Dragon's First Christmas

by Emily Martha Sorensen

  “Hallelujah,” he said, slapping his finance book shut as she passed. As usual, Rose resisted the urge to peek, but she wished he would not act like it contained some dreadful secret. It was rather unsettling.

  A crash came from the direction of the Christmas tree, and Rose spun around. Virgil had just snapped off one of the branches at the bottom with his head as he raised it.

  Were they going to see Violet? Could Virgil come play?

  “We’re not going to see her,” Rose said. “We’re going to see your grandparents. The zoo’s not even open today.”

  Virgil was very disappointed. He wanted to lie down next to Violet and hit her with his tail. Then she would hit him with her tail and he would catch it in his claws. It was fun to play.

  “I’m sure it is,” Rose said, “but it’s Christmas Eve, which is a special day that’s all about family.”

  Virgil didn’t know what that meant. Was Virgil’s father going to breathe fire with him? Was Virgil’s mother going to hit him with her tail?

  “Virgil, as I’ve said a thousand times,” Henry said wearily, “we’re human. That means we’re different species. We can’t do the same things.”

  Virgil’s parents were being mean! Virgil was pouting.

  Rose turned away from the petulant baby and walked into the bedroom. She pulled on her warmest stockings, which were woollen and a trifle itchy, and then stared at the open drawer, pondering.

  At last, she reached into the back and pulled out the luxury she had been saving, her last pair of silk stockings that had not developed terrible runs from Virgil’s claws on her legs. If there were ever a time to treat oneself, it would be Christmas Eve.

  She walked to the hall closet and removed her coat from the rack. She tucked the ball of stockings into the pocket of her coat before sliding it onto her arms. Purses were fashionable, but she was not fond of them, especially while walking. The one purse she owned had been singed by one of Virgil’s many escapades, in any case.

  Henry was already clad in his coat and waiting by the door with a rather impatient air. He had Virgil tucked under his arm.

  “Are we not taking the pram?” Rose asked.

  “It’s snowing,” Henry said shortly. “If it continues, I don’t want to push it through mountains of slush on the way back.”

  Rose had to admit that was sensible.

  They opened the door, and a burst of cold air blew in on them. Rose shivered and hunched into her coat. She ran back to the hall closet and returned with both her scarf and Henry’s. She wound hers around her neck and tucked it into her coat.

  “Would you like me to put it on you?” she asked Henry, holding his scarf up.

  “No,” Henry said grumpily. “I have a heat source with me.”

  Rose glanced over at Virgil, who was staring at the rushing snow with little apparent interest. His tail swung back and forth, clearly unbothered by the temperature.

  What would it take for any temperature to bother him? Rose wondered. He seems unharmed by fire, and snow is also of little concern to him. Do Deinonychus dragons have any sensitivities?

  Perhaps she should have been glad that their little son seemed virtually invulnerable, but it troubled her. How had his species died out in the first place? They must have had some terrible weakness, and it worried her that she did not know what it was. Perhaps they had simply starved to death because they had lost their prey species? Virgil still seemed to need ten or more meals per day, which implied a very fast metabolism and a rate of growth which would be unsustainable without a great deal of prey.

  I hope that we are adequate as parents, Rose thought nervously. What if he requires far more food next year than we can possibly afford to give him?

  Already he had grown a foot longer than he had been when he’d hatched. Suppose it turned out that he outgrew their home long before they were able to move to a larger place?

  No, Rose told herself. Don’t borrow trouble. We will figure something out, in that case.

  But as they stepped out into the freezing wind and blowing snow, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the choleric disposition Henry had shown was because he was bothered by something similar. They had not, after all, figured out what to do about their child’s firebreathing.

  Rose bent her head as she walked against the wind beside her husband and son, burying her hands deep in her pockets. She could hardly wait until they reached her parents’ home and she would be able to thaw her toes.

  Chapter 8: Cheer

  “Mama, they’re here!” Sara shouted from the doorway.

  Rose shivered into her coat and wished her sister would move out of the way and allow them inside.

