Category Archives: Childrens Books

CHAPTER THREE

Gareth was in a world of dream, or nightmare. On a little cot, in a dingy basement in Pendolis, where the 12-year-old was now sleeping, he heard a soft, whispering voice in his darkened mind. “Gareth, where are you, Gareth? I can’t even see you.”
At first he thought it was his mum, but the voice became clearer, delicate but strong and almost beautiful, and he saw his little dragon, the Firecutter, hovering before his eyes again. “You must get out of there, Gareth, it’s not safe. No where’s safe anymore. Not even Pendolis.”
The dragon’s mouth didn’t move, but she was definitely speaking to him. Gareth felt an awful ache, reached out to the little creature, but like a spirit, trying to escape capture, it flapped its blue wings, pulled backwards in the air, and was gone.
“Don’t leave me. Not again.”
The 12-year-old woke with a jolt, shivering, and sat bolt upright, half expecting his step dad to be there, but saw Sao Cheung standing at the end of his cot, smiling at him, although his eyes were red and puffy, and he had obviously been crying.
He was holding some clothes in both hands, and his Baseball jersey was gone. Instead, the Chinese American boy was wearing baggy moleskin trousers, leather sandles, and a kind of rough sacking, that looked like it was made of coconut hair, with a big pocket at the front. It made him look slimmer.
“Hiya,” he said softly, blinking, “I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Thanks, Sao.”
“Er. They brought us these,” said Sao, holding out the bundle of clothes, “They say they want us at work in ten minutes.”
“Work?” mumbled Gareth wearily, half thinking himself back in the flat in London. his back was aching.
“Scullies. Kitchen boys, I guess,” whispered Sao, “The twins have started Dragon training. I saw them through the window, this morning.”
“Morning?” said Gareth, “But how long have I been asleep, Sao?”
“Hours and hours. A whole day and night, and more. I had really weird dreams. It was horrid.”
Gareth rubbed his eyes, got up and took the unpleasant outfit. He suddenly felt a pang of jealousy for the older twins, joining those tough looking Dragon Warriors, and wondered where Sarissa was. They had taken her to a different room, the morning before. Then he thought of the poor mute boy, and his smuggled FireCutter. He shuddered.
“Gareth, er, it’s going to be ok, isn’t it?” asked Sao nervously. “Please.”
“Yes,” said Gareth kindly, not knowing at all, “I promise.”
The poor eleven year old looked a little reassured.
“And I promise something else, Sao, I’ll find a way to get us all home. Somehow.”
“They left us some water and funny biscuits,” said Sao, more cheerfully, looking to a battered metal tray, on a wooden table in the corner. The room was like a stone cell, with a metal grill over the window. From the light outside, Gareth guessed it was about mid day.
“Go and have some, Sao,” said Gareth, yawning, but trying to be the adult, “I’ll get changed.”
The 12-year-old was used to dealing with himself at home, and pleased to get out of his pyjamas, and into some shoes, and proper clothes, although he made sure to collect all the pieces of the very dangerous book, and stuff them in his front pocket. As Gareth turned, there was a thumping on the thick wooden door, that made them both jump.
“Scullies to the ready,” cried a gruff voice. “Bouchebold is waiting, and it he doesn’t like waiting.”
“Bouche…what?” whispered Sao.
“Come on, Sao,” gulped Gareth, “Keep your eyes open, and stick close to me.”
As the two boys pulled open the door and stepped outside, into a narrow stone corridor, lit by burning braziers, in brackets on the walls, they saw other scullion emerging from their rooms too. From their evident confusion, it seemed they were just starting too. They were one or two grimy faced girls amongst them, although they were mostly boys, tall and older than Gareth and Sao, about ten in all. They were all silent, and nervous, as they stood in their coconut sacking, and they looked rather brow beaten and frightened.
