The Dragons of Wayward Crescent: Glade

by Chris D'Lacey

  Little else was said after that. Tea was over and Liz and Lucy were ready to leave. Rachel accompanied them to the door, calling Melanie to come and say goodbye.

  Grandad was dozing again so Melanie took a chance and left Glade on the table.

  ‘Thank yous’ were said, hugs were exchanged and Lucy agreed to come back for a sleepover the very next weekend.

  “I feel as if we’re all going to be great friends,” said Rachel.

  “We already are,” said Liz. “Let me know how Glade and Pops get on.”

  “I’m going to take her to my room and hide her!” said Melanie.

  And even Lucy had to laugh at that.

  When the visitors were out of sight, Rachel closed the door as if she was fitting it into the frame for the very first time. “Well, that was lovely,” she said to Melanie. “Will you help with the washing up, please?”

  “Yes,” said Melanie, heading back into the lounge. “I just want to take Glade upstairs first – hhh!”

  To her horror, Glade was not on the table – but it took less than a second to locate the dragon.

  “Oh, Grandad!” Melanie yelled.

  The old man was on his feet again, staring through the bars of the canary cage.

  There, standing calmly inside it, was Glade.

  Chapter 7

  “Oh, Pops. Why have you done that?” Even Rachel was annoyed this time.

  The old man touched a finger to his lip. “It rang,” he said, pointing to the bell inside the cage. “I woke up and…” He pointed to the table, then to Glade.

  “Don’t fib!” shouted Melanie. “She didn’t fly! You put her there! You’re horrible, Grandad!”

  “No,” he said, his face a mixture of confusion and hurt.

  But despite his protestations of innocence, Melanie would not believe him. Bursting into tears, she retrieved Glade and ran upstairs with her.

  Glade spent the next few hours under Melanie’s bed, put there to keep her away from Grandad. It was dark and dusty and a little uncomfortable (her top knot was poking into the mattress). At one point a spider tried to make its web between the end of her snout and her spiky left ear. She hurred at it gently and the spider scuttled off. Everything was quiet for a while after that.

  Grateful for the silence, Glade closed her eyes and thought about the afternoon’s events. She was annoyed with herself for breaking the first rule of the Pennykettle code. She had been discovered moving, and that was bad. Luckily for her, everyone had blamed it on the old man. But that made her feel guilty and sorry for him, and even more determined to help.

  During tea time, she had made a strong bond with ‘Grandad’. It was easy, because he believed in her. He believed she was real. It was a simple matter, then, for her to read his moods. There were a lot of jumbled feelings in his mind. Some about himself, and Rachel, and the garden. He missed planting things and watching them grow. But he was sad most of all about the missing canaries. Glade’s mission, she had decided, was to get them back.

  So when everyone was out of the room and Grandad was apparently fast asleep, she had flown to the bird cage hoping to pick up their trail somehow. Straightaway, she’d been able to sense them. They had been happy birds. Chirpy. Well looked after. Full of seed, but a little…empty-headed. She formed the impression that canaries, once lost, would be twittery and confused and not be able to find their way home. They could be anywhere.

  At that precise moment, without thinking, she had flicked her tail and it had caught the bell and set it tinkling. The old man had immediately stirred. Glade still had time to whizz back to the table, but in her moment of panic she’d caught sight of herself in the mirror that hung from the roof of the cage and had frozen, confusing herself into thinking she’d been seen.

  Then Melanie was in the room and Grandad was in trouble.

  Not too long after that, Glade found herself where she was now: stuffed under Melanie’s bed.

  Later, when Melanie came up, she pulled Glade out and talked to her kindly under the covers. Glade was not terribly good at understanding human-speak, but Melanie’s mood was lighter now and Glade felt happy. Her ivy glowed deep gold. The colour of love.

  After twenty minutes of cuddling, Melanie stood Glade on her bedside table and switched off the light. Contented, sleepy sounds soon filled the room.

  Time went by and Glade waited patiently. First for the sound of Rachel putting Pops to bed, then for the echoes of darkness: the creaking of the house, the scratching of the wind, an owl hooting somewhere in the distance.

