Raising Dragons (6 page)
His father turned another page, revealing several lines of centered text. The handwritten script flowed in nearly flawless curves, not quite calligraphy, but possessing the swirls of an ancient and devoted pen. The letters created odd spellings and indecipherable words.
“This is a poem,” his dad explained, “written by the same man who drew the picture. He was a squire for one of King Arthur’s knights.”
“Arthur’s knights? Like the ones of the Round Table?”
“Well, not quite. This knight was Arthur’s fiercest, to be sure, but his bloodlust kept him from securing a seat of nobility. He was forever in pursuit of dragons, to the point of madness.”
Billy couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It sounded like a fairy tale, like his father was telling a bedtime story. “So dragons were real? They really did breathe fire and try to kill people like in the picture?”
His father’s brow turned downward and his jaw tensed, but his voice stayed calm. “Some dragons killed many people, giving all dragons a bad reputation. Arthur commissioned this particular knight to eliminate the species. At the time, Arthur was unaware of the existence of good dragons.”
“Good dragons?” Billy looked up from the page. He felt a tight knot growing in his stomach, and he squeezed his kneecaps like he was trying to wring out a sponge. “So why are you telling me all this?”
His father placed his hand on the page and ran his fingers across the lines of text. “To explain it, I’m going to recite this poem for you. It’s written in an old version of English, but I translated it and tried to make it rhyme in modern English. The rhymes aren’t perfect, but they’re pretty close, and I memorized my version of it.”
With dragons slain my master craves
Another beast, another prey
For dragons now wear human skin
And roam the earth to spread their sin
My master hunts and never rests
We purge the land and spoil their nests
’Tis strange to spill the human blood
But dragons hide beneath that hood.
He turned the page back to the picture of the knight and dragon, and Billy stared at it again, this time passionately searching for its mystery. The image took over all his senses, and it seemed to come alive in his mind. The eyes of the dragon glowed, pouring out evil as it unleashed its maniacal fury. Billy locked on the eyes. That was it! The eyes! This artist drew eyes the same way Billy did when his subject was furious, with tiny white dots in the center of the pupil. As he scanned the portrait, he noticed other similarities, human hands, tree leaves, boulders, all reflecting his own style, not exactly, but close enough to keep him entranced, and wondering about this even deeper mystery.
Billy finally tore away from the picture’s hypnotic effect. He took a deep breath and looked up at his father. “Dad, what are you trying to say? What does this have to do with my . . . uh . . . my problem?”
His father took his own deep breath and put a hand on Billy’s thigh. “I’m saying that I’m one of those dragons who now wears human skin.”
Billy felt the urge to pull away from his father’s touch, but he sat motionless, staring at the hand on his leg, thinking about its thick hair and imagining it morphing into a hideous claw with scales and razor-sharp talons. His body trembled with shivers. He couldn’t help it. The tremors spread to his arms and legs, and his father jerked his hand back.
Billy tried to speak, but his tongue felt thick and tingly. He finally spit out his only thought. “I—I already knew that.”
His mother and father turned to look at each other before his mother leaned over to speak. “You did? How?”
Billy’s tongue felt more normal again, and he explained, cringing inside and half closing his eyes as he spilled his story. “I got suspended because of what happened in the bathroom, so I came home early. I heard you and Dad talking about Dad being a dragon. I climbed down the drainpipe and came in like nothing was wrong. I didn’t want you to know about what happened today, at least not right away.”
“I understand,” his father replied without hesitation.
Billy opened his eyes again. “You do?”
“If I had heard something like that, I think I’d have run to the nearest insane asylum and checked myself in.”
“Something like that did cross my mind.”
His father gave him a smile. “Well, you showed a lot of courage coming in to talk to us.”
Billy lowered his head. For some reason he had a hard time looking into his father’s eyes. “I don’t feel very courageous.”
“Why not? How many other kids hear what you just heard? I think you’re taking it very well.”
Billy let out a short laugh but kept his eyes focused on his hands. They were still wringing out his kneecaps. As he pondered his own fear, a strange thought suddenly entered his mind, and he blurted it out, forcing himself to look at his dad’s face again. “Were you a good dragon?”
His father’s mouth dropped open for a second, and he cleared his throat before answering. “Yes! Yes, of course!”
Another question popped into Billy’s mind and he couldn’t seem to keep it from spilling out through his lips. “So, you never killed anyone?”
His father slowly closed the book and placed both palms on its dark brown cover. “I think we’d better not go any further today. You’ve got too much to think about as it is.”
Billy could hardly believe what he was hearing.
Is Dad dodging the question? Did he kill someone and now he doesn’t want to tell me?
He wanted an answer, but when his father stood up and began to walk out, he knew the conversation was over.
