A Boy and His Dragon

by Michael J. Bowler

  Are you okay? Whilly interjected anxiously, interrupting his reverie.

  “Oh, yes!” the boy shouted back against the whistling wind. “I don’t ever want it to end!”

  The dragon reacted with a churlish sound in his throat that sounded, at least to the intoxicated child, like a light-hearted chuckle of amusement. The companions rose above the ambling clouds and winged out across the brilliant azure sky. Yes, indeed, if only it would never end.

  But of course, as with every experience, good or bad, it did, in fact,

  end. And way too soon to suit Bradley Wallace. It seemed to him as though they arrived at the haunted water tower a scant few seconds after taking off, and he groaned loudly in disappointment, begging zealously for another go round.

  But Whilly reassured him as they alighted gently to the soft, hilly earth beside the tower that there would be many more flights, and many adventures.

  The enraptured child slid carelessly down off the dragon’s heaving back, and his feet touching the solid ground seemed an alien experience, almost as though he’d been airborne his whole life. He suddenly realized that he’d never really appreciated what was down here until he’d seen it from up there. It provided an entirely different perspective that he’d no doubt think much about in the days ahead.

  Overwhelmed by emotion, Bradley Wallace impulsively turned and flung his arms tightly around the now-visible, startled dragon’s sinuous neck. Whilly noted the crystal teardrops of joy rolling loosely down the boy’s cheeks, and confusion riddled his sensibilities.

  Why are you doing this? he asked uncomfortably, experiencing difficulty reading the boy’s thoughts without actively taking part in his intermingled human emotions.

  “Because you just gave me the most stupendous experience of my whole life!” He exclaimed, embarrassed by his tears. But he was just so happy.

  You’re welcome, was all Whilly could muster for a reply, still unaccustomed to the overpowering strength of human feelings.

  Bradley Wallace released his grip and hurriedly brushed the tears away. Whilly could feel the boy’s shame, and couldn’t understand its origins.

  What you call crying is natural for humans. Why are you ashamed?

  The boy swiped at a lone teardrop with the sleeve of his sweater, and fought to regain his composure.

  “My parents say it’s babyish for a boy my age to cry,” he explained. “They don’t like it.”

  The dragon shook his head in consternation. I don’t understand. Humans are supposed to cry. What has age or gender to do with the simple expression of emotion? He was genuinely perplexed.

  Bradley Wallace lapsed into a thoughtful silence, unable to provide any answers to the dragon’s questions. It seemed to be all right for girls to cry, no matter how old they were; why did it have to be different for boys?

  “Do dragons ever cry, Whilly?” he blurted out suddenly, forgetting his friend’s touchiness on the subject of being the only dragon in the world. As soon as the question left his lips, he wished he could retract it.

  But Whilly seemed undisturbed by the query. I don’t think so, he replied calmly. As I’ve told you before, we don’t feel emotion as you do. Dragons are far more stable than human beings.

  Bradley Wallace nodded, considering the matter more carefully. Sometimes he just felt like crying so badly that he couldn’t keep the tears back if he tried. But why should he have to? Like Whilly said, crying was natural for people, even if it wasn’t for dragons. Then another thought struck him. “Say, Whilly, do you feel everything I do?”

  Whilly looked askance at the boy, his vermeil eyes dancing in the bright afternoon sun, and his posture stiffened slightly, as though the boy’s question had struck a nerve. I try not to, the dragon answered carefully, seemingly attempting (at least to the boy’s perception) to skirt the subject with generalities.

  “I sometimes feel what you’re feeling,” Bradley Wallace went on thoughtfully. “Like when you’re real sleepy, or real hungry, or even when you eat that disgusting raw meat. I’ll feel the same way.”

  It can be a problem when the sharing of mind and soul is between two such different creatures, Whilly explained, shifting his massive frame uncomfortably.

  “It’s weird,” the boy concluded, noting his friend’s seeming discomfort with interest. Why would the dragon feel so uncomfortable with this subject?

