Kenny & the Dragon, page 5
Kenny took George’s shield and lance from him while the knight dismounted. Immediately the lad was reminded of the night that he first met Grahame. They were bidding each other farewell as the drake handed back Kenny’s own makeshift weapons. Now, as he held the actual weapons, he felt like the river within him was frozen. He shook it off, focusing on George, and replied, “A little bit. Actually, I came back to talk to you and—”
“Did you see the parade? I kept an eye out for you. What a sight! What a spectacle it was! I felt like I was in the prime of my youth once again!”
“I did,” Kenny said, tying George’s mount to a street sign. “I had just gotten back from seeing that friend of mine I was telling you about earlier. Remember? And I—”
“Can you help me with these buckles, lad?” George asked as he rushed into his shop. He poked his head back out the front door when he realized that Kenny hadn’t moved. “Come on! I do want to hear about your friend, but I have to tell you about tomorrow! Just give me a hand with this coat of mail.” Kenny sighed, trailing behind him, arriving back in George’s little home on the second floor. “That’s a good boy. I’ve . . . umf . . . forgotten . . . how hot this armor is. I haven’t worn it in years!” the knight said as he began to unbuckle the metallic pieces.
Kenny helped his friend out of his suit of armor and set the parts carefully back into the trunk. Even though the pieces were heavy and clanged while George wriggled out of them, Kenny had never seen his old pal so sprightly before.
“Phew! That’s much better,” the knight said, and went to the icebox. “I’m parched—do you want something to drink?” Kenny went to answer, but before he could speak, the excited George handed him a bottle of birch beer and cut him off. “Hold on a sec, I’ll be right back. I’ve so much to talk to you about, and I need my . . .”
The lad heard George’s voice drift away as the knight scurried back downstairs to the bookshop for something.
He had to tell George about Grahame. He took a big swig from his birch beer. “Just take a deep breath and say it,” he said to himself. “George, the dragon you are about to slay is more interested in buttercups than battles. So you have to call off the fight. Okay? Okay.”
While he waited for the knight’s return, the lad looked around the transformed study, where the ongoing chess game had been. On top of the chessboard lay the scroll with the “official orders” from the king. Above a stack of books, on George’s wall, hung the dusty, faded tapestry. Kenny approached it and, after blowing off a layer of dust, could now see that it was embroidered with a knight piercing a dragon in the heart.
Finally his eyes fell on the polished shield with the dragon etched on it. The image was beastly: The wicked drake had fire blasting from its mouth and nose. It was nothing at all like Grahame, who just the other night had used his fire breath to light his dad’s pipe by blowing a tiny spark out of his left nostril. However, like Kenny’s frying pan from his first visit with the dragon, George’s shield was blotched with scorch marks . . . real scorch marks made from fiery breath.
George dashed back into the study. “I knew this was here somewhere, I just had to dig around a bit.” He cleared his table of the chessboard and the scroll and slapped down a large brown roll of parchment.
“It’s a map of the area,” he said, beaming, “and I would like to discuss strategy with you, Kenny. You know Shepard’s Hill like the back of your paw, so how do you think we should best make our approach?”
George sat, eagerly awaiting the lad’s response. Kenny had never seen him so vibrant, so alive, before. This wasn’t going to be easy to do, but he had to do it. “Um . . . I can’t help you, George,” he said.
There, he thought to himself. That wasn’t so hard. Keep going.
“You see,” he continued aloud, “there is, um . . . something very important I’ve been meaning to tell you about the dragon.”
Sensing that something was once again amiss, the knight put his large arm around the young rabbit and spoke softly. “Spit it out, lad. What is it? What’s troubling you? Are you afraid of it?”
“Not really,” Kenny replied, furrowing his brow a bit.
“Because it’s okay if you are,” said George.