  Rose’s mother bustled up behind her. “Oh, you’re covered in snow!” she cried. “Come in, come in! Dinner’s almost ready. Do you want to sit by the fire?”

  “Y-yes,” Henry said, his teeth chattering.

  Rose nodded, her breath bobbing in front of her face.

  Virgil’s tail swung unconcernedly. Virgil wanted to play with the soft white stuff. Could Virgil play?

  “N-not right now,” Henry said, his teeth chattering as he stepped into the house after Rose. “We need to warm up.”

  Virgil didn’t understand. His parents’ memories made no sense to him. Why did they think it was cold? What was cold? Also, could Virgil eat? He was hungry.

  ”Can I feed him, can I feed him, can I feed him?” Sara squealed. “He’s so cute!”

  Fortunately, Virgil now accepted food from people other than his parents.

  “Go ahead,” Rose said as Henry relinquished the dragon.

  Sara pranced off with their son in her arms. Virgil wasn’t cute. What was cute? Virgil was hungry. Where was his food?

  Rose and Henry walked to the living room, where they ensconced themselves next to the fire. Despite the impropriety, Rose removed her stockings right there and laid them out beside the fire to dry. She allowed the fire to warm her bare feet.

  Her father came into the room, smoking a pipe. The odor was overpowering.

  “Hi, Rose,” he said. “Hi, other one. Good journey?”

  Henry bristled. “It was cold,” he said shortly.

  Rose wished he wouldn’t show offense at being called “the other one.” That was why her father did it. Though the man now tolerated Henry, he had decided upon their first meeting that he didn’t like him, and took delight in continuing to remind Henry of that at every opportunity.

  “Snow’s really coming down,” Rose’s father agreed. “I wouldn’t want to walk in that.”

  “I wish I hadn’t had to, either,” Henry muttered under his breath.

  “He’s so cute!” Sara squealed, wandering into the living room with Virgil cuddled in one arm and gobbling out of her other hand, which held the usual mixture of chicken, raw egg, butter, and some water. “Look at the way he eats!”

  Virgil’s head jerked forward, he chomped at a mouthful, and he swallowed. Then his head darted forward again. His tail swung excitedly behind him, almost in rhythm.

  “Yes, he is,” said Rose, though she was used to the sight.

  Louise trailed in after Sara, looking furious. “It’s not fair! It’s my turn to hold him!” she protested.

  “Is not!”

  “Is too!”

  “Is not!”

  “Is too! And I’m older!”

  “Only by nine months,” Sara sniffed.

  “Ten!”

  “Nine!”

  “Ten!”

  Rose rubbed her forehead wearily. It was hard to believe her sisters were in high school. When they squabbled, it sounded like they were ten years younger. The two usually got along extremely well, but not when they both wanted something.

  Henry squinted at them, as if trying to figure out which girl was which.

  “You can have a turn after Sara is done, Louise,” Rose said, to remind him.

  Henry’s face cleared. He looked relieved.

  “Hey, other one,” Rose’s fath
er said, gesturing at Henry with his pipe. “You planning to come over tomorrow too, for Christmas morning?”

  “No,” Henry said, looking irritated. “We’re planning to spend that at home, together.”

  With a blackened Christmas tree we barely managed to prop back up, Rose thought, looking around the room at the paper chains and paper doll chains her sisters had strung up along the top of every window. And no decorations. And no Christmas cake to eat for breakfast in the morning, because we have no way to cook things.

  Tomorrow would be her first Christmas away from her family, and being here tonight just reminded her of just how bare and spartan their own apartment seemed. Christmas Eve was something, but it was not the same as Christmas Day.

  “Too bad,” Rose’s father said. “Be nice to have Rose here. And the dragon.”

  Henry bristled again.

  Lips curled upwards as he tucked the pipe back into his mouth, Rose’s father departed the room.

  “All right, it’s my turn now!” Louise shouted. “He’s done eating!”

  “He is not!” Sara snapped.

