The Wizard, the Dragon and the Scene Thief

Henry, bent over a large open chest, called out, “Martha? Where’s my giestshiest wand?” He looked at a small crystal ball in one hand, a carved toad figurine in the other, and placed them on the ground.

“Language, Henry,” said Martha from the doorway.

Henry huffed, pulled out a glass beaker and tossed it aside.

Martha, hands now on her hips, said, “I put it back in your wizarding chest after I cleaned it.”

Henry looked up. “You cleaned it? You don’t clean a magic wand.”

“It had soot all over it after you tried that fire incantation spell.”

Henry mumbled, “I almost got it.”

“It was a wonderful try. I saw a spark.”

“Too much moisture in the air.”

“For sure.”

Henry turned back to the chest and moved some stuff around. “Wait a minute.” He lifted out a textbook titled Practical Calculus. “What is this doing in here?”

“Oh,” said Martha. “So that’s where I left it.”

“This is not a place for a silly math book,” said Henry. He left out the word silly, but he thought it. He put the textbook and a stuffed duck with a painted clown face on the floor. And . . . there it was, under the misplaced math book. “Here it is,” cried Henry. He studied the gnarled wand in his hand. “It’s . . . shiny.”

Martha beamed. “I polished it.”

“Hmm,” said Henry.

“Glad you found your wand. I need to . . .”

“Where’s my robe?”

“Um. It’s on the clothesline.”

“Clothesline?”

“It might be a little wet.”

“A little?”

“It’s a lot wet.”

“Martha! A dragon was just seen passing over Balder Mountain. I don’t have time for my robe to dry.”

“I didn’t know a dragon was coming today.”

“Giest . . .”

“Language, Henry.”

Henry’s face reddened. A few more bad words pushed at his lips, but Henry managed to keep them in. “Well, what do I do now?”

“Wear the old one.”

“The old one is too big.”

“I don’t know, Henry. I must get ready. Go as you are.”

“I’m not facing the dragon in my knickers!”

Martha said no more. Instead, she gave Henry her I’m-done-look.

Henry shook his head and said, “I’ll make do.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Henry mumbled to himself as he grabbed the rich, red and gold embroidered robe from the coat rack. After he put it on, he checked the pockets. He didn’t want anything flammable on him, like a flask of beat wine, or lizard juice—just in case. His hand touched something. He pulled out a piece of paper. “Oh,” he said to himself. “That’s where that went.” It was a spell that supposedly cleaned any animal’s fur instantly, but when he tried it on Whiskers all she did was lick herself all day. That night Whiskers coughed up a fur-ball the size of her head and presented it to Henry as a gift.

He grabbed his wizarding hat and got bothered all over again. The purple and silver hat clashed mightily with the robe. “Shiest . . .” Henry looked to the open doorway. Martha was gone. He called out, “Well, I’ll be off.”

“Good luck, dear,” called Martha.

With that, Henry left.

He passed Martha’s freshly planted marigolds beside the stoop. They were bright and beautiful. They gave him hope that today would go well.

He hurried down the cobbled road toward the town square. The typical bustling street was mostly barren, except for a few brave townsfolk who watched the sky from their doorways, or close thereto.

Mayor Pearbody called out, “Good luck, Henry.”

Henry gave a slight nod, raised his hand in a confident wave, and almost tripped on the hem of his robe. “Blasted robe,” said Henry under his breath, still managing to hold his confident smile. He adjusted his wizarding hat which had slipped down over his forehead when he stumbled. He recalled the store owner in Brisby who told him the hat fit perfectly, “And it matches your splendid robe.”

Henry huffed to himself.

“Today’s the day, Henry,” said Ms. Oakmont from her stoop.

Henry gave another confident nod, glancing down at his too-long robe.

As he neared the stone fountain at the center of town square, Henry practiced the incantation quietly, minus the last word—he didn’t want to accidently shoot himself in the foot. He stopped at the fountain. Capsidon, his sword held aloft in his stone glory, looked down at him with blank eyes, atop his horse, Whisper, who stood on his hind legs. Water cascaded from Whisper’s mouth, over his front legs, to the pool beneath. In the past, visitors to their city called the fountain the horse that throws up—the water running from his mouth had unfortunately turned Whisper’s front quarters and legs green. The town took action. Now, visitors are greeted by four signs strategically placed at the fountain, facing North, South, East and West, which read: Capsidon, the Hero of Masticatia, and his horse, WHISPER!

Now, where to stand? Henry thought about climbing on the horse behind Capsidon. That would be epic, Masticatia’s newest hero firing at the dragon from the image of Masticatia’s oldest hero. But . . . balancing might prove difficult, and besides, Henry didn’t want to get his shoes wet. In front of the fountain. Yes. That would be the most heroic—ready to great the beast, nothing in the way of Henry’s fiery vengeance. He thought of the dragon and changed the words in his mind to magical vengeance. He took his place in front of Capsidon.

