The Dreadful Dragon

by Kaye Umansky

  Joyfully, Denzil flew into her arms, licking her face with his long green tongue.

  ‘Oh, for crying out loud,’ muttered Ronald, disgusted.

  ‘Whoah! Denzil!’ laughed Hattie, staggering a bit. ‘You’re getting heavy. Down you go!’ She set him on the floor, where he rolled over to have his tummy tickled.

  They both looked down at him.

  ‘You’re right, you know,’ said Ronald. ‘He’s growing. I’m not surprised, with all he’s eating. He foraged for himself when he was out on his fly too. There were leaves stuck in his teeth.’

  ‘He’s just having a growth spurt,’ said Hattie.

  ‘You can say that again. Look at him. He’s almost doubled in size in a couple of days. Come to think of it, there was something in the encyclopedia about Dragons growing quickly in the early stages.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Hattie, playfully rolling Denzil over with her foot. ‘I’ll get him a bigger basket.’

  ‘What happens when he grows out of that?’

  ‘Well, we don’t know how big he’ll end up. Let’s worry about it when it happens.’

  ‘This is a small room,’ said Ronald. ‘I need to worry about it now.’

  ‘Well, go and do it somewhere else. I’ve got to fix your window. Then I’ll play with him with string for ten minutes. Hopefully that’ll tire him out. Off you go. And take that dirty old Robe with you and put it in the laundry basket.’

  ‘All right, if you don’t want my company,’ said Ronald, rather sulkily. ‘If you’d sooner play with some stupid Dragon.’

  ‘Sssh! He understands everything you say, you know.’

  Ronald snatched up his filthy Robe of Mystery from the corner where he’d thrown it and stormed out, banging the door behind him.

  Chapter Eleven

  Getting Rid of Denzil

  Ronald stood in front of the Library door, examining the notice that was stuck on the front. It said:

  CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

  His heart sank. His plan had been to consult the encyclopedia and see if there was anything about sending unwanted Dragons back where they came from. Basically, a sort of reverse Summoning. What would you call that? A Rejection? A Dismissal? Whatever it was called, Hattie wouldn’t approve. But she didn’t have to know.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t young Ronald,’ said a voice. ‘Here to do more reading, are we?’

  Behind him was Dave the Druid with a copy of Witchway World beneath his arm.

  ‘Yes, actually,’ said Ronald.

  ‘You missed breakfast this morning,’ went on Dave. ‘Hungry for knowledge, I expect?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ronald. ‘I am. But as you can see, the Library’s closed.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Dave. ‘Our delightful Miss Stickler. Run out of twigs, I imagine. She does from time to time. But if you’re anxious for reading material, I just happen to have today’s paper.’

  ‘No, it’s all right.’

  ‘More news of the Wallaroon. Huge excitement in Sludgehaven. Massive tourist attraction. Here. Take it.’

  ‘No, really.’

  ‘Go on. It has a twelve-metre wingspan, you know. It can break a man’s arm.’

  ‘I thought that was swans.’

  ‘Oh, the Wallaroon’s much fiercer than a swan. No comparison. That’s why nobody dares go near it, despite the obvious attraction of the egg.’

  ‘What’s attractive about its egg?’

  ‘Well, it’s solid gold, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Worth a fortune. Go on, read all about it.’ Dave thrust the paper at him. ‘I insist.’

  ‘All right. Thanks.’ Ronald took the paper, shoved it under his arm and walked off.

  ‘They say it’s nesting!’ shouted Dave. ‘Laying the egg any day now! Solid gold!’

  He was shouting at thin air.

  Ronald descended the steps to the Laundry. The door was closed. Set outside was a big wicker basket, in which the Wizards were supposed to place their grubby washing. A stout-looking clip held the lid down. Wizardly garments have a habit of escaping when faced with the prospect of being washed by Mrs Swipe. Often at night, you would see an old shirt crawling up the stairs on its way back to its owner, or a furtive pair of grubby trousers lurking behind a statue, ready to make a run for it.

  Ronald undid the clip and opened the lid. Wizards are not particularly clean in their habits, so it was currently empty. He was just about to throw in the Robe when a sudden, brilliant idea occurred to him.