  “He is so!” Louise cried, grabbing for Virgil.

  “He is not!” Sara glared, yanking him away.

  “Be careful with him!” Rose snapped, standing. “He’s not a doll, he’s a baby!”

  Virgil’s tail swung as he dug his claws into Sara’s arm. Was there more food? He was still hungry. Was there more food?

  “Ouch!” Sara shouted.

  “Virgil, be careful with my sisters, too,” Rose sighed.

  “See? He’s saying it’s my turn now,” Louise jumped in.

  “Dinner’s ready,” Rose’s mother called from the kitchen. “You two, stop squabbling and help me set the table.”

  “But . . .” Louise complained.

  “I’m busy holding the dragon,” Sara announced.

  Henry stood up, scooped Virgil into his arms, and walked away from them.

  “Hey!” both girls wailed.

  Virgil was still hungry. Was there more food?

  Rose herded her sisters out of the room towards the kitchen, where they each collected something to take out to the table. Their father was, as usual, seated at the table waiting for the meal to begin, without an ounce of helpfulness offered.

  Henry joined them when the table was set, and sat down with Virgil complaining vehemently on his lap. Protests about hunger and his parents eating while he wasn’t filled the room as Rose’s mother attempted to say grace.

  As she finished, Henry looked down at the baby with exasperation. “Are you, by any chance, still hungry?” he asked.

  Yes! Virgil was still hungry! Virgil wanted more food! Virgil needed more food! Virgil was still hungry, hungry hungry! What was his father shoving at him?

  “It’s ham,” Henry said, dangling a tiny slice in front of Virgil that he had removed from his plate. “Try it.”

  Virgil didn’t want that not-food. Virgil wanted food.

  “It is food,” Henry said. “You should be able to eat it. I doubt your digestive tract is so delicate that the only thing you can eat is chicken. Try it.”

  Virgil didn’t want that not-food! Virgil was very sad! Virgil was going to cry!

  Hands flung up over ears all around the table.

  An ear-splitting screech emanated from the tiny body on Henry’s lap, long and loud and piercing. It went for what felt like an eternity before it halted briefly.

  “Stop him!” Rose’s father bellowed.

  Virgil had been taking a breath. Now Virgil was going to scream again.

  “Stop it,” Henry said. “Don’t —”

  The shriek began again, rattling through both ears and minds.

  Rose’s mother leapt up from the table and ran to the kitchen. She came back with a bowl full of chicken mash and held it in front of Virgil’s face. She mouthed something that was inaudible behind Virgil’s scream.

  The little dragon stopped.

  “— what you want, dear?” Rose’s mother finished.

  Yes. That was what Virgil wanted. That was Virgil’s food. This person was nicer than his father. Virgil’s father was mean.

  Virgil poked his head into the bowl and gulped rapidly, as if he had not just eaten another meal just as large as his usual repast.

  I hope this does not mean he is overindulging, Rose thought. I do not want to deal with complaints of a tummyache all night.

  “Some Christmas cheer for you,” Rose’s mother cooed, gathering up Virgil as the little dragon continued gobbling.

  Henry’s jaw clenched. He looked exceptionally annoyed.

  Chapter 9: Chill

  Virgil must have eaten more than his weight in chicken that evening. He ate enough that Rose’s sisters were each able to take another turn, and then Louise protested that Sara had held him twice while she had held him once as Virgil drowsed off to sleep.

  Rose was a little worried. Why was Virgil eating so much? Was this a sign he was sick? Or was he about to go through a tremendous growth spurt? While the latter might be preferable to the former, it would still not make their lives easier.

  It was nearly nine o’clock before they were able to go caroling, and Rose’s father stated outright that he had no interest in going.

  “Neither do we,” Henry said immediately. “We need to be getting back home.”

  Rose opened her mouth to protest that she wanted to join, but she closed it. Henry had dealt with a trying enough evening already. It would not be fair to force him to stay in her family’s house alone with her father.

