A Boy and His Dragon

by Michael J. Bowler

  Under slightly different circumstances, that could be him out there in the darkness, being hideously ripped and rent like pages torn violently from a spiral notebook. He covered his ears to block out that ghastly sound. His last coherent thought before sinking completely into the oblivion of shock was, how can I ever eat steak again?

  A chill wracked his body, and returned Bradley Wallace to some semblance of awareness. The air was cold, piercing cold, penetrating, he felt, into his very soul. A slick, slippery wetness stung his cheek, and he realized that Whilly’s bloody muzzle was nudging his face.

  It’s time to go home, Bradley Wallace. The dragon’s tone was soft and soothing and very hesitant. He could feel the boy’s torpor within himself, and had difficulty not succumbing to its numbing totality. He nuzzled the inactive child again, and this time Bradley Wallace turned his head slightly in the dragon’s direction.

  Bradley Wallace was aware of Whilly’s presence - he had come back to himself that much. But he couldn’t look into those dragon eyes that had once seemed so beautiful and bottomless. Now all he’d see would be the vermillion image of a shredded, bloodied, eviscerated animal corpse.

  He shuddered uncontrollably, and looked down disgustedly at his pants. The blood had become thick and tacky, seeping through the material of his cords and latching onto the goose-pimpled skin of his legs like slimy leeches. He just wanted to rip these clothes off and scrub his body raw, desperately afraid he could never be clean again. Death had a way of stripping innocence from those responsible, or even those merely in its presence.

  Bradley Wallace?

  The boy shifted his glazed eyes to the darkened silhouette of the dragon before him, and realized the need to return home. Still not meeting Whilly’s concerned gaze, or even the dragon’s telepathic presence in his mind, Bradley Wallace rose stiffly to his feet and staggered, zombie-like, to Whilly’s side. Weakly, at first uncertain whether he had the strength, he clambered up onto the animal’s back and settled mechanically into his usual perch behind the neck. From the corner of his eye, he caught just a glimpse of the disemboweled calf’s remains, guts strewn hideously about like strands of stray confetti after the passing of a parade. His head began to swim once more with sickness, and he gripped the dragon’s neck ridges for support.

  Hold on, Whilly cautioned, intensely aware of the boy’s faltering weakness, and more than a little fearful that his human companion might slip from his back in the buffeting winds of flight. A light, graceful leap and they were airborne again, the cold, whipping wind slapping Bradley Wallace’s face hard, like someone attempting to calm an hysterical person. Well, wasn’t he worse than hysterical, he thought? Wasn’t feeling nothing worse than screaming and yelling? Maybe all of this is a nightmare, he postulated without conviction as Whilly winged his way back toward San Rafael. It’s a nightmare all right, he concluded with a shudder, a living nightmare. Like one of his horror films come true. He shivered again.

  Bradley Wallace departed the water tower the moment Whilly landed, unable to handle the dragon’s presence any more that night. Not after what had happened.

  Was this what Mr. O’Conner meant about accepting friends completely, the bad along with the good? If so, this friendship was going to be extremely difficult. Maybe too difficult.

  Realizing the boy’s need to be alone and sort out his feelings, Whilly did not press him to talk, and did not try to enter the child’s mind unbidden. As he lulled himself to sleep to the tune of Josette’s music box, his belly physically, but somehow not so satisfyingly, full, the dragon considered some unsettling possibilities. What if this experience had been too much for the boy? Suppose his fragile human mind snapped? What if he didn’t come back, for good, this time? Sleep eventually overcame these troubled thoughts, but it was light and fitful and unfulfilling.

  Bradley Wallace’s night was worse. He spent nearly two hours in the laundry room, working frantically to scrub every last vestige of blood from his tainted clothes, sickness rising higher in his throat with each sinkful of bloodied water he sent whooshing down the drain.

  That poor animal! Why had he insisted on going? He finally succeeded in muscling most of the stains out, and hoped the washing machine would take care of the rest, at least enough so his mother wouldn’t notice. He, himself, would probably not wear these clothes again for a long time, if ever.

