The Return of the Dragon

by Rebecca Rupp

  “Quick!” Hannah hissed. “We’ve got to get out of here!”

  Zachary yanked on the cord, struggling to unplug the microphone from the tape recorder. At the same time, the man in the windbreaker began to run toward the trees, following the telltale path of the cord.

  “What the devil do you think you’re doing?” he shouted as the children scrambled to their feet. “Who are you, anyway?”

  He had broad shoulders, short reddish hair, and a narrow sullen-looking face. The name tag on his pocket read BEN. He gave a vicious tug on the microphone cord, and the tape recorder flew out of Zachary’s hands and landed with a crunching noise on the ground.

  Zachary, red-faced, bent to pick it up. Sarah Emily had turned pale.

  “We’re studying birdcalls,” Hannah said, with great presence of mind. She put one arm around Sarah Emily. “For a school project.”

  Zachary, whose mouth had fallen open, abruptly closed it and tried to look like a bird-lover.

  “There was a sandpiper,” Hannah went on, looking up at the man with wide innocent eyes. It was an expression that often worked well on strangers but never fooled her family. Ben didn’t seem to be fooled either. He must have been smarter than he looked.

  “I didn’t see any sandpiper,” he said suspiciously. “I think you kids better come with me. Mr. King, he doesn’t like people snooping around.”

  “This is our aunt’s island, not his,” Zachary said boldly. “If anybody’s snooping, it’s you. We’re not going anywhere with you.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Ben said. He lunged forward, grabbed Zachary roughly by the upper arm, and yanked. Zachary, pulled off-balance, staggered forward. “Come on, all three of you. Move it.”

  “Leave him alone!” Hannah cried. She grabbed Zachary’s other arm.

  “What is all this?” a new voice said.

  It was the elderly Chinese man they had seen coming out of the tent on the previous morning. He was still wearing his black suit and embroidered cap. Now that he was so close to them, the children could see that the cap was patterned with scarlet birds, gold flowers, and a wriggly sort of turquoise creature that might have been a winged serpent. He looked very tall and menacing standing there beneath the trees. His skin was the color of old ivory and his mouth was folded tightly shut in a thin slash like a knife cut. Beside her, Hannah could feel Sarah Emily shiver.

  “Just kids snooping around, Mr. Chang,” the man named Ben said.

  “Let the boy go, Ben,” Mr. Chang said. “Let them go.” He had a dry whispery voice that reminded Hannah of rustling paper. “They are nothing to worry about. Go about your business.”

  Ben shambled off through the trees, looking resentfully backward over his shoulder. Mr. Chang pointed his finger threateningly at the children.

  “Now leave!” Mr. Chang said. “And do not return!”

  The children turned and ran.

  They crept cautiously along the shelf of rock leading to the broad platform before the cave.

  “Crawl,” Zachary said tensely. “Mr. King might be out on the deck with his binoculars. Looking for puffins. Or that Ben may be sneaking around.”

  They scuttled across the ledge on hands and knees. From behind a sheltering rock, they peered down at the floating yacht. The deck was deserted.

  Zachary heaved a sigh of relief. Then he gave a little gasp of dismay and pointed to the rocks below.

  “Something fishy’s going on,” he said unhappily. “Look at that.”

  A figure in a white windbreaker was working its way along the steep face of the hill, feeling at cracks and crevices, pausing every now and then to tap at the rock with a geologist’s hammer.

  Sarah Emily drew a shaky breath. “I’m scared,” she said.

  “Let’s go see Fafnyr,” Hannah said. “Right now, before anything else happens.”

  The three children ducked quickly into the cave. Again, all was suddenly quiet and dark, the crashing roar of the waves gone utterly still. Zachary switched on his flashlight and the children edged their way inward and down, breathing in the tangy odor of smoke and cinnamon — the now-comforting smell of dragon. A streak of gold flashed in the gloom. Zachary’s flashlight had picked up the glitter of dragon scales.

  There was a soft hiss as the dragon flamed, and the cave glowed with light. This time the second head was awake. Cool blue eyes surveyed the children. The dragon’s voice was deep and husky. “Hannah, Zachary, Sarah Emily,” the dragon began. “I am inexpressibly delighted to see you once again.”

