A Boy and His Dragon Read online

  BOOK TITLE

  A Boy

  And His

  Dragon

  Michael J. Bowler

  Copyright © 2011 Michael Bowler

  All rights reserved

  ISBN-10: 061552477X

  ISBN-13: 978-0615524771

  BOOK TITLE

  PART ONE

  A BOY’S LIFE

  CHAPTER 1

  “Discovery”

  The boy held his breath as the tall, raven-haired figure stealthily approached the door, its movements silent and catlike. A pale, bloodless hand reached out from beneath the folds of a dark, billowing cloak. A black onyx ring adorning the index finger caught a pale shaft of moonlight filtering through the nearby dust-encrusted window and glinted ominously. Slowly, deliberately, the bloodless hand began turning the ancient, ornate brass door handle. The boy’s eyes remained glued to the brooding figure as the door inexorably creaked open, hinges screaming in pain. Suddenly, with a crescendo of dramatic, impending music, the image of the figure’s hand on the doorknob dissolved into that of a toilet paper commercial.

  Exasperated, Bradley Wallace sat back from the tiny, five-inch television screen and sighed, removing the old, yellowed earplug and scratching his itching ear. Almost immediately he heard the approaching footsteps, and quickly switched off the TV. He stuffed the earplug into his pants pocket and dashed to his small, roll top desk, plopped into the chair, and flipped open his English book, burying his face in its new-smelling pages.

  Just in time, too. His mother, a tiny, but strong woman in her forties, pushed open his door (without knocking, of course!) and gazed suspiciously into the boy’s cluttered room. She scanned the junk strewn counter and the myriad movie posters adorning the off-white walls, and shook her head. She hated those posters - all horror films, something to which her son seemed addicted and which she thought to be extremely unhealthy for a thirteen-year-old boy. But then, there was so much about her sandy-haired son she feared would always remain a mystery - like why he would want to stay in his room on a beautiful day like this reading comic books or those dreadful horror movie magazines, or watching television, when he could be outside playing like all the other boys.

  Putting a hand to her hip - she always did that when she suspected something amiss - Marge flicked her eyes curiously from the silent, staring television screen atop the cluttered counter, to her apparently reading son, who seemed oblivious to her entrance.

  “Bradey, were you watching television again?” she asked. He looked up from his book as though noticing her for the first time.

  “No, Mom,” he lied, certain his face must be turning red. He was a terrible liar. “I was just doing my homework.”

  His mother squinted crossly at him. “You know your father and I forbid you to watch that show, and if I catch you at it again, that little TV gets locked up. Understand?” Her intense gaze told Bradley Wallace his lie had been detected. And he didn’t think she was bluffing this time. Looking down at the floor, he murmured the usual “Yes,” and left it at that.

  But his mother still hung in the doorway like a predatory bat from the roof of a cave. Why does she have to keep staring at me, he thought? She’s already yelled at me, so why doesn’t she just leave? Next it’ll be “Why don’t you go outside and play?”

  As if on cue, Marge said, “Why don’t you go outside and play?” Despite his discomfort at her presence, Bradley Wallace smiled at his own perceptiveness. If only she knew him as well as he knew her.

  “I’m sure the other boys are down at the schoolyard playing ball,” his mother went on, beginning to sound like the drone of a hovering bee. “Why don’t you go see? It’s such a beautiful day and, well,” she faltered a moment, reacting to his blank expression, “well it is your birthday, after all, and you shouldn’t be sitting in here. It isn’t healthy.” As soon as she said that last part, Marge knew from his expression she’d gone too far.

  Bradley Wallace eyed his mother knowingly. “You mean I shouldn’t be hanging around the house when Dad gets home because it’ll only cause trouble.”

  Taken aback by his frankness and perception, Marge moved to her son and tousled his hair, something he was beginning to hate.

  “You need a haircut,” she observed, and he quickly brushed the scraggly bangs out of his eyes. He hated haircuts, too, though Tony, the barber, was an okay guy. For a grownup.