  He cleaned up all traces of his work, and slunk off exhaustedly to the bathroom, where he scoured himself with the most abrasive cloth he could find until his skin gleamed lobster red and felt totally raw. Still, no matter how clean he seemed to become, the feeling of contamination persisted. He felt sullied and defiled, and crawled into bed that morning at 3:30 AM thinking he should repeat the entire cleansing procedure. But he knew it wouldn’t help.

  Despite the physical fatigue enveloping his body like a cocoon, Bradley Wallace tossed and turned restively. Sleep, when it finally did creep up on him, was intermittent at best, beset by the darkest nightmares imaginable, hideous, bloody images of the calf, its throat a gaping wound, blood gushing forth like a broken fire hydrant, Whilly tearing its legs off like a human attacking a turkey drumstick on Thanksgiving, rending its dead flesh with his razor-sharp teeth, then chewing the raw, stringy meat, leaving stray, sinewy strands dangling loosely from his jaws like trapped pieces of dental floss. These and similar horrific images assaulted the boy throughout the night. The next morning, his tongue felt fuzzy and thick with sleep, his eyes peered lifelessly from their sockets, and he barely had the strength to get dressed.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, Bradley Wallace stared listlessly at the breakfast cereal floating stagnantly in his bowl of milk like rotting maggots, and felt sick to his stomach. He simply couldn’t eat; after last night, food had lost all interest for him. Fortunately, his mother didn’t police the children’s’ eating habits at breakfast as closely as she used to, so Bradley Wallace was able to dump the soggy maggots down the sink undetected. If his mother had seen the uneaten cereal, her thermometer would have flown out faster than Bradley Wallace could say “Marcus Welby, MD.”

  Katie (naturally, good old dependable Katie) noticed his languorousness, and asked, actually with more politeness than usual, if he was “sick or something.” He told her he was fine, that he’d just been awakened a lot during the night because of dreams, and he was just tired. Not a complete lie by any means. Maybe he wouldn’t go to Hell after all.

  “What kind of dreams?” she demanded suspiciously, no doubt certain he’d done something wrong and was suffering the pangs of conscience. Well, wasn’t that the truth?

  He shrugged stiffly and, not very convincingly, told her he couldn’t really remember, that he never remembered his dreams. He felt so torpid that he failed to notice her seeming acceptance of his lie without further probing. Either she was in a hurry, didn’t care, or he’d been more convincing than he thought. He suspected one of the former.

  The hideous images of the previous night’s events haunted Bradley Wallace throughout the day. He felt numb and disconnected, and his troubled mind ran far a field of his schoolwork. He was again called down by several teachers for not paying attention, and even got a loud rap on his desk from Sister Rose’s wooden yardstick. It sounded like a rifle shot, and missed his hand by inches. But he was so exhausted, both physically and mentally, that nothing seemed to matter. Nothing seemed important. Life for Bradley Wallace had come to a bloody standstill. He didn’t even eat his lunch, didn’t even look to see what was in it. Finally the day ended, and he trudged to the bus like a walking corpse. Janet had commented that he looked sick, and had seemed genuinely worried. But even that hadn’t cheered him. His kind of sickness no one could help. He hadn’t even noticed that John Wagner was absent.

  Upon entering the kitchen of his house, Bradley Wallace discovered that his mother had taken steaks out of the freezer and left them on the counter to thaw, obviously intending them for dinner.

  His stomach flipped over in wild somersaults, a
nd he turned quickly away from the bloody slabs of meat in disgust.

  He found his mother lying down in the master bedroom, but she wasn’t asleep and invited him in “for a chat.” He sat in the soft, plush chair beside her bed, hoping the inactivity would quiet his churning stomach. His mother was smoking a cigarette (as usual, and as usual, the billowing smoke drifted right into Bradley Wallace’s face), and asked him about school. He told her it was fine, nothing very exciting had happened, and quickly stifled a yawn.

  “Mom, where does the meat we eat come from?” he suddenly blurted out, as much to his surprise as to his mother’s.

  She took a drag on her cigarette and exhaled the smoke in a cloud, eyeing him with surprise and curiosity. “From cows, you know that.”

