The Dragon of Lonely Island

by Rebecca Rupp

  They were awakened hours later by a shaft of sunlight and the chatter of birds. Jamie lay peacefully, basking in the warmth, stroking Beetle’s fur. “First of all, we’ll have to find out where we are,” he told the cat happily, “and then we’ll figure out how to get home. You’ll like having a home, living with the Bingles and all the rest of us. Mrs. Bingle loves cats; she says a kitchen without a cat is like stew without salt.”

  Beetle purred as if he understood.

  “And to find out where we are,” Jamie continued, “we’ll have to find some people. Nice people, who might share their breakfast. I’m hungry, Beetle, aren’t you?”

  Beetle gave a meow of agreement, hopped off Jamie’s lap, and began to prowl. He jumped to the path and back up to the shelf of rock, leaped to a ledge above Jamie’s head and dropped back down, and then sidled around a rocky corner and vanished. When he didn’t reappear, Jamie, curious, followed him. Around the corner was a broad opening like an entryway, its edges rubbed shiny as though by some large animal passing in and out — What could be that big? Jamie wondered. Beetle had found a cave.

  The minute Jamie stepped through the entrance, he realized that here was no ordinary animal’s lair. His first impression was a dazzling explosion of color: ruby red, emerald green, sapphire blue, diamonds shooting rainbow rays, the icy sparkle of silver, and the warm glow of gold. The cave was a treasure-trove. Riches lay as far as the eye could see. Golden goblets studded with gems lay in heaps; jeweled swords were propped against the rocky walls. There were mountains of gold coins, a jumble of gleaming crowns, piles of necklaces, rings, jeweled belts, and bracelets. Jamie picked up a coin and rubbed it between his fingers: It bore the portrait of an ancient queen and a legend in a strange language.

  He opened a wooden chest and found it full of cut gems. He let a handful trickle glitteringly through his fingers. Just a pocketful —half a pocketful — would keep Mr. and Mrs. Bingle and their brood safe and comfortable for the rest of their lives. Just half a pocketful. “No one would know,” Jamie thought to himself. “Maybe no one lives here anymore. Maybe no one even owns this treasure.” He reached out toward the chest, hesitated, and then drew his hand back. Mr. Bingle’s kindly face rose up before his eyes and Jamie seemed to hear his voice: Keep all your promises, don’t take what doesn’t belong to you, and always look after those less fortunate than yourself, and you’ll do well in the world — and come home as soon as you can, Jamie. We’ll miss you.

  Jamie stood frozen for a moment. Don’t take what doesn’t belong to you seemed to echo in his head. He sighed regretfully and his hands dropped to his sides. “Come on, Beetle,” he said. “This isn’t ours and we’re trespassing. Let’s get on our way.”

  As they stepped out of the cave, they heard voices, shouts —“This way, I tell you! See the tracks?”— and the rapid thudding of boot heels on stone.

  “Why?” One voice rose above the others.

  “Because the captain wants him back, that’s why. He doesn’t want to leave him behind, after all. He’s got other plans for him. Is that reason enough for you?”

  Jamie went cold with fear. He crouched, trembling, behind the sheltering rock, but it was too late. A shadow fell across his knees.

  “And here’s our little runaway!” It was Black Ben’s voice. “Ripe for the picking, and . . .” The voice stopped dead in astonishment, then rose in a joyous shout. “Lads! Quick, to me! Gold!”

  Jamie was forgotten. The pirates crowded past him, fighting and shoving to enter the cave. Their cries of glee echoed off the metal-stacked walls. “What shall we put it in?” someone shouted.

  “Sacks!” another voice answered. “I’ve found some sacks!”

  “Pack them full, lads!” It was Black Ben again. “We’ll make a trip to the beach and come back for the rest. Look lively, now!” He emerged from the cave, smirking, a diamond tiara on his head, his pockets sagging with coins. “Maybe you had thoughts of keeping this all to yourself, Jamie, me boy? I don’t envy you when the captain finds out; on me soul, I don’t. And him in a bad mood already, having lost the Sea Lady.” He shook his head and chuckled. “A poor day’s work for you, I’d say. The captain will feed you to the little fishes when I tell him, mark me words. You’ll be walking the plank before sundown!” And he laughed again.

