But as I took another step, I stumbled over King Kong and came crashing to the floor. I kept my eyes fixed on the still-rattling drawer. And then there was an almighty …
POP!
Like a cork from a bottle, something shot over my head. A spray of messy pulp and little black seeds covered the floor and splattered my trouser leg. For a second I just lay there, eyes pinned wide open.
Then I heard scratching, and a noise like someone striking a match. I spun around, eyes scanning the floor to see where the maggot – or whatever it was – had landed. But all I could see were the toys I hadn’t put away. There was the scratching sound again, like the fizzle of a match igniting. Whatever was making the sound was behind my beanbag. The match struck for a third time.
I edged closer, keeping my eyes firmly on the mound of the beanbag. As I bent towards it, one edge moved. There was something wriggling underneath, trying to squirm its way out. Where was Tomtom when I needed him? He’d left enough sad little critters on my carpet over the years, as ‘presents’ – he’d definitely know what to do with some kind of mutant fizzing worm. My heart was hammering in my chest. I’d have run a mile, but if I took my eyes off it, it might slink away and then I’d have to go back to bed knowing it could be somewhere in the room with me.
I grabbed a mug from the desk and stood up, ready to trap whatever it was.
Slowly and very, very gingerly, I lifted a corner of the beanbag. Every bit of me was poised, ready to jump out of my skin if the thing came shooting out at me. I lifted the beanbag higher, millimetre by millimetre, until I saw it, lying curled underneath. The mad hammering in my chest started to calm as I gazed down at the tiny creature in front of me, which was most definitely not a mutant maggot. Although quite what it was I had no idea.
It looked like a bird. But it had thorny little spines down its back and it seemed more leathery than feathery. It was bright red and its wings were scalloped, a bit like a bat’s. And it shimmered in the light of my rocket lamp, like it was having trouble deciding on the very best shade of red to be.
As I stood there, my mouth gaping, it raised its head, swung it from side to side and sneezed. Only what came out wasn’t spit and bogeys, but a bright little spark and a wheeze of smoke. And that’s when my brain woke up and I knew – for sure and no messing – that what was nestled in my Batman dressing gown, scratching its claws across Robin’s head as it hopped from foot to foot, was an actual dragon!
OK, so maybe you’d be totally cool if you found a dragon in your bedroom. Maybe it wouldn’t phase you at all, and you’d know just what to do. You’d be all like, ‘Hey, cool, that’s a cool dragon. I’m cool about that.’ But me, I didn’t have a clue about what to do and I definitely wasn’t feeling cool about it. I mean – it was a dragon. It might only have been big enough that it could sit on my hand and so far its fire-breathing had only produced a spark, but hello, IT WAS A DRAGON!
It made the strange fizzling-match sound again.
And the most I could manage to get out at this point was a whispered ‘Whoa’.
Then we stared at each other. For a really long time.
My head is always brimming with ideas and stories. Miss Logan says my imagination is like a geyser gushing out ideas twenty-four hours a day. But right then it was like the geyser had been sat on by one of those enormous elephant seals with the weird shrunken trunk and all I could squeeze out was:
There’s a dragon …
in my room …
on my carpet …
right …
now.
Talk about stating the obvious! Then, bit by bit, the elephant seal flubbered away and the geyser spluttered back to life. I pictured my dragon shooting out mighty flames and me riding across the sky on its back. And I thought, I’M GOING TO HAVE THE MOST UTTERLY, MIND-BLOWINGLY, AMAZINGEST PET OF ALL TIME. (Move over, Liam ‘I have the best bike/scooter/radio-controlled biplane and obstacle-leaping hamster’ Sawston, and make room for my DRAGON!)
Suddenly the little creature took a flutter-hop towards me. And for a second I wondered if it would turn out to be as mean as all the books said and launch itself at my face. Maybe it’d send flames at my eyes. Or scratch me with its sharp claws. This could be a DANGEROUS pet.