  When she was certain everything was safe, Glade softened and flew to the window where Melanie’s mother had left an air gap. Within seconds, the young dragon was down in the garden. In her connections with the old man she had sensed his belief in something magical. When he’d scurried down the path with her he hadn’t stopped chattering about beings called ‘fairies’. He’d been taking Glade to his garden shed to meet them when he’d stumbled and dropped her in the pond! That had ended that adventure, of course. But Glade was determined to find the fairies. Maybe they could tell her where the birds had gone?

  The shed door was slightly ajar. Glade fluttered in, landing on a rickety wooden shelf. There was no moonlight, but by letting her ivy glow amber she could light up the place with ease. A range of garden tools were hanging up on nails. There was a watering can on the high shelf opposite and on the shelf below that a jumble of terracotta plant pots and saucers. Glade immediately flew to them. Grandad’s mind, she remembered, had been focused on the plant pots, particularly upturned mossy ones.

  She found a small pot and peered through the hole in its base. There was nothing to see but shadows. But shadows, Glade knew, often kept secrets. Heart beating, she tilted back the pot, pushed her snout underneath it and hurred a soft “Hello?” Nothing. Just a lovely earthy smell from the gritty red surface. It was the same with the other pots. No fairies.

  Hrrr.

  But on the end of the shelf, Glade did find something interesting: seeds. Dozens, all the same, in a shallow dish. She dug her paw into them and picked some up, enjoying the sensation of them tumbling through her claws. Unable to resist the urge to grow one, she picked up the smallest plant pot, flew it to a bag of soil on the floor and filled it with earth she was able to scrape from a split in the bag. Then she flew the pot back to the shelf, worked a hole in the soil with her tail and popped the seed in.

  Water. All seeds needed water. Lifting the pot carefully, Glade flew it out to the pond. She landed on the small stone island at its centre. There she set the pot down, then made a basin with her paws and dipped them into the motionless pond. The surface rippled, sending out signals to the reedy edge. Glade lifted a scoop of water and drained it into the pot. As the soil softened, she placed her paws around the pot rim and hurred. Before long the soil jiggled and a shoot emerged, frail and tall. Glade’s ivy glowed a deep shade of green. She hurred again and the shoot split, producing two heart-shaped stubby leaves. And then, as if that wasn’t wonderful enough, somewhere high above, the clouds moved and a column of moonlight visited the garden.

  Glade turned her gaze upwards and hurred. The pale grey moon seemed to smile down at her. A soft breeze tickled the surface of the pond. The reeds crackled and all of a sudden Glade felt…a presence.

  “Hello, dragon,” it said.

  Something was here.

  Chapter 8

  Glade turned solid in an instant.

  “It’s all right,” said ‘the presence’. “I know what you are. I saw you moving. I won’t tell. Frog’s honour.”

  Frog? Remaining motionless, Glade rolled her eyes sideways and saw a slim green creature with webbed feet and round eyes sitting on a lily pad just a short hop away.

  “It’s very clever, being able to turn to stone,” it said. “Nice trick. I like your plant.”

  Although Glade wasn’t touching it now, the plant was still emerging. She softened her scales and turned to face the frog.

  A gulp of ai
r billowed in the sacs in the frog’s throat. “You won’t eat me, will you? We’re a bit rubbery, you know.” It crouched back into the water and blinked.

  Glade looked around to check that no humans were watching and shook her head.

  “Thank you,” said the frog. “I thought you looked friendly. I’m Cecil, by the way. Stupid name for a frog, but there you go. I haven’t seen you before. Are you searching for fairies?”

  Glade found herself nodding.

  “Thought so,” Cecil said. He blew a string of bubbles across the water. “They don’t come very often. The fairies, I mean. But their magic does. I think it’s up there, in the stars.”

  His eyes popped skyward. The clouds were skimming the moon again

  “That’s a fairy stone you’re sitting on for sure,” he said. “They’ll like it that you grew them a plant. If you leave it for them, they’ll do something wonderful. Are you going to make a wish? You don’t say much, do you?”

  Hrrr, went Glade.

  “Ooh, erm, ribbit!” Cecil replied. “If we’re going to talk posh!”