His father turned before leaving the living room, the mysterious book tucked loosely under his arm. “There are literally centuries of stories I could tell you, Billy, and the truth goes far deeper than even I can understand, but what you’ve heard is probably already a ten-ton weight on your mind. I just wanted you to know why your breath is so hot, so you’ll understand what’s going on.”
He breathed deeply and went on, sadness seeming to envelop his mood. “You’re the son of a dragon. I’m not sure how else this truth will be manifested, but you need to take care with your breath. It may bring greater problems than setting off sprinklers in the boys’ room.” He turned to leave, but he paused again. “I have a lot more studying to do before I can give you any more advice. There’s a certain prophecy that makes me wonder.” With that, he left, and Billy could hear him stepping heavily up the stairs.
Billy stared at his mother. “Prophecy?” he repeated, standing now and pointing toward the room’s exit. “What prophecy?” His face reddened, and he huffed loudly. “Dad just told me I’m the son of a dragon! And then he leaves?!”
Her mouth opened and her lips started to form an answer, but nothing came out. She lifted her palms and shrugged her shoulders, then rose, extending her arms to give Billy a hug. He stepped back at first, putting his hand over his mouth, and he just stared at her. He could feel the shivers coming on again, and he tried to steel himself.
His mother shook her head slowly and smiled, reaching out even farther. Tears glistened in her eyes as she took two bold steps to pull Billy into her arms. She hugged him close and rubbed his back tenderly. Billy put his head on her shoulder, lightly embracing her in return. Her arms seemed to try to squeeze the tremors out of his body. He didn’t know if he was trembling from fear or anger, but that insane asylum was starting to sound like a good idea.
“I think you’ll have to wait for your father,” she whispered. “Like he said, you already have a lot to deal with. I’m sure if he could explain everything now, he would.” She pulled him even closer, and Billy felt warm tears falling on his shirt. “Just remember,” she continued, “I will always love you, no matter what.”
Chapter 5
Light of the dawning day illumined the office, allowing sunbeams to paint harsh stripes of yellowish white on the principal’s desk. Countless dust particles danced on the multilevel stage, riding tiny air currents on an irresistible track toward a glowing computer monitor that grabbed the miniature imps like sticky flypaper. Dr. Whittier squinted at the image, trying to decipher the Internet page through the reflected glare. He finally gave up and rose to shut the blinds. Just as the slats surrendered with a loud clack to the principal’s pull of the string, the phone on the desk rang. Whittier rushed to answer. “Whittier. . . . Yes, Sam. . . . You got it? . . . What’s the address?”
He tapped the keyboard to record what he was hearing. “Montana? Then where? . . . Yes. That’s exactly what I need. Fax me the whole report, pronto. I especially want the birth certificate and recent history. Send those first.”
After a few more keystrokes and a click of his mouse, Whittier limped over to his fax machine and waited for the call. Within seconds the fax began churning out pages. When the first one dropped into the bin, Whittier snatched it up and walked slowly back to his desk, reading it as he went. He stood in front of his chair to finish and then sat down. Still staring at the sheet before him, he picked up Bonnie’s photograph from her file and held it next to the faxed copy of her birth certificate and foster care records.
So you’re not Bonnie Silver. Your real name is Bonnie Conner.
Whittier typed some of the information into his computer as he kept reading.
Your name was changed to Silver when you were placed in the Montana foster care system. Let’s see, what was the date? March 19?
Whittier pulled a drawer and withdrew a personal planner booklet from the bottom of a stack. He opened it to somewhere near the middle and scanned his calendar.
That was only a few days after we did the Conner job.
He looked up from the booklet and tossed it back into the drawer, shutting it slowly as he thought.
Could it be? Is Bonnie a true mongrel or was she just an adopted human? Should we switch our focus from Bannister? Or maybe there are two of them.
Whittier picked up the fax sheet once more and studied every entry, trying to decipher the sparse data.
But if she were adopted, how could she have Conner on her birth certificate? And why did Hartanna have her put into foster care? Did she know I was getting close and arranged to put Bonnie away? If so, why didn’t she cover her tracks? And if Bonnie really was born to Dr. and Mrs. Conner, why did the good doctor keep her hidden from me?
Whittier drummed his fingers on the desk and then moved them to the top of the telephone, tapping the hard plastic with his fingertips.
Why was she transferred to West Virginia, to Castlewood of all places, right where we tracked Bannister down after all these years?
He rested his chin in his other hand, his eyes half-closed.
We have to find out! If she’s a mongrel, we have no choice. If I’m right, then it’s no wonder she could entrance me, the little sorceress.
He grabbed the phone and punched a memorized number.
