Timothy and the Dragon Defenders, Part Three
A Short Story from the Archives of A.Z.K.R., author of Tales of Porcelain Thrones: Middle School Edition
[To read Timothy’s adventure from the beginning, click here.]
Once the commotion of a moving dragon—scales against underbrush, plodding, heavy, footfalls, claws scratching against pebbles—all came to a halt, Timothy began to actually hear the sounds of the forest around him. A myriad of bird calls, most of which he didn’t recognize and sounded rather otherworldly, filled his ears. The wind rushed through the tops of strange trees and under it all, a distant melody, akin to a flute, danced with the leaves. The melody grew louder and Timothy looked about in curiosity.
“Who’s playing music in the woods?” He wonder aloud. And will I remember what it sounds like when I wake up? Beside him, Galen’s ears twitched in the breeze. Until he saw them move in this way, Timothy had thought they where some kind of developing horns.
Galen looked in each direction before starting down a path to Timothy’s right. It was faint and covered in soft grasses. Orange and white flowers waved, tickling the companion’s ankles as they headed to the ever swelling song. Then the music suddenly stopped, as did Galen, who then looked at Timothy and did the twitch with his shoulders that Timothy had decided to interpret as a human shrug.
The two stood there, wondering what to do next, when a small man half Timothy’s size materialized in front of them. He was a fawn, Timothy saw, but he had very little hair. Timothy’s thoughts flickerd again to Narnia as he laughed.
“I said I have no time for tea!” Timothy said, half to Galen, half to himself.
The fellow’s pointy hat slipped back on his bald head and flopped to the side. He scowled at the boy and his dragon.
“What are you two doing in my forest?” The little man demanded.
“Walking. It’s not like we knew it was yours. Or, I didn’t know.”
Galen burped.
“Are you here to smash my house?” This question was directed at Galen, who in turn, burped.
“What do you think you’re doing alone with a dragon, boy? Twelve year old civilian and taking such blatant sides in the war?”
“No, we don’t smash houses.” Timothy said. Then eyeing Galen, demurred, “I don’t think. How did you know I was twelve?”
The gnome-fawn-whatever he was, looked him up and down. “You look to be Twelve,” he said dismissively, arighting his hat as he did.
“You raised by Clubs?” He asked Galen.
Burp.
“What are Clubs? What war?” demanded Timothy.
“Clubs, my boy, are big, mean, and blue. They belch the foulest smells, as they are known to eat garbage, and they have a habit of smashing things. I was in fear of my house, based on the noise and smell. I tried to warn you away with my flute, but it seems you don’t understand music messages and came nearer instead. Dragons, however, are less foul. This one must have been raised by a Club Clan. They’re known to hoard dragon eggs under threat.”
“What war?” Timothy repeated.
“No time to discuss politics on the outside. Get in before we’re seen and I’ll give you your belated history lessons, and—well—news.”
“Seen?” Timothy looked around, then up.
“Not you, The dragon. They’re an illegal species in Zentop, by order of Lord Lucius of Romodore.”
He glanced at the dragon’s tatooed wing, and said “Come along Galen, son of Clubbers.”
Galen, of course, answered, with a burp.
[To Be Continued…]
Timothy and the Dragon Defenders, Part Two
A Short Story from the Archives of A.Z.K.R., author of Tales of Porcelain Thrones: Middle School Edition
[To read Timothy’s adventure from the beginning, click here.]
The purple dragon roared fiercely. A river rushed behind it, the sun made the water glisten, peeking over what almost looked like pines. The sudden brightness pierced Timothy’s eyes and all his senses were overwhelmed at once. He was grateful for the warmth, but the sun beat down harshly on his skin.
“Good thing the basement wasn’t a wardrobe and this place isn’t Narnia,” Timothy said to the dragon. “I’d be freezing and I’ve no time for tea with Mr. Tumnus, I have a test tomorrow.”
The dragon roared. And burped. Bits of Mrs. McCracken’s jelly still lingered on the corners of its mouth.
“So you are?” Timothy asked.
The dragon burped again.
“Ok, then. I’ll call you Burp.”
The dragon shook his head no.
“Belch?”
It shook its head again, then fluttered its wings. The right wing featured a brand, or tattoo, and when they came to rest against the beast’s back again, Timothy saw the name, “Galen” etched into the dragon’s flesh.
“Galen?”
The dragon danced, a bit like the McCracken’s golden retriever puppy when someone dropped bacon on the breakfast room floor.
“Like the Greek physician?”
The dragon danced again.
“So where are we, Galen?”
Galen belched another round, evicting all the glass from the crunched Mason jars into the river as he did.
“Ew.”
The dragon seemed to shrug and began walking away.
“Hey, wait!” Timothy followed. Pebbles from the riverside massaged his bare feet, not so unpleasantly. “Seriously, wait!”
He caught up to the bumbling dragon, “So where are we, anyway?”
Galen burped, then stopped abruptly, and Timothy bumped into a tree to avoid running into him.
Timothy and the Dragon Defenders, Part One
A Short Story from the Archives of A.Z.K.R., author of Tales of Porcelain Thrones: Middle School Edition
Timothy McCracken was having a hard time. He was supposed to be sleeping, but instead of counting sheep, he was counting the taps he heard coming from the basement across the hall. Timothy’s bedroom was downstairs near the kitchen, apart from his siblings and parents who slept on the second story of the house. This suited him fine because it meant he didn’t share a room with his brother Dean, who snored like a freight train. It was also great when he wanted peanut butter sandwiches at midnight, but not so much when the dog whined at the rustling noises coming from the basement.
What was down there besides Mom’s canning jars and Christmas decorations? Did the house have mice? Were ghosts walking around in old shoes discarded in the donate bin? One could never tell after the sun went down and the moon cast shadows through the window.
He pulled his feet from under under his flannel sheets, his yellow gym shorts reflected neon stripes from the moonlight. As soon as his feet hit the cool, wooden floors, he heard a crash from below. Instinctively, he rushed to the sound, accustomed to rescuing younger siblings from their messes and broken things. The crashing of his mother’s preserve jars rang in his ears as he crossed the hall to the basement and took the stairs two at a time. He stopped abruptly at the last step, worried his bare feet might catch glass.
Curling his toes around the edge of the landing, he paused a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. As he stood there, the scent of cinnamon and peaches wafted against his nose, goosebumps pimpled his arms from the cold, but a breath of hot air pressed against his forehead.
“What?”
Slowly, his pupils caught up to the rest of his body and revealed large nostrils flaring in front of him. Purple scales pulsed as the warmth puffed against Timothy’s face. The beast turned and scurried behind the shelves of Mrs. McCracken’s jars, tongue lapping three of them in one gulp, glass and all. TImothy heard a belch and caught a whiff of strawberry currant jam.
“You like Mom’s jam?” he asked the beast, stepping closer. Surely it was safe to follow it, this must be a dream. After all, dragons aren’t real.
In a flash of light, the creature was nearly gone, a tail slithering out a door Timothy had never seen before. The door was heavy and wooden, thicker and shorter than any other in the house. The knob was made of tarnished silver. A bit of light glowed from behind the door–enough so Timothy could see that the knob was spherical and engraved to look like a globe, but with land masses he did not recognize.
As he reached for the knob, heat radiated from behind the threshold and in an instant, Timothy was no longer in his Mom’s basement.
[Come back next week to see where Timothy has found himself!]
Anakalian Whims 