by Shoo Rayner
Harri stared out the window. A crocodile of nursery kids toddled on a nature walk along the playing field hedge. It would be so nice to win something … just once, he thought.
‘Well, I don’t suppose we’ll get much work done this morning,’ Mr Davies sighed. ‘You kids are wound up like clockwork springs. We should send you home early, you’re not going to learn anything today.’
The whole class cheered and began packing up their things.
‘No!’ Mr Davies groaned. ‘I didn’t say you could go home, I said you should go home. Everyone sit down and face the front.
‘Now, what did you think of the Happy Witch story that Mrs Spelltravers told this morning?’ Mr Davies asked when everyone had settled down.
‘Boring!’ the class groaned in unison.
‘Oh sir,’ Jack complained, ‘it was for babies!’
‘I liked the pictures,’ said Harri.
Mr Davies smiled. Harri was a bit of a dreamer. That’s what made him the best artist in the class. Harri loved drawing and making stuff.
‘That’s a really good zombie costume, Harri,’ said Mr Davies. ‘Did you make it yourself?’
Harri beamed with delight and waggled his dangling eye. At last someone had officially noticed his costume. For a minute he explained how he’d made it and how hard it had been getting all the things he needed and how difficult it had been pushing each woollen hair into the papier-mâché head.
‘Well done,’ said Mr Davies. ‘You have a real flair for art, don’t you, Harri?’ Then he turned to Ryan and asked if they could look at one of the books he’d won.
Mr Davies held up the book so they could all see. ‘Did anyone notice anything about the pictures?’ he asked.
Harri’s hand shot up. Everyone else shook their heads and looked blank. Mr Davies smiled.
‘Well, Harri?’
‘Sir, it was the dragons.’
‘Yes!’ Mr Davies punched the air. ‘Can you tell us what it was about the dragons, Harri?’
‘Well, the dragons weren’t mentioned in the story, but they were there in all the pictures, fighting each other in the background. It was like they had a story of their own going on. The red dragon won!’
‘Well done, Harri,’ Mr Davies beamed. ‘And can anyone tell me why those dragons were in the story?’
Harri wasn’t quite sure, but he had an idea. Slowly, hesitating, he raised his finger. ‘Are they Welsh Dragons?’
‘Yes!’ cheered Mr Davies. ‘They are Welsh dragons, indeed.’ Mr Davies held up the picture. The whole class strained to see the tiny dragons that were drawn in the background of the pictures.
‘One of the dragons is Welsh,’ Mr Davies explained. ‘The illustrator has added a whole other story in the pictures. It comes from the Mabinogion.’
The whole class groaned. Mr Davies was obsessed with the Mabinogion and all the other tales of ancient Wales. They got him really excited. He could go on about the olden days for hours. In fact, over half-term, Mr Davies was going to an Ancient Welsh versus Saxon Invaders re-enactment battle.
Mr and Mrs Davies, and their two little children, were going to dress up as ancient Welsh warriors, sleep in a wet field, in a leaking tent, and eat authentic, rotten medieval food, so that they could have a mock battle with a load of people dressed up as ancient Saxons.
Last year, Mr Davies had come back to school with a broken arm. He told everyone he’d been defending the nation from the Saxon marauders. The truth came out in the end. He’d drunk a bit too much mead. In the middle of the night, he’d fallen over a tent rope on his way to the toilet and ended up in the Emergency Department. He’d completely missed the battle.
‘Let me tell you about the plague that tormented the Island of Briton in the reign of King Lludd,’ Mr Davies said mysteriously.
Everyone in the class rolled their eyes. Mr Davies was going off on one of his stories. But no one really minded. Mr Davies was a brilliant storyteller. He could do voices and sound effects and a very good impression of Mrs Yates, the Head Teacher.
