The Dreadful Dragon

by Kaye Umansky

  ‘Shurely not!’ That was Harold the Hoodwinker. ‘The Gold Creshted Wallaroon? Amazhing!’

  ‘There’s a golden opportunity for some ambitious young Wizard to seize his chance!’ cried Frank. ‘Not me, of course. No more quests for me. My heroic days are over.’

  ‘What does it say, Dave?’ asked Gerald. ‘Any more information?’

  ‘Not much. More news to follow in tomorrow’s edition.’

  ‘Hear that, young Ronald?’ shouted Fred. ‘The Gold Crested Wallaroon’s returned!’

  ‘So?’ said Ronald. He had never even heard of the Gold Crested Wallaroon.

  ‘So it’s incredible news! The first sighting for a hundred years! Bird watchers from far and wide are descending in their hordes!’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Ronald uninterestedly. He couldn’t care less about some boring old bird. He was much more concerned about the Dragon upstairs.

  The Wizards began chatting excitedly, begging Dave to pass the paper so that they could have a look for themselves.

  Ronald swallowed the last of his toast and hurried out.

  Up in his room, he was greeted by a scene of cosy domesticity. The fire blazed in the hearth. Hattie was sitting cross-legged on the floor next to the basket. Denzil was sitting on the pink blanket, taking small, polite bites out of the log that she held out for him. His jaws chewed methodically, making a noise like a small rock crusher.

  ‘Had your breakfast?’ asked Hattie as Ronald entered, puffing as usual on account of the stairs.

  ‘Kind of. How’s he doing?’

  ‘Wonderfully,’ said Hattie. ‘He loves his basket. And see how nicely he’s eating. I got him to light your fire, see? He came down off the shelf without a murmur, didn’t you, Denzil? Here’s your aunty’s tenner, by the way.’

  She waved a crumpled ten pound note at Ronald, who took it.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Have you written to thank her?’

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  ‘Well, you should.’

  ‘I will. I will.’

  ‘It’s just that another card’s arrived.’ Hattie pointed to the desk, where a second card was propped in front of the first one. You could tell that the message was frosty, because the card was rimmed with tiny icicles.

  ‘Oh,’ said Ronald. ‘When did that get here?’

  ‘Two minutes ago. There was a zipping noise, and there it was on the desk.’

  ‘Yes, well, Magic’s quicker than the post.’ Reluctantly, Ronald picked up the chilly card.

  It said:

  Still no news regarding the ten pound note I sent for your birthday. In my day, people always wrote quaint things we called ‘thank you letters’ upon receiving a gift.

  Your aunt.

  Ronald gave a sigh and dropped it before his fingers got frostbite.

  ‘I’d better go.’ Hattie rose to her feet. ‘I’ll take the toolbox, he doesn’t need it now.’

  ‘You can stay a bit longer, can’t you?’ asked Ronald, alarmed. ‘What’s the rush?’

  ‘I’ve got things to do.’

  ‘But he’ll be back up on my piggy bank the moment you leave.’

  ‘No he won’t. It’s empty. No treasure to guard.’

  ‘But what if he wants to – to – you know?’

  ‘I thought you’d read about Dragons,’ said Hattie. ‘I thought you were an expert. I thought you’d read an entire encyclopedia.’

  ‘It didn’t say anything about that, though.’

  ‘Well,’ said Hattie, ‘I shouldn’t worry. I tried giving him water in your tooth mug, but he turned his nose up. If he doesn’t drink, he won’t need to piddle, will he? And I reckon he’ll just digest the log in his tummy. All that’ll come out is gas.’

  They both stared down at Denzil. His stomach was indeed making explosive sounds. He looked up at Hattie and wagged his tail.

  ‘Lovely,’ said Ronald. ‘Something else to look forward to.’

  ‘Well, I’m off down to the lab.’ Hattie picked up her toolbox. ‘I need to collect my tools and release the rabbits. If I’ve got time, I’ll tackle the floor. Shall I remember you to the Demon?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you want your slippers back? If there’s anything left of them?’

  ‘No, thank you. I’m ordering new ones from the Catalogue.’

  ‘I’ll pop up later to see how you’re getting on. Be firm, mind.’

  The door closed, and Ronald and Denzil were alone together. There was quite a longish pause.