I’d probably go into school with scars and have to explain how I’d had to wrestle my pet to the ground before I could get out the door. I guess that might not be ideal. Not on a day-to-day basis anyway. I started weighing up the pros and cons, remembering the cuddly class guinea pig, then comparing it to a ferocious limb-shredding, fire-breathing reptile. But even with possible loss of limbs, there didn’t seem much contest: a dragon would make a really cool pet. And the more I watched it, the more I realised that this particular dragon didn’t look very mean or dangerous. In fact, as it tilted its head to one side and hiccupped out a little smoke ring, the word that kept popping into my head was ‘cute’.
I stayed as still as I could. I remembered something about letting dogs sniff your hand before you say hello to them, so when it didn’t move again, I slowly reached out my hand, resting it on the carpet just in front of the little creature. Another flutter-hop and there was a dragon sitting on the palm of my hand. An actual live dragon!
It kept its wings half unfurled as it swept its head from side to side, inspecting my fingers, which were now warm from its breath. I could feel its claws treading into my skin like a cat trying to get comfy. I didn’t dare move in case it disappeared in a puff of ‘this can’t really be happening’ smoke.
Slowly I got to my feet, keeping my hand as steady as I could. Suddenly he – I decided to assume it was a he – started jiggling from foot to foot, leaning forward as if he was about to launch and then pulling back. Like I did on the diving board at the pool, wanting to dive but hating the moment when I’d have to step off into nothing but air. I thought about how baby birds learn to fly, and also how I’d seen their tiny bodies on the ground sometimes. The ones who had flown too soon. Was it the same with dragons?
Before I could open my mouth to speak, he had taken the plunge. For a moment the tiny dragon was flapping upward, nose thrust forward, his wings shimmering. But then he blew out a smoky puff and began to drop, and my heart sank. I lurched forward to catch him, but just before he landed in my outstretched hands he flapped and rose again. And he was off, soaring away over my bed. Still reeling a bit from side to side, but most definitely aloft. I watched as he swooped back round and landed with a bump on my desk. In my relief and excitement – because let’s be clear, a dragon had just flown round my bedroom! – I clapped my hands and gave a whoop of delight. The little dragon lifted his head. He let out another smoky hiccup, this time followed by a tiny orange spark and then he hopped towards me.
Things I noticed from close up:
Glittery wings
Scales that rippled through every shade of red
Eyes like diamonds
Hot smoky breath
Sharp claws (three at the front, one at the back of each foot)
Arrowhead tail (which he didn’t seem to be able to control very well, because every so often he would whip it around and bash himself, and then twist his head round in alarm as if he was being attacked)
Two little horns – one longer than the other
Things I did not notice:
Tomtom
Tomtom is big for a cat. In fact, he’s gargantuan. I’m pretty sure he’s half tiger. And he’s on the grumpy side. He’s not a cuddly, sit-on-your-lap-and-have-a-lovely-stroke kind of cat. He’s more of a guard cat.
And I’d left the door open.
So, if you’ve ever seen Tom and Jerry cartoons – especially the ones with that little yellow canary – you can probably picture what happened next. But if not, then here’s what I saw:
My tiger-shaped cat leaping from the bed in a slow-motion arc.
My new dragon in Mad Panic Mode launching into the air, leaving a trail of scorch marks across the walls, his scales flaring a bright electric oran
ge.
Tomtom – who had obviously forgotten he was wingless and unable to fly – very quickly came crashing down on my desk. He sent my rocket lamp, books and pens flying as he skittered across and landed in an undignified heap right on top of my remote-control car.
Apparently not finished in his starring role in the new Tomtom and Jerry show, the cat’s claws hit the Big Red Button on my remote. This fired up the shrieking siren and spinning lights, which sent him rocketing under my bed with an ear-splitting yowl.
I stared at the door.There was no way my parents would sleep through this racket and I wasn’t sure Lolli would either. The little dragon flew upwards and crashed into my lampshade. His claws ripped through the paper of the shade as he scrabbled to hang on to the wire frame. For a moment he swung there upside down, not quite knowing what to do, before heading for the shelf where all my Lego models were lined up. He knocked his way past model after model and I watched in horror as hours of painstaking building tumbled to the ground.