* * *
‘Every year, on the eve of May Day, when all should be rejoicing at the coming of summer, the air would be split asunder by a shrieking cry, louder than thunder or the crash of lightning. The eerie screams echoed across the entire land, shaking the mountains to their very foundations. Such was the pain in those cries that they tore at the hearts of all who heard them, draining the blood of men, leaving them pale as wraiths. Women lost their unborn children and cried tears that filled rivers and streams. Young men and girls lost their senses, running through the streets in wild, hysterical confusion. The worlds of animals and trees and all that lived in the air or under the waters were devastated. Animals cowered in their nests and lairs and the trees were shaken to their very roots.’
Mr Davies had got the attention of the whole class now. They sat at their desks, open-mouthed, goggle-eyed, as he spun his story.
‘The minds of all who lived in Britain were enfeebled. No one knew the cause of the terrible plague. The people’s spirits were so disaffected, their will so weakened, they had no idea how to rid themselves of this annual horror.
‘Llefelys, the King of the Gauls, was King Lludd’s brother. He knew the cause and counselled his brother with good advice. “Dragons!” Llefelys whispered, lest anyone else should hear.
‘“Set a trap in the very centre of the country,” he said. “At the height of the battle the dragons will turn into pigs, for that is how they disguise themselves for the rest of the year. When they fall to the ground, capture them and send them to sleep in a butt of strong mead.”’
‘Isn’t that how you broke your arm last year, sir?’ Jack asked. The class broke into a snuffle of stifled giggles.
‘Thank you, Jack!’ Mr Davies said, wearily. He’d never been allowed to forget about his Ancient Welsh midnight manoeuvres! But he was in full swing now and nothing was going to put him off his story. He continued.
‘Llefelys advised his brother to imprison the dragons in a stone coffer and bury them far underground, so they could never come back to haunt the land again.
‘King Lludd measured the whole land of Britain and determined that the centre of the country was at Oxford. He ordered a huge pit to be dug and in the middle a giant, wooden butt was constructed.’
Mr Davies sighed deeply. ‘Why are you sniggering, Connor?’
Connor could hardly get the words out for laughing. ‘You said butt, sir!’
Mr Davies rolled his eye to the heavens. ‘A butt is a container for liquids, Connor. They would have made it from wooden planks, like a giant beer barrel.’
‘Not a mead barrel then, sir?’ Jack giggled.
Mr Davies pretended he hadn’t heard. He took a deep breath and carried on with the story.
‘On the eve of May Day, King Lludd ordered the butt to be filled with strong mead, then the pit was covered in silk to hide the trap beneath. King Lludd and his men filled their ears with wax, wrapped their heads with heavy woollen scarves and waited.
‘As the sun sank slowly in the west and the moon rose to join the twinkling stars, the onslaught of sound and fury began. Two dragons, one white and one red, fought each other in the skies above the country.
‘Relentless they were and deafening was the sound as their talons slashed the horny armour of their scales. The screams of pain and fury, as they clashed and smashed each other, rang out across the nation. Even with their ears blocked, King Lludd and his men were shaken and frozen with fear.
‘As the night drew on, the battle grew in intensity and ferocity until, high above in the skies of Oxfordshire, the exhausted creatures gave up their fight. Just as King Llefelys had said, the dragons slowly turned into pigs as they fell through the darkening sky. Down they fell. Down and down. The silk enveloped them as they crashed into the giant butt of mead.
‘Thirsty from their battling, the dragon pigs drank deeply and were soon overcome by a deep sleep.
‘In awe, and still shaken
from the screams, King Lludd and his men sprang into action. They tied the sleeping dragon-pigs up in the silk cloth and incarcerated them in a stone coffer that had been made specially for the occasion. With a team of twelve oxen, the coffer was hauled all the way to Dinas Emrys, the strongest fortress in the land. There the coffer was buried for all time, deep beneath the ground.
‘The next May Day saw great rejoicing, for the dragons had been silenced and men, women and children could dance freely round the maypoles and welcome the coming of summer and the arrival of peace upon the land. Soon the dragons were forgotten, consigned to history and distant memory, though they were not dead, but only sleeping…’
Ben broke the silence. ‘Is that true, sir?’
‘Maybe…’ Mr Davies said mysteriously. ‘Dinas Emrys is real. Look, here it is in the illustrations in the book. It’s not all that far from here.’ Mr Davies raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘So, maybe the story is true?’
