Dragon's Fire

by Emily Martha Sorensen

  Not the rich woman, she prayed silently. One baby of a different species would be bad enough to put in the care of a person like her. But two . . . it doesn’t bear imagining.

  “It doesn’t say,” Henry said, skimming over the article. “It does mention Virgil and Violet at the bottom, not that it calls them by name . . .”

  “Let me see,” Rose said, flipping the rather-too-cooked egg off the pan onto a plate and pushing the pan away from the burner. She flipped the burner off and grabbed the newspaper away from Henry.

  “Ah —” Henry cried, alarmed. “Don’t —!”

  “‘Henry Wainscott, student of paleontology, and his wife, Mrs. Henry Wainscott’?” Rose shouted, reading the bottom paragraph. “Now they can’t even be bothered to write my name?”

  “See, I knew you’d get upset,” Henry sighed, rubbing his forehead.

  “I’ve a good mind to call them a third time to set them straight,” Rose fumed.

  “What good would that do?” Henry asked wearily. “If they didn’t listen the first and second time, it’s very unlikely they will listen a third.”

  Rose slammed the newspaper on the table, answering with eloquent silence.

  A silver bucket spun into the room at rapid speed, a small green tail whipping around and around outside the edge of it.

  Wheeeeeeee! Virgil was having fun!

  The bucket slammed against the wall under the window. After a moment, their four-month-old son crawled out, tail first, emanating memories of fun and great dizziness. He wanted to do it again!

  “Yes,” Rose said, scooping up the bucket, “but since you’re in here, you can eat breakfast first. Eggs, ham, or chicken?”

  She held her breath, but she shouldn’t have.

  Chicken! Virgil wanted chicken! Eggs were boring, and ham was yucky yucky yucky!

  Rose sighed and opened the icebox door to retrieve the leftover chicken scraps from the previous night. Try as she might to interest Virgil in a cheaper meat, it seemed that poultry was all that was acceptable to him. Not that she had tried that hard, to be fair. Much as she hoped that it was merely pickiness that he would outgrow, she was afraid that it was an instinctive understanding of what food was healthy for him.

  With no way to find out save for experimentation, she was too afraid to press the issue and potentially make their son sick. They were not yet poverty-stricken, though Henry’s shoulders got tense whenever he added up the sums in his finance book, which did not make her confident that they could go on paying for expensive food indefinitely.

  Which reminded her . . .

  “How are we for our food budget for this week?” Rose asked her husband casually, setting a bowl full of chicken on the floor for Virgil, hoping that Henry would let slip some hint about their budget’s general state. It was an intense irritation that he would not share the details of their finances with her.

  “Whether we’re doing well or not, we have to get another chicken today,” Henry said shortly, flipping the paper open. He looked irritable.

  Rose was feeling rather indignant herself. His high-handedness about their finances was driving her crazy.

  She had finally tried to peek into his finance book the week before last when he had accidentally left it at home while he was at class, surrendering at last to temptation, but she had found nothing but numerous doodles and sketches on most of the pages. What pages there were of sums were unlabeled and clearly unfinished, which made it clear that this was not his finance book, merely another one that looked similar.

  Rose had sighed and put it back into his sock drawer, disappointed. If the man would at least explain why he had this mystifying obsession with keeping their finances secret, it would be one thing, but this sullen silence whenever she brought up the subject was maddening.

  Virgil brought his head down and smashed it into the side of the metal bowl, horns first. He butted it again, and the bowl toppled over, spilling chicken across the floor. Virgil snarled and dove at the chicken, sending shreds flying all over the room.

  “Virgil!” Rose shouted.

  Virgil was hunting! Virgil was killing his prey! Rawr! Rawr! It was dying! It was yummy! Yum yum yum yum!

  “Just because you are a predatory species doesn’t mean you are allowed to have poor manners!” Rose informed him, picking up the scraps of chicken and dumping them back in the bowl, then setting it upright again. “That is not acceptable behavior! Eat properly!”

  “He’s only four months old,” Henry said, snapping the paper slightly as his eyes moved to a top article. “What do you expect him to do, perform with perfect table manners?”

