Raising Dragons

by Bryan Davis

  Bonnie glanced at each of the boys and then drooped her head before answering quietly. “My foster mother’s.”

  “Did she write this story?”

  “Uh, no. I wrote it. But she read it and signed it.”

  Dr. Whittier leaned forward and lowered his voice, too. “The part about the brave drugstore clerk who walked six whole blocks to bring you Pepto-Bismol was very interesting. And I’m sure the neighbor’s dog made quite a mess when he pulled the dead raccoon through the kitchen. I’m sorry you had to clean it all up yourself, even though you only had a box of tissue and a bar of deodorant soap.” The principal let out a sigh and tapped his finger on Bonnie’s note. “But your story doesn’t mention whether or not you saw a doctor for your illness.”

  Her head sank an inch or two lower. “I didn’t see a doctor. It was just a bug. It only lasted a couple of days.”

  Dr. Whittier scrawled his signature across the note and handed it back to her. “I know you’re new here, Bonnie, so I signed it this time. Our policy is that a student must bring a doctor’s note for absences of more than one day due to illness.”

  Bonnie picked up the slip and slid it into her pocket. “I understand, Dr. Whittier.” Before leaving, she pointed at the lighter on the desk. “I see you have Adam’s new lighter.”

  Dr. Whittier’s eyes became narrow slits again, and he glared at Adam while raising the lighter up to Bonnie’s eye level. “You recognize this lighter, Miss Silver?”

  “Sure,” she explained with a casual shrug of her shoulders. “Adam likes to show it off to the girls. He thinks the snake emblem on it is really cool.”

  Dr. Whittier motioned for Bonnie to leave. As she did, she looked back and smiled at Billy, and he offered a weak but thankful smile in return.

  The principal shook his head slowly. “Adam, Adam, Adam. Why did you even try to pull this one?” He opened a drawer and drew out a file. “I should have known the lighter was yours. Look, you’ve been caught smoking in the boys’ room four times, and Billy has no record at all.”

  “But I quit. Honest I did. I gave the lighter to Billy when I kicked the habit.”

  “But you said you’d never seen the lighter before.”

  “I . . . uh . . .”

  Billy’s smile grew to a wide grin. Dr. Whittier had Adam on the hook. Time to reel him in.

  While Dr. Whittier lectured on the evils of smoking, lying, and “bearing false witness against thy neighbor,” Billy tried to catch a glimpse of what was in the contraband drawer. He noticed several items: a large pocketknife, several packs of cigarettes, and a can of beer. Are all of those Adam’s?

  When the lecture finally ended, Dr. Whittier pulled two forms from his lower right-hand drawer. The sheets had dozens of blank lines and empty check boxes, and he used a sharp pencil to neatly fill in several spaces, printing names and violations in perfect block letters.

  Billy spoke up hesitantly. “Does this mean I can go? Now that you know it wasn’t my lighter, I can just—”

  “No!” The principal frowned menacingly and pointed his pencil toward Billy. “You were caught on the stool whether it was your lighter or not. I’m suspending you both for three days.”

  Dr. Whittier called for a hall monitor who escorted both students to their respective classes to get their books. When they returned, the principal ushered them into a detention area adjacent to the office, giving them each a towel to finish drying off. “If we’re unable to contact your parents, we’ll keep you right here until school gets out.”

  After Dr. Whittier shut the door, Billy wiped his face and then glared at Adam who had chosen a desk on the opposite side of the room. Billy sat heavily in a nearby desk and rested his chin on his hands. He rubbed the towel through his hair and then across his arms. I wonder how long I have to sit in here with Adam? There’s no telling what he’s going to say to me.

  But Adam never spoke. After about a half hour, a middle-aged, rough-looking man entered the room with Dr. Whittier. His slender frame reached about five-foot-six, and his three-day beard and dirty jeans made him look like a homeless tramp. Billy caught a glimpse of a cigarette pack in his shirt pocket, and his blackened hands told of grimy labor in the nearby coal mines.

  Adam rose from his seat, a look of tired resignation on his face. As they walked out, Billy watched the man place his hand on Adam’s back and grasp a handful of Adam’s damp shirt, maybe even his skin, squeezing it tightly as they left the room.

