The Phredde Collection

by Jackie French

  ‘Are you expecting anyone?’ I asked Phredde.

  She shook her head. ‘Maybe it’s someone from Neighbourhood Watch. Or Mark and Tracy.’

  ‘Mark wouldn’t bang like that! Tracy either.’

  ‘Hurry up can’t you!’ yelled a voice outside.

  Phredde giggled. ‘I know what’s wrong. They’re standing out in the snowstorm…’ She magicked the door open just before we reached it.

  …and the snow whirled in, just like you’d expect in a snowstorm. (You could only just see the turrets of the castle it was so thick, and bats whirling round in the wind. I wondered if they were the Olsen family, come to play in the snow just like Mrs Olsen’s ancestors did back in Ruritania.)

  There on the drawbridge was a snow-encrusted delivery truck and on the doorstep in front of us was this really furious bloke with snow melting down the collar of his uniform and the most enormous box at his side, and you know something? The bloke didn’t look cold at all, because there was steam rising from the box. In fact, he looked sort of hot, or maybe it was just fury.

  ‘Took your time, didn’t you?’ he snarled. ‘Here, sign this.’

  He thrust a receipt up at Phredde hovering in the doorway.

  ‘But maybe it’s not for me!’ said Phredde. ‘I’d better call Mum or Dad.’

  The delivery man squinted up at the docket. ‘It’s for The Phaery Ethereal—I can’t read the last name. You her?’

  ‘Of course you can’t read the last name,’ Phredde said with dignity as she signed the docket. ‘Humans can’t pronounce our last name. But yes, my name’s The Phaery Ethereal.’ (The Phaery Queen would have been proud of her.)

  ‘Then you take this,’ said the delivery man.

  He shoved the box and a small pile of snow through the door (which made the box smoke even more).

  ‘What…’ began Phredde, but the delivery man wasn’t listening. He dived back through the snowstorm to his truck and backed it off the drawbridge, skidded twice, then accelerated down the shimmering driveway to the normal road below.

  Phredde shut the door. We looked at the box. The snow around it had melted like an iceblock on the bench when you’ve forgotten you took it out of the freezer, and the steam from the crevices had stopped.

  ‘Wow, is that really for you?’ I breathed.

  Phredde nodded. ‘It’s from Uncle Mordred. It says so on the docket.’

  ‘Grahah,’ said the box.

  We jumped back. I mean, I jumped. Phredde dived upward so fast she hit the ceiling and came down in a triple somersault.

  ‘Er, Phredde,’ I said. ‘I think that box is alive.’

  Phredde grinned suddenly and turned another somersault in mid-air—only this time she meant to. ‘Hey, I bet it’s my birthday present. I thought Uncle Mordred had forgotten to send me one!’

  That made it sort of better. Uncle Mordred wouldn’t send Phredde anything dangerous.

  Maybe.

  The box began to steam again.

  ‘Why didn’t he just magic it here?’ I asked.

  Phredde shrugged. ‘Uncle Mordred’s trying to do things the human way, that’s all. He wants to try to fit in.’

  Considering that the last time I’d seen Uncle Mordred he had been a dragon, I didn’t think he was doing a very good job of fitting in. But on the other hand, if more people turned into dragons, the world would be a much more interesting place.

  I looked at the box, still gently steaming. Dragons…

  ‘You know, Phredde…’ I began, then stopped. I mean, I didn’t want to spoil her surprise when she opened it.

  ‘We’d better take it into Mum and Dad,’ said Phredde, her wings flickering almost too fast to see. (They are really pretty wings, like rainbows except rainbows, never move as fast as Phredde’s wings). ‘This is so exciting!’

  Phredde wafted the box up in front of us as we raced back past the suits of armour and the stuffed ogre along the hall.

  ‘Anthropophagi!’ Phredde’s mum was saying as we came in. ‘And if that doesn’t fit, how about…’ She stared at the box and the steam that was gently rising from it.

  ‘Ethereal darling, what’s that?’

  ‘Grahahahahah,’ said the box.

  ‘It’s from Uncle Mordred!’ Phredde danced about the room in excitement, her flashing joggers almost touching the top of the couch and the table. ‘It must be my birthday present. Look, there’s a letter taped to the side!’

