by Kaye Umansky
‘Um – excuse me?’
‘Yes?’ The insect eyes flicked up.
‘Do you have anything on Dragons?’
‘Of course. This is a Library.’
‘Oh. Right, great. Could you point me to . . . ?’
‘Dragons?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wait there,’ commanded Miss Stickler. ‘I don’t want you disturbing the books again.’
She rose to her considerable height and stalked off. Ronald edged around the desk and leaned over to see what she had been writing in her notebook.
Run security check on spotty youth with chicken slippers. Calls himself Ronald.
Beneath the terse line was a fanciful doodle that looked like twigs.
WHAAAACK!
A huge, leather bound book landed centimetres from his nose. It was massively thick and smelled faintly of brimstone.
‘The Encyclopedia of Dragonology,’ said Miss Stickler. ‘Everything you need to know.’
‘Oh – right. Thanks.’ Ronald stared at the book in alarm. ‘I don’t think I – er – have time to read all of it.’
‘One can always make time to read,’ said Miss Stickler.
‘But it’d take weeks to wade through that.’ Ronald felt the beginnings of panic. ‘Look, I’m really not that bothered. It was just an idle enquiry.’
‘That is your trouble, young man,’ said Miss Stickler sharply. ‘You are idle. You need to develop an enquiring mind. There’s a wonderful world out there. If you know nothing else, you should learn how to use an encyclopedia. You don’t have to read it from cover to cover. You just dip into it and extract the information you need. Then you take notes.’
‘But –’
‘I shall provide you with writing materials and give you any help you require.’
‘But –’
‘Enough!’ Miss Stickler held up a hand. ‘No arguments. This is a Library.’ She loomed over him, reached down and opened the cover with her twiggy fingers. ‘So, young man. Let us learn about Dragons.’
Chapter Five
Old Crabbit
It was much, much later and the Clubhouse was settling down for the night. All meals were over, the Wizards had retired and the staff were finally off duty. The Magical torches lining the long corridors burned with a spooky violet glow.
Old Crabbit was resting his knee in his room, which was next to the Kitchen. This was convenient, as he could shout through the wall for a tray or get his hot-water bottle refilled without having to lift a finger.
Right now, he was flat out on the sofa, dunking biscuits into a mug of tea and watching Goblin football on spellovision. The Rangers were playing the Wanderers. Like all Goblin matches, it was an outrageous free-for-all, with much flailing of fists, much vigorous pushing, much falling down of shorts and only an occasional fleeting glimpse of the ball. Old Crabbit thought it was a right laugh. He could have done without a visit from a Wizard in chicken slippers at this time of night. But that’s what he got.
‘I need to go to the Laboratory!’ demanded Ronald urgently. He stood in the doorway with a sheaf of papers in his hand, covered with his own scrawled writing. His face was pale and his body drooped with exhaustion, but a fire blazed in his eyes.
‘What – now?’ said Old Crabbit. His eyes never left the screen.
‘Yes.’
‘Right now?’
‘Right now, yes.’
‘I dunno about that,’ said Old Crabbit. ‘Not with my knee. There’s a hundred stairs down to that lab. Get ’im, my son!’ The shout was directed at the spello. A Ranger was chasing after a Wanderer, attempting to lasso him with a football scarf. In the background, a goalkeeper could be seen slumped against his goalpost, eating a sandwich.
‘You don’t have to take me. Give me the key and I’ll go by myself.’
‘You won’t be able to open the padlock. There’s a knack.’ Old Crabbit took a leisurely slurp of tea.
‘I’ll do it, all right? Just hand over the key.’ Ronald was getting annoyed now.
‘Hey, hey, no need to take that tone. I’m a sick man. That’s right, whack ’im!’ On the spello, the referee and a linesman were taking turns to whack each other’s head with a small tree branch.
‘I’m not taking a tone. I’m asking very reasonably for the Laboratory key. You’re the caretaker, right? So take care.’
‘It’s you wants to take care,’ said Old Crabbit darkly. ‘I wouldn’t go in that lab if I was you. Lots of activity last time I went down.’
‘When was that?’
Old Crabbit looked shifty. ‘Don’t remember. Bin a while, with my back.’