  Then the laughter stopped abruptly as, startled, he looked toward the sky. An immense black shadow had blotted out the sun. There was a rush of wind, a strange sweet smell of incense, wood smoke, and cinnamon, and a vast whump of wings. Black Ben’s mouth fell open and his eyes bulged wide with horror. The owner of the cave had come home.

  It was a dragon. Its massive body was coin gold; its great webbed wings sparkled brilliantly in the sun. It had three heads, Jamie noticed in astonishment. Two, nestled on its shoulders, appeared to be sound asleep. The third, arched high above them on a soaring golden neck, glared at the intruders with piercing blue eyes. The dragon spat a sheet of flame, blackening the rock above the cave door. The head turned slowly toward Black Ben.

  “Empty your pockets,” the dragon rasped, in a voice filled with angry menace. “Remove my crown.”

  Ben, shaking, pulled off the diamond tiara and flung it back into the cave. He pulled his pockets inside out and gold and silver coins cascaded in a pile around his feet. Behind him, from the cave, came a series of crashes and clatters: The pirates inside were rushing to divest themselves of their stolen loot. They stumbled out into the open, their pockets hanging out, their hands empty.

  “Leave — my — cave,” the dragon said, in a fiery hiss, “and, if you value your miserable lives, never return again.” It tilted back its head and roared.

  Black Ben turned pale with fear, pushed past Jamie, and ran. His men, terrified, followed. Their boots could be heard on the path, picking up speed, receding into the distance. Only Jamie and Beetle were left behind.

  The dragon swiveled its golden neck and turned its sea blue gaze toward Jamie. Jamie’s knees grew weak with fear and his heart thundered in his chest. Beetle, cowering against Jamie’s ankles, whimpered.

  The dragon changed color slightly. It seemed, for a moment, to turn faintly pink. “Please, don’t be frightened, young man,” it said. It cleared its throat in an embarrassed fashion. Then it said, looking at a point just above Jamie’s head, “I fear I lost my temper.”

  Jamie took a deep breath. He leaned down and gave Beetle a reassuring pat.

  “That’s all right, sir,” he said to the dragon.

  The dragon shook its golden head. “A dragon’s hoard,” it said defensively, “is private. When I saw those . . . disreputable persons . . . meddling with my prized collection, I quite lost my head.”

  “It’s a wonderful collection,” Jamie said. “I’ve never seen such treasure.”

  The dragon attempted to look modest. It waved one wing in a dismissing gesture.

  “Not a bad start,” it said consideringly. “But then, I haven’t been hoarding as long as some. It takes centuries to accumulate a truly impressive hoard. Why, I’ve seen some hoards, young man, that make this”— it nodded toward the cave —“look piddling.”

  The dragon snorted, releasing a small cloud of blue smoke.

  “Piddling,” it repeated.

  “It’s truly beautiful, sir,” Jamie said, “so many jewels and so much gold. But I don’t understand what it’s all for. What do you do with all that treasure?”

  “Do?” the dragon repeated, in shocked tones. “Do? One does not do things with a hoard, young man. One has it. One adds to it. Sometimes one rearranges it. But one does not do anything with it. That’s not what a hoard is for.”

  Jamie bit his lip. “That seems sort of selfish,” he said.

  The blue eyes narrowed. The dragon was ominously silent.

  Jamie stumbled on. “Just one of those jewels would help so many people. Mr. and Mrs. Bingle — they’re like a father and mother to me, since I don’t have any of my own — they’ve given away everything they have
to take care of children that nobody else wanted. And you’re just sitting on this mountain of diamonds. It doesn’t seem right.”

  “A hoard is a private collection,” the dragon said. “You don’t understand, young man. One does not share a hoard.”

  Jamie said nothing.

  “It is the nature of dragons to hoard,” the dragon said uncertainly.

  “Once, at home, at Christmas time,” Jamie said, “we had pieces of gingerbread. It was a special treat, but there weren’t enough pieces for everyone to have one all his own. We were supposed to share. But I didn’t. I took a whole piece for myself and went and hid under the stairs and ate every crumb. Later I felt awful. And Mr. Bingle said . . .”

  “That cookies don’t count?” the dragon asked hopefully.

  “No,” Jamie said. “That it was selfish. I knew it was wrong but I did it anyway. Mr. Bingle said that I had succumbed to temptation.”

  There was a doleful pause. The dragon hung its head.

