A Boy and His Dragon

by Michael J. Bowler

  Strangely, even though he’d never even been up this far before, he seemed to know exactly which house was Mr. O’Conner’s, without even having to consult the address he’d scribbled down before leaving home. He just stopped outside a chest-high spiked metal fence that was rusting so acutely you could almost hear it, and knew this was the right place.

  Within was a ramshackle old two-story affair that looked right out of a horror movie.

  Its upper floor windows were sealed up with rotting shutters, one of which hung loosely from a broken hinge and rattled eerily in the wind. The green paint had peeled almost completely away, and the ancient structure (at least a hundred years old, he decided) sat indolently amidst gardens of dead, weed-infested plants. Gnarled trees of varying heights reached their skeletal limbs up toward the cloudy sky as though begging for the sun to come out and revive them. The place looked like a graveyard of plants, Bradley Wallace thought, his eye going to the tower room atop the aging house. Wow, he mouthed silently. Just like Collinwood. The tower even had an observation deck. He shook his head in bewilderment. This isn’t at all how he pictured Mr. O’Conner’s house. He’d always thought it would look like an ice cream bar or something. If he didn’t know who lived here, he’d almost be inclined to think the place was haunted.

  The iron gate, spiked like the fence, shrieked in pain as Bradley Wallace pushed it open and wheeled his bike up the broken stone walk past the dead and desiccated flowers that lined it. He hefted the bike up the three creaky wooden steps to the front porch and leaned it against a rusty, cobweb-infested bench swing just to the right of the door. Even the lower windows were shuttered, he noticed in surprise, from the inside! Perhaps the old man was away, he considered as he searched the doorframe for some kind of bell. Not finding one, he shrugged and raised the heavy metal knocker, slamming it hard against its shiny, polished base. He did this several times before realizing that the thick ring was gripped by the snarling fangs of a black panther head, much the same as he remembered from Mr. O’Conner’s walking stick. He didn’t know why, but that doorknocker gave him the creeps.

  Muffled footsteps approached from somewhere deep within the house, and moments later the door swung open.

  The place was so spooky, Bradley Wallace half-expected to see Count Dracula standing before him saying, “I bid you velcome” in a thick Hungarian accent. But, of course, it was only Mr. O’Conner with his Irish

  brogue and a grin of delight on his craggy features. Curiously, though, he showed no sign of surprise.

  “Bradley Wallace,” he invited, “Come in. I’ve been expecting you.”

  Uncertain what the old man meant, Bradley Wallace stepped into the darkened interior of the old house, and to his surprise, found it to be immaculate. A marked contrast to the exterior. Mr. O’Conner chuckled wryly as he closed the door, which only served to increase the darkness.

  “As you may have noticed outside, I’m not much of a gardener. I suspect you’re probably better with plants than I am.”

  Bradley Wallace didn’t really understand that comment either, and so he just smiled, noticing that for the first time since he’d known the old man, Mr. O’Conner was not wearing his white Good Humor outfit. Instead he wore baggy, khaki pants, thick soft slippers, and a lightweight, long-sleeved tunic belted at the waist (which Bradley Wallace could never remember seeing anyone wear except in old movies). Mr. O’Conner smiled easily and familiarly, gesturing for the boy to follow him into the brightly lit living room.

  As Bradley Wallace entered, he stared around him in surprise - the room was entirely illuminated by candles, hundreds it seemed like. Even the chandelier suspended from the ceiling must’ve had fifty candles in it, all burning brightly. He turned to Mr. O’Conner, the question obviously framed clearly on his face.

  The old man laughed lightly. “I prefer the flickering illumination of candlelight,” he explained. “It’s so much more genteel than electricity. More alive, too. Sit down, lad.”

  He indicated the old, but comfortable-looking sofa against one wall, and Bradley Wallace moved to it carefully, staring in wonder at all the magnificent antique furniture surrounding him. It looked like a museum! Even the grate in front of the fireplace looked like something out of the Dark Ages, rough-hewn and course, as though hammered out by a blacksmith on his anvil. The entire room looked like the Dark Ages, and he felt strange, as though he’d been transported back in time. It was really weird.

