A Boy and His Dragon Read online

  “So, what are ya doin’ for your birthday tonight?” the old man asked conversationally.

  The boy’s face clouded and he stuffed both hands into the pockets of his dark blue cords. “I don’t know. Not much, I guess.”

  Mr. O’Conner eyed him carefully. “You still havin’ problems with your pappy, eh?”

  The boy nodded. “We just don’t connect, you know? So I stay out of his way. I figure that’s best, right? But he won’t let me alone. He always tries to get me to do things he says boys are supposed to do, like play sports.”

  He spat out that last word as though it were phlegm lodged in his throat. “I’m nothing like either of my parents and it drives them crazy. Sometimes I feel like I must be adopted or something.”

  Mr. O’Conner appeared momentarily startled by the boy’s statement, and then quickly regained his composure. He stood and placed both hands on the boy’s shoulders, forcing Bradley Wallace to meet his eyes. “I’ve known your parents all your life, lad. They’re good people, but they’re only human, and they do the best they can. It may not be to your liken’, but it’s all they’re capable of. Just remember that much, okay?”

  He broke into a wide smile, obviously trying to coax a smile from the troubled boy. And it worked. Bradley Wallace smiled despite his pain, always infected by Mr. O’Conner’s omnipresent cheerfulness.

  “Okay,” he agreed.

  Grunting loudly, Mr. O’Conner eased himself slowly into the seat of his truck. “Well, lad, it’s time I made my rounds. Can’t keep all the other lads and lassies waitin’, don’t ya know.” He winked, eliciting another smile from the boy, who suddenly felt overcome with emotion toward this wise old man.

  “Uh,” the boy began, suddenly shy as his feelings clogged in his throat and kept the words from coming. Mr. O’Conner turned the ignition, and the old truck spit and sputtered and kicked her way to noisy life, idling like an earthquake. “Well, lad, I haven’t got all day. Out with it.”

  Still Bradley Wallace hesitated, never very good at expressing his true feelings, which were usually kept bottled up inside like a genie struggling to escape confinement. The old man frowned.

  “I’ve never known you to be at a loss for words with me, Bradley Wallace,” he spoke seriously, all jesting to one side. “What is it?”

  Suddenly the words spilled out. “I just want to thank you for being the only grownup who listens to me and sometimes I think if I didn’t have you I’d bust apart!”

  Fearing he might start bawling like a baby, Bradley Wallace leapt onto the running board and kissed Mr. O’Conner on the cheek, instantly jumping back down and tearing as fast as he could up the street.

  Surprised and moved, the old man watched from under his spectacles as the troubled young boy disappeared from his view around a corner. He smiled to himself, shifted into gear, and pulled away from the curb, rattling off down the quiet afternoon street.

  Bradley Wallace sped past his own house without stopping, darting across the street at an angle and dropping down a steep incline that sloped downward into his favorite haunt, the Gully. There he stopped, panting, to catch his breath and wipe away the tear working its way noticeably down his cheek. Sometimes he didn’t know what he’d do if he didn’t have Mr. O’Conner to talk to. He fought to quell this melancholia that seemed to descend on him more and more lately, and tramped through the dead brush and dirt clods, past the old abandoned warehouse, toward the grove of trees and tiny, snake-like creek winding its way between them.

  “The Gully” was what everyone in the neighborhood called this particular tract of land because, well, that’s basically what it was - a wide ravine that cut a circuitous path beside the roadway for several blocks. Aside from the hills above the neighborhood, the Gully was the only “wilderness” left in the area, and thus was a natural favorite of the local kids, who loved to run amongst the trees, laughing and playing hide-and-seek, and even more, against parental orders, of course, loved to play in the condemned old warehouse that Bradley Wallace’s mother kept insisting should be torn down.

  No one even seemed to remember what the dilapidated old structure had been used for; looking at it now, you would never guess it had ever been anything more than an eyesore (his mother’s word for it). Nonetheless, the kids loved that aging building. They reveled in throwing rocks at its corrugated metal exterior (the windows had all been broken years ago), and squeezing between bent and twisted panels to explore the cluttered, junk-filled interior. If you were real lucky, you might see a snake or a rat, or sometimes even a bat. Those were neat.