  ‘How sweet of him,’ said Phredde’s mum, flapping her wings in a sort of I’m-considering-getting-angry fashion and looking warily at the box. A large black spot was slowly growing on one side. ‘Ethereal darling, don’t put your feet on the furniture. Or the ceiling! Maybe you should open it outside…’

  ‘Graaahaha!’ said the thing inside the box, and suddenly there was no need to open it at all. The room filled with this incredible burning smell (or stink, or stench, or odour) and the black spot grew and grew and grew. A flame flickered across the top and suddenly there was no box at all.

  Just a dragon, sitting on the mat next to the fire.

  ‘Grahaha,’ said the dragon, a bit crossly.

  It was a small dragon—well, small for a dragon—about the size of a really gigantic Alsatian dog, or my brother Mark when he turns into a werewolf at full moon.

  The dragon had gold scales (really pretty ones, all shiny), and a long muzzle a bit like a dog’s, but flatter, and spikes along its tail just like you see in drawings of dinosaurs sometimes. But this definitely wasn’t a dinosaur. It was a dragon. An annoyed-looking dragon, too. I mean, how would YOU like to be cramped up in a box for ages?

  ‘Grahhhhhhh!’ burped the dragon suddenly. A small arrow of flames leapt across the room and burnt a hole in the tablecloth.

  ‘Er…Ethereal dear,’ said her dad. ‘Maybe you should take your dragon…’

  ‘Grahhha’ said the dragon again. The tablecloth was just black ashes now.

  ‘He’s hungry!’ announced Phredde.

  ‘Then take him outside and feed him!’ declared her Dad, more firmly this time (I think he was getting over the shock—I mean it’s not every day your daughter gets given a dragon).

  ‘Grahhhhhaaahahahahaha!’ announced the dragon.

  Phredde shook her head. ‘He doesn’t want to go outside. He says its cold outside. Dragons don’t like the cold. He wants to go to my bedroom.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Phredde’s mum suspiciously. (My mum and dad hadn’t said a word. They were still sitting there with their mouths open).

  ‘I just do,’ said Phredde, landing on the back of the sofa and folding her arms. ‘After all, he’s my dragon.’

  ‘Well, take him somewhere!’ cried her dad. ‘I’ll come up in a minute and…er…fireproof your room for you. Or something.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Phredde. ‘Come on dragon.’

  ‘Grahaha,’ said the dragon happily. It trotted off as Phredde flew in front of it.

  ‘Well!’ said Mum.

  ‘My word,’ said Dad.

  Phredde’s dad shook his head. ‘Isn’t that just like your brother,’ he said to Phredde’s mum. ‘Sending a child a present like that. Surely he could have conjured up something more suitable? A goldfish or a flock of penguins or even a guinea pig.’

  ‘My brother has always been fascinated by dragons,’ said Phredde’s mum slowly. She was reading Uncle Mordred’s letter. ‘That’s why he keeps changing into one. That’s where he is now, he says. He’s on a dragon hunting expedition.’

  ‘I don’t care where he is! He can take his magic dragon and change it into…’

  ‘But that’s just the trouble!’ Phredde’s mum raised her eyes from the letter. ‘It’s not a magic dragon! This is a real one!’

  Things looked like they were getting awkward after that, so Mum and Dad made their excuses and we went home.

  I would have liked to stay and see the dragon again, and maybe help feed it and make it a bed—the only other dragon I’d met was Uncle Mordred
, and as I said, he wasn’t a REAL dragon—and this one had been awfully cute. But it didn’t seem the time to say so.

  Phredde was late for school the next day. The volcano had exploded half an hour ago and we were all in class bent over our geography books (well, most of us), when Phredde soared across the playground (I happened to be looking out the window at the time), dumped her bag on the verandah and swooped through the door…with the dragon clumping right behind her.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ apologised Phredde, diving down into her seat.

  ‘Graha,’ said the dragon.

  It looked like it had grown a bit in the night.

  It was certainly fatter—its belly bulged as if it had been having breakfast for the past ten hours—and it had an interested sort of smile on its face as it sniffed the schoolbags on the verandah and the door jamb (I held my breath in case it lifted its leg but it didn’t; after all, a dragon isn’t a dog!).

  Then the dragon padded through the classroom to sit next to Phredde’s desk (and mine too for that matter. Phredde sits just behind me and that dragon was LONG—I was sure it was much bigger than last night).