  “How did you know I was coming?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

  But if the old man was bothered in any way by the question, he gave no sign. He stood before the boy and his eyes danced in the flickering candlelight. “Because I know you,” he answered cryptically, an easy smile cracking his thin lips. “And I also know you’d like a coke, and maybe an Eskimo pie?”

  Bradley Wallace grinned back. The old man knew him, all right. “Well,” he admitted, feigning reluctance, “You could twist my arm.”

  Mr. O’Conner threw back his head and laughed. He excused himself to “get the goodies,” and told Bradley Wallace to make himself at home. He strode from the room, leaving Bradley Wallace alone with the distant past. The boy eyed the furnishings around him almost with awe.

  He’d never really noticed stuff like this before, but everything in the room looked so detailed and intricate, and hand-made, too. The wooden tables and chairs, as well as the mantle topping the fireplace, must’ve taken somebody months to carve. Maybe even years. No wonder he felt transported back to the past - nothing in the entire room was modern. Nothing. Yet everything was clean and well cared for. Perhaps that was why his eye settled on an apparent crack running up one of the wall panels to the right of the fireplace.

  Rising from the sofa, Bradley Wallace skirted the oaken coffee table and moved to inspect the paneling more closely. On closer examination, he found that it wasn’t a crack at all, but a deliberate separation between two panels - a secret door! Eyes wide with intense curiosity, he glanced quickly over his shoulder for any sign of Mr. O’Conner.

  Not seeing or hearing the old man, Bradley Wallace turned quickly back to the panel and slipped his fingers into the crevice. The door pulled open easily enough, giving Bradley Wallace the impression that it was frequently used. Well, why not? For all he knew, it might just be a bathroom.

  The blackness within was total, so no indication of the size or depth of the chamber beyond could be ascertained. Determined to at least

  explore his find a little, Bradley Wallace placed an exploratory foot over the bottom section of paneling, which rose about three inches above the carpet, onto the cold stone floor on the other side. When it wasn’t bitten off instantly, he raised his other foot, and entered the secret room.

  Once inside, he realized he’d been wrong about the darkness, though he didn’t know how he could’ve missed what now stood before him - a table, on which burned a wide, votive-type candle. Why hadn’t he been able to see this light from the living room? His point of view was the same. Uncertain, but still curious, he inched his way carefully to inspect the table’s contents. The candle was set in a tall, ornate brass candlestick, which rested beside a large, very ancient book with a dirty brown cover. The tome bore no title that he could see, but he somehow had the feeling that this was the oldest book he would ever see. It had an aura about it of other times and places, of vast stores of knowledge long since forgotten by most everyone. A flash of insight told him that this book contained answers to many of those eternal questions Mr. O’Conner had talked about. He reached a reverent hand toward the cover and gently touched it. A spark flashed and he yanked his hand back. He’d been shocked, as though he’d touched a live electrical wire.

  Befuddled, though not injured, the boy continued his inspection. There was nothing more on the table but a few dried plants, or herbs of some kind. Glancing up at the wall directly above the book, he was startled to see photographs tacked up there, thirteen in all, he quickly ascertained. Squinting i
n the dimly flickering light, he was even more startled to find that they were all pictures of him! One from each year of his life, all in various poses, most by old Shannon, and none that Bradley Wallace could ever recall having been taken.

  His mind posed a thousand questions at once, but a sound from somewhere in the house panicked him, and he hurried back to the secret door. Stepping quickly back into the still empty living room (thank God the old man hadn’t found him snooping!), Bradley Wallace eased the panel to its original position and darted for the sofa.

  He’d only just sat down when, as though on cue, Mr. O’Conner bounced excitedly into the room carrying a tray on which sat a can of coke, an Eskimo pie, and a steaming cup of tea. Bradley Wallace silently prayed that his erratic breathing and guilty expression would not be too obvious.