“I WON’T. YOU JUST CAN’T TREAT ME LIKE THIS!”
Gareth grinned immediately, surprised how glad he was to see Sarissa again, as she came storming out of a door on the right, dressed like Gareth and Sao, although with a kind of white napkin on her head, like the other two girls. Sarissa was addressing no one in particular, but she looking around frantically.
“I demand to be sent home immediately. I’m Sarissa Hallet and I’ve got a tennis…”
Sarissa suddenly noticed Gareth, blushed and fell silent. He and Sao Cheung lined up beside her, as a tall, thin scullion, marched up and down the line. He was about seventeen, with a mean, angry face, and he looked at them all in contempt.
“Buttersqueak fodder,” he snorted scornfully, and Gareth wanted to run at him with his head, “Nothing but filthy Buttersqueak Fodder. But know yer place, right, and learn the rules around the Great Bouchebold. Do as you’re told, work yer fingers to the bone, keep quiet, and you’ll be rested and fed, more than water and biscuits. I takes my cut, mind. Cry, steal, make waves, or mess up, and you might be fed to a dragon instead.”
They all looked wretched and bowed their heads.
“But one tip, above all,” said the bullying scully, “While you’re working in the kitchens, or anywhere near Bouchebold, never, ever mention Dragon Chefs, right? Now come with me.”
The chief scully turned on his heels and dutifully the ten of them followed down the dingy, flickering corridor, Sao, Gareth and Sarissa taking up the rear. The stone passages seemed to go on forever, as they traipsed along, sensing the weight of an entire citadel above them, and wondering what they were about to face.
But at last they saw a blaze of light ahead, and heard the sound of shouts and frantic voices, the bustle of hectic activity. The new scullies were all flabbergasted, as they stepped into the open.
The kitchens of Pendolis were like a huge stone cathedral, or a stone vaulted wine cellar, billowing out smoke and steam, like incense, lined with wooden work benches, above which, from metal racks, hung huge spoons, and knives, colanders, kettles and saucepans, and copper pots, that shone like evening gold.
There were people everywhere, cooking over open flames, washing in great stone basins, like cattle troughs, or preparing food, from great mounds of fresh produce, piled everywhere.
In one corner was an enormous bench, completely clear, that opened beyond, into a dark hall, while in another was a great stone archway, that glowed with a dim orange firelight. A giant carcass, that looked like a miniature rhinoceros, was slow roasting on a huge spit, in the centre of the kitchen, as scullies stood around and basted it in oil and fat.
But strangest of all, the flames seemed to rise out of the ground, with no coal, or wood to feed it, and Gareth noticed a perculiar smell, slightly unpleasant, mixing with the many pleasant scents he recognised.
To one side of the cobbled kitchen were lined bulging sacks, and every now and then cooks would shout, and scullies would run to the sacks to bring them more ingredients, as they worked over their hobs, where flames seemed to rise magically too, since Gareth was sure Pendolis hadn’t invented modern cooking methods.
The haze was like being in an old-fashioned train station, and the place like a little citadel itself. The newcomers noticed that every now and then a cook would turn on the scullies though, and shout, clip one over the ear, or give them a kick with a boot.
They saw all this through the haze, like a magical dream itself, but suddenly a huge shape loomed out of the steam, there was a sharp cry of HALT, and everything stopped moving.
The most extraordinary man was standing there now, in a shining white chef’s outfit, smeared with blood and gravy. Huge, not for his height, but his girth, and his chubby face. It was so hot and red, it looked like a Halloween pumpkin, with a blaze of shock white hair on the top, that made him look like a mad, but rather brilliant professor.