  Glade tightened her eye ridges into a frown. “Make a wish?” she said.

  “It’s allowed, if you stand on the stone in the moonlight.”

  “Have you tried it?” Glade asked him, flicking her tail.

  Cecil bloated his chest. “I’ve got everything I need,” he said. “My pond. My reeds. Mrs Cecil. We’ll have tadpoles soon.”

  Glade wasn’t sure she understood this, but she smiled anyway.

  “Go on,” he said, puffing his rubbery cheeks, “wish for anything you like. Fairy moon magic is very strong.”

  Glade tapped her foot and thought about her mission. “I wish Melanie’s canaries would come home.”

  Cecil sat up in the water. “Now you have to turn. Turn three times or it doesn’t work.” He stirred the pond with his foot.

  So Glade lifted her tail and, being careful not to knock her plant pot over, turned three times.

  Apart from the fact that she now felt dizzy, nothing much seemed to have happened.

  Then, suddenly, a light went on in the house. Glade gasped and her heart scales rattled. Fortunately, the light wasn’t from Melanie’s room. Glade blew a smoke ring in relief.

  “I have to go,” she said, spreading her wings.

  “I’ll guard the plant,” said Cecil.

  The main stem had now grown as high as Glade’s ears. Already there were four slim branches, each with six leaves.

  Glade blew a smoke perfect ring. Someone was going to see that and wonder how it had got there. But if Cecil was correct about the fairies, then it was only right to leave it as a gift. “Do you know what kind of plant it is?” she asked him.

  “Oh yes,” he said. “Rub a leaf between your paws.”

  Glade tried it. The leaf felt crisp and new.

  “Now hold your paws to your snout and sniff.”

  And when she did, Glade had the most pleasant surprise.

  Her paws smelled beautifully of lemons.

  Chapter 9

  The next morning, Liz received a phone call from Rachel.

  “Something extraordinary has happened,” said Rachel. “I’d like you to see it. Can you come round?”

  Knowing better than to spoil a surprise by asking too soon what it was, Liz replied, “Yes, of course. I’m just popping out to the shops. We’ll call in on the way back.”

  Lucy raised her eyes from her breakfast bowl. “Is that Rachel? Is Glade OK?”

  Liz put the phone down. “Glade knows how to look after herself. But it sounds like she might have been up to something.”

  “Something?” said Lucy, fishing for details.

  “Mmm. Put your coat on and we’ll go and find out.”

  A few minutes later, they were on their way to the small convenience store just around the corner from Wayward Crescent where it joined the main Scrubbley Road. It was run by a man called Mr Calhoun. It sold everything from bananas to batteries.

  Lucy was beside herself with impatience. “Can’t we go straight to Melanie’s?” she tutted, slouching along with her hands in her pockets. “We can do the shoping afterwards, can’t we?”

  “This is important,” said Liz. She flapped a piece of card in Lucy’s face.

  “What’s that?”

  “An advert.”

  “Are we selling something?”

  “No.”

  The shop door rattled as Liz walked in. Mr Calhoun, a ginger-haired man with a lopsided mouth, raised a wispy eyebrow to her. He was famous for saying little and grunting a lot.

  “Morning, Eric,” Liz greeted him cheerily.

  Mr Calhoun wiped his hands on his apron. Lucy hated his apron. It smelled of cheese.

  “I’d like to put this in your window, please.” Liz handed him the card.

  Mr Calhoun held it at arm’s length to read it. True to form, he grunted.

  “For one week,” said Liz. “How much will that be?”

  This should be fun, thought Lucy. He’s going to have to speak.

  Mr Calhoun, however, looked at the ceiling. Lucy followed his gaze, but could see nothing but a damp patch on the polystyrene tiles.

  Saying not a word, Mr Calhoun stepped out from behind his counter and strolled down the aisle of tinned veg and meat. He crooked a finger, beckoning Liz and Lucy to follow. They reached the shop window, where he swung out a board containing many more adverts. Without explanation, he tore one away from its drawing pin and handed it to Liz. Then he walked silently back behind his counter, scratching the seat of his trousers all the way.