  He accepted the proffered items from Mr. O’Conner with a manufactured smile and a reasonably steady thank you, not certain what it was about those pictures that frightened him, but thinking maybe it was something he didn’t really want to know about, something that would change everything. And for the first time in his life, as he watched the old man carefully take a seat beside the blazing fire, the cup of tea steady in his liver spotted hand, Bradley Wallace feared Mr. O’Conner, maybe even mistrusted him. And that feeling tore him apart. Mr. O’Conner had always been his best human friend, or so he’d thought. Now he discovered the old man keeping secrets from him, secrets about him, and that knowledge frightened him.

  Conflicting emotions pulled at him from every direction as he silently licked his melting Eskimo pie and Mr. O’Conner watched him carefully over his teacup. On the one hand, there was his initial fear over what he found in that secret room, irrational and crazy thoughts of Mr. O’Conner being some kind of pervert or something. But there was also the firm, unshakable notion that if he asked for an explanation, the old man would tell him the truth. So why didn’t he ask? Why was he so terrified of the answer when he hadn’t even heard it yet?

  Mr. O’Conner continued to eye him with seeming casualness, but Bradley Wallace felt certain the old man was merely awaiting the boy’s question, as thought he’d left that door ajar purposely so Bradley Wallace would see what was beyond and ask about it. But Bradley Wallace could not, or would not (he wasn’t sure which) ask that question. If Mr. O’Conner seemed perturbed by the boy’s reluctance, he gave not the slightest indication. But then, he never had forced the boy to do anything, which was one of the things he most liked about the old man - he let people make their own choices.

  Stealing a quick glance over at the crack in the paneling, Bradley Wallace realized that he’d made his decision. He couldn’t help feeling guilty for not allowing his friend to explain himself, but even if the explanation was simple and logical (which he felt certain it was), he still didn’t want to know it. Not yet, anyway.

  Mr. O’Conner suddenly asked him about school, and the spell between them was broken. Relieved to have normal subjects to talk about,

  Bradley Wallace happily told him that school was going pretty well. Even John Wagner had ceased to be an active problem, generally avoiding Bradley Wallace completely.

  “So,” the old man went on casually, sipping his tea, “What’s your opinion on this Captain Courageous fellow?”

  Taking a drink of coke, Bradley Wallace gagged and began choking as the soda went down the wrong way.

  “You all right, lad?”

  Bradley Wallace nodded his head vigorously, coughing and sputtering like an old car in need of a tune-up.

  “I’m okay,” he rasped, clearing his throat. “It just went down the wrong way, that’s all.”

  Mr. O’Conner nodded and sat back in his chair, continuing his thoughts on the famous hero. “I think it’s really quite interesting, this Captain fellow, that is,” he commented, his eyes seeming to twinkle in the flickering firelight. “He doesn’t seem to have any ulterior motive for these rescues of his, like money or a TV series or anything like that. He merely does what he does to help other people, and I find that refreshing in this day and age. Most of us have forgotten how to believe in heroes because there haven’t been any to believe in for so long. I’d like to meet him sometime, lad, wouldn’t you?”

  Bradley Wallace tried to hide the annoyance in his voice. Even Mr. O’Conner was talking about the stupid hero! He couldn’t escape it anywhere. “Yeah,” he agreed, “He’s really neat.” He quickly gulped down the last of his Coke so the old man wouldn’t notice the distasteful look on his face, and then shoved his naked Popsicle stick into the can.

  But Mr. O’Conner seemed intent on pursuing this subject, which did not exactly thrill Bradley Wallace. “I’ve been following his exploits rather closely,” he went on, though Bradley Wallace wondered how the old man could follow the news when there wasn’t even a TV set in evidence, “And there’s one thing that concerns me.”

  “What’s that?” the boy asked more out of politeness than interest. Still, Mr. O’Conner might give him some useful advice without realizing

  it, so he listened attentively.

  “Sometimes we take on more than we can handle, lad, especially when we succeed at something and everyone says how great and wonderful we are.” The old man paused here a moment and eyed the boy knowingly. “That’s when we try to do even more, and that’s when we get into trouble. I’m just hoping he doesn’t do that.“

  Bradley Wallace suddenly had the distinct feeling Mr. O’Conner was not talking about the heroic Captain at all, but about him, Bradley Wallace Murphy, as though he knew everything the boy had undertaken of late. But that wasn’t possible, was it?

