There's a Dragon in my Stocking

by Tom Nicoll

  “We’re done now,” said Grandad. “I cleaned up, as usual. In fact, the only reason I was able to convince these two to come out was because they owed me so much money. Anyway, what do you say, three versus three? Sound fair? Three, two, one – fire!”

  I was just about to say no when a snowball whacked me on the shoulder, knocking me to the ground.

  “Eric!” shouted Min.

  “Run,” I said. “Run for your lives!”

  I realize that might sound a bit dramatic but I knew that Grandad took his snowball fights very seriously.

  As I scrambled to my feet, Min dived behind a rose bush and Jayden found cover behind some compost bags. This left me alone and vulnerable.

  “Take no prisoners,” yelled Grandad.

  I doubted very much that the Blooms had been planning to, as they began pelting snowballs in my direction.

  I narrowly dodged Toby’s first shot, then ducked out of the way of Mr Bloom’s, grabbing a handful of snow while I was at it. But before I could even pack it into a ball, a third snowball, hurled with precision aim by my grandad, knocked the snow out of my hand and into my face.

  The Blooms and Grandad were in hysterics as they grabbed more snow. The three of them were lining up to get me when suddenly Min and Jayden came storming out from their shelter. As they ran a barrage of snowballs left their hands, sailing towards Grandad.

  He jumped over one.

  He ducked under another.

  He twirled past a third.

  He sidestepped a fourth, yawning theatrically as he did so.

  Then, incredibly, he actually caught the fifth and the sixth and, before anyone could blink, had returned them to their owners, almost knocking Min and Jayden over.

  “This is hopeless,” I cried as we retreated behind the shed.

  “Your grandad moves like a ninja,” noted Min. “It’s impossible to hit him.”

  “Psst,” came a voice at our feet. We glanced down to see three annoyed-looking Mini-Dragons.

  “Pan, what are you doing here?” I whispered. “You’re supposed to be hiding in your igloos.”

  “Yeah, mate, this is no place for a Mini-Dragon,” said Jayden.

  “If we’d stayed in our igloos we’d have been trampled on by those barbarians,” said Mrs Long.

  “We want to help,” said Pan.

  “No offence, Pan,” said Min, “but even between the three of you, you wouldn’t be able to throw a snowball hard enough to hit them.”

  The Mini-Dragons didn’t seem to be put off by this. In fact, they started grinning.

  “Oh, we’re not going to throw any snowballs,” said Pan’s mum.

  “Then how are you…?” I said.

  “We’re going to be the snowballs,” said Pan’s dad.

  “You’re going to…? Sorry, what?” I asked.

  But Min and Jayden seemed to have already caught on. As they started gathering up snow, I broke into a huge smile. The dragons’ plan might just work!

  Once we had a Mini-Dragon snowball each, Jayden pulled his sunglasses down from his head and placed them over his eyes. Then he took out two more pairs from his pocket and handed them to us.

  “If we’re going to do this, let’s do it in style,” he said.

  “You carry spares?” asked Min.

  “I got a couple of new pairs for Christmas,” he said. “Besides, you can never have too many pairs of sunglasses.”

  I hoped he meant that, because he had another pair coming to him when he got my present.

  “Come on, you chickens,” shouted Grandad. “You have to come out some time.”

  “All right, on three,” I whispered, putting on the shades. “One…”

  “We promise we won’t get you,” sniggered Toby.

  “Two…”

  “Yeah, it’s a ceasefire,” laughed Mr Bloom. “Honestly.”

  “THREE!”

  It felt like the world slowed down as we dived out from behind the shed, soaring across the garden as three white objects left our hands. As the ground fast approached, we watched the snowballs fly up into the air. There looked to be little chance of them hitting Grandad and the Blooms, though, and judging by their laughter the three of them knew it.

  Then three tiny pairs of wings popped out of the sides of the snowballs and suddenly they began to change direction, curving towards their intended targets. Only Grandad was smart enough to run, but the end result was the same.

