A Boy and His Dragon

by Michael J. Bowler

  Whilly nodded slowly and turned back to the entrance to the water tower. Without a moment’s hesitation, he dropped over the lip into the piercing darkness below, landing with a surprisingly light metallic echo onto the floor below. The soporific boy trudged to the attached steel ladder and slowly descended, following his friend down into the cavernous enclosure. He warded the precious music box with the utmost care.

  The bone dry, musty interior was completely empty, except for a few pipes and valves on the floor and walls which, he assumed, had once been used to pump water into and out of the tank. The rank, stale air assailed his nostrils like fine particles of ash in a chimney flue, and Bradley Wallace gasped and choked on his initial breaths of the timeworn, denatured oxygen.

  Fortunately, the open hatchway above admitted welcome currents of fresh air and sunlight to alleviate the stifling atmosphere. Whilly hardly seemed to take notice of the oppressiveness of the water tower, so acute and enveloping was his lassitude. He dropped heavily to the cold, hard floor and instantly fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

  Bradley Wallace watched the massive chest rise and fall with a peaceful rhythm, and felt the dragon’s almost narcoleptic fatigue seeping out of his own body as Whilly’s unconsciousness became complete and the symbiotic link temporarily severed.

  He whispered a gentle goodbye, and set the open music box carefully on the floor far enough from the dragon’s cumbrous head to avoid accidental damage should the creature stir unexpectedly in its sleep. With the tinkling music to keep Whilly company, Bradley Wallace shimmied up the rust-encrusted ladder and left the sleeping dragon to whatever it was dragons dreamed, if anything.

  The remainder of the afternoon was spent with Mr. O’Conner, and Bradley Wallace dove headlong into his role as Assistant Good Humor Man with added gusto and sheer delighted zeal. The wizened old ice cream vendor bubbled with chipper good cheer and attentively noted what he called the boy’s “exceptionally good humor” (he couldn’t resist the joke, he’d claimed) and inquired after its source.

  Bradley Wallace was fairly bursting with a fervid desire to detail Whilly’s extraordinary feat, not to mention the dragon’s gloriously fulfilling first flight, and barely contained his effervescent excitement. He knew he could tell Mr. O’Conner just about anything, but not this. So he shrugged off the old man’s query with a noncommittal response and kept his bubbling exuberance bottled up like a frothed up can of coke, channeling it directly, but carefully, into his dealings with customers. Mr. O’Conner observed his young apprentice throughout the afternoon with curiosity, but did not press the boy for an explanation. Happiness was not a state that required justification.

  Before going off duty for the day, Bradley Wallace was required to place all the boxes in the freezer into manageable order, and take a quick inventory of individual numbers of popsicles, missiles, Eskimo Pies, Fudgesicles, and various other frozen delights. The piercing cold still ate its way through the ineffective old gloves, and Bradley Wallace worked furiously so he could get out as quickly as possible. Besides, it wasn’t much fun being among so much ice cream you couldn’t eat. Stacking the last multi-colored missile box neatly atop the others, the boy clambered out of the back of the truck and snapped the freezer door shut tightly.

  Moving around toward the cab, he suddenly halted in unwonted surprise. Mr. O’Conner sat rigidly behind the wheel clutching the dangling crystal in one stiff, liver spotted hand. He raised the multifaceted gem to the fading orange sunlight and gazed deeply into its imponderable translucence, as though seeking the crystal’s elusive nucleus.

  The scattered shafts of golden sunset struck the crystal and shattered into a myriad of rainbow colors, all of which seemed to coalesce and then split into two distinct beams leveled directly at the old man’s strangely argent eyes. And he was muttering weird intonations in a tongue completely foreign to the suddenly nervous child. Bradley Wallace knew it wasn’t Gaelic the old man spoke because he’d heard that ancient language before. No, this was different, eldritch and unnerving. A shiver danced up the boy’s spine, and for the first time he questioned the old man’s veracity. Perhaps he didn’t really know Mr. O’Conner after all.

