A Boy and His Dragon

by Michael J. Bowler

  If you would control your anger and look into my mind, you’d know that I would never do that.

  Bradley Wallace suddenly felt ashamed again, and apologized to the dragon for his tantrum. Having forgotten his watch again, the boy had no idea of the time. But a deep, overpowering fatigue worked its way into his body, and he stifled an exhausted yawn, murmuring something almost incoherent about getting home to bed. He began to nod, but snapped instantly awake as the dragon took a few lumbering steps toward him. The boy still hadn’t touched the creature, and felt an irrational fear of doing so. He, himself, didn’t like being touched. He wasn’t used to it, and it made him uncomfortable.

  But he was too sleepy to protest when the dragon moved to his side and gently cradled the boy’s lolling head in its scaly forepaws. Whilly sent soothing thought transmissions into Bradley Wallace’s mind, urging the exhausted child into a dreamless sleep. Bradley Wallace snuggled up to the beast’s gently heaving stomach, which was surprisingly soft despite the scales, and allowed the dragon to lull him with an enveloping blanket of contentment. As the boy slept, Whilly toyed with the youth’s sandy hair curiously, and very soon he, too, drifted off to sleep.

  That same night, John Wagner tossed and turned in fitful slumbering, beads of sweat dripping from his forehead as nightmares viciously assailed his subconscious, ghastly images of killing and maiming, and bloodied, dismembered cats.

  He woke with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed, stifling the scream at the very edge of his lips. He’d never had a dream like that before, and sighed deeply with relief at the familiar sight of his bedroom. Dropping back to the pillow, he wiped the perspiration from his forehead with his pajama sleeve, and realized that his whole body was slick with sticky sweat. Then one last image suddenly entered his troubled mind, and danced tauntingly before his eyes. He gasped aloud. It was a face. The face of someone he knew. The face of Bradley Wallace Murphy.

  CHAPTER 3

  “A Boy and his Dragon”

  When he finally awakened, Bradley Wallace found himself in his pajamas, lying under the covers of his own bed. He hadn’t the faintest idea how he got there. But then, so many weird things had been happening to him lately, what was one more? He’d actually found a living, breathing dragon that had gone and eaten Mrs. Noble’s cat! No one would believe him even if he tried to tell the truth.

  His mother’s voice, calling down the hall for him to “Get up and at ‘em!” (which always made Bradley Wallace think of Atom Ant), forced him to shelve such musings and set about getting dressed for school. Unfortunately, he’d have to wait till this afternoon to return to the Gully and hoped Whilly wouldn’t get into trouble in the meantime. As he pulled on his salt and pepper corduroy school pants, the dragon touched his mind reassuringly, and Bradley Wallace relaxed a bit.

  His father had already left for the office (he was a successful realtor), and had taken Katie to drop her off at school (she attended San Domenico, an all-girls high school in a residential section of San Rafael called Sleepy Hollow). So Bradley Wallace contentedly ate his Lucky Charms alone, while his mother busied herself getting dressed for her hair appointment. The boy toyed with his cereal, thoughts drifting inevitably back to the dragon who called himself Whilly. For as long as he could remember, Bradley Wallace had wished for a friend with whom he could share his innermost feelings and thoughts, and now he’d found one who would know those feelings and thoughts before the boy could even verbalize them. Maybe Mr. O’Conner’s crystal was magic after all.

  Mr. O’Conner would be around this afternoon, and Bradley Wallace decided to talk to him.

  There was still the almost insurmountable task of procuring suitable food for his perpetually starving friend. Perhaps the wise old man would have some suggestions. Of course, the boy could not tell everything, not even to Mr. O’Conner who was, above all else, a grownup.

  His mother’s call from the back of the house reminded Bradley Wallace that it was nearly time to catch the bus. Shoveling in a last spoonful of cereal and swigging the remainder of his orange juice, he scooped up his bowl and glass and dumped them carelessly into the kitchen sink. Then he ran to collect the book bag and navy blue sweater he’d left on one of the living room chairs.

