by Kaye Umansky
‘Spluzt,’ said the Demon. ‘It tame.’ It stepped away and stared at Hattie with new respect. The Dragon continued to sit with its tongue hanging out, eyes on Hattie, awaiting further instructions.
‘All right,’ said Hattie. ‘You can come out now. No sudden moves, mind.’
The Dragon rose to its feet, stretched out its bat wings, waddled out of the Circle, stared around – and sneezed. Green sparks sprayed from its nostrils. Guiltily, it looked up at Hattie, like a puppy who has made an accidental puddle.
‘It’s all right,’ said Hattie. ‘You can’t help that.’ She turned to Ronald. ‘Come and have a look at it, then. It’s your Dragon.’
Ronald stayed right where he was.
‘Go on. Stroke it. It won’t bite.’
‘It’ll burn, though,’ said Ronald.
‘No it won’t. Just show it who’s master.’
Reluctantly, Ronald took a step forward. Just one. The Dragon tensed. The low growling started up again.
‘Now then!’ said Hattie sharply. ‘What did I just say?’
The Dragon went quiet. It was still tense, though. Its yellow eyes were showing the whites.
‘Scratch it behind the ears,’ suggested Hattie. ‘All animals like that.’
‘Not likely.’ Ronald stared at the Dragon. The Dragon stared malevolently back.
Ronald said, ‘I don’t like it.’
‘What d’you mean, you don’t like it? You haven’t even got to know it yet.’
‘I don’t want to get to know it.’
‘Why not? Give it a chance. It’ll get used to you.’
‘It won’t. It hates me.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘It does. I don’t want it.’
‘Well,’ said Hattie. ‘You’re stuck with it now.’
‘No I’m not. I’m going to send it back to wherever it came from.’
‘Go on, then,’ said Hattie disgustedly. ‘If you want to be really mean.’
‘I will,’ said Ronald. ‘I will.’
Then he thought about this. Actually, he wouldn’t. He’d love to, but he couldn’t. Nowhere in the encyclopedia had he noticed anything about how to send back unwanted Dragons. He really should have thought of that. He would have to go back to the Library again. Hopefully, Miss Stickler could help him.
‘I can’t do it right now,’ he hedged. ‘I’ll need different ingredients.’
‘Well, there you are, then. Give it a day or two at least. It’ll calm down. Tell you what. I’ll empty out my toolbox and we’ll take it up to your room. I’ll help you get it settled in.’
‘I don’t want it in my room.’
‘Well, what are you going to do with it, then? Leave it down here? Just shut the door and forget about it?’
‘No do zat!’ begged the Demon. ‘Me no vant it.’
Hattie upended her toolbox. Hammers, chisels, saws and jars of nails cascaded on to the floor.
‘I’ll come down and pick them up in the morning. Right. In you go, mister.’ And with no more ado, she picked up the Dragon and stuffed it into the box. Its head remained sticking up, eyes glaring daggers at Ronald.
‘Down!’ instructed Hattie. The head bobbed down and she closed the lid. ‘Right, that’s sorted. Shall we go? Or do you want to clear up a bit? You’ve made a terrible mess.’
Indeed, Ronald had. Frank’s vital experiment was in bits all over the floor. His own notes were a charred ruin. So were his slippers.
‘No,’ said Ronald. ‘I don’t.’ Since when did Wizards clear up after themselves?
‘Let’s go, then.’ Hattie picked up the toolbox and made for the door.
‘Vrk sputz,’ hissed the Demon. ‘Gute riddance!’
Ronald waved a fist at it, then hurried after Hattie before the door closed.
Outside, Hattie set down the toolbox, yanked the door shut, reset the padlock and pocketed the key.
‘That’s it. Come on, let’s hurry. I’d like to get to bed some time tonight.’ And she began climbing the stairs, toolbox swinging, with Ronald close behind.
Their footsteps died away. Behind the door, all was silent in the Laboratory. Then there came a noise. A new noise. It was the crawling, slithery sort of noise that a stuffed crocodile might make.
‘Knash,’ hissed the Demon. ‘Zacroc!’
The crawly slithering noise was followed by a crashing noise, accompanied by some vigorous chest-thumping. The sort of noise a spaniel-eared gorilla with gills might make.