  Isn’t it time for “Dark Shadows?” Whilly suddenly interjected, and all such considerations flew from the boy’s mind like a bird taking wing. He glanced quickly at his watch, and saw that it was 3:57.

  “You’re right,” he announced, scrambling for the ladder to the top of the water tower. Whilly flapped his wings easily and lightly, and beat the running, laughing child to the top. Entering their secret world and losing themselves in the fantasy world of the Collins family pushed aside all reflections on the possible consequences of their symbiotic relationship. For now. Those consequences would become painfully obvious in the not-to-distant future.

  Bradley Wallace was still high as a kite when he joined Mr. O’Conner that afternoon, and as a result he forgot again to wish upon the familiar crystal. The old man noted this lapse instantly, and reminded the boy (a bit insistently, Bradley Wallace thought) that he should stick to the ritual. “It’ll bring you good luck,” he commented, with a light, cheerful smile.

  But Bradley Wallace couldn’t help wondering if there mightn’t be more to it than that. His overactive mind harked back to that day he saw the old man fondling the mysterious stone and muttering incomprehensible gibberish. The day he thought he heard Mr. O’Conner say “Josette.” But he dismissed such thoughts almost as quickly as they hatched. He was much too excited over his experience with Whilly to let his imagination spoil the mood. He dutifully wished on the stone, and returned Mr. O’Conner’s satisfied smile.

  Naturally, the old man inquired after the boy’s exuberant mood, and Bradley Wallace, obviously unable to tell the truth about his soaring adventure (he smiled at the pun), settled for a detailed account of how he’d finally beaten Jeff Kott at arm wrestling, including a recounting of the surreptitious, but aborted, attempt during study hall. Mr. O’Conner frowned seriously at that.

  “You could’ve got caught, lad, and some of these teachers don’t mess around.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Bradley Wallace heartily agreed, tilting slightly as the old man rounded a rather sharp corner and old Shannon sputtered down another eucalyptus-lined street in a fusillade of backfires. They were

  in Old San Rafael, much of which dated back to the early part of the century. Some of the houses were Victorian in style and reeked of age and history. Bradley Wallace loved this part of town, these old houses. They reminded him of Collinwood, and somehow he felt more secure amongst these relics of the past. He felt more akin to them than to his own neighborhood, and vowed that someday he’d live in a house that was at least a hundred years old. Yeah, someday.

  “This teacher we have now for study period,” he went on almost without pause, “is Mrs. Quigley. Remember, I told you about her last year?”

  A knowing smile of remembrance crept across the old man’s thin lips. “Aye, lad, I do recall. She’s the one you had a crush on, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Bradley Wallace blushed and looked down at the ratty old floor mat. Mr. O’Conner chuckled good-naturedly at the boy’s discomfort. The embarrassed child went on quickly, tantalizing images of Mrs. Quigley and her flowing blond hair dancing before his eyes and causing him to squirm uneasily.

  “Yeah, well she’s real nice as long as you don’t get her mad. Then she makes you copy the Declaration of Independence two or three times.” He pushed the images of his study hall teacher from his mind and forced his concentration toward the road ahead, still feeling “hot and bothered,” just like on these TV commercials for spray deodorant.

  Mr. O’Conner laughed heartily, and Bradley Wallace glanced up quickly, afraid the old man was making fun of him. “That’s nothin’, lad,”
he said, obviously responding to the boy’s Declaration of Independence comment (and much to Bradley Wallace’s relief). “When I was yer age, my teachers used to whip our backsides if we so much as burped in class. Aye, and that’s a fact.”

  Bradley Wallace’s eyes bulged. “Didn’t your parents get mad at the teachers for doing that?”

  “No, sir,” Mr. O’Conner laughed again, more throaty this time, “They encouraged ‘em. Yes, sir, times have changed.”

  Man and boy lapsed into an easy silence for a few moments, the

  kind of comfortable nonverbal communion Bradley Wallace could share with no other human he knew of. Only Whilly. He finally broke the silence by broaching the subject of John Wagner’s determination to beat him at arm wrestling. He felt certain the bully would stop at nothing to discredit whatever respect he’d gained by beating Jeff. Usually Mr. O’Conner’s advice was to ignore Wagner. “Only thing a bully wants is attention,” he’d always say. “He’s baiting you, and if you play into his hands you’re given’ him just what he wants. Ignore him and he starves.”