  The old man’s cryptic expression told him nothing, so he merely nodded in response to the question and left the matter alone. After all, Whilly was part of Captain Courageous, too, and would never allow the boy to go too far. Whilly was way too smart for that.

  Checking his watch, Bradley Wallace suddenly realized how late it was getting, and rather sheepishly told Mr. O’Conner that his mother didn’t know he was coming up here and he’d better get home before she freaked out.

  “Maybe I could call her from here to tell her I’m on my way,” he suggested as he rose from the sofa.

  Mr. O’Conner stood also, noticing as he did how much the boy had grown just in the months since he’d seen him last. “I’m sorry, Bradley Wallace, but I don’t have a phone.”

  “You don’t?” Bradley Wallace said incredulously, unable to contain his surprise. He thought everybody had a telephone.

  “Don’t need one, lad,” the old man explained with a smile, leading the boy toward the front door.

  “That’s okay,” he replied, shrugging the matter off as inconsequential. “She probably won’t notice I’m gone anyway.” No phone? And apparently no television. How bizarre.

  As they entered the foyer, Bradley Wallace also realized he hadn’t

  seen any clocks in the house, not even an ancient old grandfather, which he

  sort of expected in a place like this.

  In fact, he hadn’t seen any mechanical or electronic devices at all, not even a radio. Mr. O’Conner was one strange old man, he thought as he watched his employer pull open the heavy oaken front door. Still, despite the fright he’d had in that secret room, he felt sad upon leaving. Mr. O’Conner was still the only person who ever seemed to treat him as though he had a mind of his own - with respect, even.

  “You know, Mr. O’Conner,” he voiced this realization almost as it hatched, “You’re the only person who calls me by my real name, and not that stupid ‘Bradey.”’ He’d never noticed this before, but it was true.

  “Why should I call you by a name you don’t like?” the old man asked, smiling warmly and extending his hand. “Come again, lad, eh?”

  Bradley Wallace returned the smile, and shook the offered hand.

  “I will,” he immediately agreed. “And thanks for the goodies.”

  “Any time,” Mr. O’Conner said sincerely, and Bradley Wallace waved goodbye as he
stepped out onto the creaky porch. He couldn’t get over the condition of the outside as compared to the inside - like night and day. “See you soon,” the old man added cryptically, and then closed the door.

  Bradley Wallace wasn’t certain what Mr. O’Conner meant by those last words, but decided not to worry about them. He felt pretty good at the moment, as he always seemed to whenever in the strange old man’s company, and he determined not to let anything interfere with his pleasant mood. He picked up his bike from its resting place against the swing, and carried it down the steps to the walk, where he wheeled it the rest of the way to the grillwork gate. Had he thought to look down at the dead plants lining the path, he would have noticed small buds beginning to sprout from every stem he passed. But he didn’t look down. All he kept trying to remember as he opened the gate and pushed his bicycle onto the road was what other house this one reminded him of. At first he’d thought it was Collinwood. But that wasn’t it after all. As he slammed the gate shut with a resounding clang and took a last, long look at the turrets and shuttered upper story windows, it finally came to him: this looked like the house in the movie “Psycho.” He hopped quickly onto his bike and pedaled very rapidly down the winding, shadowy road.

  As he wheeled his bicycle in through the Murphy back gate, Bradley Wallace spotted his mother through the kitchen window bustling about preparing dinner. Almost as if she was psychic, she looked up and saw him, gesturing for him to come in through the family room door. He resigned himself to a good hollering and parked his bike under the roof overhang, marching resolutely toward the indicated sliding glass door.

  “Where have you been?” she asked sharply the moment his foot settled on the small rug just inside the door. She stood behind the counter apparently chopping onions from the distressed look on her face.

  “You were in your room with the door closed,” Bradley Wallace tried for his most sincere, childlike tone of voice, “and I thought you might be asleep. I was just going for a bike ride and didn’t want to wake you.” He smiled angelically, and it worked. His mother’s frown of annoyance changed to a smile.