The bell rang for the end of class and the spell was broken by the banging of desks and the scraping of chairs.
‘We’ll do more about dragons this afternoon,’ Mr Davies shouted into the din. No one in the class was listening. All they could think about was their empty stomachs.
* * *
‘Goodbye, and thank you for your time,’ the old lady in the long green velvet cloak sighed as she closed the door of Moonspell’s Alternative Gifts and Remedies.
‘Time for some lunch,’ she told herself.
Anyone who noticed her there on the bench in the High Street, eating a sandwich and pouring a cup of tea from a flask might have thought it was a strange time of year for a picnic. But no one did notice her. It was almost as though she was invisible.
‘Now where next?’ she asked herself, consulting her notebook again.
* * *
Ryan’s Dad popped a meal into the microwave and began ticking things off the list his wife had left him.
Passports
Suitcases
Money
Travel documents and tickets
Coats and backpacks
Everything was ready. Mrs W. would be home from work early, they’d pick Ryan up from school and get straight on their way to the airport. It was lucky that Ryan’s Angel of Death costume hadn’t needed any face painting. ‘What would they say about that in airport security?’ he laughed as he tucked into his Weight Watchers chicken and mango curry.
* * *
‘Look, sir,’ Harri said in class that afternoon. ‘I found a book about dragons in the library. I’ve borrowed it for half-term.’
Harri should have known a lot about dragons. Merlin’s Cave, the shop where he lived, was full of them. There were model dragons of all shapes and sizes. Most of them would fit in the palm of your hand. Some were very detailed, others were a bit cartoony and jokey. One was amazing. It was about forty centimetres high. It was a serpent really, its scaly body coiled around a crystal ball. It looked so real you would think it was alive.
It was £129.99 so they kept it on the top shelf behind the counter, out of harm’s way. It looked awesome, but no one had bought it yet.
The class spent the afternoon drawing and writing about dragons.
‘Can dragons really fly, sir?’ Connor asked.
‘That depends on whether you believe in dragons or not,’ Mr Davies laughed.
‘No, I mean really,’ said Connor. ‘I mean are there real dragons and can they fly?’
‘Well, there are Komodo dragons,’ said Mr Davies. ‘They’ll eat you up if they catch you, and they can run really fast when they want to. And there are bearded dragons which people have as pets.’
‘Oh, look!’ Harri pointed at a page in his book. ‘There are. Look here. There are real flying dragon lizards!’
Everyone crowded round to have a look.
‘But they’re just lizards with wings,’ Jack grumbled. ‘They don’t breathe fire or anything exciting, do they?’
‘Wouldn’t it be great if you could make a model dragon that could fly and really breathe fire and stuff like that?’ Harri mused.
‘Duh!’ Megan flicked Harri’s dangling eyeball. Harri was determined to wear his zombie costume all day. ‘How would you do that then?’
Harri shrugged. ‘I don’t know, electric motors and fireworks, I suppose.’
Mr Davies’ eyes twinkled. He’d had an idea. ‘Right,’ he said, getting everyone’s attention. ‘Here’s a challenge! There will be a bag of Dragon Gold for anyone who can make a dragon fly for more than ten seconds at the school Eisteddfod on St David’s Day, the first of March next year.’
As well as singing, reciting poetry and playing music, they always had a making competition at the school Eisteddfod. Every year, Mr Davies had trouble thinking up something new and exciting to set as the theme of the making project. This was perfect. Dragons were a good Welsh theme for St David’s Day and it might make the children learn some more ancient Welsh history too.
While the other kids asked him all sorts of questions about what they were allowed to make the model with and how big it should be and did it really have to fly, Harri caught Ryan’s eye from across the classroom. It was a fleeting moment, but they both knew the game was on. This was going to be a serious competition.
Chapter Three
‘Here are the rules,’ said Mr Davies. As he typed them on his laptop, the projector spilled the words across the white board.