‘I thought it was your knee?’
‘It’s both. Back and knee.’
‘What sort of activity?’
‘Well, the rabbits have been breedin’,’ reflected Old Crabbit. ‘So have the doves. And there’s a nasty little Demon runnin’ around. Broke out of his bottle. Went for me ankle; still got the scar. Stuffed crocodile’s come down off the rafter, crawled off again, dunno where to. Then there’s the gorilla.’
‘Gorilla?’
‘Well, I think it’s a gorilla. Looks like one. ’Cept for the spaniel ears and the gills. He comes and he goes. Name’s Reg. You lot never clear up after yourselves. Think it’s beneath you. Place is crawlin’ with yer experimental leftovers.’ Old Craddock gave a sniff. ‘Well, I can’t do it, not now. Not with my knee. Oi! Goalie! What you playin’ at!’
A roar went up from the spello. The Rangers’ centre forward was lying in his own goal, curled up in the mud and refusing to let go of the ball. The goalie was still leaning against the post, licking mustard off his fingers and staring into space, unaware that his shorts had fallen down.
‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ said Ronald. ‘You’re just making it up to put me off.’
‘Put you off what?’ came a voice. Hattie Crabbit was standing right behind him, toolbox in hand.
‘Going down to the lab,’ said Ronald. ‘I need the key, but your uncle’s not being very helpful.’
‘He won’t ’ave the knack,’ said Old Crabbit.
‘So you keep saying,’ snapped Ronald. ‘But you’re forgetting that I can open it by Magic if necessary.’
‘Don’t need the key, then, do you?’ said Old Crabbit.
‘You can do that, can you?’ asked Hattie. ‘Open things with Magic?’
‘Of course,’ lied Ronald. ‘Child’s play.’
‘It’s just that in the kitchen, they say . . .’ She trailed off.
‘What? What do they say?’
‘Nothing.’
‘No, go on. What do they say?’
‘Well . . . that you’re a bit rubbish at the whole Magic thing. Sorry. It’s just what I heard.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Ronald tightly. ‘Of course I can open things. A simple Fireball should do it.’
This wasn’t true, of course. Using the key would be so much better.
‘How come your bedroom window was stuck, then?’ asked Hattie.
‘I told you. We’re not allowed to use Magic in the bedrooms.’
‘Take more than a Fireball to shift that padlock,’ said Old Crabbit from the sofa. ‘I’m tellin’ you now. You needs the key. An’ the knack.’
‘Look!’ said Ronald, really annoyed now. ‘Look, Crabbit, I am a Wizard. That means I employ you. As your employer, I insist that you take me down to the Laboratory now, this instant!’
‘I’ll take you if you like,’ offered Hattie. ‘I’ve got the caretaker’s knack, it’s in the blood. And I can see you’re all fired up about something.’ She reached past him and took a key from a row of hooks on the wall. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
The torches flared up helpfully as they walked along the corridor. Hattie strode in front with Ronald shuffling along behind in his chicken slippers. It was very annoying, how she always led the way. He was a Wizard. Wizards were supposed to go first. On the other hand, he didn’t actually know where the Laboratory was.
‘So what will you do down in the lab?’ enquired Hattie over her shoulder. ‘Practise your Finger Sparkles?’
‘No. Something rather more ambitious than that.’
‘Is it a secret?’
‘Well – yes.’
‘You can tell me. Go on. What?’
Ronald debated. He was about do something against the rules. On the other hand, he would quite like to impress her, after what they’d said about him in the kitchen.
‘Oh, you know,’ he said casually. ‘Just a little matter of Summoning a Dragon.’
Hattie stopped in her tracks. ‘A Dragon?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hot, swoopy thing with scales?’
‘Yes. I’ve copied the spell down. Surprisingly straightforward, actually. Basic ingredients. There’s a store cupboard down there, apparently. Should have everything I need.’
‘Why a Dragon?’
‘Why not? You told me to go and do something interesting and I did. I went to the Library and swotted up on Dragons. And now I’m going to summon one. You said yourself that everyone should have a pet.’
‘I meant a goldfish or something.’
‘Too boring. A Dragon’s much more suitable for a Wizard. I’m thinking of calling it – um – Diddums.’