  That wasn’t what he wanted to know. “That’s not what I mean,” he went on, trying to explain himself. “I mean, where do the cows come from?”

  His mother gave him another queer look. “From cow farms,” she explained patiently, deciding this must just be another of her son’s frivolous question-and-answer sessions. “They’re raised for food just like vegetables.”

  Until last night, and now today, Bradley Wallace had never given the matter much thought. The food had simply been there, and he’d taken for granted where it came from, or what it used to be, before arriving at the supermarket and thence to the Murphy’s dinner table. His mother’s answer horrified him.

  “You mean the cows are raised just so they can be killed?” The

  horror of this revelation was evident in his voice, and was not lost on his mother, who found it strangely amusing. Kids!

  “Of course, Bradey,” she replied, puffing on her Benson and Hedges menthol. “Where did you think the meat came from?”

  He detected the amusement in her voice, but did not share it. “I don’t know,” he murmured, sinking down into the chair like a dead body. “I’d never really thought about it until—“ He stopped quickly, almost blowing it.

  But his abrupt cut-off was not lost on his shrewd mother. “Until what?” she asked, her eyes narrowing with interest.

  Bradley Wallace hesitated but a moment before the lie slipped smoothly and easily between his lips. “Until I saw something about it on TV.” He saw the flash of disbelief across his mother’s features, but didn’t give her time to voice those doubts. “Why do people have to eat animals?” he asked quickly, suddenly needing to know the answer.

  She inclined her head back, and took another puff. The noxious smoke now billowed about their heads like the thick London fog Bradley Wallace had seen in the movie “Werewolf of London.”

  “You certainly are full of questions today,” she commented, apparently tired of answering. “Is this some science project for Mr. Baldie?” There was an edge to her voice that hadn’t been there when Bradley Wallace entered. She wasn’t tired of answering, he realized. She had noticed his agitated state, but was trying to remain casual.

  “No,” he replied as casually as he could, even affecting a shrug for good measure. But he had to know. “Why do people have to eat animals?” he repeated, the intensity back in his voice.

  “They don’t,” she answered, tapping her cigarette over the ashtray. “Some people are vegetarians - they eat only fruits and vegetables.” He nodded slowly, chewing his lower lip absently, a sign she recognized. He was definitely troubled by something. “’Are you all right, Bradey?” she asked, sitting up further on the bed and tamping her cigarette out in the butt-filled ashtray on her nightstand. She regarded him with that keen, motherly appraisal he didn’t need right now. Like a wife who always knew when her husband was unfaithful (at least on television), a mother always seemed to know when her children were troubled, or in trouble. Sometimes mothers could help. This wasn’t one of those times.

  “Yeah,” he answered, a thoughtful expression on his youthful face. “Just a little tired is all. I’m gonna go do my homework.”

  She watched with concern as he trudged slowly from the room, his shoulders drooping, hands buried deep within his pockets. She’d tried to break him of that habit for years. And he certainly did look tired. She told herself it was probably just growing pains, like Jack had said. She hoped.

  Bradley Wallace plopped weakly into his desk chair, determined to complete his sentence diagramming before dinner, and promptly fell asleep over his open English book with a scant three sentences finished. He slept straight through, mercifully without dreams, until his father woke him for dinner. He’d even missed “Dark Shadows.” But at least he felt somewhat more refreshed, though still not the least bit hungry. Especially not for steak.

  As he was washing his hands in the bathroom, Bradley Wallace felt his mind gently prodded. Are you all right? the familiar, fiery “voice” asked, genuinely concerned.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” the boy muttered, wishing the dragon had stayed away longer. He needed to be alone with his thoughts right now.

  You missed “Dark Shadows.”

  “I know. I fell asleep doing my homework,” Bradley Wallace explained politely, but stiffly. He wanted Whilly to go away for now. There was a momentary pause as he dried his hands, during which he thought his wish might have been granted. But then the voice in his mind returned.

  You aren’t mad at me, are you? the dragon asked cautiously.

  “No,” the boy answered sharply. Too sharply. “I’m not mad. I’ve just gotta go to dinner right now.”