“No. Really, I’m not,” Kenny said, setting his bottle down, that fiery feeling flickering in his stomach. “You see—”
“You are so brave, young squire. Charlotte told me it was sighted very close to your house, and I know you’re family’s in danger—”
“NO!” Kenny yelled. The fire in his stomach completely overtook him, burning away the river-stones. “That’s not it at all! Just listen to me! You don’t understand anything! Grahame is a good dragon—a peaceful dragon. He doesn’t like to fight. He’s never fought a day in his life, but his brothers did, and they were all killed by knights. Knights just like you, and now you have orders from the king to kill him, and the stupid king doesn’t even know him! You don’t even know him. Do you know what he likes to do?”
George was blinking at the boy. His mouth was slightly open.
“He likes painting sunsets, listening to classical music, playing piano, reading, and crème brûlée. He’s . . . he’s . . .” The boy could no longer keep the river down, and it started trickling out, burning his eyes. “He’s my best friend. And I don’t want to lose either of you in some dumb fight to the death.”
With his mouth still agape, George studied the boy, watching him wipe his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. Sniffling, Kenny got up to leave and turned back to the old man. “You said ‘a friend of yours is a friend of mine.’ Of all the people in the world who could have helped me and Grahame, I thought of you. You two are the only ones who really understand me.” Kenny stood in the doorway, looking the old knight in the eyes. “I even thought you two might just become friends.” With that, the boy ran down the stairs, out the front door, and into the gaslit streets toward home.
IX. A Well-Willed Chap
AS KENNY BOLTED OFF THE MAIN street in Roundbrook, he knocked over a cart of dragon trinkets, and they spilled near a group of townsfolk who were sharing a keg of ale and laughing loudly. As he scurried past them, he heard one exclaim, “I bet seven to one that the dragon flambés the old coot in five minutes. It’s gonna be a roasting good time!”
“I can’t wait,” another added. “It’ll be a hot time up on the hill tomorrow. A scorcher for sure!”
A boy sitting with the group spied Kenny and ran into the alley, blocking his way.
“Hey, you live up on that farm near the hill, doncha?” he asked. “I heard you seen that dragon up there. Didja? Maybe eatin’ a cow or somethin’?”
Kenny had seen this prickly kid before in school. He was a couple of years older and a couple of pounds heavier, hence his nickname, “Porky.”
“Yeah,” he said, looking Porky in the eyes. That fiery feeling was still in his stomach. “I’ve seen the dragon. And there isn’t gonna be a fight tomorrow.
So forget about it.” Kenny’s heart was pounding. He waited for the wallop to come from the young ruffian.
“Now don’t worry yer little head,” Porky’s father said. He put his burly hand on Kenny’s shoulder reassuringly and slowly separated the two boys. “If ol’ Georgie can’t get that beast, well then, we’ll all go up there and kill ’im—right, boys?”
Amidst the whooping of the revelers, Kenny wiggled free and took off as fast as his legs would take him, leaving Roundbrook far behind.
It was almost sunset by the time Kenny arrived back at his little farmhouse. His father was bringing the sheep in from the fields, and he could smell the aroma of vegetable stew as he approached his front porch. A cool breeze welcomed him home amidst a trio of chirping crickets.
Kenny slumped through the house and flopped down on his bed. He pushed all his pillows off the covers and got under his blanket, staring at the cracked, patched ceiling.
Why couldn’t this be like a fairy tale? Why did the dragon have to show up and be a good dragon? Why did the only person in town who just happened to be a dragon-slayer also happen to be my only other friend in the world?
He looked down at his bookshelf and gazed at the books that George had given him over the years. In some of them, there were wizards and witches who could give you enchanted weapons or supernatural powers that allowed you to overcome your foes and save the day. Kenny’s life didn’t have these villains intent on doing nothing but bad things—it was more complicated than that. Come to think of it, he had no foes, really, except now maybe all the townsfolk who had come to witness this battle.
Sure, he thought, this could be the most famous battle of all time. Folks have heard about something this big, but they’ve never seen anything like it—but these are my friends. And they’re betting on who will win!
“Kenneth”—his mother interrupted his thoughts—“I’ve invited someone for dinner who really wants to see you.”
Kenny pulled his ears over his eyes and rolled over in his bed. “I don’t want to come out, Mom. I just want to stay in here.”