  She pulled on her woollen stockings, realizing with embarrassment that she had forgotten all about her silk ones and had been bare-legged through the entire dinner, though at least she had remembered her shoes. She pulled her coat onto her arms and wrapped the scarf around her neck.

  She kissed her family members goodbye, Louise while she was buttoning up her own coat and Sara while she was pulling on a scarf, and then headed with Henry to the door.

  He pulled the handle downward and pushed.

  The door didn’t open.

  Frowning, Henry tried again.

  It still didn’t budge.

  “This door does open outwards, right?” Henry asked.

  “Yes,” Rose’s mother said. “It used to open inward, but the door kept hitting my china cabinet, so we had the hinges switched. Try again.”

  Henry tried again, shoving all his weight against it. The door didn’t budge.

  “Did the lock break?” Louise asked.

  “Oh, wow!” Sara shouted, moving a curtain aside to peer out the window. “You won’t believe how much snow is out there!”

  Rose bolted to the window and stared out in horror at the pristine winter blanket that stretched out before them. Gobs of snow still kept on falling, glittering and bouncing against the window as if trying to reach into the room.

  “Woww,” Louise breathed, joining them. “I’ve never seen so much before.”

  “There has to be over a foot,” Rose’s mother agreed.

  Rose felt a vague sense of panic. How were they going to get home?

  “The back door opens inward,” Rose’s father called from the living room. “You can go out that way. Or you can go out a window.”

  “In this blizzard?!” Rose’s mother demanded. “Of course they’re not going anywhere! I don’t want them catching their death of cold! Just think of Virgil!”

  Henry’s arms clenched tighter around their son, who was fast asleep. “Virgil will be fine.”

  “Your health, then!” Rose’s mother said. Her eyes had taken on a flinty, obstinate cast that Rose had rarely ever seen. “I don’t want you catching a chill or freezing to death out there!”

  Henry hesitated.

  “He said they aren’t staying for Christmas,” Rose’s father called from the living room. “Don’t coddle them, Mabel. They can walk home if they want to. It’ll only take a few extra hours.”

  That seemed to decide Henry.

 
“Thank you,” he said stiffly. “We would be delighted to accept your hospitality.”

  Rose glanced into the living room and saw her father grinning. Apparently he had learned one of her mother’s methods of persuading people.

  “You two can sleep in Rose’s old room,” Rose’s mother said, taking Louise’s scarf and Sara’s coat as they removed them. “Virgil can sleep in . . . does he need the oven?”

  Rose glanced apprehensively over at Henry, who was giving her a nervous look. For once, it seemed they were of one mind.

  “Virgil can sleep in the . . . uh . . .” Henry said.

  “Virgil can sleep in the bathtub,” Rose said, as inspiration hit. “If we remove the towels and the cabinet, there should be nothing flammable in there.”

  And I’ll sleep on the floor outside the bathroom door to make sure he doesn’t escape, Rose thought.

  “Flammable?” Rose’s mother looked taken aback. “Why is that a concern?”

  “Because he breathes fire,” Henry said, as if this were obvious.

  “Well . . . yes, but . . .” Rose’s mother looked taken aback. “Surely not in his sleep.”

  Rose and Henry began talking over each other.

  “Sometimes sparks fly out of his nostrils —” Rose began.

  “He burned down the Christmas tree —” Henry said.

  “— even when he’s asleep —”

  “— if he wakes up on his own again, which is why —”

  “— and that’s why he has the oven in the first place —”

  “— don’t even feel safe —”

  “— something better, but I don’t want to trap him —”

  Rose’s mother listened to the garbled account with an increasingly perplexed look on her face.

  “Is there a way to get him not to breathe fire?” she asked.

  “No,” Rose said in frustration. “It’s a natural part of his biology. He releases some kind of flammable gas post-digestion, and when it’s released, he ignites it automatically. He can no more stop production of this than a human infant could stop the production of urine.”

  “Or a dragon infant, for that matter,” Henry muttered, glancing down at their son. Rose noticed that the arm of his coat beneath Virgil’s diaper looked damp.