  “Given that he can understand everything I say, yes, I do,” Rose snapped, picking up a fork to take a bite of her now-cold and overcooked eggs. “He may be exempt from silverware, given that he has no opposable digits, but he mostly certainly can learn some decorum.”

  “He’s not even a toddler,” Henry said. “Let the boy eat how he wants to.”

  Virgil would pretend these were entrails! Yummy yummy!

  Rose flinched as a gory scene from one of his ancestors’ hunting memories filled her mind. While aware that his was a predatory species, there were certain things that one should not share while others were eating.

  Granted, her initial disgust had been immediately replaced by a fascination with how Tenontosaurus had been arranged internally, but most people would not be so conciliated by that. And their son did, in fact, need to learn how to behave around those who had no fascination with internal dragon anatomy.

  “Virgil,” Rose said sternly, “what have I told you? Suppose you shared some memory like that while we were eating dinner at your grandparents’ house?”

  Virgil’s grandfather had thought it was funny! Virgil had done that when he was playing with his grandfather last week! Virgil’s grandfather had told him he should do that more often!

  Rose put a hand to her forehead. Of course her father had done that.

  Virgil was done eating. Virgil wanted to have his bucket back. Could Virgil have his bucket and spin around and around and around in it?

  Rose sighed and stood to fetch Virgil’s toy, which had become extremely dented over the past few weeks. She handed it to him, and watched the little dragon pounce inside, then use his tail to push the bucket faster and faster and faster until it zoomed across the floor.

  Wham! Straight into the wall in the living room.

  Virgil was having fun! Virgil was dizzy. Virgil would do it again!

  Rose took a bite of her eggs, staring at the back of the newspaper Henry still held out in front of him. There was nothing interesting on the back page, but the tiny article within the middle had given her enough to ponder for one day.

  Chapter 4: Food

  As it was Tuesday, one of the days when Henry went to classes and Rose stayed home with the baby, she had no prior obligations to impede her from the crucially important journey she wished to make.

  “Virgil and I will be walking down to the museum today,” Rose informed her husband as he pulled on his socks, a trifle defensively. She was afraid he would tell her she should mind her own business about the new dragon eggs.

  “Sure,” Henry grunted, poking his finger through a hole in his sock and letting out an exaggerated sigh.

  Rose’s fingers tensed. If that were meant to be some sort of hint that she should mend them, she would not oblige him. She did not ask him to mend her stockings, nor had she requested the money to buy more, even though all of the pairs she had remaining looked a dreadful shambles. Having an infant whose species name meant “terrible claw” tended to do that to one’s legwear.

  But Henry said nothing. He merely pulled on his shoes, which were looking quite worn, and stood.

  “I hope you and Virgil have a good time,” he said. “Perhaps he’ll meet some new friends.”

  A tiny head poked out of a dented bucket.

  Who were Virgil’s friends? Who were Virgil’s friends he was going to see today?


  “Two new dragons,” Henry said. “They woke up and they’re going to hatch soon. Like you did.”

  Virgil didn’t want to hatch again. Virgil hadn’t liked hatching. It had been very uncomfortable, and his parents hadn’t helped him at all. Virgil was still mad about that. Virgil’s father had said he was going to see friends. Violet was Virgil’s friend. Could Virgil see Violet today?

  “Perhaps,” Rose said. “We’ll be in the same vicinity. But first we must acquaint ourselves with the new dragon eggs.”

  And see to it that neither of them is beleaguered by that atrocious woman, she added silently.

  Virgil didn’t understand what pets were. Why was Virgil’s mother angry that somebody had told his mother he was a pet? Who was that woman? Could Virgil see?

  Rose flinched. She hadn’t meant for Virgil to catch that wisp of memory. She had, in fact, intended him to not be aware of any of the events of that day.

  But Virgil was extremely curious, and placed no importance on what his parents wished to share and what they had wished to conceal.