  His mother added, almost as an afterthought, “You know your father only wants what’s best for you. We both do.” Her voice had taken on that patronizing tone adults always seemed to use on kids, no doubt born of their pompous certainty that the child hasn’t brain one of his own. Well, two could play that game.

  “Yeah,” he replied in his best imitation of patronization, which was not lost on his mother. She pulled her hands away from him uncertainly.

  “Can I go now?” he asked, staring fixedly at the brown cola stain near his feet. That stain had stubbornly refused to come off his bright red carpet, despite his mother’s best efforts. Even K-2R had failed. That stain openly defied his mother, something he wished he had the courage to do. He secretly hoped it would never come clean.

  His mother nodded and stepped aside. Rising from the dark-brown, pressed-wood-veneer chair, Bradley Wallace stood at least two inches above his mother’s five feet, five inches. He’s getting so big, she thought as she watched him move to the door.

  “Bradey,” she called, hesitantly. He turned and she attempted an easy smile. “Try and have fun.”

  He had to smile at that as he hurriedly stepped into the hall. Fun? And that name! He hated that name! Bradey! What kind of a name was that? His own was bad enough, but the nickname was intolerable! As he entered the playroom adjacent to his own and slid open the big, glass door leading to the Murphy back yard, he recalled the origin of that vile diminutive - his older sister, Katie. When they were both kids she couldn’t pronounce “Bradley Wallace” and had, one night at supper, regurgitated the name “Bradey” in her struggles to get it right. Like dirty old gum to the sole of your shoe, the nickname had stuck. Try as he might, Bradley Wallace could not pry it loose. Everyone thought it was so cute!

  Ouch! Lost in thought, he caught his finger in the gate latch. Man, that hurt! His temper flared. Gripping the top angrily, he slammed the wooden gate as hard as he could, not caring if the old, warped wood cracked more than it already had.

  It was a crisp, clear and sunny April afternoon, as was so often the case in this rather sedate California suburban town of San Rafael in the year 1970. Bradley Wallace’s neighborhood, located on the East side of town and having been developed later than the West side, was suburbia all the way. But at least all the houses didn’t look the same. Bradley Wallace hated neighborhoods like that (a new one was springing up not too far away) - they were so boring.

  Bradley Wallace was rather big for his age, broad-shouldered and husky (the word his father was fond of using to describe him). The boy knew he wasn’t terribly good-looking like some famous movie stars, just ordinary, like a well-worn, comfortable old chair everyone takes for granted. But he did have piercing green eyes, laughing eyes the color of the Emerald City in “The Wizard of Oz,” and always alert and inquiring. His hair, usually cropped short by his mother now covered his ears and drooped listlessly down past his eyes (unless he continually pushed it back) and was the color of wet sand most of the time. But under certain light, especially moonlight, his hair took on a curious reddish-orange cast the color of an under ripe tomato. The boy usually dressed sloppily according to his mother, but cords, a t-shirt, and Keds didn’t seem sloppy to him, just comfortable.

  Once out of the yard, Bradley Wallace felt free of the stifling atmosphere of the house. He always felt so awkward
with his parents, especially over the last few years. They always seemed to be watching him, giving him unwanted advice, telling him to do this or that. But there was no real bond between parent and child. They just didn’t understand him, and he couldn’t feel at ease in their presence. And then there was his sister . . .

  His thoughts were suddenly cut short by the faint sound of tinkling music floating in from down the street - ice cream truck music! Hurrying across the asphalt drive, Bradley Wallace carefully avoided the deadly pampas grass bushes (if you grabbed hold of even the slimmest tendril, the effect was like gripping a double-edged razor blade) and sprinted down the sidewalk just as Mr. O’Conner’s aged truck rounded the corner of Manderly and Kinross. Bradley Wallace loved that old clunker (not to mention its contents) because the truck was painted to look like an ice cream sundae - white around most of it with dark brown spilling over the top and down the sides, and best of all, a bright red cherry adorning the very tip top. But even more than the truck or its contents, Bradley Wallace liked Mr. O’Conner, and eagerly awaited the old man’s arrival at precisely 4:41 p.m. every other day during the spring and every day during the summer.