His eyes were gleaming, although the strangest and purest blue, and he was sweating profusely, and looked rather angry. The scullies suddenly looked terrified, even their leader, because he was also holding a huge chopping knife in his gigantic, fat fingered hands. But he suddenly smiled, and it was like the sun coming out.
“Here, now. The new recruits,” he cried, in a rather squeaky, high-pitched voice, “How very splendid. Der-licious. And so much to do today too. I am the Great Bouchebold, and this is my little kingdom. We serve the entire citadel, of course, but we’ve a special banquet tonight, for the start of the season. The first day’s often the hardest, so we must serve the young Dragon Warriors something tremendous.”
Bouchebold had begun to walk up and down the row, slapping that knife rather ominously into his sweaty palm and eyeing his new recruits.
“The Dragoman will be there too, of course, the Man Upstairs, who adores his food, though little does he know who’s really in charge, since an army marches on it’s stomach, eh?”
Porfimius grinned and winked and turned to look back at his little army, hanging on his every word.
“The Dragon Maidens will be there too,” Bouchebold went on in his odd, breathless voice, glancing at Sarissa and the other girls, “and to please THEM, we’ll have have to be real magicians, tonight, even you scullies.”
The scullions were trying to nod and look interested.
“You may not have been chosen as fit to be Dragon Warriors,” said Bouchebold, “but you’re still young, so worthy to do your bit in the kitchens, in the great fight. It’s a war down here too, remember, so just try to do as you’re told, and we’ll all get on splendidly.”
The new scullies were all rather relieved, since Bouchebold did not seem a bad sort at all, until he stepped up to each, and began prodding them, tweaking their cheeks, feeling their biceps, or surveying them carefully, as if they were all the finest cuts.
‘Scrubbing’ he would decree, with a laugh, ‘Peeling vegitables’, or ‘basting’. As he did, the elder scully pointed to one part of the kitchen, and they filed meekly away, until Bouchebold scowled at him, and pointed to a sack of potatoes.
At last Bouchebold came to Sarissa, Sao and Gareth. It was Sao he was suddenly scrutinizing carefully. At first Gareth fancied there was some recognition at the podginess of the Chinese boy, until he realised he was looking at Sao’s eyes.
“Extraordinary,” Bouchebold whispered, with a giggle, “most remarkable. We should send you to see the Great Naturalist. What can you do though, lad?”
Sao gulped and shrugged.
“Dish washing,” said Bouchebold, looking at Sao’s stomach, “and no pinching food.”
“If I have to work, here,” said Sarissa suddenly, straightening with immense dignity “I’m not washing or scrubbing, I assure you. I am pleased to help you cook though. As a Sou,“ she added knowledgeably. “I’m nearly fourteen.”
Sao gulped and ducked slightly, while Gareth looked nervously at that knife, but they both sighed with relief, as Bouchebold roared with laughter and rocked back on his heels. The roar, it has to be said, was more like clattering saucepans, and ended in a high-pitched squeal.
“How splendid,” he cried, “Really delectable. You’ve spirit, girl, and I always like that in the mix. Can’t get the help anymore, so I’ll trust you with some basting, today, if you can lift the ladels. But keep your pretty nose clean and learn, girl, then who knows, in a year or two you…
“A year,” cried Sarissa Hallet in horror.
“Time flies like Dragon wing in Pendolis,” said the enormous cook, and even as he said it, Gareth thought, at the very far side of the kitchen, he saw something take to the air, from a pile of plucked chickens.
Bouchebold was pointing, and Sarissa and Sao were already moving off towards their allotted positions, obediently, but the cook turned to Gareth now. He did not speak for several moments.
“There’s something keen in your eye,” he said, at last. “Some boldness. Discernment too, perhaps.”
He suddenly flipped the kitchen knife and offered Gareth the handle.
“Correcting,” he said, looking significantly to a group of scullies in a line, also wielding chopping knives, waiting in front of a bench, piled with plucked animals, vegetables and spices.