  ‘Er…Ethereal…’ began Mrs Olsen. Her mouth was hanging open so you could see her long, white vampire teeth.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Olsen. I’m sorry I’m late,’ Phredde repeated. ‘The dragon took longer to feed than I thought.’ Phredde pulled out her geography book.

  ‘But Ethereal…the dragon…’ Mrs Olsen’s voice grew firmer. ‘Ethereal, we simply can’t have pets in class. You know that. We have pet day once a year and you can bring your dragon then.’

  Mrs Olsen hesitated, as though she was imagining the dragon among the rabbits and cats and dogs the other kids bring to class (I brought my unicorn last year and she was a real hit). ‘Well, maybe we won’t have pet day again this year,’ said Mrs Olsen, ‘but the point I’m making, Ethereal, is that you simply can’t have your pet in here!’

  ‘But it’s not a pet, Mrs Olsen,’ said Phredde.

  Mrs Olsen blinked. ‘What is it then?’

  ‘It’s a wild animal. My Uncle Mordred said so in his letter. Who ever heard of having a dragon as a pet?’ said Phredde reasonably. ‘A dragon stays with you if it wants to, and goes if it wants to.’

  The dragon burped suddenly, sending a short burst of flame onto Mrs Olsen’s desk. It didn’t burn the desk—just charred it black along one corner.

  ‘Gaahaaa,’ said the dragon.

  Mrs Olsen edged back towards the blackboard.

  ‘Are you sure the dragon wouldn’t rather be outside?’ she asked Phredde.

  ‘Sure I’m sure,’ said Phredde. ‘If the dragon wanted to go outside it would. Dragons do just what they want to do.’

  Mrs Olsen eyed the dragon suspiciously. ‘What happens if you try to make a dragon do what it doesn’t want to do?’

  ‘Dad tried to make the dragon sleep on the doormat last night,’ said Phredde. ‘And it didn’t want to. So it burnt down my bedroom door and the portrait of the Phaery Queen in the corridor.’

  ‘Ethereal!’ exclaimed Mrs Olsen. She gazed at the dragon, horrified.

  ‘It’s okay.’ said Phredde. ‘Dad conjured up a new door and I never liked the portrait of the Queen. I mean I bet I’m the only person in the whole class who has a portrait of a queen in the corridor. But, you know Mrs Olsen,’ she went on really seriously, ‘I think we should let the dragon do what it wants to. I mean we don’t want to make it angry. Don’t worry. I bet it goes to sleep now it’s digested its breakfast.’

  ‘Gahhhaa,’ agreed the dragon, and shut one eye.

  Mrs Olsen hesitated, but there wasn’t really anything else to do.

  ‘Well…if you’re sure it’s safe…’ she began.

  ‘Of course it’s safe,’ said Phredde. ‘It’s just a dragon.’

  The dragon smiled, and shut the other eye.

  The dragon DID behave itself. It slept all through geography and maths and only woke up at lunchtime and was REALLY well behaved as soon as everyone decided to feed it their lunch.

  Phredde conjured up new lunches for them all and the food was much better than the stuff you buy at the canteen, or that parents pack. Phredde conjured really good stuff like six-layer hamburgers and cold watermelon and chocolate-coated frozen bananas with nuts, and the dragon had a few of the hamburgers as well.

  It was an awfully hungry dragon.

  When the volcano erupted and we went back into class the dragon settled down next to Phredde’s desk again. (I was right—the dragon was still growing. It was almost half as long as the classroom now, and we had to move a few desks after its tail sort of accidentally squashed Edwin’s.)

  We all pretended we were concentrating on the geometry written on the board and not really looking at the dragon, and Mrs Olsen pretended she was concentrating on teaching us geometry and not worrying that the dragon was going to wake up and burn the school down…

  …when this bloke tramped along the verandah, trying not to step on any of the schoolbags (they’re always a mess after lunch, and especially after the dragon had been shoving his muzzle into them looking for stray bananas).

  And he knocked on the door and said, ‘Mrs Olsen? Is this Mrs Olsen’s class?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Olsen, putting down the chalk.

  ‘My name is Perkins.’ said the bloke, pulling out some sort of identification from his pocket. ‘I’m from the Customs Department. I had a call from…’

  That’s when Mr Perkins saw the dragon. He stopped, and gulped three times, then gulped again when the dragon opened an eye. But then it shut it again (I guess it was really sleepy after all that lunch) and the bloke went on, ‘I had a call from a Mrs Allen.’