  So far, his efforts to get rid of Denzil hadn’t worked. He wouldn’t fly away. There was no way that he could be un-Summoned now the Library was closed. But what if . . . ?

  ‘Yes,’ muttered Ronald. ‘Yes. It just might work.’

  There was no one around. The Wizards would still be at breakfast in the Dining Hall. He threw in the Robe, slammed the lid shut, seized the basket by its handles – and ran! He charged back along the corridor, up the steps, along another corridor, up more stairs, and took the last flight of the million steps up to his room, three at a time.

  He paused outside the door, gasping as always.

  ‘Hattie?’ he called. ‘Are you in there?’

  All was quiet. Basket in hand, he cautiously pushed open the door with his foot, prepared for the usual attack.

  Denzil was asleep on the bed. He was really getting bigger. Definitely eating too much. Goodness knows what he had scoffed the night before. From the smell of the room, probably an entire wood, with a couple of small barns for pudding.

  There was a new pane of glass in the window with a note propped against it. It said:

  All tired out with string. Should sleep for a bit now.

  Walking on tiptoe, Ronald sidled in. Carefully, trying not to rustle, he put the newspaper on his desk. Then he tiptoed across and placed the laundry basket next to the bed. Cautiously, he opened the lid, took out his Robe and threw it back in the corner. Holding his breath, he tiptoed to the wardrobe and opened the door.

  There wasn’t much in there, apart from his Other Robe, his Cloak of Darkness and the suit he had worn for the interview. The tie – a blue, spotty one – was draped around the shoulders. Ronald pulled it off, trying not to rattle the hanger.

  Tie in hand, he tiptoed across to Denzil’s basket and picked up the pink blanket, which was covered with small green scales. He gave it a disgusted little shake. On the bed, Denzil stopped snoring. Ronald froze. But all was well. He started again.

  Holding both tie and blanket, Ronald tiptoed to the bed. This was the moment. Timing was all.

  He leapt!

  Denzil’s head jerked up – but too late! In seconds, the tie was wound tightly around his jaws and secured with a knot. The blanket came down over him, hands gripped his sides, and he suddenly found himself being borne through the air and plonked in some sort of container. Automatically he tried flaming, but his jaws were muzzled, so he couldn’t. Smoke came out of his ears and gas came out of – well, you don’t want to know. Furiously, he struggled out of the blanket and stared up into Ronald’s triumphant face.

  It was the last thing he saw before the lid went down.

  The lobby was deserted. Brenda was off somewhere having one of her many coffee breaks.

  Holding the bucking, heaving basket in his hands, Ronald hurried to the main door. He had changed out of the nightshirt and was wearing his Other Robe, his Cloak of Darkness (complete with holes and dribble stains) and his charred Hat of Knowledge.

  He set down the heavy basket. Little tendrils of smoke were trickling through the wicker. The lid kept jerking up and down as Denzil thrashed around inside, but the stout clip was holding. Ronald reached to open the door.

  A stern voice rapped, ‘Just where do you think you’re going?’

  It was Hattie. She had a habit of coming up behind when he was least expecting it. What a disaster! Caught red-handed.

  Inside the basket, Denzil stopped thrashing, settled down and waited for rescue like a
good boy.

  ‘Nowhere,’ said Ronald. ‘Walking.’

  ‘With the laundry basket?’

  ‘I’m taking a picnic.’

  ‘Oh, you are, are you? What sort of food?’

  ‘Jam.’ Ronald cast his eyes down to the little trickles of smoke coming from the basket. ‘Smoked jam. Like smoked ham, only – um – jammier.’

  ‘Rubbish. You’ve got Denzil in there, haven’t you?’

  ‘No. Well, all right, yes. I thought he’d like some fresh air.’

  ‘Liar. You’re going to dump him, aren’t you? I always know when you’re fibbing.’

  Ronald gave in. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘You’re right. I am.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Nowhere special.’

  In fact, the plan had been to dump Denzil in Goblin Territory – a bleak, windswept place whence few returned. He would leave the basket under a tree with a note saying Free Dragon. What the Goblins would do with a Dragon he had no idea. Poke it with a stick? Take turns riding on it? Put it in a football team? Who cared, as long as it never came back.

  ‘Well, I’m surprised at you,’ said Hattie. ‘Surprised and disappointed.’