  ‘You can come out now,’ said Ronald. ‘I suppose.’

  Denzil rose, stretched out his bat wings, and stepped out of the basket, yellow eyes fixed on Ronald. He crept forward a couple of steps, then stopped. He sank to the floor, going all long and low.

  ‘There’s a good boy,’ said Ronald. He stretched out an encouraging hand. ‘Come to be friends, have you? Shake a claw?’

  Denzil avoided the encouraging hand. Instead, he went for the other one. The one that was holding the ten pound note! His jaws opened, snapped shut and once again Ronald found himself short of a tenner. The note in his mouth, Denzil flapped up on to Ronald’s nice clean bed, dropped it and sat on it.

  ‘Bad boy!’ scolded Ronald. ‘Not on the bed! Get off!’

  Denzil remained defiantly right where he was.

  ‘Off!’ ordered Ronald. ‘Give me my money!’

  Denzil growled. There were gurgling sounds coming from his belly.

  ‘All right!’ snapped Ronald. ‘All right, have it your own way. I’m telling Hattie, though.’

  Angrily, he crossed to his desk, pulled out the chair and sat down with his back turned. He opened the drawer and took out a pen and paper. It was time to write to Aunt Sharkadder.

  dere arnty, wrote Ronald. Spelling wasn’t his strong point. thak you for the munny.

  And there he was stuck. He ought to write something else, but what? Should he mention the umbrella? Perhaps not, she might buy him another one. The missing Certificate? No, definitely not that. He had to think.

  It didn’t help that he was horribly aware of two orbs of yellow hatred boring holes in his back. It made it difficult to concentrate.

  i hop you are well, wrote Ronald, then crossed it out. Of course she was well. She was a Witch. On the rare occasions that Witches get sick, they treat themselves with their own remedies. He didn’t want to imply that hers might not work.

  He screwed up the letter and began again.

  dere arnty thak you . . .

  From behind came a terrible noise. It was an explosive, gassy hiss and it was accompanied by the most appalling odour that had ever met his nostrils, including all the smells down in the Laboratory.

  Ronald whirled around, choking. Denzil sat quietly on his bed. He was staring at Ronald in something like proud triumph, mixed with relief.

  It was the beginning of a trying time.

  Chapter Ten

  A Trying Time

  Ronald tried. Oh yes, he tried. He tried shouting and he tried wheedling. He tried a rolled up newspaper, but Denzil snatched it away and ate it. He tried feeding Denzil with logs like Hattie did, but he turned his nose up. He preferred eating coal from the fireplace, which he dragged all over the floor. When Ronald’s back was turned, he flew up on the desk, swallowed the unfinished thank you letter, crunched up the pen, then went back on the bed and refused to get off. He only went in his basket when Hattie was in the room. He didn’t pass gas in front of her either. He saved that for Ronald.

  The second night, Ronald couldn’t face the chair and decided to risk sleeping in his bed. Denzil waited until he had settled, then flapped up and strolled all over the bedspread, leaving sooty footmarks. He waddled to the bottom and scrabbled around in circles, making himself a kind of nest, then slumped heavily right on top of Ronald’s feet. He wasn’t a quiet sleeper either. He wriggled and sighed and snored. Little explosions came from his stomach. Every time Ronald turned over, he hissed. Several times during the night, he got
up to lick soot out of the chimney. Ronald could hear him slobbering and slurping. It was horrible.

  Ronald complained about this to Hattie.

  ‘Look at it,’ he said. ‘Look at the mess! Soot and talon holes and those awful green scales. I think he’s moulting. And he’s so restless at night.’

  ‘You shouldn’t allow him on the bed,’ said Hattie. Denzil was rubbing lovingly around her ankles, purring.

  ‘I don’t allow him,’ said Ronald irritably. ‘He just does it.’

  ‘That’s because you’re not firm. In your basket, Denzil! Lie down!’ Obediently, Denzil trotted back to his basket, climbed in and lay down. ‘Good boy. You love your basket, don’t you?’

  ‘No he doesn’t,’ snapped Ronald. ‘He only goes in it when you’re around. The rest of the time he’s everywhere he shouldn’t be, driving me insane. Gnawing at my bed legs. Helping himself to coal. Hissing whenever I trip over him. Eating my private correspondence. I daren’t leave the room. I’m scared of the damage he’ll do.’