  Mr. O’Conner had snow-white hair, wizened features, big, bushy eyebrows, and small, wire-rimmed spectacles surrounding his vibrant blue eyes, the deepest blue of the deepest ocean, the boy thought. The old man always reminded Bradley Wallace of Gandalf, the wizard in Lord of the Rings, one of his favorite books. The sundae truck rattled up to the curb noisily, and spluttered to a stop, sounding like someone choking a cat.

  The bespectacled old man carefully alighted to the sidewalk, beaming cheerfully at his youthful friend, who jumped to a stop in front of the truck.

  “Land sakes, lad, you aimin’ for the Olympics?” the old man jested. Bradley Wallace smiled, reveling in Mr. O’Conner’s lilting Irish brogue, still potent after so many years away from “the old country.”

  “You bet!” the boy answered, leaping up onto the truck’s running board and gazing in at the dashboard, where the old man kept a large, broken shard of crystal suspended by a chain from the rear-view mirror. Bradley Wallace gripped the crystal in both hands and pressed his eyes closed tightly, concentrating.

  “I wish for excitement and adventure, and most of all, a friend to share it with.” opening his eyes, he released the stone and caught Mr. O’Conner’s eye. He winked and flashed a mischievous smile before clambering down from the truck and moving to face the old man.

  Bradley Wallace had been wishing on that crystal for as long as he could remember, ever since Mr. O’Conner had told him it was enchanted. Even though the boy now knew that part to be just another of the old man’s tall tales, he still enjoyed the ritual of wishing on the prism-like crystal, hoping against hope that maybe, someday, his wishes might come true. The old man’s eyes seemed to twinkle behind his spectacles as he regarded the boy before him, who was now almost as tall as he.

  “You seemed to concentrate extra hard on that wish today, lad,” he teased. “Now why would that be?”

  Bradley Wallace grinned. “You know why.”

  Mr. O’Conner shrugged and scratched his head, as though struggling to recall something important. “Can’t say that I do.”

  “Come on, Mr. O’Conner,” the boy prompted, somehow not in the mood to be teased, even by his favorite grownup.

  Mr. O’Conner seemed to sense this in the boy, for he burst into a wide, toothy grin. “Well now, it wouldn’t have anything to do with this bein’ your birthday, now would it, lad?”

  Bradley Wallace smiled back.

  “I know you,” the old man jested, “and you’re just reminding me so you can get yourself a free ice cream, eh?”

  “Of course!” the delighted boy chortled, his eyes laughing with pleasure.

  The old man scratched his head again. “Well now, I’m not so sure today is your birthday. You might be just pullin’ my leg.”

  Bradley Wallace raised his right hand in a feeble attempt at the Boy Scout salute. He had been a Webeloes Scout, but hadn’t really fit in with the other boys and dropped out before gaining the Boy Scout rank, much to the dismay of his father.

  “Scout’s honor,” he pledged, trying hard to look serious.

  “You’re not any boy scout, lad,” Mr. O’Conner barked.

  “Do I have to be to get a free ice cream?” Bradley Wallace asked, trying to look so sincere that Mr. O’Conner burst out laughing.

  “Anything you want, for the birthday boy,” the old man offered, gesturing toward the truck. “Take yer pick.”

  Bradley Wallace gleefully leaped back into the driver’s seat and poked his head through the opening into the freezer compartment. “Ooh, it’s cold in here!” he exclaimed, his voice echoing hollowly and sounding far away.

  “That’s why they call it ice cream, lad,” Mr. O’Conner noted with good-natured sarcasm. “How old you be today?” he called out.

  “Thirteen!” came the muffled reply. Then Bradley Wallace pulled his head out of the freezer, cracking it against the top of the opening. “Ouch!” he cried, angrily clenching his fist as though to strike the truck itself.

  “Now, now,” Mr. O’Conner cautioned, poking his head into the truck, “don’t take it out on poor ole Shannon just cause you don’t watch what you’re doin.” He smiled easily, and the boy’s surge of anger dissipated as he climbed down from inside the truck.

  “I wouldn’t have really hit her,” he explained, patting the aged truck almost lovingly.