  ‘That’s right. She’s the headmistress,’ said Mrs Olsen.

  ‘And she informed me that there is a…an exotic animal at the school. A dragon to be precise.’ Mr Perkins was still staring at the dragon.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Olsen. ‘We do have a dragon here. It belongs to Ethereal.’

  ‘It doesn’t BELONG to me,’ protested Phredde. ‘It belongs to itself. It just wants to be with me.’

  Mr Perkins stared at her. ‘Well, it can’t,’ he said firmly. ‘This dragon is a piece of exotic fauna. It is illegal to import exotic fauna into Australia unless they go through quarantine.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Phredde.

  ‘For the very good reason, young lady, that animals from other countries can bring in diseases that we don’t have in Australia! I don’t suppose you want to be responsible for wiping out all of Australia’s koalas or lizards with a new virus?’

  ‘No,’ said Phredde.

  ‘Then can you show me any papers to say that this animal has passed quarantine?’

  Phredde lifted herself out of her desk and flapped threateningly next to the ceiling, but when you’re only the size of a gladioli you can’t really look all that threatening. ‘I don’t need any,’ said Phredde.

  ‘Young lady,’ said Mr Perkins (and you have to give him full marks for continuing to do his job even with dragons and phaeries and vampires to cope with), ‘I don’t care how magic you are, or even if this creature came from Phaeryland itself. It simply should not have been brought into the country without going through the proper procedures. Have you any idea how dangerous new diseases can be? I’m going to have to confiscate it at once.’

  ‘No!’ I cried. I mean Phredde was my friend and the dragon was HER friend so that made the dragon my friend, too. ‘You can’t take the dragon! It doesn’t like being shut up!’

  ‘I’m afraid…’ began Mr Perkins, not regretfully at all.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Phredde. ‘No one is going to take the dragon.’

  ‘And why is that?’ demanded Mr Perkins, gazing a bit nervously at the dragon. (It had started lashing its tail ever so slightly back and forth). ‘Even if we have to get the Fire Brigade here to help remove it, I can promise you…’

  ‘Because the dragon’s not an…an e
xotic fauna,’ Phredde stumbled a bit over the words. ‘It’s a native Australian animal.’

  ‘What!’ Mr Perkins’ jaw hung open.

  ‘My Uncle Mordred found this dragon in Australia. He said so in his letter! He was walking past a giant termite mound when suddenly the top opened up and there was this dragon!’

  ‘A likely story,’ sneered Mr Perkins.

  ‘It’s true!’ cried Phredde again, her wings vibrating like a demented budgie. ‘Phaeries never lie! And it was so small, and there were dingos all around and he was afraid they’d eat it, so he sent it to me to keep it safe.’

  ‘And what was your Uncle doing near this termite mound?’ demanded Mr Perkins.

  ‘He was on a dragon hunting expedition,’ Phredde informed him. ‘Uncle Mordred has always been interested in dragons.’

  Mr Perkins grinned, but it wasn’t a nice grin. ‘I’m afraid that the word of a confirmed dragon hunter like your Uncle simply isn’t enough my dear,’ he said. ‘If that’s all the proof you’ve got I’m afraid I’ll…’

  ‘Of course it’s not all!’ cried Phredde. ‘Look!’ She drew a piece of paper out of her pocket (phaery’s pockets are really tiny, of course, but they can fit all sorts of things into them).

  Mr Perkins peered across the dragon. ‘What’s that?’ he demanded.

  ‘It’s a copy of an ancient map of Australia!’ announced Phredde. ‘I photocopied it in the library at lunchtime.’

  ‘And what’s so special about this map?’

  ‘It’s from the 16th century,’ said Phredde. ‘That’s before Australia was supposed to have been discovered by Europeans, but the person who made this map knew where Australia was and even got it looking almost right.’

  ‘Well?’ said Mr Perkins.

  ‘And look…right here!’ Phredde fluttered over the dragon and handed it to Mr Perkins. ‘It says, Here Be Dragons! There have been dragons in Australia all the time!’

  ‘Phredde?’

  ‘Mmmm?’ We were up Phredde’s tree in the playground (I’d really like to know how come no teacher ever sees us up there) and Phredde was intent on her lunch. It was the tiniest Vegemite and lettuce sandwich I’d ever seen.