  Fear and uncertainty clutching vicariously at his soul, Bradley Wallace started to turn away before the old man could spot him. But a

  recognizable word muttered amidst the sea of gibberish caused him to whirl around to stare aghast at the spellbound gaffer. The old man had uttered the name “Josette.” Or had he? The seemingly senseless patois closed over the name at once and continued unabated, so the boy could not be certain he heard correctly.

  Just as he started backing away from the truck, Mr. O’Conner’s penetrating gaze shifted from the translucent crystal and focused unstintingly on Bradley Wallace, and he squirmed uneasily under that intense scrutiny. Almost at once the old man’s azure eyes lost their argent cast (or had the boy imagined that, too?) and he let go the crystal, which dangled placidly back and forth, bereft of its splintered rainbow by the final setting of the sun.

  Mr. O’Conner smiled easily, as though nothing unusual had occurred. “Well, lad, how’s my stock look?” he inquired matter-of-factly.The old man’s expression reeked of ingenuousness, and Bradley Wallace experienced a rush of shame for mistrusting him. Mr. O’Conner was real old, after all, and old people sometimes did really strange things.

  He secretly hoped his aged friend was not becoming like old Mr. Skeeter from down the street, who’d been taken away by four men in white coats. Bradley Wallace shivered at the remembrance.

  “Well,” the boy spoke, squelching his doubts with practicalities, “You’re almost out of Fudgesicles, Eskimo Pies, and Missiles. You got lots of popsicles, Heath bars, and everything else.”

  Mr. O’Conner remained seated in the cab of the truck, as though afraid to step out onto the street. But his demeanor remained affable and unassailable, as though he’d completely forgotten his trance-like lapse of a moment ago. “Good job, lad,” he commended the grateful boy. “You did good work out there today, extra good. My customers all think you’re such a nice, polite boy. ‘Course, they don’t really know you.” He winked and grinned teasingly.

  Bradley Wallace returned the grin. “Thanks,” he replied in mock annoyance. But inside he flushed with pride at the compliment.

  The old man gestured for the boy to step closer, and Bradley Wallace complied immediately. Mr. O’Conner reached one gnarled hand out of the truck and gripped the boy’s burly shoulder, squeezing gently.

  His voice took on a vibrant, irrefragable resonance. “Don’t ever underestimate yourself, lad,” he stated firmly. “You’ll do great things in this world. Mark my words.”

  Bradley Wallace seemed to become lost amidst the old man’s twinkling eyes, as though he could actually see that ennobled future reflected in those swirling pools of mirrored azure. Then the image passed away and the boy once more saw only himself, simple and dull and insignificant.

  “Do you really think so?” he felt compelled to ask, self-doubt seeping into his being like the cold, irrepressible hand of death.

  “I know so, lad,” came the firm reply, definite to the point of being prophetic. If the old man didn’t believe it, Bradley Wallace decided, he was a darned good liar.

  The following morning was Sunday, and Bradley Wallace was to serve as altar boy for the ten-thirty mass at St. Sylvester’s Parish church. Ordinarily, such assignments presented no problem. But on this day, Whilly insisted upon going along. He wanted to see first-hand this ritual worship his friend was to take part in, and would not be dissuaded from his determination. Bradley Wallace fearfully pointed out that, even invisible, the church door was still not large enough to admit a creature of Whilly’s considerable bulk. But the stubborn dragon insisted on coming anyway, so a reluctant and apprehensive Bradley Wallace pictured in his mind a semi-secluded spot outside one of the church windows through which Whilly might observe the service. He sternly cautioned the dragon to remain invisible at a
ll times and to be alert for people who might bump into him. “You may be invisible, but you’re still there.” The intransigent dragon pledged vigilance.

  Bradley Wallace’s mother drove he and Katie to church - Jack never went anymore - and the boy rode the short distance in a skittish silence. He could already sense Whilly’s hovering presence as the white Riviera pulled into the near-empty parking lot (he had to arrive a bit early to get ready, and no one in the parish ever seemed to arrive ahead of time if they could help it, he’d noted on many occasions), and his persistent, puissant worries about Whilly getting caught put the boy on edge throughout the entire service. His nervousness, coupled with the inordinate length of his black cassock, resulted in Bradley Wallace stumbling with the water and wine, spilling both all over Father Delaney, the pastor who, being a seasoned veteran with klutzy altar boys as well as an easy-going individual, deftly saved the moment with an off-the-cuff joke to the congregation that sounded so natural as to make it seem the incident had been planned all along. Nonetheless, Bradley Wallace’s face flushed beet red with embarrassment at the stupidity of his clumsiness. Would he always be such a fumbling oaf, he wondered as he retreated from the altar with what was left of the water and wine. What a jerk!