“Correcting, Sir?” gulped the twelve-year-old, nervously, although trying to look enthusiastic too.
“The produce,” explained Bouchebold, a little wearily, “there’s something wrong in Pendolis, now the Black Warlock’s slobbering over everything, and we have to be careful. Puts everyone off their food too, upstairs, if we don’t prepare and present, absolutely perfectly.”
Gareth looked confused.
“So when a cut of lamb turns up, with a sow’s ear, or a lamprey starts to look like a lobster, we chop, separate, and put things back in order. It won’t ever go to high table, but nothing’s wasted down here.”
“The Teller,” said Gareth, his eyes sparking, although his head was starting to spin too, “Because they say the Teller’s wounded.”
“You’re sharp, lad,” said Bouchebold, “For one so young and lowly. With ears to the ground too. That’s good. In training, or down here. But what’s your name?”
“Gareth Mar…. Er, Gareth of the Mark,” corrected Gareth, trying to stand taller.
“Got one, boy?” asked Bouchebold, and his pure blue eyes narrowed.
“One, Sir?”
“A mark? Scar, birthmark, lesion, cicatrices, sixth finger?”
“No,” said Gareth softly, and he blushed. Bouchebold seemed rather disappointed, as he loomed over him.
“Pity. I thought there was something about you. Everything in life is about the best ingredients, but it’s important to stand out in Pendolis too. Mind you, the first lesson in blasted Warrior Training, they say, is always pick the right moment to show your true stuff. It can be really vicious out there, at times, and I mean, we’re making heroes here, not idiots.”
Bouchebold winked.
“Yes, Sir” said Gareth, feeling like an idiot, and wondering what the twins were getting up to in their warrior training. He was suddenly glad he had been given kitchen duties.
“And stop calling me, Sir. It’s cooks, down here. First Cook, in my case. Got that, Garnet?”
“Yes, First Cook, but it’s….”
“Take a tip from Bouchebold. High or low, whatever it is you do in life lad, do it well. Everything you learn is of use, everything. But here, very few will tell you how it’s really done. Why should they? I mean, they have their own dreams and ambitions. So you have to learn on the job. LEARN.”
“Yes,” said Gareth, as BoucheBold seemed to look at him rather significantly, “thank you.”
“Manners too. I like that. Perhaps we’ll have you serving, in six or eight months. Now, mustn’t dawdle. They’ll soon be waiting at the Pass.”
Gareth suddenly felt home sick.
“Kitchen Staff of Pendolis,” bellowed Bouchebold though, swinging round, “Back to work now. Keep it tight and together, and Good Luck, one and all. A Working kitchen is a happy kitchen. GET IT DONE.”
Bouchebold flicked his head and started to move off towards the bench, as Gareth followed meekly. But suddenly, there was a flash of red, and a bird went sailing over their head.
“What’s that?” said Gareth, ducking. The bird had settled on top of an enormous upturned copper cooking pot, and he looked around as if he owned the place.
“THAT?” said Bouchebold, looking rather irritated with Gareth, for even asking, “THAT is not a THAT, but Herbert, the Kitchen Phoenix.”
“Phoenix,” gasped Gareth, “the mythical bird that rises from…”
A thin wisp of steam seemed to be rising from the Phoenix’s feathers even now, while Herbert had a decidedly sour expression in his doleful, watery eyes, while his red feathers looked rather old and mangy. One suddenly fell out, drifted into a bowl of jam, and burst into flame.
“Mythical!” squeaked Bouchebold, looking very flustered, “oh, we don’t use such language in Pendolis, dear me, no. You’ll be saying Dragons are mythical next, heavens, or chimera, gorgons, and even the Last Unicorn. Herbert would get very steamed up, to hear he’s mythical. And Herbert has very good ears, or had, before he started to go a little deaf.”
Gareth shivered and suddenly remembered that horse he had seen, running in terror from the Dark Wood.
“Yes, Sir, I mean First Cook,” corrected Gareth quickly, “of course. You don’t use Dragons then, in your kitchen?”