“Olga, it’s Whittier. We may have to mobilize, but for now meet me in the schoolyard out in front. . . . No, don’t bring the blade, at least not yet, but we may need a rope. I need you to help me catch and search a girl. . . . Why you? Because you’re female. It wouldn’t be right for me to search a girl. Besides, if she bolts, you can chase her down better than I can. . . . Yes, she’s only a teenager. . . . Don’t worry. You can go back to your surveillance of the Bannister house later. . . . Okay, one hour. It’ll be right before classes, so I hope to find her in the yard. I don’t want to take her from a classroom. Too many questions. We’ll do it where no one can see us. . . . Don’t worry. Who would believe her word over ours? I’m a respected principal now, remember?”
Whittier hung up the phone and returned to the window, opening the blinds again to look outside. He raised his hand to his brow to see below the rising sun and noticed a solitary student coming up the sidewalk toward the school entrance. Under one arm the boy carried a tube of some kind, maybe a rolled-up poster. From the other hand he swung a mop bucket back and forth in time with his gait.
The coolness of the November morning was evident in the boy’s choice of dress—a thick pullover sweater and gloves. A dark bank of clouds had moved in from the west, and it threatened to blot out the dawn’s attempts to warm the day. West Virginia’s Indian Summer reprieve was coming to an end.
Whittier smiled at the visage.
Well, Mr. Bannister has come. That means Hamilton’s probably already here, too. Maybe Hamilton was right; maybe he’s a responsible kid after all. The teachers here generally have a better handle on that than I do, except for Mrs. Roberts, of course. She doesn’t seem to know anything.
When Billy disappeared around the corner, Whittier turned away from the window and looked back at the files on his desk. There wasn’t enough information about Bonnie to satisfy him, at least not enough to warrant the ultimate penalty. Of course if it all proved true, sweet, innocent girl or not, he wouldn’t hesitate to perform his sacred duty. Still, there were too many unanswered questions. He closed the files and stuffed them into his briefcase, grabbed his cane, and shuffled out the door. It was time to pay Hamilton a visit.
Let’s see what he knows about little Miss Silver. Maybe he would become a valuable ally if he understood our noble quest; then I wouldn’t have to resort to other methods of persuasion.
Charles Hamilton sat alone in the teachers’ study room. All was quiet. Not many teachers showed up at the crack of dawn carrying huge dusty books, especially crusty volumes like these that no one had opened in decades. And he could see why. Much of the material contained boring journal entries, either tittering hearsay from gossiping merchants or doubtful accounts from knights whose word choices seemed influenced by abundant wine. It was a tedious job to tackle so early in the morning, but a white china cup at his elbow sent silver vapors from the fresh, hot tea toward his nose, perking his senses.
Through half-dollar-sized lenses on his reading glasses, Charles peered at the odd script and turned the ancient pages, thick and noisy, more like cardboard than paper. Every once in a while he picked up a pen on a yellow pad, which he kept to the right of the book, and scratched a few notes, meditations that would be intelligible only to him. At one point in his study, he opened his Bible to Job, chapter forty-one, and suspended his pen over the pad as he read.
Who can strip off his outer armor? Who can come within his double mail? Who can open the doors of his face? Around his teeth there is terror. His strong scales are his
pride, shut up as with
a tight seal. One is so near to another that no air can come between them. They are joined one to another; they clasp each other and cannot be separated. His sneezes flash forth light, and his eyes are like the eyelids of the morning. Out of his mouth go burning torches; sparks of fire leap forth. Out of his nostrils smoke goes forth, as from a boiling pot and burning rushes. His breath kindles coals, and a flame goes forth from his mouth.
Charles jotted down a few notes and closed the Bible, smiling as he wrote.
If that’s not a dragon, I don’t know what is.
As the clock on the wall silently approached seven-thirty, another teacher walked in and greeted him. Soon several teachers had arrived and were chatting nearby, sipping coffee and munching on various doughnuts and pastries. Charles knew his study time was winding down. He turned another page, scanned it quickly, and not finding anything more to record, closed the book and began to stack his collection.
“That’s quite a load you have there, Hamilton.”
He turned to see Dr. Whittier standing nearby. “Yes,” he replied, returning to the books. “I’m preparing for today’s lecture.”
Dr. Whittier picked up the top volume and examined the cover. “What’s this? The Knights of Camelot?” He slid another book off the stack. “The Age of Dragons?”
“Yes, we’re doing a section on the King Arthur legend.”
Dr. Whittier returned the books to the stack. “Why are you studying that in a history class? Do you believe the legends?”
“What I believe matters little. I am able to mix in the indisputable with the marginal and explain the difference. What matters is that my students are interested. In fact, I acquired these books because a student asked me for information.”
Dr. Whittier put his palm on the top book and rubbed his fingers on the binding. “You got these from the library? I didn’t know Castlewood had volumes like these.”