  Bradley Wallace figured he probably knew that old warehouse better than anyone; so much time did he spend in its musty interior just sitting and thinking, or sometimes reading without fear of being interrupted or chastised. He enjoyed the solitude, and the sunset looked mighty pretty from the Gully. Mighty pretty.

  Today he wended his way through the trees beside the trickling creek, stopping briefly to listen for the distant, echoing “who, who, whooing” of the reclusive neighborhood owl, whom no one had ever actually seen. Once, Bradley Wallace had spent hours searching for that crafty old bird’s hideout, trying to follow the misleading, plaintive “whooing.” He must’ve checked every tree for miles, but all he succeeded in doing was tearing his pants and scraping his hands on tree bark. Then, to add insult to injury, he’d been late for dinner (something his parents hated) and had been punished for that. Insatiable curiosity was one of his big problems, at least according to his parents. But he rather liked being interested in everything. Why, he bet his parents couldn’t even watch a sunset anymore, if they ever could. Boy, were they ever missing out.

  Not hearing the elusive owl, Bradley Wallace meandered through the dark shadows of late afternoon, his PF Flyers crushing dried leaves and

  dirt clods as he followed the stream’s twisting bank. Actually, this wasn’t a real, official stream or anything. It didn’t even have any polliwogs in it. And it didn’t empty into the ocean like real streams or rivers were supposed to. Sometimes Bradley Wallace felt really gypped, being born in California in this time. He wished he could be like Huckleberry Finn and ride paddle wheelers or rafts down huge, wide rivers, and wander free and easy, and not have to worry about grownups hassling him. Yeah, those were the days he longed for. All this little creek did was flow through a big, wide sewer pipe at the end of the gully and ended up who knew where.

  Actually, though, the boy had to admit he enjoyed exploring that old sewer pipe. At least it was something. But even then, Bradley Wallace had never gone far enough in to find out where everything came out - he was too afraid (though wouldn’t admit this, of course) that someone somewhere would flush a toilet and he’d get crap dumped all over him. Try and explain that to your parents.

  Tracing the path of the stream, which sometimes in winter almost resembled the river of the boy’s daydreams when the heavy rains caused its banks to overflow in raging torrents of water, Bradley Wallace came upon his destination - the rope swing.

  He didn’t know who’d originally put it there, but the large piece of hemp rope as thick as his wrist had hung suspended from the highest branch of the highest tree in the Gully for as long as he could remember, and it was a favorite hangout of the neighborhood kids, especially during the summer.

  They all loved the thrill of swinging from one bank of the Gully to the other, and Bradley Wallace was no exception. In fact, he may have been the rope swing’s most frequent user.

  There was just something about climbing up that steep incline, placing the large knot of rope between your legs, and just soaring out into space as if he were Tarzan or Huck Finn, or even a bird, just floating above the stream some ten feet below. This was far enough to make it challenging, but not far enough down to be really life threatening.

  But, naturally, every parent in the area hated the rope swing, claiming it was “far too dangerous” and constantly threatening to have it dismantled. Thus it was an unspoken rule among the kids never t
o remind their parents of the swing’s existence; they merely played on it in secret, and of course, no one ever got hurt. Bradley Wallace always wondered why it was that whatever kids seemed to think was fun, parents thought was dangerous. It just didn’t seem fair that they called all the shots.

  The best part of today’s adventure was the total solitude. Bradley Wallace could swing to his heart’s content, without fear of being interrupted or teased. He could let his daydreams flow free and easy - he could be Batman, James Bond, and Superman all rolled into one. Grabbing the loosely hanging rope, quivering a bit from the crisp April breeze, Bradley Wallace clambered up the side of the gully and stood at the top, gazing down into the placid, silent ravine below, seeing in his mind’s eye a bottomless gorge over which he would have but one chance to pass before the shrieking band of blow-gun wielding headhunters overtook him.

  He gripped the rope firmly in both hands, muscles taut with tension. His arms being naturally strong, Bradley Wallace never had any trouble climbing ropes, poles, or other objects requiring upper body strength, including the fences around places he shouldn’t be exploring. Athletic ability and coordination, however, had always eluded him, something his father didn’t seem to understand. With a wild cry of “Yahoo!” he kicked up his feet in a shower of dirt and sailed out into space.