  “Oh, he is so rude,” Lucy huffed.

  “He’s actually very kind – when you get to know him,” Liz said. “Come on. We’re going to Arkle Road.”

  “What?!” Arkle Road was near Lucy’s school. It was back towards Melanie’s, but still out of their way.

  Then Liz showed her the advert. ‘FOUND’ it said in black capital letters. “Oh,” said Lucy. “Quite,” said Liz. On the card was a picture of two canaries.

  And so it was that some twenty minutes later, Liz and Lucy arrived at number 7, Orchid Close with a new friend. She was an elderly lady called Agnes Murray, grey-haired and trim, with lively blue eyes. She wore a bright orange coat with large black buttons. She looked like a well-wrapped sweet.

  Rachel opened the door. Liz was about to do the explanations when Melanie burst into the hall and panted, “Mum, he’s started pulling them up!”

  Lucy caught her breath. Melanie had Glade in her hands.

  Rachel beckoned everyone in. They pursued Melanie through the house and into the garden.

  Pops was in his dressing gown, pulling up weeds. They were everywhere – in the borders, the planters, popping out of the drain, even in bare patches on the lawn. There were dozens by the pond. Pops was going after every single one.

  “I can’t understand it,” Rachel sighed. “They sprang up overnight. How can that happen?”

  Agnes Murray picked up a loose stem. “Have you noticed they’re all the same, my dear?”

  “Are they? Oh, yes,” said Rachel, looking around. That just seemed to confuse her even more.

  Agnes rubbed a leaf. “Lemon balm,” she said, smelling her fingers. “A cleansing herb. Excellent for bringing clarity of mind.”

  “Lemon balm?” said Rachel. “But that’s…”

  Liz smiled at Agnes and looked down the garden where Pops had suddenly stopped pulling the ‘weeds’. Now he too was smelling his hands. He swayed a little and sank down onto a bench. He blinked a few times and tried to speak. Then he looked at Melanie, and he started to cry.

  “Oh, Grandad! Whatever’s the matter?” she said. She hurried down the garden to sit beside him.

  Rachel was about to follow, but Liz put a hand on her arm and held her back.

  Grandad took Melanie’s hands in his.

  “Are you poorly? Shall we get a doctor?” she asked.

  “No, pet,” he said. “I’m all right, I think.
”

  Rachel gasped lightly and covered her mouth. “He’s not called her ‘pet’ for years,” she whispered.

  Melanie touched her grandad’s cheek. “Why are you crying?”

  “Because of the birds.”

  “Oh,” said Melanie. She stared at her feet.

  “Didn’t mean it,” said Pops. “Wasn’t thinking straight when I let them escape.”

  “I know,” she said.

  He squeezed her hand. “I miss them. I was sad they went.”

  “Mmm,” said Melanie. She tried not to sniff.

  “But what made it even sadder was that I couldn’t find the words to say sorry to you.”

  “Mmm,” went Melanie. This time it was a squeak.

  Grandad sniffed the lemon balm again. “But somehow, today, I can.”

  Melanie dripped a tear on Glade. It ran like a small pearl over her heart. No one seemed to notice that Glade’s ivy had begun to glow a deep shade of blue. “Perhaps it was dragon magic, Grandad?”

  He put a thumb on Glade’s snout, just under her eye. “Aye, pet, perhaps it was. You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say this dragon was going to—”

  “Cry!” said Lucy, stealing Glade out of Melanie’s arms.

  “Hey!” shouted Melanie, standing up to face her.

  “It’s all right, Glade, we found the birds!” said Lucy.

  “The canaries?” gasped Rachel.

  Liz gestured to Agnes.

  “They flew into my conservatory two weeks ago,” said Agnes. “They’ve been keeping Alfie, my budgerigar, company. I put a postcard in Calhoun’s window. I didn’t know what else to do. Today, by some means – or magic – all is well.”

  “You see,” Lucy whispered in dragontongue to Glade. “All is well. Please don’t cry your fire tear. Please.”

  “Excuse me,” said Melanie. “Why are you coughing in my dragon’s face?” With a slight hmph, she snatched Glade back.