  It was like a scene from a war film. Grandad, Mr Bloom and Toby sprawled out in the living room holding ice packs to their heads and moaning loudly. The Mini-Dragons had proven to be good snowballs. Too good, if anything. After almost knocking out their targets, Pan’s parents had at least had the good sense to grab their son and fly back up through my window.

  “I had hoped I might get a day off,” laughed Jayden’s mum. We were lucky she was a nurse.

  “Really, Eric,” frowned Mum. “You could have taken it easier on your poor grandad.”

  Min, Jayden and I looked at each other, unable to believe what she was saying. Thankfully Gran was having none of it.

  “Oh, don’t blame them, Maya,” she said. “They’ll have had much worse, believe me. Doesn’t know his own age, this one. He terrorizes our street whenever it snows.”

  “Where’s Mum?” asked Toby, who was clutching his head like it might fall off.

  “She’s up in the spare room. On her phone, I think,” said Jayden’s dad.

  “MUUUM!” shouted Toby, heading upstairs.

  “D-d-dragon,” muttered Grandad.

  My face went white. So did Min’s and Jayden’s.

  “What are you rabbiting on about now, George?” asked Gran.

  “I saw it,” he said slowly. “When it smacked into me. It was hiding in the snowball. It had tiny wings and a tiny beard … and it had glasses.”

  “You saw a tiny dragon with spectacles?” said Gran.

  A wild-eyed Grandad nodded.

  “George Crisp, I told you not to start on the sherry so early,” scolded Gran. “Dragons with glasses indeed.”

  “Maybe it was the knock to the head?” suggested Mum.

  But Grandad was undeterred. “You saw it, right, Frank?” he said, looking to Mr Bloom for support.

  But Mr Bloom just laughed. “Dragons? Come on, George, give the kids their due. They got us good. Besides, everyone knows dragons aren’t real. Now gremlins on the other hand…”

  “What about you three?” said Grandad, turning to us.

  “Er … yeah, Grandad,” I said. “You’re right. We rolled three little dragons into snowballs and they used their wings to fly right into your heads.”

  Everyone burst out laughing, except for Grandad, who slumped into the couch, looking furious.

  “Oh, don’t get in a huff,” said Gran, giving him a gentle nudge.

  “Maybe I should go and see if Monty needs a hand with the dinner,” he said.

  “Don’t you dare,” warned Gran. “I’m sure he’s got it all under control. Now why don’t we play another board game?”

  Grandad considered it for a few seconds, before mumbling something that sounded like, “OK then.”

  It was at that moment that I noticed three tiny green heads bobbing past the living room.

  “Sure, count me in. I’ll be back in one second,” I said, rushing out of the door. I caught them just before they reached the kitchen. I could hear Dad preparing dinner, singing along to Christmas songs on the radio.

  “What are you doing?” I whispered. “What happened to staying in my room?”

  “Being snowballs is hungry work,” said Pan’s dad. “We’re starving.”

  “Can’t you just have a few prawn crackers?” I said. “Pan’s got some upstairs.”

  Pan nodded but his mum looked aghast. I knew she wasn’t a massive fan of prawn crackers, even though they’re one of the three main Mini-Dragon food groups, with dirty washing and goats being the others. I really hoped she didn’t expect me to rustle u
p a goat for her.

  “I thought you’d read the Encyclopaedia Dragonica?” she said. “Surely you know that when it comes to Christmas, Mini-Dragons and humans eat the same things? Turkey, stuffing, roast potatoes, gravy…”

  “Those little sausages with the bacon round them,” added Pan’s dad, licking his snout.

  “Right, fine, I’ll get you something to eat. But you have to go back upstairs,” I said. “Now!”

  Pan’s mum let out a long sigh. “Very well, if we must.”

  I scooped up the three of them and carefully made my way past the living-room door. Luckily everyone was too busy setting up a game of Word Battle to notice us.

  But just as I reached the top of the stairs, I saw Toby walking into my room.

  “Toby!” I said, quickly hiding the Mini-Dragons behind my back. “Where are you going?”

  “To play with your stuff, obviously,” said Toby.