  Billy jumped up and hurried to look out the door’s window, a square viewing port at eye level in the thick, wooden frame. He tried to catch the pair as they left the office, but by the time he pressed his nose to the glass, they were gone. When he turned back around, he wrinkled his nose. What was that awful smell? It reminded him of the brewery just outside of town.

  Dr. Whittier reentered the detention room. “Curious, Billy?”

  “Well, I—”

  “I saw you looking out the window.”

  “I, uh . . . I’ve never met Adam’s father before. I didn’t mean to be nosy.”

  Dr. Whittier held out his hand for Billy’s towel. “I’ll get you another one if you need it.” He folded it neatly and laid it over his arm. “We haven’t been able to contact your parents yet, so I’m afraid you’re stuck here for a while.” He pointed at Billy’s backpack. “You did get your books, didn’t you?”

  Billy nodded. “Uh-huh.”

  “Then make yourself comfortable. I left a message on your answering machine. I’ll let you know when your parents call back.” He exited abruptly and closed the door. Billy peeked through the window again, watching the principal limp back to his desk and sit down.

  I didn’t notice that before. He must have a bad leg.

  Billy plopped back down in the desk and haphazardly pulled a textbook out of his backpack. I guess Mom’s on the office line, maybe rescheduling flights for Dad so he can go to the festival. She’s probably just letting the machine catch all our calls.

  He finished his history reading assignment and then went on to the chapter questions. History had always been his favorite subject, so he was glad to pass the time by engrossing himself in the lesson. Unfortunately, the assignment wasn’t long enough.

  After counting the ceiling tiles several times, he started flipping his pen in the air, first a double flip, then a triple. A few minutes later he had successfully performed a twelve-rotation spin as well as an eleven and two tens. Finally, after a few more spins, he flopped back in his seat.

  “Still waiting, Mr. Bannister?”

  Billy jerked his head up when he recognized the voice. “Oh! Hi, Mr. Hamilton. I was just reading ahead. I’ll be missing three days of school, in case you haven’t heard.”

  “I heard. I’m going to see what I can do to shorten that for you.” He stroked his chin and looked down at Billy with a piercing stare. “Are you a friend of Adam Lark?”

  Billy’s eyes opened wide. “No way! I don’t ever hang out with his crowd.”

  The teacher nodded. “I’m glad to hear that. Well, I suspect Mr. Lark wouldn’t care about his grades and keeping up with the rest of the class, but I thought you might. Would you like the lecture notes? I have them on my computer, and I can send them to you in an e-mail post.”

  “Sure!” Billy felt a surge of relief, but he was still worried about the prospect of staying in “The Chamber of Boredom” for the remaining hours of the school day. “I can’t go home yet, though.”

  “Haven’t they been able to reach your parents?”

  Billy noted a definite hint of concern in Mr. Hamilton’s tone. He had never seen a teacher with this kind of expression before. Was he worried about something? “No,” he replied. “It’s probably because Mom’s trying to reschedule the charter flights for my dad’s business, so she’s too busy to answer the main phone line. He wants to come to the festival tomorrow night.”

  “I see.” Mr. Hamilton looked at his pocket watch and then opened a booklet he had pulled from his
jacket pocket. “I have my planning period free and all of lunch. Would you like a ride home?”

  “Well . . .” Billy hesitated, contemplating which would be worse—to accept a ride home from his very strange history teacher, or to spend the rest of the afternoon flipping his pen and counting ceiling tiles. “Okay,” he finally decided. “That would be great. Thanks.”

  Mr. Hamilton paused and stared at Billy as if wishing to ask a question, but he just sighed and turned around. “I’ll see if Dr. Whittier will give his permission.” He then strolled out of the room, and Billy stuffed his books into his backpack while he waited. Mr. Hamilton returned after a few minutes and poked his head in the door, holding out a fresh towel. “I pulled your address from your file, Mr. Bannister, and I printed out directions to your home. Let’s depart.”

  Mr. Hamilton unlocked the passenger door of his station wagon and opened it, but Billy couldn’t sit down right away because his seat was filled with books of various sizes and ages.

  “I’m so sorry,” Mr. Hamilton said, pointing at the pile. “Just throw them in the back.”