  The gorge below looked indeed bottomless. If he should slip and fall . . . Then, tempting fate, the boy failed to alight on the opposite side, rather riding out the return swing, passing just within range of the headhunters’ deadly poisoned darts, one of which imbedded itself in the thick rope with a thud, missing his hands by inches. He laughed triumphantly as the swinging momentum pulled him back, out of range.

  Gazing at the creek passing beneath him, Bradley Wallace felt certain he knew how a bird must feel; the exhilaration of soaring high above the earth, free and clear, just floating on the wind without a care in the world - no homework, no parents, no big sisters, nothing. Just living. Even being a vampire would have its advantages, he mused. After all, they can fly when they change into bats. Of course, there wasn’t much to see at night, and he would miss every sunrise and sunset. That would be awful. But to fly, oh to fly!

  The thought of vampires caused him to reflect on what such an existence would be like. Barnabas Collins, the vampire who didn’t want to be a vampire on “Dark Shadows,” always seemed so sad, so full of regret. He suspected it wouldn’t really be any fun, not even the flying part since most of the time he’d only be looking for blood to drink. Yuck! “Dark Shadows” was unquestionably his favorite television program besides “Star Trek,” which sadly went off the air last year. His parents hadn’t liked him watching that “weird science fiction thing” and positively hated that “crazy horror soap,” so naturally they forbade him to watch it.

  Not healthy for a boy to stay in every afternoon at 4 PM and watch vampires, werewolves, and witches on television, they claimed. He should be outside playing with his friends. But they didn’t understand, as usual. Those characters were his friends, the only ones he really had outside of Mr. O’Conner, and he just couldn’t give them up. He couldn’t.

  He lived the lives of those fictional characters even more than they did; they were real to him, more real than most people he knew. But try to explain that to parents - you might as well talk to a wall. And so he had to sneak around like a criminal to watch the show, rarely getting caught as he had today. But he had to do it. He had to.

  Lost in his own private nether world of thoughtful musings, Bradley Wallace was completely caught off-guard when, quite suddenly, as the swing took him back up the incline, he was grabbed from behind and violently shoved to the hard ground, dirt clogging his mouth and nostrils. Confused, temper flaring, the boy leaped to his feet and whirled around. Facing him was the one person in the world Bradley Wallace honestly felt he hated: John Wagner.

  No bigger in size than Bradley Wallace, but somehow more threatening in appearance, Wagner had a shock of jet black hair, always unkempt and greasy, baleful grey eyes, like those of a rabid wolf, and a cold, cruel mouth, a sneer usually twisted across his blood-red lips. Wagner was the official class bully (every school had one, didn’t they?), and picked on anyone who let him. Flanking Wagner on either side were his two cronies, Roger Raley and Sam Smith, less fearsome in appearance, but no less delinquent. Raley was tall and lanky with surfer blond hair, while Smith was short and stocky, with a freckled face and big-lipped mouth that always made Bradley Wallace think of a frog, and an ugly one, at that. Wagner was undisputedly the leader of this mini-gang, and it was he who did most of the talking.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doin’ on my rope swing, Murphy?” Wagner spat viciously. The three bullies squared off against Bradley Wallace like panthers surrounding their intended dinner. Though frightened of being beaten up (he didn’t care for that), Bradley Wallace stood his ground as forcefully as his rising anger permitted.

  “This isn’t your swing, Wagner, so just get lost and leave me alone,” he shot back defiantly, hoping his fear wasn’t evident.

  His emerald eyes locked on those of Wagner, who sneered derisively.

  “Leave me alone!” he mimicked mockingly. “Hear that guys, the wimp wants me to get lost.”

  “Make him make you, John,” Raley put in, pushing straggly strands of blond hair away from his beady little eyes. The three of them gazed steadily at Bradley Wallace, challenging him without words. He knew they wanted him to make the first move so they could jump him en masse, being very familiar with Wagner’s modus operandi (a term Bradley Wallace picked up in detective novels, especially “Perry Mason” books) from past experience. But he was determined not to let simple anger play him right into Wagner’s grimy hands. Ever since he’d gotten into “Star Trek,” Bradley Wallace had been fascinated by the logical Mr. Spock, and saw much value in not catering to his more violent emotions. But what would Mr. Spock do in a situation like this? Probably give all three his “Spock Special” neck pinch and that would be that. Too bad Bradley Wallace didn’t know that trick.