“They’re not from a library. I drove to Cumberland last night to visit a friend who loaned them to me from his private collection. I doubt any library in our region would carry books of such antiquity.”
“No doubt you’re right.” Dr. Whittier rubbed the cover one more time, then examined the dust on his hand. “By the way, what did the student ask you about?”
“He asked about dragons.”
Dr. Whittier’s eyebrows shot upward, but he remained calm otherwise. “Dragons? Who asked about dragons?”
Charles waved a finger toward the wall where Billy’s school building caricature leaned. “The very same Mr. Bannister who created this beautiful poster for our school. I met him this morning to give him his assignments and collect his artwork. The same hands that sketched this marvelous portrait are now scrubbing the walls outside. As I told you, he is not the troublemaker he appeared to be yesterday. He is a bright and talented young man.”
Dr. Whittier paused for several seconds, staring at the floor, obviously deep in thought. He finally murmured, “So Bannister asked, did he?” He then looked back at Charles. “And you drove all the way to Cumberland just to answer his question?”
Charles pushed his glasses down on his nose and peered over them at the principal. “Dr. Whittier, do you know how rare it is these days for a student to go out of his way to specifically ask for more information? I intend to do my part and give the very best answer I can.”
The principal pushed one hand in his pocket and nodded. “As you should, of course. I’m glad to hear it. But what about dragons did Bannister want to know?”
“He wanted to know if they really ever existed.”
“And what have you found?”
Charles looked back at the books and pointed to the third one from the top. “I have my own opinions, of course, but I think it’s important to provide my students with good reference material. This one has several amazing dragon stories with evidence that’s quite good, but I have found no truly firsthand accounts.”
Dr. Whittier nodded again. “As I would expect in books like these.”
Charles turned back to the principal, staring at him with his head cocked to one side. “Do you know of other sources?”
“Yes. In fact I have a number of journals in my private collection in my office, including my own journal, in which I have recorded an interesting history of the knights. I’ll show them to you if you would like.”
“I should like that very much.”
Dr. Whittier gestured with a curled finger. “Come along, then.” Charles left his books and cup of tea behind, and the two men exited the teachers’ lounge. They walked side by side down the hall, using friendly nods to greet a few of the teachers and students who had arrived early. Dr. Whittier took the opportunity to continue his explanation. “They’re copies, of course, but they were originally penned at the time of the dragons by actual knights.” He stopped and faced Charles. “I’ve heard you’re a religious man, Hamilton. Surely you know that the Bible speaks of dragons.”
“Dr. Whittier, I am indeed a religious man, a Christian of the old school.”
The principal started walking again. “Then you know that dragons are the minions of the devil. Satan himself is called a dragon.”
With two quick steps, Charles caught up with his limping boss, and he replied while taking short strides to maintain the principal’s pace. “He is called that, I’m sure, because of his fierceness and his determination to conquer. That doesn’t mean that all dragons, if there ever were such beasts, possessed the devil’s evil nature. Surely using a dragon to personify evil is symbolic, for if they existed, God created them just as he did all other creatures.”
Dr. Whittier shook his head as he opened his office door. “When you read my sources, you will be persuaded otherwise.”
The two men entered, and Dr. Whittier ushered Charles into a walk-in closet, probably a supply room at one time. Built-in shelves lined the walls, simple planks at eye level and above, braced with metal brackets and tightly packed with books. Freestanding book cabinets stood side by side on the flat carpet, each one stuffed to overflowing. Dr. Whittier sighed in delight as he surveyed his treasure. “I will allow you to browse my collection, Charles, trusting that you are a man of high intellect and spiritual discernment. I also trust that you will come to the same conclusions about dragons that I have.” He pushed a protruding book back in place and leaned toward the door. “I have to go in a moment. I have some business this morning with Bonnie Silver. Do you know her?”
Charles smiled, and he felt a warm glow within when he pictured Bonnie’s face. “Yes. She is a delightful lass.”
“Have you ever noticed anything unusual about her?”
Charles surveyed the principal’s face.
Why these questions about Miss Silver?
he wondered.
I suppose I should tell him what I know. After all, there isn’t much to tell.
“She has quite an attachment to her backpack,” Charles replied, clearing his throat nervously. “Is that what you mean?”
“No. Besides that.”
Charles tried to avoid the probing eyes by looking up at the ceiling in thought. Something about the principal’s manner gnawed at his conscience. He decided to give in, but only with superficial information. “I’ve noticed that her written work is profound and entertaining, and her vocabulary is college level. She’s also more polite and charming than most girls her age.”
Dr. Whittier seemed to mask a scowl, and he mumbled derisively. “Yes . . . charming.” He then leaned over and spoke in a hushed tone. “I was wondering; do you know why she moved to Castlewood? She lives in a foster home on the south side.”