  Then its voice changed and it bent its neck to study the children more closely.

  “Something has happened,” said the dragon in a concerned voice.

  The children sank down on the cave floor, leaning back against the dragon’s warm golden tail.

  “We met some people on the beach,” Sarah Emily said.

  “They’re poking all over the island,” Hannah said. “Looking for caves. We were trying to find out what they were doing, but one of them caught us. He grabbed Zachary and yanked him around.”

  “The mannerless cad,” the dragon said.

  “They all work for Mr. King,” said Zachary. “And he’s written to Aunt Mehitabel, asking for permission to stay on the island.”

  “He’s dangerous,” Sarah Emily said. She looked from the dragon to her brother and sister. “I just know he’s trying to find out about Fafnyr.”

  “But how can he possibly know anything about Fafnyr?” Hannah said. “Besides, Aunt Mehitabel will tell him to go away.”

  “What if he doesn’t pay any attention to her?” asked Zachary. “She’s in Philadelphia, with a broken ankle. She can’t really do anything. What if he sticks around anyway? How are we going to stop him?”

  “We could fight them,” said Sarah Emily doubtfully.

  “That’s easy to say,” said Zachary. “We’re just kids. And anyway I hate fighting. There are a couple of kids at school who always want to fight, just to see who’s bigger or better. If I don’t fight, they laugh and call names and say I’m a chicken. I’m not a chicken. I just think fighting is stupid.”

  The dragon nodded sympathetically.

  “Battle,” it said, “is a highly overrated activity.” The blue eyes took on a dreamy, faraway look. “That reminds me of a story,” the dragon said. “A tale of chivalry and honor. Perhaps you would like to hear it?”

  “Knights and castles,” said Sarah Emily excitedly. “I love those stories. I’ve been reading all about King Arthur and Sir Lancelot and Guinevere. And the sword in the stone.”

  “Fighting,” said Zachary glumly.

  The dragon reached out a polished golden claw and smoothed his hair.

  “There’s fighting and there’s fighting,” it said. “Just listen.”

  The dragon began to speak. As the children listened to its voice, the walls of the cave again seemed to fade. They heard a sudden triumphant flourish of trumpets, the sound of clashing metal, and a thunder of galloping horses’ hooves. Then there came the soft strum of a lute, a chatter of voices and laughter, and a wonderful aroma of baked apples and roasting meat. The children once again were in another place and another time.

  “Gawain,” the dragon said, “was eleven years old and a page. He had come to Hampton Castle when he was just seven, sent by his father and mother to learn courtly manners and the arts of battle, under the tutelage of the owners of the castle, Lord Charles and Lady Margaret. He spent his days practicing the use of weapons, perfecting his horseback-riding skills, and learning to polish and repair armor. In the evenings, he waited upon the lord and lady and their household as they ate their dinner. Gawain was in training to become a knight. But sometimes knighthood seemed very far away. . . .”

  Gawain sat on a step in the doorway of the castle kitchen, kicking his heels, waiting until it was his turn to help serve the guests at the banquet in progress in the Great Hall. Behind him, the cook and his helpers were working furiously, preparing platter after platter of food.
Servants swept by carrying roast boars with apples in their mouths, whole peacocks, gilded and trimmed with their own green-and-blue tail feathers, and an elaborate sweet in the form of an enormous galleon with spread sails made of sugar.

  Gawain was bored. He hated being a page. He dreamed of the days when he would be a knight, dressed in flashing armor and a helmet topped with flowing plumes, riding off on a white charger to battle the enemy with sword, lance, and shield. He wanted to be like Sir Tristram, oldest son of Lord Charles. Sir Tristram, in Gawain’s opinion, was everything a knight should be: wonderfully handsome, unfailingly courteous, and gloriously brave.

  “Gawain!” someone shouted from the kitchen. “More wine! Look alive, lad!” Then there was a startled shriek and a crash of falling crockery.

  “Gawain!” the voice shouted again, louder.

  Gawain sighed and rose from his seat. In the kitchen, he stepped around a puddle of spilled gravy on the flagstone floor, then filled a pitcher with wine and carried it carefully to the Great Hall. There, moving quietly behind the guests, he filled each empty goblet. Then he went to stand patiently at Lord Charles’s right elbow, awaiting any instructions from the lord or his lady. As the company ate and drank, a troubador dressed in green velvet stepped forward, strummed upon a lute, and began to sing a song of many verses, all about gallant deeds of war.