  It was rather frustrating. Rose had always assumed that when she moved out of her parents’ house, she would no longer be forced to endure the whims of her intrusive younger sisters and their flagrant disrespect for privacy. But after a brief sojourn with two roommates she had not been close with, she was now living with a child who put her younger sisters’ snooping prowess to shame.

  Virgil didn’t know what that meant. Was snooping something to eat? Virgil didn’t want it. Virgil’s mother kept trying to make him eat food that was yucky yucky yucky. Virgil wanted chicken. Maybe Virgil was hungry now. Could Virgil have more chicken?

  “Oh, that reminds me. Could you get more chicken while you’re out?” Henry asked, reaching into his pocket to get out his wallet. He pulled out two one dollar bills and handed them to Rose. “Have to visit the bank again soon . . .”

  “I could run that errand as well if you add me to the account,” Rose said.

  “No,” Henry said shortly, shutting his wallet with a snap.

  Virgil didn’t understand what money was. Virgil was hungry. Where was Virgil’s chicken? Virgil wanted to disembowel it.

  “Goodbye,” Henry said, giving Rose a kiss. “I’ll see you when I get back, unless you’ll be back later than me.”

  “I likely will be. Have a good time at school.”

  “That’s unlikely,” Henry said, “but I’ll bear it. Virgil, behave for your mother, will you?”

  Virgil always behaved. Virgil behaved like he wanted to!

  “Behave the way she wants you to,” Henry said.

  Virgil’s mother wanted him to eat yucky food. Yucky yucky yucky. He wouldn’t eat it. Could he have his bucket and eat chicken in it?

  “Goodbye, then,” Rose said, giving Henry a kiss. “I’ll see you later this afternoon.”

  Henry stooped to kiss the tiny dragon on the head, and Virgil butted his head against Henry’s hand in a similar show of affection. Then the man left, locking the front door behind him.

  Rose watched with a slight smile on her face. Maddening as he could sometimes be, she had quite grown to love Henry. She was glad that Virgil had come into their lives and assembled their family.

  Virgil was hungry! Virgil wanted to kill food and eat it! Virgil wanted to kill chicken! Yummy yummy yummy!

  Rose snapped out of her reverie and let out a long sigh. Even if our son feels the need to share his ancestors’ gory memories.

  In preparation for leaving, Rose changed Virgil’s diaper, washed the breakfast dishes, clothed herself for the day, discovered Virgil’s diaper was sagging and atrociously-odored, rediapered the child, scrubbed both diapers clean, discovered that his new diaper was sopping, changed him again, and finally got out the pram to go walking.

  Virgil wanted to ride in the bucket! Could Virgil ride in the bucket?

  “No,” Rose said. “You’re riding in the pram.”

  Virgil wanted to play with the bucket in his pram.

  “I don’t think so,” Rose said.

  Virgil wanted his bucket! Virgil wanted to ram it against the sides!

  “Definitely no bucket,” Rose said firmly. “I don’t want you breaking the pram.”

  Virgil wanted his bucket! Virgil wanted it!

  Rose picked up the the dragon, walked over to the bathroom, placed him in the bathtub, and plugged her ears. The baby let out an unearthly howl and launched himself against the slippery slides in claw-filled fury. Fire spurted everywhere.

  “When you calm down, you can get out,” Rose said.

  Virgil let out an ear-splitting shriek.

  “When you calm down, you can get out,” Rose said.

  Virgil screamed again.

  “When you calm down, you can get out,” Rose said.

  A loud, thumping noise came from above them. The woman in the apartment above them was not happy with the blood-curdling volume.

  I know, Rose thought. I’m sorry. But there’s not much we can do but discipline him and hope he learns to stop screaming.

  Virgil was noticing the ceiling. The ceiling made noise. The ceiling was angry. Why was the ceiling angry?

  Rose sighed.

  Virgil wanted to get out of the box now. Virgil was calm.

  “So you are,” Rose said, and leaned over to pick him up. Maddeningly, the dragon’s diaper was wet again.

  She changed him quickly, not worrying much about the pins, since her son’s scales were tough enough to be at little risk of harm even if she was careless. Then she placed the dragon in the pram, feeling impatient to get going.