  Billy lifted the top book and read the title out loud. “West Virginia Natural Resources?” He glanced at his teacher, who was rounding the back of the car. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it toward the rear seat and then read each title as he went through the stack. “A History of Coal Mining . . . Appalachian Wildlife . . . Early West Virginia Settlers.” After he tossed the last book, he spread out his towel on the seat and sat down.

  Mr. Hamilton glanced back at the pile of books, buckled his seat belt, and cleared his throat. “One must learn about one’s new home, mustn’t one?” He started the engine and revved it up, and the car jerked forward before stopping again abruptly. Billy fastened his own seat belt, trying to muffle the sound of the metal click. His teacher smiled apologetically for the lurch, and Billy responded with a queasy half-grin. He turned toward the road, his right hand clutching the armrest.

  “So what did you think about Arthur and his knights?”

  “Huh?” Billy turned to see the teacher looking straight at him. He wasn’t watching the road.

  “You read the chapter, did you not?”

  Billy couldn’t answer. He held his breath and pleaded silently. Please, please look at the road.

  “Well?” Mr. Hamilton said, turning to face the road.

  Whew. Billy could finally breathe again. “I, uh . . . I didn’t see what I expected.”

  “Why is that? It has the traditional legends and much of the current data speculating on the actual history involved.”

  “I was hoping to read about Merlin. I like stories about wizards.”

  Mr. Hamilton jerked the wheel, and the two right tires slid off onto the pebbly shoulder, grinding and popping the gravel beneath. Billy clutched the door handle, but it only took a second for his teacher to bring the car back onto the pavement. “How you Americans ever became accustomed to driving on the wrong side of the road, I’ll never know!”

  He stopped the car a moment later at a railroad crossing. A freight train made its way slowly across the road, its wheels squealing displeasure at their burden of coal. The delay seemed to please Mr. Hamilton. “Now, where was I? . . . Ah, yes! Merlin! Now there’s quite a bit of controversy surrounding that chap, and, you’re right; the book doesn’t cover him at all.”

  Billy watched dozens of hopper cars grinding their way across his field of view, each piled higher than the brim with a mound of ebony grit. He loved to watch trains, but Mr. Hamilton’s story kept pulling him away from the long line of rolling fuel. “What controversy?” he asked.

  “Oh, opinions from every side. Some historians say he didn’t exist. Some say he was a dark sorcerer, called to do Lucifer’s bidding. To others he was simply a wise counselor to the king, and to a few he was a fiery prophet of the Christian faith, working miracles from the Lord. You put all these together and you get the legend—a mysterious and magical wizard. You would be amazed at how serious some people still are about these legends.”

  “So how can you know what’s true and what’s not?”

  “Research. Lately, a particular interest of mine has been in the sword, Excalibur. One obscure but reliable source says that if its bearer has faith and a pure heart, Excalibur will make him invincible. You see, according to my source, God bestowed a special power on the sword such that it responds to the bearer on its own, as though it has a will. Since a sword cannot really have intelligence, it must have a material property that reacts with the holder, a sort of link with someone who emanates holiness. Therefore, the sword’s power can be stolen if an evil man somehow counterfeits purity.”

  The train’s wheels screeched, and the rumbling cars slowed to an agonizing pace. Mr. Hamilton took a deep breath and continued, raising his voice to compete with the noise. “Of course, I don’t believe there was a Lady of the Lake to give and take back the sword, so there must be another source of its origin and disappearance.”

  “Disappearance?”

  “Yes. According to my research, the sword really existed. I assume it was stolen, but the perpetrator probably could never use it to its full potential. Thieves don’t have pure hearts, as you might imagine. It has been a dream of mine to find that sword and restore it to Arthur’s rightful heir.”

  At that point, Mr. Hamilton chattered on about Arthur’s knights, the “real” story of the Round Table, and several tales about his hero, Sir Gawain. Billy became so enthralled as the teacher’s excitement grew that he forgot all about the train. He was fascinated by Mr. Hamilton’s breadth of knowledge and inspired by how he talked about God. Are teachers allowed to do that?