  “Well,” Wagner challenged again, “Are you gonna make me, fag?” Bradley Wallace stared back, trance-like and seemingly oblivious to the presence of the three bullies. Raley and Smith exchanged a curious look, and Raley shrugged.

  “Hey, fag,” Smith spoke up (he even croaked like a frog), “You gonna fight or are ya chicken? We ain’t got all day, ya know!” He laughed, and Raley snorted like a hog. Wagner merely continued staring at Bradley Wallace, his wolf-eyes blazing with contempt.

  Finally, Bradley Wallace addressed his challengers, but the voice that came forth from his mouth was different from any he’d used before. It sounded more mature, more desperate, more threatening.

  “Claude North is with Roxanne now. He’s going to make her speak. There was nothing I could do to stop him.”

  Wagner’s sneer dropped like a rock, and he turned to his cronies in obvious bewilderment. What the hell was all that gibberish? He turned back to Bradley Wallace.

  “Look, faggot, if you’re chicken, just say so,” Wagner replied, a touch less assurance in his voice. “What’s this Roxanne crap? Who’s Claude North?” He was getting angry that this little crap-head was making him look like a jerk in front of his boys.

  But Bradley Wallace continued in the same tone of voice, as though Wagner’s response had been exactly what he wanted. And his face remained so blank, his eyes so lifeless.

  “In a matter of minutes you are going to be destroyed.”

  Raley and Smith lost all outward signs of haughtiness, the former even displaying traces of nervousness. “He’s crazy, John,” Raley squeaked. “Let’s split before he has a fit or somethin’.”

  “He’s just bullshittin’ us to get outta fightin’, idiot!” Wagner barked scornfully, but somehow lacking his former self-confidence. “Now cut the crap, Murphy. You’re makin’ my pal here uptight.” He laughed, but it was a hollow laugh, without conviction.

  “But before y
ou go,” Bradley Wallace continued undeterred, his voice strong and sure, his eyes still glassed over, “You’re going to sign a confession that’s going to clear Quentin Collins. And you’re going to tell me where Julia Hoffman is.”

  Now Wagner, too, was showing outward signs of nervousness, and his “gang” looked ready to high tail it out of there.

  Wagner shifted his feet uneasily, considering how to handle this situation and not lose face with Raley and Smith. Was Murphy just shittin’ them, or had he really flipped out after all? Wagner wondered. Murphy was a pretty weird kid.

  “Look, Murphy,” he challenged as forcefully as his doubts allowed, “I told you to cut the crap and I meant it!”

  He placed both hands on his hips and thrust out his chest like a lion trying to impress an opponent. But it was obvious his conviction had faltered. This wasn’t what he’d expected when he’d spotted Murphy on the rope swing and decided to have a little fun, and Wagner didn’t like it when things weren’t what he expected. He liked to know ahead of time what was coming; he liked being in control.

  Bradley Wallace merely gazed back at him in confusion. “Why do you address me so? That is not how I am called. Begone from here, lest ye be cursed forever.” He paused and scanned the anxious, disoriented faces before him. His glassy emerald eyes seemed to burn with argent fire, piercing the very souls of Wagner and his gang.

  “Let’s get outta here, John,” the frog croaked falteringly. But now Wagner was more angry than nervous the one thing he hated more than little kiss-ass punks like Murphy was being made a fool of in front of his friends. That he wouldn’t stand for, no sir.

  “Get him!” he yelled, his temper inflamed anew.

  Suddenly, Bradley Wallace’s eyes lost their glazed-over appearance, and he seemed to snap back to his senses. Just in time, too, as the three boys were lungeing at him. What had he said, he wondered as, with surprising agility (he thought), Bradley Wallace turned down the incline and gripped the still swinging rope, kicking off over the stream as hard as he could? His pursuers, caught off guard, scrabbled down the incline after him.