  Virgil poked his head out eagerly. This would be fun! Virgil liked going walking! Virgil was going to see Violet!

  Rose draped a blanket over the pram to conceal him and keep him warm, opened the door, and took them outside. The air was chilly, so she shivered under her coat as she maneuvered the pram down the stairs. Virgil let out an excited commentary from beneath the blanket, no doubt drawing the image of their surroundings from her mind as she stepped outdoors.

  It was very white, and he liked white, because it was fluffy! He had played with lots of snow at Christmas. Could he play with more snow? He wanted to play out in the snow.

  “No,” Rose said. “We can’t afford to buy an extra chicken just because you want to romp. You burn far too much energy to keep yourself warm. Please keep down under the blanket.”

  Virgil wanted to play. Virgil liked to play. Could Virgil play with Violet? Could Virgil play with Violet right now? He would hit her with his tail, and then she would hit him with her tail, and he would bite it!

  “Please don’t bite it,” Rose said with exasperation. “You made Violet cry last time you bit her tail. Remember?”

  Virgil didn’t remember. Oh, Virgil remembered because his mother remembered. She was showing him what he’d done. Virgil felt very sad. He hadn’t meant to make Violet sad. Virgil was very sad! He was going to cry!

  “It’s all right!” Rose said quickly, wrenching her thoughts back to better things. The last thing anybody needed was a screaming dragon throwing a fit on the sidewalk. “It’s all right. Violet is fine now. See?” She focused her mind on how much happier Violet had been after the pain had subsided.

  Virgil felt very sad! Virgil felt better. Virgil wanted his bucket. Could he have his bucket now? He had behaved.

  Chapter 5: Flood

  Nearing the museum, Rose was less than enthusiastic to find a huge crowd surrounding the entrance, elbowing one another to get to the doors through the gigantic crush of humanity.

  I should have known, she thought, chagrined. Why didn’t I anticipate this?

  She considered turning around and walking back home, but giving up after coming all this way seemed intolerable. She might take Virgil to see Violet until the crowd died down some, but Central Park Zoo was no doubt also flooded with people wanting to see dragons.

  From within the pram, disguised by a thick blanket Rose had draped over the t
op to both conceal her son and keep him warm in the chilly air, Virgil made his opinion known.

  He wanted to see Violet. Could Virgil see Violet? He would claw at her tail and bite her tail.

  Rose drew in her breath and looked to the heavens for patience. Then she said, in a low voice in the hopes that the surging crowd ten feet from them would not overhear, “No biting tails. No biting any part of Violet. Now, I want to introduce you to two more baby dragons. Can you behave and not make noise and not communicate to anybody until we’re there?”

  Virgil wanted to play! Virgil would hit the other baby dragons with his tail!

  “Yes,” Rose said dryly, “I’m sure you’d like to. But they’re currently still in eggs.”

  Virgil didn’t know what that meant. Oh, Virgil’s mother knew what that meant. No! Virgil didn’t want to go back to the egg! It was dark and boring and squished squished squished!

  “No,” Rose said in frustration, “I don’t mean you. I mean the other two —”

  She stopped, appalled to notice that they had spectators. Three children and two adults had paused in their excursion towards the museum. Two of the children’s mouths were open, while their parents’ eyes were riveted on the pram.

  Oh, dear, Rose thought with a sigh. Virgil’s method of communication does tend to attract attention.

  Under normal circumstances, she would studiously ignore confused or curious looks and continue in an unrelenting pace towards her destination. This usually worked to keep unwanted onlookers from approaching after recognizing the oddity of Virgil’s commentary. She did not know whether they figured out in retrospect that it had been a telepathic dragon or whether they assumed that they had heard it, as she never stopped to check, but as long as it worked to secure her privacy in the vast majority of situations, she didn’t much care.

  Unfortunately, that seemed unlikely to work here. For one thing, they had likely been standing there long enough to draw the correct conclusion. And for another, even if they hadn’t been, their proximity to the museum suggested that they had come specifically to witness the new telepathic dragons, which would mean the inference would be obvious.