  With that, he slammed the door on his mind tightly shut and hurried from the bathroom to the kitchen, where the rest of the family had already assembled around the table. He knew he shouldn’t have been so abrupt with Whilly, but he really did need time to think, without having to deal with someone else poking around in his head. He felt all eyes on him as he took his seat, making him feel naked and exposed; as though his whole family knew what he’d done the night before. But they couldn’t, could they? Katie was given the task of saying grace, and she rattled off the prayer quickly and mechanically, after which dinner commenced.

  Bradley Wallace, like most kids, had never been fond of vegetables in general, and several in particular, like squash, he loathed and that’s what sat on his plate tonight taunting him. But the sight of the rare steak, red and oozing small rivulets of bright blood was even worse, almost unbearable. He closed his eyes, and heard that hideous tearing sound again, so much like ripping paper. A shudder wracked his body, and he fought to compose himself before his eagle-eyed mother spotted his spasms and sent him to bed with the dreaded thermometer.

  He opened his eyes and looked down at the squash once more. It sat there on his plate daring him. It looked so gross, like someone had stepped on it repeatedly. But he knew he had to eat something, so he gingerly sampled the bright orange mush. To his surprise, it didn’t taste half-bad (or was that the result of his numbed sensibilities?), and he hastily gobbled down the remainder. Even though his mind rejected the notion of food, his stomach apparently had other ideas. As he dug into his baked potato, his mother congratulated him on eating his squash. “I always knew you’d like it if you tried it,” she commented in that “I told you so” tone of voice. The steak, however, remained repellent, even to his stomach. It lay untouched on his plate like a body on a slab in the morgue.

  “What’s wrong, son?” his father asked around a mouthful of stringy meat, indicating the boy’s uneaten portion. “Steak not well-done enough?”

  “I’m just not very hungry,” he answered, turning to cast an apologetic look toward his mother.

  “You ate your other food readily enough,” Katie pointed out smugly. She always had to open her big mouth, even when she didn’t know it would get him in trouble.

  “Are you sure you’re not coming down with something, honey?” his mother asked, worry etching her attractive features.

  “I’m fine, Mom,” he insisted defensively. “I’m just not very hungry. Can I be excused now?”

  He looked from one parent to the other. They exchanged a glance of their own. Finally,
Jack shrugged. “Sure. But,” he continued as the boy stood up to leave, “I want you in bed early tonight. I don’t think you’ve been getting enough sleep lately.”

  “I have, too!” Bradley Wallace automatically retorted. Sometimes, disagreeing with parents was on automatic, especially about going to bed.

  “That’s why you were sleeping on your books?” his father commented dryly.

  Knowing he was trapped, Bradley Wallace agreed. Anything to escape the questioning gazes of his parents. He hurried from the uncomfortable atmosphere and escaped to the relative safety of his room. At least there he could be alone. He hoped.

  As he lost himself in his homework, Bradley Wallace began to feel somewhat more stable. Whenever something extraordinary happened, doing something ordinary always seemed to help make him feel more normal. He knew that it would be a long time before he’d be able to eat meat again, if ever. But his mother had said many people were vegetarians. Why not him, too?

  But what of Whilly? The dragon would continue to kill and maim animals like he’d done last night, and Bradley Wallace would always be a part of that, simply by his physical and mental existence. There was nothing he could do, was there? That was the way a dragon survived, and if he was to continue as Whilly’s friend, Bradley Wallace would simply have to accept that violent, bestial behavior as part of the dragon’s essential nature, just as Whilly was forced to accept the existence of the boy’s unstable human emotions. He would have to accept the bad with the good, as Mr. O’Conner advised. But then, Mr. O’Conner didn’t know everything. Could Bradley Wallace live with so much killing?

  His mind drifted away from his compound fractions (which always made him think of a football injury, or something), and harked back to all that had happened since the day he’d first stumbled onto the dragon, barely a month ago. It seemed so much longer.

  During those scant few weeks, he’d lied more than ever in his life, been a party to the killing of his neighbor’s pets and some farmer’s cows, he’d beaten up another boy at school, he’d stolen food from his mother — all in the name of friendship. If that was friendship, somebody must’ve goofed.