“I think you should get up, son,” his mom said as she entered his room and put his folded laundry in his dresser. She sat down on the bed and stroked his furry head. “I just made you a bowl of my vegetable stew, and there are fresh butter rolls for dipping.”
“Is there ginger beer?” Kenny asked, peeking out from under his ear.
“No,” his mother answered as she rose and went to the door. “But your friend has brought you some birch beer. So wash up and come on out for dinner.”
Kenny washed his hands and face and peered into the kitchen. Sitting at the table with his mom and dad was George.
“Hello,” the boy said, plopping down in his chair and staring at his stew.
“Hello, Kenny,” said George. “I hope you don’t mind me following you back home. I wanted to talk to you about tomorrow. Your parents tell me that the dragon is quite a well-willed chap, and—”
“Grahame,” Kenny interrupted. “His name is Grahame.”
“Er, uh . . . well, perhaps this Grahame and I can have a chat about tomorrow and see to a . . . uh, is that Grahame like the cracker?”
“Indeedy it is,” Kenny’s father said through a mouthful of butter roll. “But with an ‘e’ on the end.”
“Oh. Ah, those are good,” George said as if he was savoring the thought of them. Kenny looked at him for a moment, and then stared down at his stew, but he wasn’t feeling hungry. He wondered if the codger ever felt the river-stones in his stomach. It almost seemed like the knight was having a harder time talking here at the dinner table than anything else. It was odd to think this was the same George who’d been so gallant, so chivalrous, earlier this afternoon astride his proud mount. And the same George he had known all these years, who had never left his bookshop.
“Anyways,” George continued, “if this friend of yours is as good a spirit as you’ve said, well then, perhaps we can converse about the upcoming event and sort something out. What do you say?”
Kenny looked up from his soup bowl. George wasn’t just some weapon for the king to wield whenever he wanted, after all. Whatever anyone had expected of him tomorrow, the knight was here with Kenny, willing to make amends. “Really?” he said. “You’d do that?”
“Certainly,” George replied with a smile. “A friend of yours is a friend of mine—remember?”
“Good! I’m glad that’s settled,” said Kenny’s mother, “’cause I’ve already invited Grahame for dessert and coffee. He should be here any minute.”
Kenny looked up and smiled at his mother, then his father and George. All three were smiling back. Through the window, over their shoulder, he could see the familiar round shape of the dragon bounding across the twilight field toward their house. He took a deep breath, swallowed the stone in his throat, and hoped that dessert would go as well as dinner had.
X. A Dragon and His Wrath
“I BROUGHT SOME NEW POEMS TO RECITE over dessert. Is it crème brûlée again tonight?” Grahame asked as he pushed his large head through the window to hover next to the dinner table. He smiled his toothy grin when he saw Kenny, then noticed the old fellow with the white beard and mustache sitting at the table. “Ho there, we’ve got some company. Mayhaps a fellow poet?”
“Kenneth, why don’t you introduce your friend to Grahame?” his mom asked.
“Any friend of Kenny’s is a friend of mine, as long as it isn’t that daft knight sent to execute me,” Grahame snorted. George fake-coughed a little.
“Um, actually, this is him,” Kenny said. “Grahame, meet my old friend George. George, this is my new friend, Grahame.”
Kenny bit his lip and held his breath. His father slurped his second helping of stew, while his mom quietly got up from the table to start washing the dishes. George and Grahame eyed each other for some time, waiting for the other to speak first and break the uncomfortable silence.
“So,” George said at last, “I can say I haven’t seen a dragon in many, many years. In some ways it’s like seeing a familiar face.”
“Yes. Well, get used to it,” said the dragon in an icy tone. “This is one face that is not leaving the area anytime soon, either by hook or by crook. Are we clear on that, Beowulf?”
“Now, now,” said George, rising. “There is no need for that kind of name-calling.”
“What else should I call you? Enlighten me, great savior,” the drake responded. Kenny could see a wisp of smoke wafting from Grahame’s nostrils. He wondered if he should stand between the two of them to keep the peace, but he caught his father’s eyes and was silently spoken to. (Of course, you know what I am talking about: when your mom, or dad, talks to you with nothing more than a look or glance and nary a word is said.) Kenny understood and remained in his chair, appearing calm, as his parents were clearly doing.