‘Diddums?’
‘Yes.’
‘Diddums. Right. I see. Hmm. Well, I don’t know much about Dragons.’ Hattie began walking down the corridor again, boots echoing.
‘I do, though,’ said Ronald. He caught her up and waved his notes in her face. ‘In fact, I’m a bit of an expert. I read an entire encyclopedia. Ask me a question. Go on.’
‘What do they eat?’
‘Firewood!’ cried Ronald excitedly. ‘They forage for themselves, so they’re cheap to feed. Ask me another one.’
‘What about exercise?’
‘No problem. They take themselves off for flights. You can train them to fetch the newspaper at the same time. Do another one.’
‘What about the whole fire-breathing thing?’
‘You can teach them to control it. But it’s a really useful feature, isn’t it? Just think. No need for matches. Toast on demand. And they’re really good at guarding treasure, so my money will be safe.’
‘I don’t want to put a damper on things,’ said Hattie, ‘but what about the No Pets rule?’
‘Well, Hattie,’ said Ronald. ‘It so happens that I’m a bit of a rule-breaker.’ He rather liked the way that sounded. It made him sound a bit reckless. A bit daring. The sort of guy who swaggers around conjuring up Dragons whenever the mood takes him. ‘Anyway,’ he added, ‘if I don’t like it I can always send it back.’
‘You can’t do that!’ cried Hattie, shocked. ‘A pet’s not just for – for a summoning. It’s a living thing, with feelings. It feels pain, it feels hurt, it . . .’
‘All right, no need to go on. I’ll probably keep it anyway.’
‘Where?’
‘In my room. Nobody ever goes up there.’
‘I went up there,’ Hattie pointed out. Ronald stared at her. She wouldn’t tell on him. Would she?
‘Don’t look so worried,’ said Hattie. ‘Your secret’s safe with me. But it can’t stay cooped up for ever. How will you let it out without anyone noticing there’s a Dragon with a newspaper flying in and out of your window?’
‘I’ll let it out at night. It’ll be fine.’
‘If you say so. But personally, I don’t think you’ve thought it through. Here we are.’
They had reached a low archway set in the wall. A flight of stone steps descended into shadow. Hattie took the nearest torch from its niche.
‘I’ll go first,’ she said. ‘Some of the steps look a bit dodgy.’
Ronald didn’t argue.
Chapter Six
The Laboratory
The crumbling steps wound down, down, down, finally ending at a low door made of stout oak. A large padlock secured the heavy bolt.
‘Right,’ said Hattie. She dumped her toolbox on the bottom step. ‘Hold this.’ She thrust the torch at Ronald. ‘Don’t set your Hat on fire.’
‘Will this take long, do you think?’ he asked. Now he was here, he was eager to get started. Well – sort of eager. Eager and nervous at the same time.
‘Well, we’ll just have to see, won’t we?’ Hattie inserted the key into the lock. There was an instant click. ‘There you go. Hooray for the caretaker’s knack.’ She removed the padlock. ‘OK, it’s all yours.’
Ronald stared at the door. Suddenly, he didn’t feel quite so keen. It was all happening a bit too quickly.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Hattie. ‘Keep the torch, it might be dark in there.’ She bent down and hefted the toolbox.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Ronald.
‘To bed. Why? Are you getting cold feet?’
‘No,’ snapped Ronald. ‘Of course not. A Wizard has no fear.’ But he still made no move to open the door.
‘Oh, good grief,’ sighed Hattie. ‘What is it with you and doors?’ She pushed past him and gave the door a short, sharp shove. It flew open with a squeal.
Beyond lay pitch blackness. Blackness out of which came rather worrying sounds. Startled little scurryings and scamperings and the soft flap of wings. There was a smell too. A gassy, chemical smell. It was the smell of stale Magic, mixed in with something else.
‘Go on, then,’ said Hattie.
‘I’m going,’ snapped Ronald. ‘I’m just wondering what’s making those weird noi— arrrrgh!’
He staggered backwards, flailing, as a large flock of small white birds exploded from the doorway. One collided with his Hat, knocking it off his head. Another knocked the torch out of his hand. Another pecked him on the ear before streaking off to join its comrades, who were flapping away up the stairs, shedding feathers and cooing hysterically.
