A Boy and His Dragon

by Michael J. Bowler

  Grinning at their daring temptation of fate, Jeff planted his right elbow firmly into a gouge in the scratched desktop and unfurled his hand expectantly, indicating the white-faced clock above the chalkboard with a silent jerk of his head. Bradley Wallace saw his time running out fast with each sweep of the bent second hand. The period would be over in a few minutes. It was now or never.

  Resigned to the inevitable, Bradley Wallace mirrored his opponent’s posture, wedging his own knobby elbow in a wide gash carved across the desk in which he was seated. The two boys locked hands in a tight, unrelenting grip, and Bradley Wallace knew that this time, Jeff wouldn’t underestimate him. Mohaney raised one slender finger and signaled for them to begin. Almost as though it were an instant replay from three days before, the straining, evenly matched arms remained bolt upright, both boys determined to keep his own that way until the other weakened. They fairly vibrated with power as each struggled to outmuscle the other. But neither yielded, and the onlookers held their breath in silent anticipation. Eventually, Bradley Wallace told himself obdurately, one of them had to tire, and decided with unyielding resolve that it wouldn’t be him.

  As before, he could feel Jeff’s inner strength meeting his own in the steely clasping of their white-knuckled hands. Could feel it and somehow absorb it, like a plant absorbs sunlight, bringing that strength into him and thereby increasing his own power while diminishing Jeff’s.

  He wasn’t sure how or why this was so, but felt that perhaps everyone has a certain inner strength, or will, that transcends physical liabilities or conditions. Whatever the philosophical explanation, Bradley Wallace simply felt his will was stronger than Jeff’s. Then, maddeningly, the sudden insistent shrieking of the bell signaled the end of study hall like a wounded klaxon, effectively snapping off the arm wrestling match before his theory could be proved.

  The two boys separated instantaneously, and Bradley Wallace swirled round in his seat to face forward, just as Mrs. Quigley looked up from her stack of papers and dismissed the class. He felt certain her sharp, roving eyes spotted his empty desk, but she said nothing. He breathed a sigh of relief, but also of disappointment. He could’ve won this time. He felt certain.

  Gathering up his books, Jeff leaned over and asked Bradley Wallace if they could finish their contest once and for all after school, without fear of being interrupted. Bradley Wallace immediately agreed, determined to prove, more to himself than anyone else that he really could win. It occurred to him during Sister Mary’s class that if he stayed after school, he’d miss his bus. But he couldn’t back out now. No way. He’d either have to hoof it, or find some other way to get home.

  English and Science classes seemed to drag on endlessly, and Bradley Wallace fidgeted distractedly, unable to concentrate on the subject matter, as the minutes ticked agonizingly past. By the time the final bell echoed shrilly through the dingy, dimly lit hallways, he was ready to burst from pent up nervous energy.

  As most of his classmates scattered for the cloakroom on a direct course for the exit, a fairly sizable group of boys remained, encircling Jeff and Bradley Wallace as the former took a desk in front of the latter.

  Janet lingered also, pretending to be rooting through her open desk, but continuing to eye the boys with interest, obviously awaiting the outcome. Oh, God, Bradley Wallace thought as he noticed her smiling encouragingly in his direction, that’s all I need. How embarrassing.

  Worse yet, Wagner appeared among the faces surrounding him, gazing with interest at the two combatants as though planning to challenge the victor. But, surprisingly, he refrained from any disparaging (today’s new word) remarks. In fact, he refrained from saying anything at all, which was definitely unlike the John Wagner Bradley Wallace had come to know and loathe. Once again (this is getting monotonous, Bradley Wallace thought), he and Jeff locked hands and planted their arms in the now very familiar stance, and Mike Mohaney provided a verbal, very dramatic countdown to “Go!”

  And, once again, muscles bulged, knuckles turned white, faces turned crimson, and neither boy appeared able to budge the other. A full five, intense minutes’ passed for the breathless spectators without either arm moving in the slightest. Were it not for the sinewy tautness of muscles and the beads of sweat adorning the two reddened foreheads, the onlookers would have accused the combatants of not trying.