“Beowulf was a barbarian, an uncultivated lout! I am none of those things. I have been trained under the king himself in the proper manner for dragon removal, and I—”
“Agreed,” Grahame said.
“A-a-agreed what?” stammered George. Kenny and his parents exchanged glances.
“I agree Beowulf was a barbarian. He couldn’t just dispatch of Grendel, he had to swim down to his home and butcher his mother as well.”
George blinked. “P-precisely.” He looked at Kenny, who noticed the slightest curl of a smile hiding underneath his mustache. “Now, what he should have done was lock up that insolent ogre and have him do hard labor for his injustices.”
“Interesting,” Grahame said as he paused for a moment and looked at Kenny. “Do you think a ruffian like that can truly be reformed?”
And there it was.
Kenny realized he had been holding his breath the entire time, and he finally let it out with great relief. He and his parents watched and listened as George and Grahame discussed Beowulf and whether Grendel could become an upstanding member of society. Things were going swimmingly by the time coffee was served, and the two reminisced about adventures they’d had in their youth. There were jokes and laughs afterward as the dragon brûléed the desserts (with a flicker of flame from his left nostril).
Everybody went out to the front porch so that Kenny’s father and George could enjoy their after-dinner pipes.
“You know, Grahame, Kenny was right. You are wonderful company! I haven’t had good dinner conversation like that in a dog’s age,” George said as he shook the dragon’s large, scaly paw.
“Agreed. You really are a well-read good fellow,” Grahame replied, lighting George’s pipe for him. “I suppose we do have a lot in common.” He looked over at Kenny, “Well done, little bantling. Well done.”
“Holy smokes! What’s that?” Kenny’s dad asked as he pointed with his pipe stem.
A line of bobbing lights was streaming from the center of Roundbrook toward Shepard’s Hill. Everybody stared at the sight for some time.
“Well, well, well,” George said with a sigh.
“Are those all night fishermen?” asked Grahame.
“Those are people getting ready for tomorrow,” said Kenny. The river-stone feeling was back, and he wondered if they all felt it as well.
“Yep, son,” his father replied, sucking on his pipe. “I believe you are correct.”
“That’s a mess of people,” Kenny’s mother added, knitting nervously. “And they are coming with a lot of expectations. You boys are not going to be able to get out of this easily.”
Kenny watched the procession cross the bridge over Parrish Creek and down the road toward Shepard’s Hill. He swallowed down the river-stones and allowed the gears in his head to click and whir. He thought of what George had taught him about planning ahead for his moves in chess. He had just gotten his two friends to see eye to eye, but how was he going to do the same with an entire town?
His father creaked back in his rocker. “I heard people were bettin’ on who was gonna come out on top of this ruckus. Sorry, George, but a lot them was bettin’ odds against ya.”
George chuckled as he drew a long puff off his pipe. He sighed. “Well, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. What can you expect from an old retired shopkeeper? And you know what they say: Come not between a dragon and his wrath.”
“Heh, that’s from King Lear,” Grahame said, watching the bobbing lanterns gathering around the bottom of the hill, “one of my favorite performances from Shakespeare. I wonder if he ever met a dragon? He’d certainly know what to do with a crowd like this.”
And the gears in Kenny’s brain finally all clicked into place. “That’s it!” Kenny squealed, causing everybody to jump. “I know what we have to do, and we don’t have much time to do it! Everyone inside!”
XI. Rolling Out a Purple Carpet
THE FIRST PART OF THE BOY’S PLAN was keeping the spectators off the hill. And it wasn’t going to be easy. As Kenny and his father approached the anxious gathering, they realized the group was looking to stake out prime seats for tomorrow’s battle. There were so many townsfolk present, they seemed like they were everywhere, illuminating the entire hillside with their lanterns and torches. Kenny stopped just short of the crowd. “I—I dunno if this is going to work.” His father knelt down, put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, and looked his son in the eyes.