  After Mass let out, Father Delaney jibed the boy about smelling like “an Irishman on St. Patrick’s Day.” Bradley Wallace didn’t exactly understand the joke, and didn’t feel like laughing anyway. His humiliation gnawed its way into the twisted anger of his mind, and the old priest’s assertion that it was merely an accident that could happen to anyone didn’t completely assuage those roiling emotions.

  But even in his self-abasement, the boy recognized the kindness of this silver-haired priest whom he’d always liked much better than some of the stodgy old timers at St. Raphael’s. He smiled for Delaney’s benefit, and found that he felt better despite himself.

  Naturally, Katie ribbed Bradley Wallace unmercifully when he appeared at the car after discarding his gown, and even his mother “had to admit (no she didn’t!) that it was funny.” But the distracted boy didn’t care what either of them thought. His attention remained fixed on the milling crowd for any indication that Whilly had been discovered, and sat back against the leather seat somewhat relieved to find nothing amiss. The dragon signaled his mind from overhead that he was returning to the haunted water tower (Whilly had picked up on the nomenclature, too), and Bradley Wallace rode the rest of the way home in abject silence.

  Later that afternoon, lying amidst the desiccated grass of the knuckled hills near the water tower, gazing up at the cerulean, cloud-scattered sky, Bradley Wallace felt the humiliations of the morning trickle

  out of his slackening body into the dry loam beneath him. It seemed so pale by comparison to the natural beauty and serenity surrounding his supine form.

  Stretched out beside him, Whilly, too, squinted against the harsh glare of the sun to marvel at the swirling, shape shifting clouds drifting overhead without a care in the world. To the boy, one such cloud took on the semblance of a dragon. To the dragon, the very same cloud resembled a boy. These two diverse beings breathed gentle contentment, relishing each other’s manifold personalities and the easy silence between them.

  After perhaps an eternity of quietude during which the only sound seemed to be the faint and gentle rustling of spring leaves, Bradley Wallace broke the stillness with a verbal question, noting deep down how unnatural his voice seemed against the stillness of nature. “Well,” he asked in a tone of complete repose, “how did you like mass this morning?” adding quickly, even though it riled his serenity, “and don’t make any cracks about what I did, either.” He didn’t need any more jokes at his expense, and certainly not from a dragon.

  It was interesting, Whilly commented uncertainly, struggling, the boy could see, to sort out his conflicting thoughts on the subject. And Bradley Wallace could well understand that incomprehension. He’d been raised all his life as a Catholic, and yet religion as a concept still seemed to elude him. There was just so much that he couldn’t explain, and he sensed the same ambiguities in the dragon’s mind. How can you believe in something you can’t see? Whilly finally flung at him after a rather pregnant pause.

  “Well,” the boy began lamely, stumbling over his thoughts like potholes in a rough roadway, “I guess I’ve just always been taught that there is a God.” He suddenly realized that he’d never really confronted this question head-on before - how could you believe in something you couldn’t see?

  “I don’t know,” he finally admitted helplessly, suddenly considering the implications of Whilly’s question.

  He’d always just taken the existence of God for granted. He’d been taught it by grown ups, therefore it must be true. But now he knew

  grownups weren’t always right about everything. Did he himself know the truth about God? How could he?

  It is a difficult concept, the dragon commented, encapsulating the boy’s vacillating incomprehension in those few incorporeal words. Your term for such belief is “faith,” but faith isn’t real, either. It is confusing and not logical.

  Whilly’s thought projections trailed off in a cloud of recalcitrant perplexity, and Bradley Wallace couldn’t conquer his own uncertainties enough to satisfy himself, let alone the dragon. Is this what growing up was all about, questioning what you’d always thought to be true? If so, he really knew he didn’t want to grow up. If Peter Pan could escape such horrors, why couldn’t Bradley Wallace Murphy?