Gareth was thinking of those recipes in Pendellion’s book, and Bouchebold looked at him sharply. His face had suddenly become rather hard and suspicious, but it softened.
“None to spare, nowadays,” said Bouchbold, almost wistfully, “But Herbert is my real eyes and ears down here,” he added fondly, although he seemed to be talking to himself now, “Quality Control. Could never manage without him, dear creature. Has a perfect palette too. Herbert’s worked and slaved in the Kitchens of Pendolis, even longer than I have. And that’s nearly 80 years.”
Gareth was astounded, since the First Cook looked rather young, but even as Bouchebold said it, the old bird took wing again, and landed next to a cook who had been tasting something with a spoon, and was looking rather confused.
The Phoenix stuck his head straight into the saucepan and, when it emerged, it was dripping with a thick, wine dark gravy. Gareth wanted to laugh, as Herbert shook its head furiously, and nodded its beak towards a pile of fresh rock salt.
The cook looked rather crestfallen, but added some, and then some more, as Herbert nodded, rather superiorly, then flew away in disgust, with a mournful screech. The inspecting Phoenix settled by another cook, chopping huge red onions, this time, nearly the colour of its moulting feathers. Rather than do anything, the bird just stood there, and Gareth suddenly realised huge tears were streaming from its feathery face.
“Is he chopping them wrong?” asked Gareth, holding his knife even tighter, and determined to make an impression today.
“Not at all,” said Bouchebold. “Best slicer in the kitchens. Trained him myself.”
“The onions then,” said Gareth, because Herbert the Phoenix was literally sobbing now, as the bird stood there watching.
“They’re sweet onions, not eye waterers,” said Bouchebold, grinning, “Thing is, poor Herbert can be rather sentimental, and always gets upset at cruelty, especially to vegetables.”
“Oh,” said Gareth, thinking Pendolis the maddest place he had ever been, and feeling suddenly lost again. He saw Sarissa by that spit-roast rhinoceros thing, trying to pick up an enormous copper spoon, very irritably, and poor Sao rolling up his sleeves, by a stone water trough, and the most horrendously large pile of dirty plates.
Gareth looked down at the bench they had stopped at. It was ranged with plucked chickens, ducks, rabbits and geese, but they all had something slightly wrong. A rabbit had a frog’s legs, a duck had sparrow’s wings. Gareth felt rather sick, but Bouchebold had suddenly reached out and grabbed one of the chopper’s arms.
“Not like that,” he growled, looking significantly towards that stone archway, with the red glow, “or I’ll send you to work cooking for the Dragons, and you wouldn’t like that at all. Be careful and precise.”
Gareth wondered if Dragons really lay beyond, and was rather startled by Bouchebold’s change of mood and tone, but two men had come bustling across the room, carrying two large wooden crates.
“Your fish, Bouchebold,” grunted one, “fresh from the Foundless Sea.”
“And a delivery of berries and champignon,” said the other, “from the Dark Wood.”
Bouchebold’s glowing face lit up, immediately.
“At last,” he cried delightedly, “The special ingredients. I thought they’d never get through, with the wars. Put them over there. And don’t forget to mark them VERY DANGEROUS.”
The men nodded gravely and the great Bouchebold swept away into his kingdom, as Gareth was left with his chopping knife, wondering what could be dangerous about food. So it began, their very first day’s work in the great kitchens of Pendolis.
As they worked, Sao, Gareth, and Sarissa kept checking on each other’s progress, although they often lost sight of each other in all that smoke and steam. Gareth also kept trying to catch the First Cook’s eye, since he felt they had made some special connection, but as he went about, testing, checking and suggesting, and the cooks took out their anger or frustration on the scullions, the Great Bouchebold had completely forgotten who they were.