  ‘Look,’ said Ronald. ‘I can’t keep him in my room any more. Look at him, he’s getting huge. And more horrible by the second.’

  ‘Ssshh. He can understand everything you say, you know.’

  ‘No, he can’t. Even if he can, I don’t care. He’s dreadful. I just don’t want him.’

  ‘Then it’s your responsibility to find him a loving home.’

  ‘You take him home and love him, then.’

  ‘I’m not at home, am I? I’m here. But I clearly can’t trust you with him.’ Hattie picked up the laundry basket. ‘I’m putting him in the woodshed for now. You need time out from each other. You can both think about your behaviour.’

  ‘Good!’ snarled Ronald. ‘Glad to see the back of him!’

  And he stomped back up to his room.

  Chapter Twelve

  A Journey with Fish

  There was another postcard waiting on the desk. This one was seriously on fire. It burned furiously, little red flames licking around the edge and singeing the desk beneath.

  Ronald hastened to the sink and threw a glass of water over it. It was horribly charred, but he could just about make out the last line.

  It said:

  AND MAY YOU NEVER DARKEN MY DOOR AGAIN!!!!

  He would really have to reply this time. If he wasn’t careful, she would show up in person and demand the tenner back. But not now. First, he wanted to relax a bit. Put his feet up. Enjoy having his room to himself again, without a Dragon in it. Have a look at the newspaper.

  He dropped the soggy postcard into the wastebasket, picked up the paper, threw himself on the bed and examined the screaming headline.

  BIRD ABOUT TO LAY EGG!

  Crowds have gathered at the site of the tallest tree on the cliffs at Sludgehaven, where the legendary Gold Crested Wallaroon is nesting. The Mayor of Sludgehaven said, ‘For reasons of health and safety, the public is warned not to approach it. We would all like a solid gold egg, who wouldn’t, but the risks are too great. The Wallaroon is a bird which can only be restrained by Magic. Maybe a bold, agile, heroic young Wizard might succeed in frightening it off with Finger Sparkles, but otherwise . . .

  Ronald read on.

  The woodshed was situated at the back of the Clubhouse, tucked into a corner of the Wizards’ overgrown allotment. Gardening is not high on a Wizard’s list of priorities.

  ‘Here we are, Denzil,’ said Hattie, pulling open the door. ‘Your new home. You’ll like it, it’s bigger than Ron’s room.’

  Denzil stared into the shed, eyes gleaming and tail wagging to and fro. He was gazing at the logs. Massive, heaped mountains of logs, stretching from floor to ceiling.

  ‘In you go,’ said Hattie. ‘I’ll be back later. I suggest you have a quiet think about things. You’re not making life easier for yourself, you know.’

  Denzil waddled in willingly. He was clearly happy to bunk down anywhere but with Ronald.

  The door closed. The lock clicked, and he was alone in the dark. He waited until Hattie’s footsteps died away.

  He began on the first log.

  Ronald lay on the bed, thinking. Thinking about a golden egg.

  It would solve all his money problems. He could sell it on Magimart, the Wizardly equivalent of eBay. Start a bidding war. There must be thousands of Wizards out there who would pay a fortune for such a rare thing.

  He would be able to pay off the Cloak and order loads more stuff from the Catalogue. Socks. A manly umbrella. A decent pair of slippers. In fact, a whole new wardrobe. Thanks to Denzil, everything he possessed was burnt, full of holes or dribbled on. He could get a new Hat! New shoes! New everything!

  There was another reason why he could do with the egg. This was the whole Fame thing. Fame, stardom, pictures in the paper. He would be a real celebrity! The Wizards would respect him for once. He would bring glory to the Clubhouse. They might buy him a chair. Although, of course, he’d be rich enough to buy his own chair, wouldn’t he? A golden one, with a tasselled cushion.

  Best of all, he would be able to pay someone to take on Denzil. Someone somewhere must run a shelter for homeless Dragons. With money in his pocket, new clothes and Denzil gone, his worries would be over.

  He checked the article again.

  Maybe a bold, agile, heroic young Wizard might succeed in frightening it off with Finger Sparkles.