Ronald stared down at his Robe of Mystery. Oh, great. Just great. Dove poop. All over his shoulders and down his front.
‘Wow!’ said Hattie. ‘Doves gone bad. What was that about?’
‘Revenge,’ said Ronald grimly. ‘All those years of being stuffed up sleeves and jumpers. Yuck, what a mess!’
‘Here.’ Hattie fished in the pocket of her overalls and pulled out an oily rag. ‘Best I can do.’
Ronald dabbed ineffectually at the stains. It didn’t work. He was only spreading them. He handed the rag back and cast around for his Hat, the torch and his notes, which he had dropped in the kerfuffle.
‘I’m not surprised they’re fed up,’ said Hattie. ‘That’s no way to treat birds. Stuffing them up your j— oh!’ She broke off and pointed. ‘Look!’
A brown rabbit was squatting in the doorway. It was staring up at them, nose twitching. Hattie set down her toolbox and scooped it up. The rabbit made no protest. It just lay in her arms like a saggy old cushion.
‘Put it down,’ said Ronald. ‘It’s a stupid prop. It just wants lettuce.’
‘It’s sweeeet,’ cooed Hattie, nuzzling the rabbit’s ears. ‘I like rabbits.’
‘Just as well,’ said Ronald. ‘Because I think there might be rather a lot of them.’
In the lab, wall torches were coming on – erratically at first, but then with a steady violet glow. They shone on rafters whitened with droppings and alive with scuttling spiders. They shone on ancient benches, laid out in rows. They shone on cobwebby glass equipment and dusty test tubes and cold Bunsen burners –
But most of all, they shone on rabbits. Startled eyes. Frozen limbs. Twitching noses. There were rabbits everywhere. Under benches, behind pillars, in corners, everywhere. And where there are rabbits –
‘Uggh!’ said Ronald. ‘What a pong. Look at that floor, it’s encrusted!’ He pulled off his Hat and waved it under his nose.
‘Go in, then,’ said Hattie, poking him in the back. ‘Or are you scared of spiders?’
‘I’m going. I’m going, all right? It’s just that . . .’
‘What?’
‘Well, there’s only one way to find out. Shall I go first?’
‘No! Certainly not. Wizards go first.’
Cautiously, he stepped through the doorway. Instantly, his slippers welded themselves to the floor.
‘Poor things,’ said Hattie. ‘They’ve been digging holes, look, trying to find a way out.’ Gently, she put down the brown rabbit, who hopped off to join its friends. ‘Whoo! It’s spooky in here.’
It was. Yellowing charts showing the signs of the zodiac drooped from the walls. The stained benches were cluttered with dusty, long abandoned experiments. A full-size skeleton hung from a hook. It was shrouded in cobwebs and grinning like an idiot. Someone had stuck a paper party hat on its head.
Ronald peeled a slipper from the floor and attempted another step. It was like walking on congealed treacle.
‘What d’you think those are for?’ asked Hattie, pointing up at a rafter from which hung two rusting chains, several metres apart.
‘The stuffed crocodile,’ Ronald told her knowledgeably. ‘There’s always one in a Wizards’ lab. Traditional. Not sure where it is now, though.’
Nervously, he peered around. Plenty of rabbits, but no sign of a crocodile. No spaniel-eared gorilla either, which was good news.
‘Jvark’ shrieked a sudden voice from above, making them jump.
Glaring down at them was a small, red, scaly creature with webbed feet, two tiny horns and a forked tail. It was perched right in the middle of a rafter, little legs swinging and crimson eyes glittering in the violet light. It held a tiny pitchfork in its claw.
‘What’s that?’ asked Hattie. ‘An Imp, or something?’
‘It’s a Demon,’ said Ronald. ‘Leave this to me. Wizards’ work.’
‘Jvark?’ screeched the Demon again. ‘Jvark?’
‘What?’ said Ronald. He couldn’t speak Demon.
‘Jvark?’
‘What?’
‘Jvark?’
‘What?’
‘This isn’t really getting anywhere, is it?’ said Hattie. ‘I’d move on.’
