldn't share his. I hadn't known anyone to be so unfriendly and closed off.

The most puzzling part was soon to come. I began to realise that sometimes he missed dinner in the dining hall. Meals served twice each day were barely enough and missing it was not an option.

One of those times when I noticed Zenil’s absence at mealtime, I was almost rounding up my stay in the room for eight and nine year old orphans. I decided to check whether he just stayed back in the boys' quart