  Calling a hearty goodbye to his mother, Bradley Wallace ducked out the front door and dashed hurriedly up the block to the corner bus stop. Just in time, too. The beat-up, dented old yellow school bus clattered into view almost immediately. Feeling Whilly’s soothing presence snugly in his mind, Bradley Wallace clambered up into the screaming adolescent clamor of the bus feeling more secure than he thought possible. Even visions of John Wagner did not dismay him.

  School that day was relatively uneventful, which was good because Bradley Wallace found it almost impossible to concentrate on his classes and surely would have missed something important. As it was, he was called to task by several teachers for “woolgathering” (a word he’d picked up from Sister Margaret Raphael). Wagner seemed strangely aloof all morning, mostly just glaring coldly at Bradley Wallace from across any classroom they happened to share. Though Raley and Smith egged Wagner on, the bully surprisingly didn’t start any trouble, a development that aroused Bradley Wallace’s ever-present curiosity. Even at recess, Wagner didn’t harass him. Very strange, indeed.

  The only real incident occurred that afternoon in the gym during boy’s P.E. Mr. Baldie (an appropriate name considering his sparseness of hair) was science teacher, eight-grade boys homeroom moderator, and boy’s P.E. instructor. He was an older man, early sixties probably (though no one knew for sure) whose balding pate did sprout a few gray hairs above his large monkey ears, and whose skin was dry and leathery. He always wore rumpled brown suits and disheveled ties to school, and quite often interrupted science class to reminisce about his own high school and college days. The boys in P.E. had affectionately dubbed him “Old Skin Head.”

  Today’s sport was sock ball, which alternated with whiffleball and bucceball (pronounced “butcheball” a variation on soccer).

  Sock ball was essentially baseball without the ball and bat. Mr. Baldie would pitch a volleyball to the “batter”, who would try to sock it with the flat side of his fist. The infielders and outfielders would attempt to catch the ball, or if they failed that, throw the runner out. Naturally, the strongest boys in the class could knock the ball the farthest, and though he really didn’t think of himself in such terms, Bradley Wallace was very strong. And he was improving at this game, which relied more on physical strength than athletic coordination. Mr. Baldie never helped matters by pitching the ball so low the boys might as well have been playing golf.

  During this particular contest, John Wagner was the first baseman on the other team, and he glowered hatefully when Bradley Wallace stepped up to the plate. Ignoring his nemesis as best he could, Bradley Wallace concentrated on connecting with one of Mr. Baldie’s spastic pitches. (The old buzzard also loved to put a spin on the ball, and that didn’t help.) Bradley Wallace swung hard at the first pitch, which was low and spun out of his reach. The other team cheered wildly.

  The catcher tossed the ball back to Mr. Baldie, who growled encouragingly at Bradley Wallace in that gravelly voice which reminded the boys of a churning cement mixer: “Murphy, old boy, ya gotta watch that ball!”

  Bradley Wallace nodded and bent over the plate, arm extended tensely, brows knitted in concentration. Wagner still glared fiercely, as though trying to make the other boy miss through sheer force of hate. The muscles of Bradley Wallace’s right arm were taut with tension, his fist clenched tightly. Mr. Baldie reared back and pitched the ball. Watching that ball more keenly than ever, as though with heightened sensibilities, Bradley Wallace knew exactly where it would arrive, and swung accordingly with all his strength. His fist impacted solidly with the spinning white ball and sent it hurtling high and long over the heads of every player in the “field,” back, back, back - right up onto the stage at the very rear of the gym. The ball struck the back wall and drop
ped among the wooden benches that had been placed on the stage to clear the main floor for sports.

  The instant he connected with that ball, Bradley Wallace took off like a shot. He ran faster than he thought possible, sneakers gripping the

  shiny, burnished floor, directly toward first base and John Wagner, as the outfielders scrambled madly for the stage. As he neared first, Bradley Wallace shot Wagner a triumphant look; Wagner’s eyes blazed with fury.

  As Bradley Wallace rounded the base, Wagner unobtrusively bunched up his fist and swung at the running boy, striking him hard in the solar plexus.

  The wind knocked whooshing from his chest, Bradley Wallace doubled over and stumbled crazily, nearly toppling to the floor. But by some miracle, he managed to keep his feet and caught the exultant gleam in Wagner’s eye. Now he was mad. Staggering slightly, breathing hard, the angry boy pumped on determinedly past second and on toward third. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Kevin Burns clambering wildly over the benches and retrieving the fallen ball.