  Well. He could do those, couldn’t he? After all, he had managed to Summon a Dragon. Finger Sparkles were small fry compared to that. He was definitely improving. He had demonstrated that he could be bold. He was reasonably agile. And heroic? Well – why not? Heroes didn’t necessarily need muscles. Sometimes, quite small people stood up to huge giants and defeated them armed only with cunning, determination and, of course, confidence.

  He could do it, couldn’t he? Yes. He could. He could and he would.

  He debated whether to discuss the new plan with Hattie. Perhaps not. He wasn’t in her good books right now. She might try to put him off. No, he would keep it a secret. It would be so much more impressive if he arrived back home to a triumphant hero’s welcome, brandishing a golden egg. He might even buy her a bunch of flowers or something, to say thank you for helping out with Denzil.

  Or maybe he wouldn’t. He was still smarting a bit from the last telling off.

  He would think about that later. But right now, there was no time to be lost.

  Craig the fish man was sitting in the driver’s seat of his little white van, about to start the engine. He had just completed his last delivery of the day, which was to the Wizards’ Clubhouse. Craig came every week, on a Friday. The Wizards bought in bulk, so there wasn’t much left in the back of his van. Just a large, annoyed crab that was too tough to cook and a pile of particularly ugly, bony fish with teeth and weird feelers that nobody liked the look of. Despite being on ice, they smelled to high heaven.

  Craig set his woolly hat straight, turned the key, put his foot down and was just about to pull away when there came the sound of running footsteps. A head topped with a pointy Hat loomed at the window.

  Craig wound it down and said, ‘Yes, mate?’

  ‘Could I possibly beg a lift?’ panted Ronald. ‘I need to get to Sludgehaven in a hurry.’

  ‘No problem, mate,’ said Craig easily. ‘You’ll have to ride in the back, though. Boss don’t like me taking passengers.’

  ‘Right,’ said Ronald. He hurried around to the back of the van and threw open the doors. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Sorry about the fish,’ called Craig. ‘Cheap job lot.’

  ‘And – er – the crab?’

  ‘Just keep yer toes away. It’ll be a bit nippy in there, in more ways than one. I hope you’re dressed up warm.’

  ‘Ron?’ called Hattie. ‘Are you in there?’ She knocked on the door.

  Silence.

 
‘Ron? Stop sulking and open up!’

  More silence.

  She opened the door. The room was empty. Ronald’s shape was outlined on the bedspread. On the pillow lay a crumpled newspaper.

  Hattie gave a sigh. He was probably in the Library, looking up anti-summoning spells. She had a feeling that getting him and Denzil to bond was a lost cause.

  Oh, well.

  She picked up the paper, folded it and stuffed it in the pocket of her overalls. Maybe she’d get a minute to glance at the headlines later.

  In the meantime, there was work to be done.

  ‘Where d’you want dropping off, mate?’ came Craig’s voice from the front of the van.

  ‘W-where are we?’ shouted Ronald, though chattering teeth.

  ‘Up on the cliffs. Just about to go down to Sludgehaven.’

  ‘This’ll d-d-do. Just let me out quickly, w-will you?’

  It had been an excruciatingly bumpy drive over the mountains. And cold? Cold wasn’t the word. For two whole hours Ronald had crouched shivering in a corner, surrounded by melting ice and stinking, slithery fish while his breath froze in the air. The tough old crab had kept eyeing his feet and clashing its horrible claws. He was desperate to get out.

  The back doors opened and he leapt into the light with a glad cry, scattering fish. His frozen ankles gave way and he landed heavily with a crunch, like a falling stalactite.

  ‘Bit chilly in there, was it?’ said Craig. ‘I did warn you.’

  ‘Y-yes,’ said Ronald. ‘F-f-freezing.’

  ‘Well, I’d best be getting off.’

  ‘Y-y-yes. Th-th-thanks for the l-l-lift.’

  ‘No problem, mate.’ Craig gave a cheery thumbs up, climbed back in the van and drove away.

  Ronald picked himself up and tried to rub some life back into his arctic limbs. Then he stared around.

  He was indeed on the clifftop. Up above, seagulls wheeled in the reddening sky. Far below could be seen the roofs of Sludgehaven. Its famous pier stretched out into the sea, where a few minuscule fishing boats bobbed. On the horizon, the sun was going down.