  “Er … right,” I said, trying to think of a way to get him out of there. “Hey, my new toys are all downstairs. Wouldn’t you rather play with them?”

  “Nah, your Christmas presents are rubbish,” he said, grabbing a Slugwoman figurine and settling down on the floor. “I wish I had my presents. I asked Santa for three dragons. And I told him to make sure they were better than the one you’ve got, or those two defective ones you tried to pass off on me that time—”

  “Three dragons?” I interrupted. “That does sound like fun. Well, I’ll see you later, Toby.” I started to close the door.

  “You know,” said Toby quickly. “If you wanted to cheer me up, you could let me play with that dragon toy of yours. Just so I can get some practice in…”

  “Yeah, no chance,” I said, shutting the door firmly. I put the dragons back down and pointed towards the spare room. “Quick, in here.”

  But as we stepped inside we froze.

  Toby’s mum was standing facing us. Well, facing her phone at any rate.

  All that could be heard was the sound of her fingers tapping on the little screen. Her eyes were fixated on the device. Had she seen us? Did she even know we were there?

  We appeared to get our answer a few seconds later when finally she frowned at her screen then walked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  I almost collapsed with relief.

  “Chatty, isn’t she?” said Pan’s dad.

  Pulling myself together, I turned to the dragons. “I’ll go and get you something to eat but you have to promise not to leave this room. Really, really promise this time.”

  The Mini-Dragons mumbled something.

  “I need to hear it,” I said.

  “Dragon’s honour,” they said.

  I left them and headed back downstairs. I was just stepping past the living room when an arm reached out and grabbed me. “There you are, Eric,” said Grandad, pulling me inside. “It’s a family Word Battle Royale – Crisps versus Blooms versus Lewises versus Songs. Ready to rumble?”

  “Well, actually…” I said.

  “Excellent,” said Grandad. “Now maybe you can explain to Frank here that zoxyqoj is a perfectly good word.”

  “Use it in a sentence, then!” demanded Mr Bloom.

  “Zoxyqoj,” said Grandad. “As in, Frank’s being a real zoxyqoj about this.”

  I was stuck there for the next hour and a half. Grandad wouldn’t let anyone out of the room for fear they would head straight to the nearest dictionary. I couldn’t help thinking that the words I was coming up with might have been slightly influenced by my upstairs guests:

  It was only when an argument broke out after Grandad suspected Toby’s mum had been looking up words on her phone (she had been, I saw her), that I was finally able to slip out.

  Thinking about how annoyed Pan’s parents were going to be with me, I almost didn’t hear the moaning coming from the kitchen. But when I opened the door, there was Dad, pacing the room and muttering to himself.

  “Dad, what’s wrong?” I asked.

  “It’s ruined, Eric… It’s all ruined,” he groaned.

  “What’s ruined?” I asked.

  “Christmas,” said Dad, hanging his head.

  “What are you talking about?” I said.

  Dad pulled open the oven door. Inside was a large, completely uncooked turkey.

  “But didn’t you put the oven on this morning?” I asked.

  “I was going to,” said Dad, slumping down at the kitchen table and holding his head in his hands. “I had just put the turkey in when the Blooms showed up. And then your grandparents. And then your friends.”

  “And you didn’t notice it wasn’t on?” I asked, suddenly realizing that the one thing missing from the house all day was that amazing smell of the Christmas turkey cooking. In my defence, I had been distracted with other things.

  “I must have switched on the oven light but not turned on the heat,” he said. “And then I was too busy preparing everything else and I used the bottom oven for that. All the trimmings are ready.”

  I looked at all the pots, filled with potatoes and vegetables. There was plenty of food but without the turkey it was shaping up to be a pretty lame Christmas dinner. “If you had to forget one thing,” I said, “why couldn’t it have been the sprouts?”

  “Oh, your grandad is going to love this,” said Dad glumly. “I honestly thought this was going to be the year I finally cooked the perfect dinner.”

  I patted him on the back. “Dad, if it’s any consolation,” I said, “I think Grandad will always be able to find something wrong with your cooking.”

  “You’re probably right.” Dad sighed. “Well, I’d better go and break the news.”