There will be a bag of Dragon Gold for anyone who can make a dragon fly for more than ten seconds at the school Eisteddfod on St David’s Day, the first of March next year.
‘I’ll put it on the class web page now,’ he said. ‘You can interpret the rules as you wish.’
The bell rang for the end of the day. The school erupted like a volcano pouring its molten lava of screaming children into the playground. It was half-term. No more school for over a week!
‘Ah, there it is,’ said the old lady in the long green velvet cloak. ‘Merlin’s Cave.’ She looked up at the sky and judged the time of day. The sun was low over the hills that cradled the little town of St Gertrude’s. The leaves fell from the trees and ran about the streets in the crisp wind, skittering around her feet like kittens chasing one another.
The thought of feet made her feel like having a bit of a sit down and a nice cup of tea. ‘I’ll pop back later. It’ll be my last visit of the day,’ she told herself.
The library across the road had a little café. That would do nicely. She bought herself a cup of tea and sat quietly in a corner, reading a book about herbal remedies that she found in the dark, dusty folklore section of the library.
Anyone noticing her there might wonder why she chuckled every time she found a mistake in the book. No one did notice. You could almost say she was invisible.
Ryan’s dad greeted Harri as he crossed the street after school. ‘Wow, Harri! That is a great costume, did you make it yourself? You are so creative.’
See? It was impossible not to like Ryan’s dad. He was just so nice!
Harri took being a zombie seriously. Most of the other kids had discarded parts of their costumes during the day, or their make-up had smeared and now they looked like bruised fruit.
‘See ya, Harri! Hi, Mr Williams!’ Jack ran past them and waved. His greased-back Dracula hair now stood up on end. The lipstick bloodstains on his face had smeared down his chin and were all over the collar of his best white shirt. His mum would be furious when she saw it.
‘Neat,’ Ryan’s dad said, as he inspected Harri’s costume. ‘Did you poke all the hair in by hand? That’s amazing. And that eyeball is so realistic, well done!’
See? Not only was he a nice guy, but he was the only one who really understood how much work Harri had put into his costume. They were fellow artists!
Ryan arrived carrying the parts of his costume. His dad raised his eyebrows, hope and expectation all over his face. ‘Well…?’
Ryan dropped his shoulders and looked sad for a moment, disappointed even. The
n his face cracked into a smile. He held up his bag full of Happy Witch stuff and cheered. ‘First prize!’
Ryan’s dad punched the air. It was amazing how happy the news made him. He looked in the bag to see what they had won. ‘Oh, this stuff is for babies.’ He sounded disappointed. ‘Never mind.’ He smiled. ‘We can always sell it on eBay.’
‘That’s what the lady said!’ Ryan laughed as he tossed his stuff in the boot of the car. ‘See ya next week, Harri!’ He jumped in the back of the car and slammed the heavy door shut.
Ryan’s mum rolled her eyes at Harri. ‘What are they like, eh?’
The car revved up and they were gone. It was half-term.
* * *
The old-fashioned brass bell tinkled as Harri opened the door of the shop. Dylan the cat stretched himself in the window and settled back down in the last rays of sunshine.
‘Is that you, Harri?’ his mum called out from the stockroom at the back of the shop.
‘Yeah!’ he sighed deeply.
‘Oh, pet.’ Harri’s mum poked her head around the corner and peered over the rack of incense and herbal candles. ‘Didn’t you win, then?’
‘No.’ Harri sighed again.
‘What was it this time?’ Ryan and his dad had been winning everything for so long, she didn’t need to ask who’d won the dressing-up competition.
Harri told her about his day. ‘Ryan’s costume was amazing, though,’ he admitted.
‘That’s not the point,’ his mum said. ‘Ryan’s dad does everything for that child. He lives his life through him. Ryan will have to stand on his own two feet one day.’
She bustled about collecting up receipts and paperwork. ‘I’ve got to go to the bank before it closes,’ she said. ‘Can you get a quick snack and a glass of milk and mind the shop for a few minutes while I’m out? Friday afternoon’s always a bit slow. I don’t expect we’ll get any customers now.’