David Clement-Davies Copyright 2010 – All Rights Reserved Published by Phoenix Ark Press

The right of David Clement-Davies to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988

To catch up with the whole story, click

New instalment of Dragon Post winging its way out tomorrow, by lunchtime.

For any younger visitors to Phoenix Ark, bored by ‘grown up’ battles or postings, the thrilling end of Chapter One of Dragon Post and the start of real adventures for Gareth and his Dragon appears this Wednesday. For the story so far, just click

Gareth sat down on the little sofa in the London flat, with the huge book on his lap: THE VERY DANGEROUS BOOK. He shivered and very slowly, opened the cover. The boy thought he heard something move in the kitchen, but, as for the book, nothing jumped out at him; except the beautiful style and curling guilt lettering, in the strange tome. On the frontis page, Gareth was looking down at chapter headings now.
1. A Universal History of Dragons, since the dawn of spacetime, to before.
2. Dragon Lore, to Dragon War; a Tragic Tail.
3. Why Dragon spells Danger, even without an E.
4. Fire-Cutting; the way through to Blistag, and the Dark Wood. Dragons be here.
5. Beasts of the Sacred Realm; from Homunculi to Humans – or miraculous ones.
6. Dragon Naming – A sensitive psychic’s guide.
7. Feeding your Dragon? The Dangerous Do’s and Don’ts.
Feeding your dragon? Gareth looked at the page number and began to flick through immediately, towards the relevant section. It was a sumptuous volume, like an old world children’s fairytale book, filled with rich, colourful pictures of dragons, of all shapes and sizes; many rather elegant, some quite terrifying, others looking decidedly evil.
He saw other creatures there too, amazing mythical beasts, that Gareth could hardly remember the names of; Griffon and Chimera and Basilisks, which did strange things to his thoughts. There were pictures of odd-looking people as well, in the weirdest clothes. He vaguely heard his mum in the bathroom, and his eyes hovered over the pictures for ages, but at last Gareth came to a page that looked like one of his mum’s recipe books.

DRAGON FEEDING- THE DANGEROUS DOS AND DONTS
Like people, Dragons’ diets have changed over the centuries, and while modern Dragons have developed many bad habits, sometimes too horrible to mention, it’s all a question of educating yourself, and your Dragon, if you can, to the most nutritious and balanced diet available. That’s of course if you ever have a Dragon, which is impossible, since Dragons only exist in the Sacred Realm. Just as ordinary Humans cannot live in their world, and could never travel there anyway, without a Fire-Cutter. Fire-Cutters are exceptionally rare, and exceptionally dangerous. But for imagination’s sake, in tending to any Dragon, or trying to, remember that the joy of food is the joy of creativity. Put some love into it, some flare, some generosity, and above all have some fun. Incidentally, Celebrity Dragon Chefs may be on the rise, but they probably know little more than you do, even 3 Tail ones, and are always horrible to their staff.

Gareth settled back in the sofa, noticing the stone statuette of a dancer his dad had carved, standing on the carpet by one arm, and felt a strange tingling feeling, as if he was being spoken to by a friend. He thought of his father again, as he heard his mum climbing out of the bath. She had turned on the radio, to a music station, but there was a sharp thump on the wall. It was Mr Coombes, a loner and the local busy body, who was always complaining about noise.

Young Dragons are especially fond of ButterSqueak, Porgon’s liver, and Wordwort which, I’m afraid, is unavailable at Tesco, Sainsbury, Azda, or any major British Supermarket Chain – world gobbling dinosaurs that they are. Possible equivalents, in this realm, are the Ecuadorean Desert Cactus, Armadillo’s tail, or a very rare blue Japanese Jellyfish, but they are nigh impossible to find too, and probably illegal. DON’T DESPAIR. Dragons can be fussy eaters, especially the little ones, yet care is important and, with thought, and lovely presentation, you can entice them with things undiscovered, even by Pendelion Pumffrey. The key is trust and experimentation, since all life is an experiment. The author, though, has known them eat Roquet salad, pistachio nuts, blue cheese, Pretzels, raw rabbit, Boeuf en Croute and After Dinner Mints. When feeding them, always be careful they don’t eat YOU, but that’s often a question of size (see Sugar). The second biggest DON’T, however, especially to a newly hatched Dragon, is of course, feeding it LONG GRAINED RICE.