  After the last train car finally made its way across the road, the two drove on, and Mr. Hamilton launched into a storytelling mode, sounding like one of the radio narrators Billy had heard about from his father, filling the air with oral sound effects and shifting voices, from knight to damsel to king.

  Mr. Hamilton became more like a bard than a teacher. His story song held Billy in a trance, the words transforming into an oracle, even telling of the future, that Arthur would reappear to help his countrymen during their greatest need. Whether that appearance would be in body or in spirit, Mr. Hamilton didn’t know, but he suspected that the spirit of Arthur would reside in one of his descendants who would assume a throne, perhaps a symbolic or a spiritual one, and reinstate Arthurian rule with all of its power and moral authority.

  Just as Mr. Hamilton built the story to a new crescendo, he pulled the station wagon into Billy’s driveway and stopped his tale abruptly, reverting to his normal voice. “If I’m not able to do anything about your suspension, I will let you know about any new developments in class. Shall I assume that your e-mail address is in your file?”

  “It oughta be. I put it on my form.”

  “Very good. You will hear from me soon.”

  Billy wasn’t really ready to leave, but when he thought about his mother possibly noticing the strange car in the driveway, he jumped out quickly. “Thanks, Mr. Hamilton.” He waved as he hurried away. “So long!”

  Hearing the sound of his teacher’s car rattling away, Billy remembered the morning’s strange events. He glanced back to see if that mysterious Cadillac might still be in the neighborhood.

  No sign of it.

  He turned again and ran around the house, deciding to enter the back door and go through the kitchen. If Mom’s still on the phone, she’ll be in Dad’s office. Why disturb her work? Besides, he needed time to decide how to explain why he was home so early. He planned to tell the truth, but he wasn’t sure what to say about the fire sprinklers. Could his breath really have set them off? Was it time to let them know his secret?

  He grabbed an apple, then headed toward the stairs, ready to hole up in his room to work on the English assignment from the day before. Mrs. Roberts gave them till next week, but he decided he might as well get it done. No use wasting time. He paused at the bottom step when he heard voices coming fro
m the living room. Considering the circumstances, he decided to listen to gauge the mood of his parents. He didn’t normally hide anything from them, but the day was especially strange so far. He slowed his breathing and tuned into the sounds.

  “I waited to tell you, because I wanted to be sure it wasn’t just my imagination.”

  That’s Mom. She’s getting dramatic. She must be upset.

  “When I saw the welt, I knew our lives would never be the same. Is there any word from the others?”

  “No,” another voice replied. “Irene knew we moved to Castlewood, but there’s still no message, not even a peep. Maybe the worst has happened, like we feared.”

  That’s Dad. His voice always seemed to carry better than Mom’s. It echoed through the house with masculine resonance.

  “This is why I didn’t marry for the past fifteen hundred years,” his dad went on. “I didn’t want to put anyone through the same kind of danger.”

  What?! Fifteen hundred years? What in the world is he talking about?

  “But when I met you, I knew that, whether I was a dragon or not, you were the person I’d marry.”

  Dragon? What dragon? Billy knew he must have missed something, so he bent over to try to hear a little better.

  “Is Billy in any danger?”

  That’s better. Mom’s coming in loud and clear now.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. If his breath develops a flame, he could kill himself. He can’t possibly know how to control it yet, and he doesn’t know how to protect himself.”

  “Jared, Billy has to know. When are you going to tell him?”

  The sound of his mom’s choked sob lingered in the air, and sadness cut into Billy’s thoughts, bringing tears to his eyes. They’re talking about me!

  After a long pause, his dad finally replied. “I don’t think we can wait any longer. We should tell him as soon as possible. I think he can handle it. He’s always acted more grown-up and mature than most kids, but that’s to be expected since he has dragon blood. I don’t think he’s likely to have scales in his mouth, so if he could burn you, he must be feeling something. I also don’t see how he’ll be able to use normal dragon safeguards, being a—a half-breed, I guess you’d call it. He may be able to find a way to protect himself, but I can’t be sure. And there are the other students to think about. It’s definitely too dangerous to let him stay in school much longer. We may have to homeschool him. And remember that nosy guy driving around in the Cadillac that Carl told us about. If someone’s spying on us, they’re bound to find out about Billy’s breath sooner or later. We may even have to leave town.”