  Bradley Wallace had always liked the starving part, but wasn’t sure if he understood the rest. But he’d tried hard to follow the old man’s advice, which sounded wise even though he didn’t quite understand all of it. Mr. O’Conner had never advocated fighting - quite the contrary.

  When the boy had asked him one day, some months ago, if he’d teach him how to fight, Mr. O’Conner had sat the child down and very sagaciously explained that every human being already knows how to fight when the need arises. It’s endemic to their nature, and if the need ever arose in Bradley Wallace’s relationship with John Wagner, instinct would take over and he’d know what to do. The uncertain boy remembered nodding and dropping the subject, but not exactly understanding all of that explanation either.

  But Mr. O’Conner was the wisest grown up Bradley Wallace knew, and he often accepted on sheer faith what he would have questioned vociferously of any other adult. Besides, he knew in his heart that Mr. O’Conner was (and hopefully always would be) on his side.

  The old man had wrapped up the discussion on fighting with the prediction that if push ever did come to shove between Bradley Wallace and Wagner, the former would make “mincemeat” out of the latter. But Bradley Wallace wasn’t so confident. He didn’t even know what mincemeat was.

  On this late afternoon, the sun still shining brightly thanks to day light savings, Bradley Wallace told Mr. O’Conner about Wagner’s odd behavior of late - his avoidance (until the arm wrestling challenge) of him, his reading of books on witchcraft, the strange, indecipherable looks he so often cast at the other boy.

  The old man grew suddenly quiet and pensive at his young assistant’s words, as though deeply troubled by what he heard. He cautioned Bradley Wallace to avoid Wagner even more than usual until the reasons behind the sudden change of demeanor revealed themselves. When the curious boy (he’d never seen Mr. O’Conner so uneasy before) pressed him for a reason, the old man replied cryptically, “Never underestimate the power of evil, lad.”

  The boy’s throat went suddenly dry as dust. “Do you think John is evil?” he asked fearfully.

  The white-haired old man shook his head slowly. “I don’t know, lad. But I do know evil can take on many forms, some that we’d least expect. I never suspected that John Wagner had a part to play in all of this.” His words were barely a whisper, as though he’d forgotten the boy was even present, and merely voiced his own uncertain musings.

  “In all of what?” Bradley Wallace asked anxiously, unable to follow the old man’s apparent rambling.

  The ancient truck lurched to a stop just then, and Bradley Wallace was thrown forward in his seat belt. By the time he’d recovered his startled wits, numerous clamoring children had scurried up to the truck like field mice and danced around old Shannon as though she was the proverbial mulberry bush.

  Mr. O’Conner dismissed the entire subject of John Wagner with a wave of his gnarled hand toward the anxious customers. “Better get to work, lad,” he said, sounding more like a typical grown up than he ever had before. “After all, you are my Assistant Good Humor Man.” As the disappointed boy moved to climb down from the truck, the old man added mysteriously, “For now.”

  Annoyed at what he construed as “being treated like a child” by someone he never thought would, Bradley Wallace found it difficult to be as pleasant as usual to the indecisive children who hemmed and hawed over the various ice cream treats available. His curiosity had been keenly aroused by the old man, and then doused like water on a campfire, without even allowing it time to smolder. What had Mr. O’Conner been babbling

  about, he wondered as he handed a drumstick to a tow-headed child busily kicking his baby sister while their mother chatted obliviously to another aproned housewife nearby. Could he be going funny like old Mr. Skeeter after all? Bradley Wallace resolved to ask his father about it when he got home. That should be a safe enough topic.