  Gawain shifted restlessly from foot to foot, rustling the clean straw scattered with rose petals that was strewn on the hall floor. His gaze swept around the high stone walls, hung with crossed lances, swords, shields, and silk-embroidered banners. “Sir Gawain,” he whispered under his breath. His fingers drummed on the wine pitcher. He was very bored.

  Only one other person in the castle was as bored and unhappy as Gawain. That was his best friend, Eleanor. Eleanor was ten, the very youngest of Lady Margaret’s ladies-in-waiting. Her parents had sent her to Hampton Castle to learn all the graces of noble ladies. She was to learn to dance and sing, to play upon the lute, and to master the art of fine embroidery so that she could make exquisite tapestries. Eleanor was a poor pupil. She hated it all.

  “I will never be a lady,” she told Gawain in despair as they stood on the castle wall, looking out toward the great green forest and the distant blue hills. “Everything I do is wrong. I fall over my own feet when I dance the galliard. I can’t carry a tune. I hate embroidery. All my stitches are crooked, and I keep pricking my fingers. My unicorns look like pigs.”

  Gawain made a sympathetic sound. He didn’t know what to say. After all, there wasn’t much else for a girl to do.

  “Nobody even talks about anything interesting,” Eleanor went on. “All the ladies-in-waiting talk of nothing but fashions and face paint and the best way to dress their hair. And Sir Tristram.” She put her chin in the air, batted her eyelashes very fast, and imitated someone else’s voice. “He’s so handsome!” she said. “So powerful! And such golden hair!” She resumed her own voice. “He’s a conceited dolt. He has absolutely no conversation. He talks of nothing but his sword and his stupid horse.”

  Gawain was shocked. “He’s a perfect knight, Eleanor,” he said. “Perfect. He won every joust in the tournament last year. I want to be just like him someday.”

  Eleanor snorted through her nose. “I certainly hope not,” she said.

  Two days after the banquet, Eleanor brought Gawain some interesting news. A wandering minstrel had stopped by the castle, hoping to earn a few pennies with his songs.

  “All rags and patches, poor thing,” said Eleanor, “with a pet squirrel on his shoulder. The squirrel would take nuts right out of your hands. And he sang beautifully.”

  “The squirrel?” asked Gawain.

  Eleanor poked him in the ribs. “No, not the squirrel. The minstrel,” she said. “And he told us”— she paused impressively —“that a dragon has been sighted in the southern part of the forest.”

  “A real dragon?” exclaimed Gawain. “I thought they were only in the old tales.”

  “No,” said Eleanor smartly. “A stuffed dragon. What is wrong with you today? Of course a real dragon. Whoever finds the beast and slays it will be a hero. Everybody is talking about it. Sir Tristram is having his armor refurbished, and the castle blacksmith is sharpening his sword.”

  Gawain kicked a cobblestone viciously with one red leather shoe. “I hate being a page,” he grumbled. “I wish I were Sir Tristram, riding out to battle the dragon. It’s not fair.”

  Eleanor brushed dust from the skirt of her blue gown.

  “Well, why don’t you?” she asked.

  Gawain glared at her. “Because I’m not a knight,” he said in an exaggeratedly patient tone of voice. “Because I don’t have a horse. Or armor. Or a sword.”

  “If you slay the dragon,” said Eleanor, “it would be a great deed and Lord Charles would make you a knight. You would have a suit of armor and a silk banner all your own. You could have a dragon on it. They would call you Gawain the Dragon-Slayer. You’d have everything you’ve been waiting for.”

  “But how?” said Gawain. “I can’t kill a dragon with my bare hands. Or a slingshot. That’s all I’ve got.”

  “There are swords in the castle armory,” said Eleanor. “All kinds of swords. You could borrow one.”

  “That’s stealing,” said Gawain.

  “Not if you put it back afterward,” said Eleanor. “You get the sword and meet me by the back gate at midnight. Then we’ll find the dragon.”