CRRRAAAASH …
BANG!
I lunged just as Mum started to enter the room. I poked my head out, trying not to let my eyes drift over to the dragon perched on the shelf just behind the door.
‘What on earth is going on?’ she hissed. Her eyes flicked to Lolli’s door.
Dad appeared behind her, looking like his hair had exploded on the top of his head and brandishing a slipper as though he thought we were being attacked. Although what help a pink fluffy slipper would be I had no idea.
‘Sorry,’ I spluttered. ‘Tomtom was attacking my King Kong. I had to save it.’
Mum frowned, I could tell she wasn’t convinced. She tried to peer past me to see inside, but I wedged my foot against the door.
‘What’s that smell?’ she asked, wrinkling her nose.
I sniffed. And caught the faint smoky tang in the air. As if on cue the little dragon sent out another spark that crackled in the darkness of the room.
‘Nothing,’ I stammered. ‘Just you know, stinky cat smell. I’ll give Tomtom a bath tomorrow, I promise.’
Mum looked about to speak but thankfully a well-timed scream from a grumpy-at-being-woken Lolli sent her attention away from me and the dragon who had just launched up to the lampshade. She groaned and steered Dad down the hall. They disappeared into Lolli’s room, Dad still clutching the slipper.
Behind me, Tomtom hadn’t given up. With eyes full of malice, he stalked back and forth, getting ready to pounce again. The little dragon was swooping and diving in dizzying circles now, clearly terrified. He kept sending out flurries of little sparks that rained down but thankfully fizzled out before they landed.
I glared at Tomtom. ‘Out,’ I hissed, and herded the spitting ball of fury onto the landing.
As soon as the door had closed, the dragon flew down towards me and I held out my arm for him to perch on. He was shaking, and as he pulled in his wings I gently laid my hand across his back.
His eyes were still fixed on the door as if he thought Tomtom might come crashing back through it any second. And I held my breath until I heard Mum and Dad stumble back to their room.
The little dragon’s claws dug into my arm as if he was poised ready to spring at a moment’s notice. I couldn’t exactly stroke him like you would a cat – well, any cat other than Tomtom – but I kept my hand resting there until he’d stopped shivering and relaxed his grip.
‘Sorry,’ I whispered. ‘We’ll be more careful from now on.’
He stared up at me, his twinkling eyes looking right into me. It was like gazing into one of those crystal prisms, where the light is scattered into a rainbow. Fragments of colour sparkled and danced around the dragon’s almond-shaped irises. I could have looked into those eyes for ever. Then, just for a second, his sharp little claws tightened on my arm again.
‘I promise,’ I whispered.
The grip loosened; the tiny creature seemed satisfied that he’d made his point. His scales flickered and the fiery orange glow gradually returned to ruby red.
It was only then that I took in the devastation that was my room. The scorch marks up the walls and the sparks that had left sizeable black stains on the carpet. And the poo. I learned my first important lesson about baby dragons that night. They poo a lot. Especially when they’re being attacked by a miniature tiger!
When I woke up next morning, the first thing I did was swing my head over the edge of the bed and look underneath. And there he was. My dragon. Curled up in the shoebox nest I’d fashioned for him, the loo roll expertly shredded into a cosy bed. His bright eyes were fixed on mine, his shimmering red body glowing like a hot ember.
Yup, I had a dragon! I didn’t need a groomable guinea pig or a dog who could dance, or even a camouflaged lionfish. Nope. I had a dragon. Beat that, Liam!
And OK, I admit he was small. You might even say titchy – something I knew all about, being the smallest in my class – but it didn’t seem to be bothering him. Maybe if I glowed like that and could fly it wouldn’t bother me so much either.