  ‘He needs exercise,’ said Hattie. ‘He’s bored. We should open the window and let him have a proper fly.’

  ‘Good idea!’ said Ronald. Well, it was. Maybe Denzil would fly away and never come back.

  ‘Not right now, though,’ said Hattie, reading his mind. ‘I’ve got a boiler to lag. I want to be here when you do it. He’ll come back to me. We’ll try it when he’s more settled. Cheer up. Isn’t it lunchtime?’

  It was. But Ronald had no appetite for lunch. Or for tea, or supper, or any meals really. The Wizards were still going on and on about the Gold Crested Wallaroon, who apparently was building a nest at the top of some tree somewhere. Ronald didn’t know what all the fuss was about. He had other things on his mind. At mealtimes, he skulked around until the Wizards left the Dining Hall then raced in and grabbed himself a selection of individual jams and a handful of sugar lumps before the servants could clear them away.

  He was petrified of leaving Denzil alone in case fire broke out. In all fairness, Denzil didn’t flame unless Hattie gave him permission. He lit the fire on her command and made a nice, neat job of lighting the candle. But he sprayed sparks whenever he sneezed. The new rug was already pitted with little black holes.

  The second time that Hattie recovered his tenner, Ronald didn’t take any chances. He put it straight into his pocket. Denzil gave it up without a single protest. Hattie rewarded him with Ronald’s sugar lumps, leaving Ronald with nothing to sustain him apart from the little individual pots of jam. It was quite sickening. As was the jam.

  Later that day, a third postcard arrived from Sharkadder. This one arrived with an angry whoosh. Poisonous-looking acid green flames were playing around the edge. Ronald didn’t dare pick it up. He read it standing well back, which was easy because it was written in large black capitals.

  It said:

  I AM STILL WAITING.

  When evening was drawing in, Ronald humbly presented himself to Mrs Swipe and asked if his Cloak of Darkness and shoes were ready. They were. He thanked her profusely. She sniffed and banged the door in his face.

  He put his shoes back on in the corridor. They felt a bit stiff, but he wasn’t sorry to say goodbye to his feet.

  He hurried back up to his room, opening the door with caution. Denzil’s latest habit was lying in wait and launching himself at Ronald’s back the second he entered the room. There he would cling, talons digging in, breathing hot, volcanic breath down Ronald’s neck while Ronald danced around trying in vain to dislodge him. He had to be literally scraped off, using a corner of the wardrobe.

  Denzil wasn’t in attack mode this time. He was back on Ronald’s bed, snoozing.

  Carefully, Ronald hung the Cloak on a hanger in the wardrobe. The Laundry had done a surprisingly good job. In fact, it looked as good as new. He wouldn’t feel so bad about using some of his birthday money to pay off the final instalment now. Hopefully, there would be enough left over to order some new socks and a decent pair of slippers.

  Leaving Denzil still sleeping, he went back down to see if Hattie was around. He was rather hoping she would come up so that he could casually slip on the Cloak. She had never actually seen him looking his best. There was no sign of her. He walked along to Old Crabbit’s room to enquire, but Old Crabbit was pretending to be asleep, despite his vigorous knocking.

  When Ronald returned, he found to his horror that Denzil had discovered a new amusement. The wardrobe door was swinging open and the Cloak was lying on the floor in a crumpled heap. Denzil sat on top, kneading and drooling, talons making hundreds of little holes in the velvet.

  Ronald snatched it away, hung it up and slammed the wardrobe door. Denzil hissed at him and flew back up to the shelf, landing with a thump. The shelf sagged. He was getting heavy.

  Ronald went back down and once again walked along to Old Crabbit’s room. He hammered on the door.

  ‘Who is it?’ came the feeble response. ‘I’m in bed.’

  ‘Me. Ronald the Magnificent.’

  ‘Oh.’ The voice didn’t sound so feeble this time. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Is Hattie there? I’d like a word.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, do you know where she is?’

  ‘No. Go away, I’m a sick man.’

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Hattie’s voice, from behind him. ‘Problems?’

  ‘He’s only ruined my Cloak,’ snapped Ronald. ‘He got it out of the wardrobe and sat on it with his wretched talons going in and out.’