  “You are right,” it said, after a moment. “Hoarding is selfish. Unspeakably so.” It miserably shuffled its golden claws. “I can’t think what came over me,” the dragon said. “I, too, have succumbed to temptation. I have been petty and foolish.”

  Then it said, in a much smaller voice, “I am ashamed.”

  “So am I, sir,” Jamie said. He looked down at his feet. “In your cave . . . it wasn’t just the pirates. I meddled with your collection too. I wanted to take some of your treasure. I almost did.”

  “But you didn’t,” the dragon said.

  Jamie opened his mouth to speak again, but the dragon held up a silencing claw.

  “I, too, was properly brought up,” it said. “Father had very strict opinions about hoarding.”

  For a moment the dragon managed to look small and guilty.

  “Very strict,” the dragon said. It gulped nervously.

  Jamie gave a sympathetic nod.

  Suddenly the dragon leaned forward and gazed deeply into Jamie’s eyes. It studied him for a long moment. Jamie felt as though the dragon were reading his mind, turning over all his thoughts and dreams, one by one.

  “Keep all your promises,” it murmured. “Don’t take what doesn’t belong to you, and always look after those less fortunate than yourself. Precisely. Father himself couldn’t have said it better.”

  The dragon took a deep breath, lifted its chin, and squared its shoulders.

  “You have set a good example, young man,” the dragon said. It glanced disgustedly toward the entrance to the hoard. “You have brought me to my senses.” It made a harrumphing noise deep in its throat. “I am inexpressibly grateful.”

  Then it said, very solemnly, “Please hold out your hand.”

  Jamie, bewildered, held out his right hand. The dragon stretched out a curved claw and pricked Jamie’s palm, precisely in the center. Jamie felt a sharp sting, like a bee sting, followed by a wonderful feeling of warmth. There, gleaming in the middle of his hand, was a tiny fleck of glowing gold.

  “We are bonded,” the dragon said. “You are a true Dragon Friend.”

  “You’ve been my friend, too,” Jamie said. “You saved Beetle and me from the pirates.”

  Then Jamie reached out and very gently touched the dragon’s golden claw. “Please, sir,” he said, “could you help me get back home?”

  Sarah Emily stirred and rubbed her foot, which had fallen asleep. “So what happened?” she asked. “Did you take him home?”

  “I felt it would have been unwise,” the dragon said, “to put in a personal appearance. The populace would have been unduly alarmed.”

  “So what did you do?” asked Hannah.

  “I lit a signal fire,” said the dragon, “on the cliffs. It burned for eight days and eight nights, and on the morning of the ninth day, a ship came into view. It was the Sea Lady, and the crewmen remembered Jamie. ‘The gallant lad from the pirate ship,’ they called him. They took Jamie and Beetle away. They never knew I was there.”

  “What happened to the pirates?” asked Zachary. “Did they just escape?”

  The dragon gave a wicked reminiscent smile. “The sailors on the Sea Lady,” it said blandly, “had a strange tale to tell. There, in the middle of the ocean, they came upon the smoldering wreckage of a ship. A message was pinned with a dagger to the broken mast: ‘So perish the enemies of Red Jack!’ Not a soul on board was left alive . . .”

  “So their old enemy caught up with them,” said Zachary. “Serves them all right!”

  “Except a parrot, clinging to a floating spar. They took the parrot with them . . .”

  “Ernestine!” cried Sarah Emily.

  “And Jamie took her home with him and Beetle. The captain of the Sea Lady took quite an interest in Jamie, since Jamie had saved his life and those of all his men. Eventually he recommended Jamie for a commission in the Royal Navy, and Jamie became a sea captain. His ship was called the Golden Dragon.”

  “But how did the Bingles manage?” asked Zachary. “They must have been happy to have Jamie back safe, but weren’t they still poor?”

  The dragon looked embarrassed. “Hoarding is a sad fault,” it said. “A responsible dragon struggles to overcome it.”

  “So you gave him some of the treasure?” asked Hannah.

  The dragon gave a little cough. “Jamie Pritchett,” it said, “went home with a bulging sack of gold and jewels. Mr. and Mrs. Bingle and their adopted family lived happily ever after. There was money to mend the roof and to put pudding and roast beef on the table; at Christmas, there were presents for all; and Mrs. Bingle, who had been thin with worry, even managed to grow a little plump. . . .”