  Jack Murphy sat lounging back in one of the comfortable family room chairs scrutinizing the business section of the San Francisco Examiner and puffing perfunctorily on a smelly, soggy cigar. Bradley Wallace approached his father gingerly, his guts tightening into the usual twisted, pretzel-like knots he always seemed to experience whenever he had to talk to this man. In addition to his constricted innards, the boy nearly gagged on the billowing clouds of foul smoke. He vowed never to smoke when he grew up, then instantly corrected himself. He wasn’t going to grow up, remember? He glowered through the haze at his oblivious father. Didn’t grown ups know or care that kids had to breath that crap, too? Without preamble, he asked about Mr. O’Conner.

  “What about Mr. O’Conner?” his father muttered disinterestedly between puffs, his bloodshot eyes still glued to the stock sheets.

  Bradley Wallace hesitated, choosing his words carefully so as not to inadvertently get the old man in trouble. He had at least made certain his mother was in the back room. All she’d need to hear was that Mr. O’Conner seemed to be acting strangely and that would be the end of the boy’s desperately needed job.

  “I was just wondering,” he went on, striving for a casual air (if that was possible with his father), “If, you know, sometimes old people act sort of funny, say weird things, and, well . . .” He paused a moment, unable to put his fears into the right words. Then he just blurted out, “Mr. O’Conner couldn’t end up like ole Mr. Skeeter, could he?” He hoped he hadn’t been too blunt.

  This time Jack Murphy dropped the paper from in front of his face and removed the reeking cigar from his clenched teeth. He regarded his skittish son carefully, eyes narrowed with concern.

  “Mr. O’Conner hasn’t been acting like old Man Skeeter, has he, son?” he asked sharply.

  “Oh, no,” the boy quickly assured him. “It’s just that he’s old, you know, and I sort of wondered if he could get like Mr. Skeeter.”

  His father seemed relieved, took another puff on that foul cigar. The acrid smoke stung Bradley Wallace’s eyes, and he silently cursed his father’s lack of courtesy. “He might, son. (Bradley Wallace hated it when his father called him “son”). It could happen to any of us.”

  The nervous boy bit his lip distractedly. For some reason he thought of his hands. He never knew what to do with his hands when he talked to his father, and so usually thrust them haphazardly into his pants pockets. That’s where they were now, but for some unfathomable reason, he wanted to do something more with them. He just couldn’t think of anything. “I’d hate to see Mr. O’Conner get like that,” he admitted, shivering slightly at the memory, “yelling and screaming all those things that didn’t make any sense.”

  His father looked up at him soberly. “Mr. Skeeter was an extreme case, son. Not every old person gets that way.”

  “But why do any?” the anxious child persisted, determined to get a real answer out of his father instead of a typical grown up brush off. He desperately needed to learn something about this frustrating question, some
thing he could perhaps use to place Mr. O’Conner’s erratic behavior into some kind of perspective.

  Jack sensed his son’s fear and concern, and thus chose his explanation carefully. He knew how the boy felt about Mr. O’Conner, after all, and didn’t want to disrupt that relationship. Or did he? It seemed Bradley Wallace was closer to that old man than to his own father, and this knowledge ruffled Jack’s overactive pride. Was it jealousy he felt? For an old ice cream seller? Hell, he’d known the man since before his son was born.

  He swallowed hard to quell a hateful image of Mr. O’Conner being dragged off bodily to the loony bin where he’d rot away like carrion under a blazing tropical sun. Maybe then the boy would turn to him, to the man who should be most important in his life, to his father. But would he, even if the old man died?

  Jack cleared his suddenly dry throat awkwardly, shifting uneasily under his son’s steady gaze. “As people get older, son, their bodies and minds start to deteriorate, like your old book covers falling apart,” he explained carefully. “That’s what getting old means. And sometimes, the mind will deteriorate too fast, all at once, and if that happens, the person can become like Mr. Skeeter.”

  Bradley Wallace’s face reflected a stain of horror. What a terrible thing to have happen. How could God allow such awful things to happen? Jack read the boy’s horrified dread and placed a hand on his son’s husky shoulder, trying for a reassuring tone of voice. “Don’t worry about Mr. O’Conner, son,” Jack assured the frightened boy. “His mind is sharper than most young people I know.”

  Bradley Wallace gazed into his father’s ruddy face, hope alighting his boyish features. “Yeah?”