  Though excitement hung in the air like a pall, Bradley Wallace remained oblivious to everything save his single-minded determination to secure this victory and a place among his peers. His eyes fixed on those of Jeff with a steely tenacity, and received a mirror image in return. Jeff’s will was strong, Bradley Wallace knew, but his own was stronger. After all, he had more at stake. Jeff would always be respected, always be liked, no matter what the outcome of this match. Jeff was just naturally an “in” person. Bradley Wallace was an “out” person, and needed to prove himself in some palpable fashion. This was it.

  Another agonizing two minutes passed before something tangible happened. Jeff’s arm lost ground, just slightly, but enough to make him struggle that much harder to at least resume the stalemate. But Bradley Wallace wasn’t about to let his tiny advantage go to waste. His arm was already so numb he could barely feel it, and yet, with a sudden upsurge of will and strength, he pressed against Jeff even harder than before, fighting with his last burst of energy to force the other boy’s slowly drooping arm down onto the desk. The harder Jeff fought to keep his arm up, the harder Bradley Wallace fought to push it down. Suddenly, with a massive exhalation of breath, Jeff gave up, and his arm struck the desktop with a wooden clunk. Bradley Wallace had won.

  What followed that hollow clunking sound became a distorted blur in the astonished boy’s mind. He felt himself clapped hard on the back repeatedly, and gushed over in admiration by nearly everyone present.

  What perfunctory responses he made in return he never could remember. All he knew for certain was, he’d won, and he’d won much more than just a simple adolescent game. He’d won respect. He noticed Janet smiling at him approvingly, and blushed furiously.

  Jeff was shaking his head and saying something that sounded like, “You sure don’t look that strong, Bradley Wallace.” He rubbed his debilitated arm to restore the circulation and grinned admiringly at Bradley Wallace. Coming from a guy like Jeff, that grin was like gold, and Bradley Wallace smiled in response, adding a shrug in place of the words that failed to materialize.

  But then another voice spoke up, a malevolent voice. “No, he doesn’t,” it said defiantly, and its source, John Wagner, muscled through the group to stand at Jeff’s side. He glared at Bradley Wallace coldly, his wolfish eyes flickering with jealousy_. “Now it’s my turn.”

  “Hey, Wagner,” Mike Mohaney piped up, “Give the guy a break. His arm must be dead after that.”

  In fact, Bradley Wallace noted, it was; nearly numb and hanging limply at his side as though the shoulder had been pulled from its socket.

  “It’s up to Murphy, ain’t it?” Wagner continued mockingly, never taking those piercing grey eyes from Bradley Wallace’s own. They both knew Wagner’s game - catch Bradley Wallace at his weakest moment and thereby be assured of defeating him. And Bradley Wallace was on the spot. All eyes in that classroom remained fixed on him in silent anticipation, and Janet stared more intently than anyone. How could he refuse? He’d look chicken and probably end up right back where he was before in the eyes of his peers - a nothing. And yet, how could he hope to win without at least a rest first?

  He looked Wagner right in the eye, his gaze unflinching and steadfast, determined to disguise these uncertainties clouding his thoughts. He knew he had no choice. For better or worse, he had to take on his enemy right now.

  He was about to nod, when a movement at the long row of windows caught his eye. He glanced quickly in that direction, just in time to catch a glimpse of flapping dragon wings whizzing past the frosted glass. Panic pierced his heart, and he leapt up from the desk, eyes riveted to those windows. The others
all turned to see what had captured his interest and, not seeing anything, turned to one another in confusion.

  But Bradley Wallace had not been mistaken. A quick opening of his mind confirmed the dragon’s presence, somewhere above the school, calling the boy to come outside. And the stupid beast was visible! All thoughts of arm wrestling and saving face quickly extinguished, Bradley Wallace turned and dashed crazily for the classroom door. He heard Wagner’s derisive snarl flung at his back.

  “I knew he was chicken,” the bully snorted in disgust, and began

  clucking like a wimpy chicken.

  But Bradley Wallace didn’t have time to defend his newly acquired honor. It wasn’t important anyway. He had to stop that crazy dragon before the whole city saw him! Dashing down the dim hallway, he sprinted down the stairs two or three at a time to the exit and pushed his way frantically outside. He raised a hand to shield his squinting eyes from the bright April sun and scanned the area above his head. Whilly was nowhere in sight. Becoming frenzied, the boy pressed his eyes tightly shut and reached out with his percipience, demanding the appearance of the dragon. Almost before the thoughts completed their travels across the synapses of his brain, Whilly appeared instantly beside him.