  “What happened to the rest of the hoard?” asked Zachary.

  “I gave it up,” the dragon said. “I gave it away.”

  “Weren’t you sorry,” Zachary asked, “to lose your private collection?”

  The dragon leaned forward and looked deeply into Zachary’s eyes. It studied him, unblinking, for several long moments. Then it nodded briskly, as though it had learned all there was to know about Zachary and had reached some important decision. Finally it answered Zachary’s question.

  “No,” the dragon said. “I wasn’t sorry. It felt better. It was the right thing to do.”

  It extended a gleaming golden claw and tapped Zachary companionably on the shoulder. “You’ll see,” it said.

  Suddenly the dragon gave an enormous yawn. “Well,” it said, “this has certainly been delightful.” It yawned again. “Do come back when you can for another visit. We look forward to your return.” The sea blue eyes drooped sleepily and closed.

  Then they flickered back open.

  “If you could preserve your admirable reticence?” it murmured. “About our meetings? Things can be so difficult these days. . . .”

  “He means don’t talk about him to anybody,” Hannah whispered to Sarah Emily. “He wants us to keep him a secret.”

  “Of course we can keep a secret,” Sarah Emily said.

  “You can count on us, Fafnyr,” said Zachary.

  The glowing eyes closed again. The light in the cave dimmed.

  “Good night, Fafnyr,” Hannah whispered. The children turned and quietly tiptoed away through the rapidly darkening cave.

  Zachary reached into his raincoat pocket and pulled out his flashlight.

  “Here, S. E.,” he said. He switched on the light and pressed it into Sarah Emily’s hand. “You carry it. It does make you feel better when you’re scared of the dark.”

  It was too dim to see Sarah Emily’s face, but he could almost feel her smile.

  “Oh, Zachary,” Sarah Emily said. “Thank you.”

  The summer days slid by. The children chafed to return to Drake’s Hill.

  “But we shouldn’t go too often,” Zachary warned. “People might get suspicious.”

  Sarah Emily nodded. “We promised to keep Fafnyr a secret,” she said.

  “We’ll wait a while,” Hannah said. “Until it’s absolute
ly safe.”

  Mr. Jones brought the mail every day from the mainland: Astronomy magazine for Zachary, a letter to Mother from her publisher, a note in a flowered envelope to Hannah from Rosalie. But nothing came from Aunt Mehitabel.

  “Why doesn’t she write?” Hannah fretted.

  “Maybe tomorrow,” said Zachary hopefully.

  But still no letter came.

  As they waited impatiently until they felt it was safe to visit Drake’s Hill, they struggled to find ways to pass the time. Nothing worked very well. Hannah spent afternoons in the Tower Room, eating apples and reading Aunt Mehitabel’s old storybooks. Zachary went with Mr. Jones to dig clams and dragged out the telescope on clear nights to view the rings of Saturn and the moons of Jupiter. Father came for a visit and took the children on a trip to a marine biology laboratory on the mainland, where Zachary was nipped by a lobster and Sarah Emily petted a horseshoe crab. Mother finished her book. Mrs. Jones taught the children how to make oatmeal cookies, and Mr. Jones taught them how to row the boat. They went swimming in the sunny waters of the little cove below the boathouse.

  Finally, a scribbled postcard arrived from Aunt Mehitabel. “Delighted to hear from you,” the card read. “Unexpectedly called out of town. Long letter later. Give my regards to F.”

  “F,” Sarah Emily said. “Fafnyr.”

  Zachary reached out and took the card from Hannah’s hand.

  “There’s a P.S.,” he said. “In tiny letters down at the bottom. It says, ‘Don’t forget to use your heads.’”

  “What does that mean?” asked Sarah Emily.

  “This is awful,” said Hannah in dismay, as Zachary dropped the postcard on the table. “She didn’t tell us anything.”

  “I can’t stand this waiting any longer,” said Sarah Emily.

  “Neither can I,” said Zachary. “It’s been days and days. Let’s go see Fafnyr.”

  “Let’s,” said Hannah. “I’m sure it’s safe by now.”

  “And let’s take the boat,” said Zachary. “We can say we’re going to row along the shore toward the north end of the island to picnic on the beach. Then we can walk from there to Drake’s Hill.”