  As Bradley Wallace passed third, the ball was thrown. As though in slow motion, he pounded over the hardwood floor toward home plate, arriving seconds before the ball. He’d done it! He’d actually hit a home run! And Wagner be damned!

  Bradley Wallace stubbornly refused to acknowledge the pain in his midsection, forcing himself to remain upright as his team wildly cheered and clapped him excitedly on the back. He was stunned, and a bit perturbed. They never noticed him before this, so why should a simple home run suddenly make him “one of the guys?” He didn’t know, but it sure felt good to be accepted for a change.

  He sought out Wagner’s eye, and the look he received in return would’ve curdled milk. Basking proudly in his teammates’ adulation, Bradley Wallace acknowledged that glare with a gloating smile.

  “Not bad, Murphy, old boy,” Mr. Baldie growled with admiration, “not bad at all.” He chuckled and shook his head in bemusement, happy that the boy seemed to be finally coming into his own with the others.

  The remainder of the afternoon Bradley Wallace spent in something of a daze. It was like everyone noticed him for the first time, and not only noticed, but actually sought him out to congratulate him on his achievement.

  Even super jock Jeff Kott slapped him on the back and commended his “improvement since the beginning of the year.” Bradley Wallace was amazed, and happier than he’d ever been among his peers. But then, riding home on the bus and still receiving praise for his incredible hit (obviously no one suspected he had it in him, including himself), the boy suddenly experienced intense pangs of hunger gnawing away at his insides, and the elation of his athletic feat faded in a wave of nausea.

  He could “see” the dragon restlessly pacing the warehouse (which had been cleared of rats, he noted), anxiously awaiting the promised food. But where was Bradley Wallace going to get that food? He definitely couldn’t take any more from his mother’s freezer; which left him with two alternatives - he could buy it or steal it.

  He knew stealing was a major sin and didn’t really have any real interest in going to Hell. Besides, he’d probably be as good at it as he was at lying, which meant he’d get caught and thrown in the slammer faster than he could say, “shoplift.”

  No, somehow he’d have to get the money to buy food. But from where? His weekly allowance consisted of a measly three dollars, hardly enough to buy two McDonald’s hamburgers.

  His only hope for salvation seemed to be old Mr. O’Conner, who had to know some way the boy could make money. After all, Mr. O’Conner was a grownup and grownups knew stuff like that. Besides, he felt certain he could count on the old man not to tell anyone about his queries. For that matter, he had to give Mr. O’Conner a reason for needing money, and brooded over that question all the way home. But he came up empty.

  Entering the house, Bradley Wallace slipped quietly past his mother’s closed bedroom door, which meant she must have been lying down. Probably had a hard day at the hairdresser, he thought with amusement, and entered his room. Sliding up his roll top desk, he rummaged through the pile of papers for his wallet. Ten dollars was all he’d managed to save up. That was it. At least he could buy food for today, he thought, a wave of hunger assailing his mind and stomach. The dragon was getting desperate, hammering relentlessly at the boy’s sensibilities, and Bradley Wallace knew he had to act fast.

  And Mr. O’Conner wouldn’t be around till 4:40.

  Slipping the ten spot into his pocket and untying the sweater from around his waist, Bradley Wallace hurried out to the back yard and mounted his rather unsteady, but acceptable, red and white three-speed bike.

  Leaving the yard (giving the gate its needed kick to close it), he sped desperately off down the empty street. Several blocks away, across San Pedro Road and beside the local yacht harbor, sat the small grocery store where Bradley Wallace’s mother did most of her shopping. It was convenient, she said. But Bradley Wallace didn’t like it much, not since Gary left. He was the former owner, and at that time the store was simply called “Gary’s.” Gary was a tall, slender, white-haired man with high cheekbones and a big toothy smile who always had some little treat to give his “special kids,” of which Bradley Wallace had been one.

  But all of a sudden Gary retired (no one told Bradley Wallace why, like they never told him much of anything considered important, probably figuring he was “too young to understand”), and now the store was called “Rakestraw’s.” What kind of a name was “Rakestraw’s?” he’d often wondered. Anyway, it wasn’t nearly as good as “Gary’s,” nobody gave out free treats, and the prices were higher on candy and soda pop, which angered the kids.