Gareth felt sick, although he could hardly believe there was any reality to these strange instructions, as he thought of what had really happened in the kitchen, when he had given the Dragon chick just that – rice. A long grain Pendelion had said something about seeing the universe in.
“Good book, love?”
Gareth jumped, as his mum came back into the sitting room, drying her wet red hair on a towel. She was out of her nurse’s uniform, in jeans and a sweater, and smiled warmly at him, wondering sadly what he was going to get up to this holidays.
“Er Yeah, I suppose.”
“So nice of Pendelion to remember. And thanks for making the coffee, it smells yummy. But silly Mr Coombes is complaining again.”
Coffee? Gareth could smell it too, filling the room, the rich, burnt aroma, that always wafted from the coffee maker, when it was ready on the gas ring. The problem was Gareth had forgotten to put any coffee on at all, so what was cooking now? Oh no! Sally Marks was already moving towards the kitchen door, as he slammed the fabulous Dragon book shut, sprang up and made a dash to intercept her, before she discovered his amazing secret.
“No, Mum, er, you’re tired,” he cried, grinning and barring the way, “Sit down and I’ll do it.” Again that suspicious look flashed across Mrs Mark’s weary face, but she shrugged and turned. “Thanks, Gareth, darling. You’re a honey.”
Mrs Mark’s son pulled the sliding kitchen door half-shut, as unobtrusively as he could, and looked about. The four white jars were still there, in a row, bearing their legends, but the air was rich with roasted coffee now. Rather too rich. As soon as he reached up and touched the Coffee jar, Gareth suppressed a sharp cry of pain. The porcelain was scalding.
He grabbed the oven gloves and lifted the whole thing down, careful not to shake it too much. When he pulled off the lid, a little cloud of steam came out, and there was his real live Dragon, inside, standing in a mound of melted coffee, completely stuck together, trying to lift its webbed feet from the goo, as it looked up hopefully, and burped. Gareth was startled. He hadn’t noticed before, but on its scaly chest were two little claws. It was beginning a kind of dragon chirrup too, and Gareth held his forefinger to his lips.“Shhhhh.”
Gareth was too touched by the extraordinary blue winged thing to be angry, but he had to think quickly now. He ran some water loudly into the sink, with the plug in, then started humming, flipped the switch on the kettle, and opened the cupboard, to find some Instant coffee. The real stuff was ruined. “Milk, mum?” he called, with a gulp, pulling down a pot and clattering the draws ostentatiously. “You know I don’t have milk, love,” answered his mum. “Just sugar.”
As Gareth turned off the tap and pulled down a large orange cup and saucer, along with the sugar jar, he saw that the Dragon had hopped up onto the edge of the coffee and was swinging its clubbed tail, watching him intently. Now the boy felt rather embarrassed himself, as the Dragon’s long lashes fluttered at him, but he stopped and stroked it again, surprised its little head was as cool as stone, after all that melted coffee.
The blasted kettle seemed to take an age to boil, but at last it was steaming, and careful not to knock his dragon off its perch, he dug out a little of the melted coffee on a spoon and added it to the cup, to make it look really fresh, then a spoonful of sugar, stirring rapidly. Gareth felt awful to be doing all this to hide his dragon. It felt like lying. As he worked though, something extraordinary happened. It was as if he heard a voice in his head. “Hello, Gareth, be calm,” it whispered. He swung to face his Dragon, still staring at the boy, with those deep, dark, rather large eyes, but its beak or mouth was tight shut. Baby chickens don’t speak, let alone dragons.
“It’s very beautiful, Gareth, Pendelion’s book”
As he heard his mum approaching the kitchen door, Gareth found himself spinning like a break-dancer, and nearly knocked over the coffee cup, as he grabbed the squeaking Dragon chick, rather more roughly than before. “But don’t you think it’s all a bit…”
Both the lids to the Coffee and Sugar were back in place, the empty coffee jar back on the shelf too, Gareth’s dragon in its new sugary hiding place, by the time she reached him. Gareth held out the cup blithely, his palms stinging, and trying not to tremble.
“Think it’s a bit young?” finished Sally Marks. Gareth blinked and tilted his head.“I mean you’ve grown out of that sort of thing by now, haven’t you? Fairy Tales. Pendelion wouldn’t understand.”
“Sure, mum,” said Gareth, swallowing hard and trying to look tough.
“Thanks love,” said Sally, taking the cup off him. “I’ll have this, then do supper. I told Jill I’d have a drink with her later though, down the pub. Still want an omelette. With what?”
“Pistachios,” answered Gareth, thinking selflessly of a Dragon Diet.
“What?”
“I mean, er, blue cheese. Pistachio’s are nuts, aren’t they? Maybe I meant Parmesan. That funny stuff.”
“There’s cheddar, I think. What on earth’s got into you, today?”
“Got into me?” said Gareth, as if Buttersqueak wouldn’t melt in his mouth, whatever that was, but blushing deeply. “What do you mean, mum?”
“Oh nothing. Look, I don’t suppose….I mean, Jill’s going through stuff too, and it might be nice to…”
“Have supper with her,” said Gareth eagerly, since they often did. “In the pub. Sure. No problem. I’ll make myself an omelette, mum. Don’t worry. I’m not really hungry anyhow.”
“You are funny, love,” said Sally softly, “But if you really don’t mind.”
“It’s fine,” said Gareth, urging his mum back through the door. “Honest. I’ll have something, then go to bed and read.”
Gareth was looking across the room at Pendelion’s book, which was open on the glass table. Sally’s nose twitched a little, as she sipped the rather bitter coffee, and wondered if her son was having some crisis, with all this talk of reading and going quietly to bed. But she suddenly needed a drink, and though guilty at leaving him, was still so upset herself by the argument with Gareth’s step-dad, she badly wanted to talk to a friend.
“Mum,” said Gareth though, and he hardly knew why, “Do you ever miss Dad? Really miss him.”
Sally Marks stopped in her tracks but rather than answer, she just shook her head. A pained look came over her gentle features, and Gareth knew she was thinking of that horrid argument the day before. It had frightened her. She carried the coffee into her bedroom though, to finish changing, as Gareth sat down in front of the great book again. THE DANGEROUS BOOK OF DRAGONS AND UNIVERSAL DRAGON LORE.
As he looked down at the picture in front of him, the boy shivered slightly, because it was as if he was half in the room, and half inside the book. In front of him was a tangled wall of trees, ancient and wrapped in vines and creepers, and from the immense shadows, that seemed to loom at him from the pages, he thought he could see eyes, peering at him angrily. Gareth wondered where he was, and noticed the sunset had turned to a dark, sodium-lit night, as he looked out of the window at the sweeping streets of modern London. It had started to rain.
Something was in Gareth’s mind though, something he had read on those dietary pages about size – See Sugar. Gareth flicked back to the right pages and now he saw this:

DRAGON STEW – A PUMMFREY FAMILY RECIPE
Dragon Stew should be prepared well in advance and will feed a full Sized Dragon for a week, not to mention you, though don’t eat too much, it’s very rich.
Ingredients:
I Ox, humanely dealt with.
Onions, Carrots, Potatoes, Garlic, Babbage – 300 kilos
Salt and Pepper – five bushels
Tarmagon blood, a barrel of beer, and plenty of river water.
Chop the lot, pop in a pot, and get your Dragon to do the cooking. Four breaths, low heat, and don’t use a Fire-Cutter. Simple and delicious. PP

Gareth almost laughed, wondering who this weird book was written for, until he read what was written underneath.

SUGAR – THE ULTIMATE NO-NO
Little Dragons should NEVER be given sugar, because not only does it rot their teeth, make them hyperactive, and eventually lead to obesity and sometimes heart problems, but it makes them grow at the most improbable speed. This naturally adds to the general difficulty, indeed near impossibility, OF EVER HIDING YOUR DRAGON.

In the little London flat, Gareth Marks felt a sinking in is gut, heard a strange rattling from the kitchen, as his mum appeared in the hall, in her coat and carrying her purse. The boy was at the front door in an instant, smiling, reassuring her and nearly thrusting his mother straight out of the flat again, as the twelve-year-old slammed the front door after her, and behind him there was a shattering crash, as the sugar jar exploded everywhere.

David Clement-Davies Copyright 2010 – All Rights Reserved Published by Phoenix Ark Press

The rights of David Clement-Davies to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988

First Published on WordPress.Com, 2010, by Phoenix Ark Press. All Rights Reserved. This extract is given free subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise be sold, altered, or otherwise circulated, except for personal enjoyment, or without the publisher’s consent be reproduced in any form, other than which it is now published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

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