  Bradley Wallace jumped in surprise, and whipped his head around to face the dragon, his face like a thundercloud. “What are you doing here?” he demanded excitedly, gesticulating wildly with his hands. “You’re right in the middle of the city! Everyone can see you!”

  The dragon emanated waves of contriteness, obviously catching on to human methods of mollifying anger. I’m sorry, Bradley Wallace Murphy, Whilly apologized. I’ll become invisible again.

  Almost simultaneous with the thought itself, the dragon vanished from view and Bradley Wallace stood staring stupidly at the empty driveway leading up to Mission Avenue.

  “At least no one can see you now,” the boy sighed heavily, Whilly’s penitent innocence obviously having the desired effect of deflating the child’s anger. “But why did you take such a chance to come here? Don’t you know how dangerous it is?”

  So caught up in the dragon’s ill-timed arrival, Bradley Wallace failed to notice his proximity to the classroom he’d just quitted.

  Thus he remained oblivious to the row of bewildered faces lined up along the windows like ducks at a shooting gallery, watching him apparently talking to himself. They exchanged confused shrugs and frowns amongst themselves, muttering and giggling at their fellow classmate’s strange behavior.

  Wagner squinted thoughtfully, and his intense gaze never even drifted from Bradley Wallace for a second. While the others tossed out comments about Murphy being “real weird,” a mysterious, heretofore unheard voice in the back of John Wagner’s mind told him not to trust his eyes in this matter, that all was not what it seemed. And he believed that voice.

  I know you missed the bus and had no way to get home, the dragon explained to a jittery Bradley Wallace. I didn’t want you to miss “Dark Shadows.” I’m sorry you’re angry.

  This dragon may not have human emotions of his own, Bradley Wallace noted wryly, but he sure was learning how to manipulate those of others. Whilly sounded so genuinely repentant it was impossible to remain angry. And the dragon did mean well, after all. Despite his initial panic, he offered the invisible creature a reassuring smile.

  “No, I’m not mad,” he acceded. “I just freaked out when you flew past that window. Luckily no one else saw you.”

  He turned to indicate the classroom, and froze as though ossified. The queue of staring faces raked his sense of self-repudiation. Oh, no, he groaned inwardly. How could he have been so stupid?

  He tried a casual smile and wave, but the bewildered faces of his contemporaries told him more clearly than any words could have that he’d really done it this time. He’d “made quite a spectacle of himself,” as Mr. O’Conner would say, and nothing could change that now.

  Bradley Wallace whispered under his breath for Whilly to follow and as casually as possible sauntered away behind the old building, out of sight of the classroom and its accusing inhabitants. Wagner’s expression had been unreadable, but Janet’s disappointment was obvious.

  He pressed hard against the dirty white stucco of the building and swore to himself, cursing his boneheaded idiocy. Whilly attempted, futilely, to reassure the boy that no one in the classroom had seen him; they only saw Bradley Wallace. But the boy felt no relief at this news. After all, everyone had seen him talking to himself, and would no doubt continue to watch him suspiciously for other weird behavior.

  Such unwanted attention, given Bradley Wallace’s current need for

  secrecy, could prove disastrous.

  Maybe we should leave now, the dragon suggested cautiously, popping suddenly back into view. Bradley Wallace jumped again, still not accustomed to his friend’s rather abrupt entrances.

  “How?” he asked. “I still missed my bus.”

  I will fly you, Whilly replied with easy assurance.

  Bradley Wallace was caught off guard. “Fly? You mean I could actually fly?” It would be a dream come true.

  Actually, I’d be doing the flying, if that’s okay, Whilly answered, sounding almost apologetic.

  Bradley Wallace stared speechlessly at his friend’s earnest expression, his thoughts racing furiously. To fly! What he’d always wanted more than anything else in the world.

  All his life, he had been fascinated by things that fly, and always rued the fact that he, himself, could never join them in their soaring freedom. His main attraction to Superman as a hero lay rooted in the character’s ability to fly at will.