I wondered how fast he’d grow and suddenly thought of Lolli. She’d be a bite-size snack for a growing dragon! As if to reassure me, the little dragon hopped towards my cheese plant – which isn’t actually made of cheese, though how cool would that be for late-night snacks? – and started tearing chunks off it.
‘Phew,’ I laughed. ’Well, at least that’s one thing I know now. You eat plants. Let’s just hope I can fill you up with enough of those.’
The only question really was how was I going to keep him? Because I was pretty sure a dragon was not on Mum’s list of ideal houseguests. In fact, although my mum and dad put up with quite a lot, looking around at the devastation in my room I thought even they’d object to this.
I’d already had to hide Dad’s old Batman comic – well, the sad, charred remains of it. And seven of my socks, singed to smithereens after I’d used them as mittens to put out sparks. And then of course there was the huge hole in Mum’s best towel. Oh and the endless ticking time-bomb poo grenades that lurked here, there and everywhere. You see, apart from smelling like rotten fish wrapped in stinky cheese with sprinklings of burnt toast, dried-out dragon poo is highly combustible. Which means that it can explode without warning. Something I had found out at about four o’clock in the morning. Let’s just say that once you’ve woken up to find your bed splattered with detonated dragon droppings you get really particular about cleaning them up. And keeping a close eye on where they land!
At breakfast I sat next to Lolli, with my dragon tucked away in my hoodie pocket. I could hear Mum and Dad upstairs, both reeling out their lists of ‘To Dos’. It was beginning to sound like a competition of whose list was longest. I just hoped none of those ‘To Dos’ ended up coming my way!
Now Lolli may only be little, but she’s not daft. She sees stuff. If I’ve got a sweet in my mouth – even if I’m not chewing – she still knows. And her hand goes out quick as a flash demanding one too. So when I kept absent-mindedly fiddling with my pocket, I think she thought I had some sweets hidden in there. She leaned over and pulled at my hoodie, stretching the pocket open.
‘Lollwanlollwanlollwan,’ she gabbled.
Before I could stop him, the dragon saw his chance for freedom and shot out. But in his excitement he managed to sneeze and poo at the same time. Shooting out fiery sparks from one end that scorched Lolli’s toast, and leaving a squelchy mess from the other all over my cornflakes.
Alarmed by Lolli’s shrieks of delight, he soared up to the ceiling light, dropping more well-timed poo bombs along the way. One of which perfectly met the sole of Dad’s shoe as he strode into the kitchen. If my dad had picked up any tips at our one and only ice-skating lesson he might have been fine. And if the table hadn’t been there he might have slid smoothly through and out the back door. But as it happened he sort of folded over it like a crocodile’s mouth shutting and landed with his face in Lolli’s plate of mashed banana.
At least Lolli thought it was funny.<
br />
I quickly opened my pocket and the dragon zipped back in out of sight. Just in time too, as Mum came running in to see what all the noise was about.
‘What on earth is going on now?’ she groaned, seeing the mess.
Now the good thing about Lolli is that because she can’t talk much yet you can blame quite a lot on her – and the best bit is she finds everything so funny she doesn’t even mind and Mum and Dad don’t get cross with her because she’s only little.
‘Lollibob was painting another banana picture and this pigeon flew in and ate it,’ I said.
Lolli flapped her arms, launching another blob of banana that delicately splatted on Dad’s nose and made her squeal again. Mum raised her eyes and sighed. Lolli giggled and stuck her two thumbs up, both covered in banana.
‘Lolli blobalob,’ I said, laughing.
She wiggled her banana-y fingers about like little puppets – which was pretty hysterical and even Mum couldn’t help smiling. I told you we stick together, me and Lolli.
Anyway, while Mum acted like a hyperactive octopus, mopping up Dad, the floor and Lolli, I was able to escape. Which was just as well because I needed to get back to Grandad’s garden – fast.
My grandparents only live a couple of streets away and I can cut through the park to get to their place. In fact, if they hadn’t built the new houses at the bottom of our road I’d have been able to see their house from my bedroom window.
The Boy Who Grew Dragons Page 2