  Mr. O’Conner nodded and sighed. “She and I been through a lot together,” he reminisced, then turned his attention to the Eskimo Pie Bradley Wallace held in his hand, cradling the ice cream bar as if it were the most valuable gift in the world. “I see you got the usual,” the old man added.

  “What else?” Bradley Wallace replied easily, stripping the wrapper from his Eskimo Pie and taking a big bite.

  “You’re gonna turn in ta one of dem things,” Mr. O’Conner joked, eyeing the boy curiously.

  “What are you staring at?” Bradley Wallace asked, looking quickly down at his shirtfront. “Did I spill something?” He looked up again into the old man’s quietly probing eyes.

  “Sorry,” Mr. O’Conner apologized, breaking his fixed gaze. “Staring is rude, lad, and don’t let no one tell you different.”

  “Then why were you staring?” the boy asked, taking another bite of his melting Eskimo Pie.

  Mr. O’Conner shook his head and scratched absently behind one ear. “I just can’t believe you’re thirteen already. Seems like just yesterday you were a fat little beach ball of a baby.”

  Bradley Wallace scowled. “Like Dr. McCoy said once in ‘Star Trek,’ ‘If you’re gonna get nasty, I’m gonna leave.”’ He quickly swiped with his tongue at a stray dribble of vanilla ice cream, just catching it before it dropped onto his hand. His Eskimo Pie was melting fast in the warm afternoon sun.

  Mr. O’Conner laughed at the boy’s comment. “Sorry, lad. It’s just that, in many cultures, you’d be considered a man today, and have to own up to all those responsibilities boys don’t have to worry about.”

  Bradley Wallace took another big lick of ice cream and sat down on Shannon’s running board, contemplating the old man’s words. Mr. O’Conner sat beside him, stretching out his legs carefully. After a few minutes, Bradley Wallace broke the reflective silence.

  “I’ve been thinking about that, growing up and all, and I’ve decided I don’t want to be a man. I want to stay a boy forever, like Peter Pan. I mean the only thing good about being grown up that I can see is that you can do what you want when you want to. But grownups never seem to have as much fun as kids. Right now I never get to just do what I want, to just be free to be me. So, if I become a man, I’ll have missed out on being a boy, if you see what I mean.”

  Mr. O’Conner eyed the boy with interest. “I think I get part of it, but I don’t see how not growing up would change anything.”

  “But don’t you see,” Bradley Walla
ce went on eagerly, gratified to finally be sharing these notions he’d thought so long and hard about, “if I stay always a boy, I’ll eventually outlive my parents, and then they can’t tell me what to do or what I should like or not like and I’d be free to just have fun.” His emerald eyes sparkled as he spoke, and Mr. O’Conner marveled at the logic with which the boy reasoned. He paused a moment before answering, choosing his words carefully. This was one sharp kid.

  “Well, lad,” be began, “I can only speak for myself. I think I’d find being in one state for eternity to be a crashing bore, even if that state was the magical, fleeting period of childhood, when everything is so new and exciting. Me, I’m older than the hills, and while I had fun as a boy, I have fun as an old man, too. It’s just a different kind of fun, see? Change is the most exciting aspect of life, for me, anyway.”

  He stopped and gazed down at the child, who absently licked the remaining globs of vanilla ice cream from the wooden stick and considered the old man’s words.

  “I guess I understand. But how do I know I’d have fun when I got old?”

  Mr. O’Conner smiled. “You don’t. That’s what makes it all so exciting.”

  Bradley Wallace nodded thoughtfully.

  Then a mischievous grin crept slowly across his face and he tossed the naked Popsicle stick out into the street. Mr. O’Conner cleared his throat noisily and pointed to the discarded stick, its slippery surface reflecting the golden rays of sunlight. “You’re not to go litt’ring up the streets with my sticks, laddy. You just pick that up and throw it away proper.”

  Laughing delightedly, Bradley Wallace jumped up from the running board and snatched up the fallen stick, its bottom now covered with dirt and debris from the street. Yuck! He returned to the truck and tossed the dirty stick into the litter box Mr. O’Conner kept stashed on the floor beneath the glove compartment.