‘Ach!’ screeched the Demon. ‘Zere you is, Reg. You miss all ze excitement!’
Ronald couldn’t believe his eyes when he stepped into his room.
It had been fixed.
A new curtain hung over the window. It was a cheerful orange. There was a matching rug on the floor. The shelf had been straightened and all his belongings set out in a neat line, with the piggy bank standing proudly in the middle. The crack on the washbasin had been sealed with some sort of filler. The desk legs were all the same length, and there was even an actual chair. It was basic, but it was a chair. A fire glowed in the hearth. A real fire!
Best of all, though, was his bed. Someone had made it. There were clean sheets. Instead of his bedspread being the usual crumpled mess, it was laid neatly on top, without a single wrinkle. No sign of Lulu’s poster, he noticed. But he wasn’t going to complain about that.
‘Wow!’ said Ronald. ‘I say!’
‘Better?’ asked Hattie.
‘Better? It’s a miracle!’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I fixed what needed fixing and got the maids to sort you out clean sheets and whatnot.’
‘But – it’s incredible! You found me a chair! And you fixed the sink . . . and the curtain . . . the rug . . . I don’t know what to say.’
‘That’s OK,’ said Hattie. ‘Just doing my job. Now. Let’s get this little fellow out of the box.’
‘Must we?’
‘Certainly. The sooner he gets used to his new home the better.’ Hattie dumped down the toolbox and opened the lid. ‘Come on, then, mister. Out you come.’
The Dragon’s head appeared over the rim. It spotted Ronald and its ears went back. Ronald clutched at his Hat and dived out of the line of fire.
‘Calm down,’ said Hattie, stroking the scaly head. ‘You’re just a bit confused, aren’t you? Look at the nice fire!’
The Dragon looked at the nice fire. Its eyes reflected the glowing coals. It seemed to be relaxing under Hattie’s soothing hand.
‘It doesn’t want to come out,’ said Ronald.
‘He will when he’s ready. He’s getting his bearings. Listen. He’s purring.’ A low, contented rumbling was indeed coming from the Dragon’s chest. It seemed transfixed by the fire. ‘What are you going to call him? I’m guessing not Diddums.’
‘No,’ said Ronald. ‘It’s definitely not a Diddums. And how do you know it’s a him? It might be a her.’
‘He’s a boy,’ said Hattie firmly. ‘You can tell. He needs a boy’s name. What about Flame? Flambo? Scorchy?’
‘No.’ Ronald remembered the jet of flame that had nearly demolished his hat. ‘Nothing fiery. I don’t want to encourage it. Him, I mean.’
The Dragon gave a yawn, exposing his throat. It was like looking down a mine shaft with a lot of sharp, black, jagged rocks around the entrance. He rested his chin on the edge of the box. Firelight danced in his eyes.
‘What, then?’
‘I suppose it should begin with a D,’ said Ronald.
‘Why?’
‘Well, it rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it? Think of D names. What about Denis?’
‘Hmm. Denis the Dragon. I’m not sure it’s quite right.’
‘Darren? Dirk? Desmond?’
‘Mmm – no.’
‘Derek?’
‘No. What about Donald? It might help you to bond if your names rhyme.’
‘It won’t,’ said Ronald. ‘Keep going. Dean? Douglas? Dave, Denzil, Dermot . . .’
‘Wait! Go back one.’
‘What – Denzil?’
‘That’s good. I’ve got a cousin called Denzil.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Horrible. He picks his nose and wipes it on his jumper. He’s got dreadful habits.’
‘Right,’ said Ronald. ‘That’ll do. Denzil it is.’
‘Good. Well, I’m off. I’ll leave the box and pick it up tomorrow.’
‘Wait a minute!’ Ronald was horrified. ‘I thought you said you’d help me settle it in. Him, I mean.’
‘He is settled in,’ said Hattie. ‘Look at him. He’s dropping off.’ Indeed, the newly named Denzil’s eyelids were drooping.
‘I don’t trust it. Him.’
‘He’s fine. I’ll pop up and check on him in the morning. I’ll bring up some logs for his breakfast. And a basket to sleep in.’
‘But you can’t just leave me!’ Ronald was horrified. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘You don’t have to do anything. He’s asleep.’
‘But what if he wakes up and tries flaming me again?’