  Deciding to ignore these mind-bending questions, for the moment, at least, Bradley Wallace cleared his head of all troubled thoughts, and symbiotically urged his dragon-friend to do likewise. A peaceful somnolence engulfed the boy as a light, ticklish breeze ruffled his stiff, sandy hair. He drifted off to sleep. Whilly gazed intently at his dozing companion, the conundrum of faith still tauntingly transcendental in his alien mind. Deciding he would have much to learn of human existence, the musing dragon slithered close enough to gently nuzzle the snoozing child’s soft, delicate face. Soon he, too, slumbered peacefully.

  And so, life for boy and dragon settled into some semblance of order, even routine. The boy bicycled to Rakestraw’s each day for food, which apparently satisfied the dragon’s voracious appetite since Whilly no longer complained and Bradley Wallace no longer experienced those nauseating hunger pangs; Bradley Wallace worked every other day with Mr. O’Conner; boy and dragon watched “Dark Shadows” together every afternoon; Whilly remained entranced with Josette’s music box; and school continued surprisingly without incident.

  The next two weeks passed and Whilly grew extraordinarily fast. Bradley Wallace could not believe his eyes. The dragon was discernibly larger and more muscular after just those three weeks, and the boy wondered at his friend’s eventual size upon attainment of maturity. Every time his parents’ cronies saw Bradley Wallace they would blithely comment that the boy was “growing like a weed.” Well Bradley Wallace had often sat and watched weeds, and they didn’t grow very fast at all. But dragons, they were something else again. You could almost see Whilly growing in size, bulk, and refulgent coloration, on a day-to-day basis. The boy thought it would be amusing if the next time some grown up said that stupid line, “you’re growing like a weed,” he should tell them, “no, I’m growing like a dragon.” But then common sense took over, and Bradley Wallace realized such a declaration might sound too weird, even coming from him.

  In addition to physical growth, Whilly’s mental capacities also developed at an amazingly accelerated rate. Most of his accumulated knowledge was garnered from television, which the dragon watched avidly almost every waking hour, forcing Bradley Wallace to recharge the TV battery on a daily basis. And much to the boy’s dismay, Whilly’s penchant for endless questions increased tenfold. Every day he demanded to know something new, bombarding the boy with countless queries ranging from such diverse subjects as why people would dress up in strange clothes and act foolish just so they could win a car or a goat (he’d been watchin
g “Let’s Make a Deal,” the boy discovered) to why human beings killed one another (he’d become fascinated with the six o’clock news).

  To the former question, Bradley Wallace replied that some people would do anything to get on television; to the latter he had no answer.

  He didn’t understand why people killed each other, or why there was war in the world. He couldn’t even comprehend hunting of animals. How could killing something be fun? Maybe grown ups understood such weighty matters, he told the disturbed dragon, but he sure didn’t.

  I might kill another creature for food, Whilly commented one day, after having contemplated what should be an anomaly among humans, but which actually seemed to be the general rule, but you humans kill each other arbitrarily (he was already using bigger words, the boy noted dourly), as though you enjoy it. I do not understand this.

  Ruffled by the dragon’s accusatory tone, Bradley Wallace replied somewhat indignantly, “Maybe some people are like that, but I hate killing, and I wouldn’t do it.”

  You are human, and therefore subject to all human desires,

  Whilly stated flatly, without emotion or denunciation, and Bradley Wallace could offer no satisfactory reply. He was human, yes, and yet he understood so little of human behavior, almost as if he was an alien from outer space. The thought of killing another person, even someone like John Wagner, rent his benign, empathic sensibilities with disgust and loathing. He squirmed in discomfiture under the dragon’s intent gaze, and sensed a flash of repudiation chafing Whilly’s troubled mind.

  The boy sincerely hoped his friend would soon latch onto another topic of interest, one that would not place Bradley Wallace in such a negative light simply by virtue of his being human. To his intense relief, Whilly’s rapidly developing mind did, in fact, veer off into a myriad of other questions and subjects. But the disturbing quandary of man’s inhumanity to man remained a palpable, unresolved question mark in their relationship.