  And now he, Bradley Wallace Murphy, could fly, too?

  Doubt suddenly swept over the boy, and he eyed the dragon appraisingly. “Are you sure you’re strong enough to lift me?”

  Of course, riposted the dragon, his thought transmission almost sounding indignant. I am much larger now than I was at birth, you know.

  Bradley Wallace did know, and had to acknowledge this fact. He scanned the bulky, muscular body. The dragon certainly looked strong. And if Whilly was sure . . . “What do I do?” he asked tremulously, his excitement mounting as his doubts dissipated.

  Just climb onto my back and sit behind my neck, Whilly responded, inclining his massive head toward the eager boy. You can hold on to one of the ridges running down my spine. I’ll be very careful. And you don’t have to worry about being seen. I will make us both invisible to the human eye.

  Bradley Wallace glanced out around the corner of the building to

  make certain no one happened to be approaching. Fortunately, the coast was clear. Whilly crouched down as low to the ground as possible, and the excited youth clambered awkwardly up the slippery scales to a slightly unsteady position on the tough, sinewy back. Shifting around, he located a comfortable, seemingly secure niche on the dragon’s neck. Dangling his legs against the creature’s crimson chest, Bradley Wallace worried that he might be hurting his friend.

  It would take much more than you to hurt me, Whilly answered his thought amusedly, and with more confidence than the boy had ever felt from him. Are you ready?

  Bradley Wallace sucked in a deep breath, and then nodded. “Let’s go for it.” He gripped the dragon’s neck ridges tightly.

  Hold on was the last thought he received before, with a sudden, strong up rush of air, the dragon used his powerful leg muscles to launch himself upward, and the ground suddenly dropped away beneath them. For the first time Bradley Wallace knew the meaning of the oft used word, “breathtaking.” The wind was literally ripped from his lungs and he had to gasp repeatedly to replace it.

  Wings pumping furiously, steely muscles rippling with power, Whilly propelled them higher and higher, soaring high above the Spanish tiled roof of the school building and circling around toward the massive church steeple. This was too good to be true! As the ground fell away like a rock tossed over a high cliff, Bradley Wallace felt like shouting his tumultuous joy to the lazy clouds above.
For the first time in his life, he was looking down on the world, instead of the other way around.

  So lost was he in his own exaltation, the boy failed to notice Whilly banking a turn toward the steeple, and very nearly slipped off. He grabbed wildly for the bony ridge and pulled himself upright again. But even that momentary fright did not diminish the thrill of this adventure. Veering past the open steeple, Bradley Wallace caught sight of a bird’s nest tucked away near the electronic bells, and waved delightedly to the mother bird busily feeding her squalling brood.

  He laughed deliriously at the sight, and pointed out the comical bird family to Whilly, who commented on how noisy it must get living next to those bells. The boy laughed at his friend’s logical assessment of

  the situation, and the dragon soared past the tower and high out over downtown San Rafael. The old courthouse passed beneath looking like one of the structures in an ant farm Bradley Wallace had once owned. He sighed in wondrous amazement as Whilly angled up toward the drifting cloud banks, which would allow him to make them visible again at any time without fear of being spotted from below.

  Bradley Wallace sighed with relief and contentment. He’d always wished he could touch a cloud, and at long last that wish was granted.

  In his imagination, clouds always felt soft and willowy, like a feather pillow. The harsh reality took him by surprise as Whilly abruptly flitted from open air to swirling cloud, the feeling akin to damp smoke, and the vapor in his nostrils was cloying and moist. He couldn’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment. But then, the moon wasn’t made of cheese, either, even though it was a fun image to conjure.

  As a land-bound creature, Bradley Wallace never realized how different the city he’d lived in all his life could look from a vantage point high above it. Everything looked so small, so toy-like. Matchbox cars and plastic soldiers. That’s what they all were. Tiny and harmless, and far, far away. As they glided above Fourth Street, with its familiar bookstores the boy so often frequented, not to mention the aged Rafael Theater, the wind whipped his sandy hair around soothingly, and Bradley Wallace nearly burst with happiness. Up here no one could bother him, or tell him what to do, or threaten him, or make him play football. Up here, free and unfettered, he was simply that which he’d always wanted to be —Bradley Wallace Murphy, himself.