  ‘Kneading,’ said Hattie wisely. ‘Cats do that. It’s a comfort thing.’

  ‘But I still haven’t paid for it! I’d like you to come up and tell him off. He takes no notice of me. He’s nearly gnawed through one of the bed legs and I think he might have eaten my hairbrush. I can’t find it, anyway.’

  ‘I can’t come right now,’ said Hattie. ‘I promised to look at Brenda’s spellophone. The dial’s spun right off and she can’t ring Pauline.’

  ‘Well, thanks!’ said Ronald. ‘Thanks a lot. You’re a great help, I must say.’ And he stamped off back upstairs.

  Denzil was still up on the shelf. When Ronald came in, his hackles rose, and he spat, long and hard.

  ‘Pttttthhhhhhtttt!’

  ‘That’s quite enough from you!’ snapped Ronald. He strode across the room, wrenched the curtain aside and flung the window wide open. Cool night air seeped in. High above, there sailed a full moon. ‘Hey! Denzil! Fancy a fly?’

  Denzil sat up and examined the open window. There was a gleam of interest in his yellow eyes.

  ‘Come on, then,’ urged Ronald, patting the window sill. ‘It’s all right, you’re allowed. Hattie said.’

  Denzil rose up on all four feet, unfolded his wings and flapped down on to the ledge. His long neck stretched out into the night air. His eyes were on the moon.

  ‘Go on,’ said Ronald. ‘You know you want to.’

  Denzil took a deep, deep breath. Then he extended his wings and leapt into the sky. Moonlight glinted on his green head – and he was gone!

  ‘And don’t come back!’ yelled Ronald, banging the window shut.

  Triumphantly, he pulled the curtain across. He’d done it! He’d got rid of Denzil! Hattie would be mad at him, but he’d say that he’d opened the window by mistake.

  Humming to himself, he strolled to the sink and turned on the tap. For the first time in three days, he could actually clean his teeth. He made a big deal of it, with plenty of luxurious froth and a lot of thorough scrubbing. He washed his face. He squeezed a couple of spots in a leisurely way. Then he took off his Robe and pulled on his nightshirt. He heaped a few more coals on to the fire, blew out the candle, climbed into bed, snuggled down and instantly fell into a deep, blissful, Dragon free sleep.

  In the middle of the night, he awoke screaming to the sound of a window smashing, followed by a crushing weight descending on his chest.

  Denzil had returned! It had clearly been raining, because he was soaking wet.
He gave himself a hearty shake, splattering droplets all over Ronald. That was followed by a huge belch. He then waddled to the end of the bed, scattering glass shards, flopped down with a contented sigh and instantly began snoring. His stomach was churning loudly, obviously building up gas. Any minute now.

  Ronald stuck his head under his pillow and tried not to breathe.

  Something would have to be done.

  Early next morning, Ronald was woken by a brisk knock on his door.

  ‘Only me!’ came Hattie’s voice.

  Denzil was up and off the bed in a shot. He squeezed into his basket, and sat really nicely. Quite the model little Dragon. Well, actually, not quite so little. Either the basket was shrinking, or he was growing. There was a certainly a lot less space.

  ‘Suck up,’ snarled Ronald. He swung his legs on to the floor and padded across to open the door, wishing that his nightshirt didn’t have a kitten embroidered on the pocket (another present from Aunt Sharkadder). He hoped Hattie wouldn’t notice.

  ‘Cute kitten on your nightshirt,’ said Hattie.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Ronald stiffly. ‘It wasn’t my choice.’

  ‘I hear your window’s smashed,’ said Hattie. ‘The courtyard’s full of glass. Harold the Hoodwinker cut his foot.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ronald. ‘I opened it last night to get some air in.’

  ‘I see,’ said Hattie.

  ‘Yes. I was a bit too firm closing it again.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t want Denzil escaping.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Yes. That’s how it got broken.’

  ‘You’re lying, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Ronald. ‘I am.’ He gave a sigh. ‘I let him out and hoped he’d never come back again. But he did. Straight through the window in the middle of the night. Gave me a terrible shock.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, luckily I’ve got my toolbox.’ Hattie’s eyes went to Denzil, who was clawing his blanket, waiting eagerly for the word. ‘Come on, then, big boy! Up you come!’