  I followed Dad into the living room.

  “Need any help, dear?” asked Mum.

  “How’s dinner coming along?” said Grandad. “Hope you’ve not burned it like last year?”

  I felt so bad for Dad. If only there was a way to cook a large turkey quickly.

  I slapped my forehead. Of course!

  “Where have you been?” said Pan as I burst into the spare room. The three Mini-Dragons were looking as grumpy as I’d expected.

  “I’ll explain later,” I said. “But first I need your help.”

  “Why, what’s wrong? Mum was about two minutes away from having a munch through your laundry basket, you know!” Pan laughed.

  “I was not,” Mrs Long snapped. “Now, where’s the food you promised us?”

  “That’s the problem,” I said. I explained about the turkey and my idea for how they could help. “So do you think you can do it?”

  Pan’s dad gave a little chuckle. “Do South American Swamp Dragons like to sunbathe?” he asked.

  I looked at him blankly. “Er … I don’t know.”

  Pan’s dad sighed. “The answer is yes, Eric. You really should read more of the Encyclopaedia Dragonica some time.”

  “I will,” I said. “But can we go now? There’s not much time.”

  Scooping up the Mini-Dragons I stuffed the three of them up the baggy sleeves of my Christmas jumper before heading back downstairs.

  “How could you forget?” I heard Grandad say as we passed the living room. “There’s undercooking but this is taking it to the extreme, son.”

  “Stop it, George,” said Gran. “I’m sure Monty feels bad enough as it is…”

  I closed the kitchen door behind us and shoved the wooden door wedge underneath it to make sure no one walked in on us.

  I opened the oven and Pan peered inside. “Yep, definitely not cooked,” he said.

  “All right,” said Mrs Long. “Eric, you’ll need to help.”

  “Me?” I asked. “But I can’t—”

  Pan’s mum closed her eyes and rubbed her temple. “Yes, I’m well aware that you can’t breathe fire. But we’re going to need you to bring the turkey out of the oven.”

  My face turned pink, not that far off the colour of the turkey. “Oh, of course.”

  “When you do, you’ll need to keep a hold of it,�
�� she said. “And you’ll want to put on a pair of oven gloves.”

  “OK,” I said, slipping on a pair of tartan oven gloves, before carefully pulling out the tray. It was much heavier than I’d expected and I had to steady myself for a moment.

  “Right, Mini-Dragons, listen up,” said Mrs Long, bringing Pan and Mr Long into a Mini-Dragon huddle. “I want a three-metre, full-power blast. Pan, you stand there. Cheng, you go there and I’ll stand here so we have an equal flame distribution. Eric, in a second I’m going to need you to throw the turkey into the air. And then catch it. Everyone clear?”

  The two Mini-Dragons nodded.

  “Er … sorry. You want me to do what?” I said.

  “Throw it in the air,” she repeated casually, clearly confusing the giant turkey with a pancake. “Right, on three. One…”

  “Yeah, it’s just I’m not sure I can…”

  “Two…”

  “It’s really heavy…”

  “Three!”

  With a massive grunt and using all my might, I somehow managed to toss the turkey in the air.

  “Now!” shouted Pan’s mum and three huge blasts of fire shot out of the dragons’ mouths, blasting the turkey as it hovered above my head.

  A second later, a fully cooked turkey landed back on the tray with a thud and miraculously I didn’t drop it.

  “You did it!” I said. But before I could thank them I heard voices getting closer. I covered the turkey with some tinfoil, shoved the tray back into the oven, switched it on and closed the door.

  “Quick, out there,” I said, pointing to the back door. The Mini-Dragons dived through the cat flap just as Grandad burst into the kitchen, followed by Dad and everyone else.

  “Looks like it’s up to me to save Christmas,” said Grandad. “Don’t worry, cooking for four hundred men every night in the army, you learn to improvise. Let me take a look.”

  It was too much for Dad. He turned away as Grandad opened the oven door, slipped on the oven gloves and slid out the tray.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” said Grandad, his face turning the colour of beetroot.