‘Do what I did. Threaten him with a slipper.’
‘But I left my slippers down in the lab!’
‘A rolled up newspaper, then. Just be firm. But I think he’ll probably sleep through the night. I’m off. See you tomorrow.’
The second the door closed, Denzil came out of his sleepy trance. His head snapped round and he glowered at Ronald, who automatically ducked. He didn’t flame, though. He bounded out of the toolbox, shot across the floor in a scrabble of talons and vanished under Ronald’s bed. The last Ronald saw of him was the vanishing barbed tip of his tail.
‘I say!’ said Ronald, trying to be firm. ‘Come out this minute!’
Silence. Ronald wondered whether to try using his Mystic Staff to poke him out.
Perhaps not.
He decided to sleep in the chair.
Chapter Nine
Breakfast
It was the following morning and the echoes of the breakfast gong were still reverberating as Ronald dragged himself down the million stairs. He was aching in every limb. A chair is no place to sleep.
He had spent most of the night sitting bolt upright sniffing for smoke, eyes fixed worriedly on the darkness under the bed. He was cold too, when the fire in the hearth finally died. When he did drop off, he had terrible nightmares featuring flame, smoke and slow-motion running in chicken slippers.
He had finally woken in the grey light of dawn to the sight of Denzil glaring down balefully from the shelf, tail twitching. Some time in the small hours he must have emerged from under the bed, flown up and draped himself over Ronald’s piggy bank. It wasn’t a great start to the day.
Ronald padded barefoot along the corridor leading to the Dining Hall. He had changed out of his ruined Robe of Mystery into his Other Robe, which he didn’t much like. It was tight across the chest and covered with old stains. He’d had a go at brushing his singed Hat with his hairbrush, but it hadn’t helped much. Up on the shelf, Denzil had watched his every move. He was glad to get out of the room.
Hattie was approaching from the other end of the corridor. She was carrying a basket in her arms. It was full of chopped firewood. A small pink blanket was neatly folded on top. They met just outside the Dining Hall door.
‘How’s it going?’ she whispered. ‘Did he stay in the toolbox?’
‘No,’ muttered Ronald. ‘The second you left he shot under the bed. I had to sleep in the chair. I’m not going to get in a bed with a Dragon under it, am I? It’s a fire hazard.’
‘Is he still there?’
‘No. I wish he was.’
‘Where is he, then?’
‘Up on the shelf,’ said Ronald grimly.
‘What – he flew? You saw him do it?’
‘No, but he’s up there. Sprawled all over my piggy bank. Glaring down at me with his tail twitching.’
‘Guarding your treasure,’ said Hattie. ‘That makes sense.’
‘But he’s not supposed to guard it from me! I need the tenner, I want to send off for new slippers.’
‘I’ll get it for you. Stop fussing.’
‘And he won’t let me go near the sink.’
‘Probably nervous of water. No more flaming, I hope?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You see? He’s learning. I’ll take him up his new basket, he’ll like that. And some logs. He’s probably ready for breakfast.’
‘Me too,’ said Ronald. He hadn’t eaten a morsel the previous day, and he was ravenous.
‘Go and eat, then. Don’t be long, though. I’ve got work to do.’
‘Right.’ Ronald opened the door, glad to be relieved of the responsibility.
The Dining Hall had a long, white-clothed table running the length of one wall. On top was a line of silver dome-covered platters containing sausages, bacon, eggs, black pudding and all the other makings for a full cooked breakfast. There were plates of muffins, scones and pastries. There was toast. There was marmalade. There was everything. Butler the butler stood to attention by the vast feast, armed with a coffee pot, ready to attend to the Wizards’ every need. A couple of kitchen maids were standing by with jugs of juice.
And the Wizards? Well, they were eating.
They sat on either side of a central table. On one side sat Frank the Foreteller, Dave the Druid and Harold the Hoodwinker. On the other sat Fred the Flameraiser, Gerald the Just and Alf the Invisible, who was represented by a piled plate and cutlery that spookily moved by itself. Bits of sausage kept rising in the air and vanishing from the end of the fork.
Nobody was talking. For Wizards, eating is a competitive business. The only sounds were the clinking of cutlery, the disgusting noise of mass chewing and the occasional demand for salt, pepper, mustard and chilli sauce. The salt shaker, pepper grinder, mustard pot and sauce bottle moved of their own accord, whizzing up and down the table and dispensing their contents on to plates.