  Today he didn’t care about any of that. He just wanted to stop the nauseating hunger beating cruelly throughout his body, and sped wildly into the near-empty parking lot. Parking his bike near the entrance, the frantic child dashed through the automatic doors into the cool, interior of the market. As a kid, those doors used to fascinate him. He’d stare at them in wonder the entire time his mother shopped, marveling at how they would magically open each time someone approached. Rakestraw’s had only four check stands, but quite a few rows of goods, including a very meager book rack from which, on occasion, the boy had bought a book.

  But today not even books could distract him. He had to assuage his friend’s overpowering appetite and thus relieve the sickness infecting himself. He hurried to the meat counter, struggling to keep his shaking to a minimum. He briefly wondered if this was what people felt like when they were starving. The butcher was a short, squat man who only had hair on either side of his head, a large, flat nose pressed above a pencil-thin, Snidely Whiplash moustache, and small guinea pig ears. He bellowed like a foghorn when he spoke, and his features were set in an unrelenting frown.

  Bradley Wallace carefully controlled his voice as he asked for the cheapest meat available for ten dollars. The butcher grunted like a belching hog and asked who was “gonna eat this meat?” Bradley Wallace hesitated a moment before admitting (somewhat truthfully) that it was for a pet.

  The squat man grunted again disinterestedly (he didn’t like kids, and didn’t think they should talk if they had to be in his presence) and proceeded to wrap up ten dollars worth of ground round. Bradley Wallace squirmed uneasily while the task was being completed, thanked the dour man, and took the proffered white-paper-wrapped package to the nearest checkout stand.

  The checker on duty was a middle-aged, overweight woman named Bonnie who dyed her hair cherry red. She must do the job herself, Bradley Wallace had noted on occasion, because her roots always seemed to reveal their black origins. A lot of the neighborhood kids would often shout derisive epithets at her through the huge display window, caustic remarks about using Kiwi shoe polish on her hair. But the lopsided dye job to one side, Bonnie was a friendly, personable woman who seemed to take the kids’ tormenting in stride. Bradley Wallace liked Bonnie, and vice versa.

  Today she greeted him with a big smile and a cheerful �
�How’s the family?” He responded that everyone was fine, and fought down the dizzying sensation twining itself around his pounding, feverish brain. He quickly paid for his heavy package while Bonnie laughingly commented that they must be planning to open their own hamburger chain.

  Then Bradley Wallace practically bolted for the exit, almost smashing headlong into the automatic door, which didn’t open quite fast enough. Hoping Bonnie hadn’t noticed his distracted state (she might mention it to his mother), Bradley Wallace hopped onto his bike and set off madly for the Gully.

  He dumped his bicycle in the backyard, and proceeded the rest of the way on foot, running as fast as his heavy burden and nauseous stomach would allow. Whilly’s thought transmissions became increasingly more desperate, almost pleading, and Bradley Wallace found himself breathlessly shouting, “I’m coming!” out loud. Fortunately, none of his neighbors were around to hear him.

  Entering through the slit, the boy was nearly pounced upon by the ravenous dragon, and for a split second, feared he, himself, would be eaten. But Whilly merely snatched the package from Bradley Wallace’s grasp and tore madly at the fresh meat, inhaling the entire ten dollars’ worth before the boy could even catch his breath. Bradley Wallace just gaped stupidly. That was almost twenty pounds of hamburger! But at least the food had put a stop to those acrobatic queasies doing flip-flops in his stomach.

  Feeling weak from the ordeal, Bradley Wallace dropped heavily onto the splintery rafter, absently swiping perspiration from his forehead as he anxiously eyed his friend and fought to block from his mind the newly experienced taste of raw hamburger. If he didn’t, he knew he’d really be sick.

  The dragon, whose bulging belly slowed him down somewhat, ambled heavily to the boy and planted himself beside the beam, red eyes twirling with gratitude. That thankful look caused Bradley Wallace to feel another pang of guilt for thinking the pouncing dragon might eat him. But then he heard, Is there no more? and glowered angrily. He was tired and none too steady on his feet, and all because of this dragon, which never seemed to be satisfied.