  Gawain shook his head. “You can’t go, Eleanor,” he said. “A true knight would never let a lady go on a dragon quest. You’re supposed to give me a favor — a handkerchief or a hair ribbon or something — and then wait for me to come back with the dragon’s head.”

  Eleanor looked stubborn. “If you don’t let me go with you,” she said, “I won’t tell you which road to take through the wood. You’ll never find the dragon if you go alone. So you might as well give in.”

  Gawain argued, but Eleanor refused to budge. At last it was agreed that the children would go together — provided, Gawain insisted, that Eleanor promised to stand back out of the way when the fighting began.

  “I’ll embroider a tapestry for you when it’s all over,” Eleanor called over her shoulder as she hurried back to the ladies’ solar. “If you don’t mind having your dragon look a bit like a cow.”

  That night Gawain lay on his pallet with the other pages in the anteroom of Lord Charles’s bedchamber. He was afraid to fall asleep. If I do, he thought to himself, I might sleep right past midnight. Then Sir Tristram will find the dragon first and kill it before I do, and I will never be a hero.

  He reached under the pallet to feel the hidden sword. He had sneaked it out of the castle armory that afternoon, concealing it under his cloak. It was a fine straight sword with a good balance, not too heavy, the hilt engraved with a pattern of silver leaves. There was a leather scabbard to go with it and a belt with a silver buckle.

  At last Gawain judged that it must be midnight. The castle was asleep. He could hear muffled snores from the room next door, where Lord Charles and Lady Margaret slept in a carved bed hung with red velvet curtains. An owl hooted outside the window. Softly, trying not to rustle the pallet’s straw stuffing, Gawain got to his feet. He wrapped himself in his cloak, slipped on his shoes, and picked up the sword. Quietly he crept out of the room and down the stone stairs.

  Eleanor was waiting for him by the back gate. She held a lantern in one hand, hiding its light with a fold of her hooded cloak. They slid back the bolts on the gate. The iron made a horrid screeching sound, and Gawain and Eleanor held their breath, waiting for someone to shout, “Who’s there?” But all remained quiet. Silently they opened the heavy wooden door, passed through it, and set out on the road to the forest.

  “This is it,” Eleanor said. The lantern, with its single lighted candle, shone dimly on a narrow leafy trail. “The second path to the right off the south road. That’s what the minstrel said.”

  “Are you sure?”
Gawain asked. He peered doubtfully into the trees. “It doesn’t look as if anything has passed this way in years.”

  “It’s exactly what he said,” Eleanor said firmly. “I have a very good memory.”

  She lifted the lantern and stepped forward onto the trail, her cloak sweeping the branches. Gawain followed. The little path wandered endlessly through the forest, twisting between bushes and trees. They walked for what seemed like miles and miles. The night began to fade, from dark to dimness, from black to pale gray. Then the sun rose and a faint light began to glimmer through the leaves. Eleanor blew the stub of the candle out.

  “My feet are tired,” she said.

  “This trail is leading nowhere,” said Gawain. “I don’t think your minstrel knew what he was talking about. Him and his squirrel. And I’m thirsty. Do you hear running water?”

  Just off the path to the left was a clear trickling stream. Both children bent to drink. The water was cold and sweet. The ends of Eleanor’s braids dipped in it and dripped on the grass.

  Gawain sat back, dropping the sword at his side.

  “Should we keep going?” he asked. “Or turn around and go back to the castle?”

  Eleanor squeezed the water out of her hair. Then suddenly she caught her breath. “Look!” she said, pointing.

  There, in the soft ground on the other side of the stream, was the print of a great clawed foot.

  “A dragon footprint!” Gawain whispered. “And it’s fresh. It must be very near.”

  They crossed the stream, balancing on a fallen tree trunk, and ran to the site of the footprint, crouching down to examine it more closely.

  “It must have stopped for a drink,” Gawain said. “Just like we did.”

  “There’s another print,” said Eleanor, pointing.

  “Broken branches,” said Gawain. “It went this way. Come on. Stay behind me.”

  They pushed their way through the underbrush, following the trail of tracks, crushed grass, and broken branches. Eleanor’s skirt tangled in the brambles, and Gawain’s sword kept banging against the trunks of trees. At last, almost between one step and another, they stumbled out of the woods and into a wide grassy clearing.