Ronald walked in. There was no chair for him at the table, of course. As usual, he would have to eat standing up. There was another golden statue of Mervyn the Mighty just inside the door. It had a usefully crooked elbow. He usually balanced his plate on that.
Frank was on his third helping of fry-up. Dave was keeping pace, mouthful by mouthful. Harold was vigorously mashing up beans with a fork. He couldn’t eat chewy things on account of having no teeth. Opposite, Fred, Gerald and Alf were showing no signs of flagging.
Ronald walked to the side table, helped himself to a plate and began peering under the silver domes. Butler watched, and so did the kitchen maids. None of them offered to serve him. The Wizards ignored him. Ronald-baiting came later, in the Lounge, after toast and marmalade and the fourteenth cup of coffee.
He piled his plate high with sausages, bacon, eggs, chips, beans, fried bread and mushrooms, adding a cherry tomato as a token gesture toward his five a day. He helped himself to cutlery, walked over to Mervyn’s statue, placed his plate on the useful elbow and began to eat.
From behind came the scraping of a chair. Dave the Druid stood up.
‘Right, bit of a break before the next course. I’ll just pop along and collect the newspaper.’
Dave always got the paper. By rights it was Brenda’s job, but Dave considered that bending down to pick it up from the mat was a nice bit of morning exercise.
The Daily Miracle had recently been taken over by a brand new paper, called Witchway World. It contained a great many flattering articles about Wizards. Dave’s brother-in-law was the editor. He tended to be biased.
Butler hastened to remove Dave’s plate. This was Ronald’s chance. He snatched up his own plate and made for Dave’s empty chair.
‘Morning, young Ronald,’ said Gerald, through a mouthful of sausage. ‘You’re quite a stranger. We missed you at all the meals yesterday.’
‘I was in the Library,’ said Ronald.
‘The Library?’ cut in Fred. ‘What – reading?’
&n
bsp; The Wizards all paused in their eating and stared at Ronald. He wasn’t known as a reader.
‘I see you’re wearing your Other Robe of Mystery this morning,’ observed Frank. ‘A few nasty stains here and there. Seen a few breakfasts, that. Could tell some tales, that Robe.’
‘More like a Robe of History,’ said Alf wittily. Everyone chuckled except Ronald.
‘Still no shoes, I notice,’ said Fred. ‘And what’s with the charred Hat? Did you get that reading? Did your head catch fire, with all that knowledge streaming in?’
‘What were you reading about?’ asked Alf.
‘Nothing special,’ mumbled Ronald, shovelling in bacon.
‘Would you like some chilli sauce with that?’ enquired Frank.
‘No, thank you. I’m not fond of chilli.’
‘Nonsense. A good fry-up always needs chilli sauce.’ Frank snapped his fingers at the sauce bottle, which was at the far end of the table. ‘Sauce for young Ronald!’
The bottle gave a little start, zoomed down the table, banged into Ronald’s plate and upended itself. A river of red hot sauce poured all over his eggs and formed into a lake at the bottom of his plate.
Just at that moment, Dave returned with the newspaper tucked beneath his arm.
‘Right, young Ronald. I’ll have my chair back now.’
With a sigh, Ronald stood up. Butler snatched away his swimming plate and set down a nice, new, clean one for Dave.
‘Can I get you something, sir?’ he enquired.
‘Just a couple of muffins,’ said Dave, sitting down and opening the paper to the first page. ‘And a Danish pastry. And three crumpets. No jam. Need to watch the waistline.’
Ronald wandered over to the side table and helped himself to a slice of toast. He was thinking about Denzil. How was Hattie getting on? He hoped she’d managed to recover the tenner.
‘Good heavens!’ At the table, Dave was staring open-mouthed at the front page of the paper. ‘See the headline? I don’t believe it!’
‘What?’ came the interested chorus.
‘The Gold Crested Wallaroon’s back! Spotted yesterday, flying in from the South! Making for its usual nesting site on the cliffs over Sludgehaven!’
Great excitement greeted this announcement. Knives and forks clattered on to plates as the Wizards sat back in their chairs, breakfast forgotten.