Now . . . right foot first? He tested it. No. It didn’t feel right. He stepped forward with the left. That was more natural. He bent his knees slightly. Ready for battle. He looked toward the sky. Nothing.

Hmm.

Perhaps he was a bit early. He sat down on the edge of the fountain and looked around. His eyes fell on an abandoned cart in front of Micah’s Sundries shop. On the cart sat a small, weaved cage, and inside the cage was a chicken with gray and white plumage.

An idea came to Henry. He hadn’t tested the spell. He casually moved the wand resting on his lap until it pointed at the cage, and the chicken. He recited the words of the spell under his breath. Insitu despiritu outsi tui. As the last word left his lips, he felt a strong pulse from the wand. A sound came from the cage, like a poof and a cluck mixed together. Henry’s eyebrows raised, and his jaw dropped. The cage now held a bloody mass. Gray and white feathers floated toward the bed of the cart as if a chicken bomb had gone off. Henry gaped at the wand in his shaky hand. It worked. He turned the chicken inside out.

“What did you do to my chicken?” Henry turned. It was Murphy, standing in the Cluffhaus’s doorway. “That was my favorite chicken,” called out Murphy.

“Um,” said Henry.

He didn’t notice the sound of wooden wheels rolling over cobbles behind him, nor the creak of wood carrying something heavy.

“Weren’t you going to sell it?” called out Henry.

“That’s irrelevant,” shouted Murphy.

Oh bother. “I’ll buy it.”

“Yes, you will.”

Of course, it was Murphy’s chicken. Henry’s eyes rolled skyward and fell upon the dragon. The dragon! It was just above the city center’s tower, wings outstretched, swooping toward Henry. Henry jumped up, raised his wand and stepped forward. “Insitu despiritu” . . . He stepped on the hem of his robe and lost his balance.

It was inevitable, his fall to the ground. Momentum and gravity did their thing and he landed on his outstretched hands and knees. Panic. The wand lay harmless three arm lengths from Henry. He tried to crawl to it. His knees were still inside the robe, and thus, didn’t go anywhere. His hands did, causing him to flop on his belly. Henry’s predicament got worse. His wizarding hat flopped over his eyes. He groped blindly around on the ground for the stupid wand.

He heard a coughing sound come from the dragon, then intense heat streamed above him, followed by the roar of fire behind him.

A new sound passed over head—"Wahooeeaaaaaah!” Metal clanked against something hard, and a bone-chilling rattle came from deep inside the dragon’s throat.

The wand! Henry’s outstretched finger touched it. He clutched it in his hand, stood, pushed the hat back with his free hand and leveled the wand at the ferocious beast . . . who was dead, on the ground with the hilt of a sword protruding from the top of its head, the tip gleaming below its throat. A man wearing a shiny suit of armor was lying on the ground next to the dragon, his shiny fist raised in the air triumphantly.

Wha?

There were claps behind Henry. And cheers. Henry turned to see a small crowd of people gathered around a catapult, its massive arm extended. Martha stood among them. A few patted Martha on the back. She smiled and waved at Henry.

Henry, bewildered, brought his hand up in a noncommittal wave. He took in the catapult. He turned back to the dragon. The man in the suit of armor was now sitting, his helmet on his lap—Sir Reginald. Back to the catapult. And back to Sir Reginald. A crowd was growing around Sir Reginald, patting him on the back, telling him “Good job,” and “Good show.” The crowd lifted Sir Reginald on their shoulders and paraded him past Henry and the fountain.

Murphy was among the crowd. As he passed Henry, Murphy said, “That was my favorite bunny.”

Henry shook his head. Murphy. Wait a minute. It was a chicken, not a bunny.

The parade continued to the catapult where cheers of “Hip hip hooray,” began.

Henry felt a hand on his shoulder. Martha. He mumbled, “That was a good shot.”

Martha said, “Thanks! The calculation had to be perfect in order to launch Sir Reginald onto the back of the dragon at just the right trajectory, and of course, we needed the ability to adjust quickly if the dragon landed in a different spot than we anticipated, which it did!”

“Yeah.”

Martha paused. “I’m sorry you fell.”

“Giestshiest robe.”

Martha opened her mouth but decided against speaking.

The parade passed them again as it circled the square. Martha and Henry moved a few steps closer to the fountain to make room for the burgeoning crowd. They tossed Sir Reginald in the air and shouted, “Three cheers for the Hero of Masticatia!”

Henry looked at his shoes. He couldn’t see them because the stupid robe covered them.

Martha said, “I can hem the robe.”

“Ok,” said Henry.

“Do you want to go home?”

“Yeah.”

Martha took hold of Henry’s arm and they started for home. Henry noticed the statue of Capsidon and Whisper was now a glob of molten metal. He thought about the stupid robe, and the trip, and the heat he felt go over his back when he fell to his belly. Hmm. They would probably replace the glob of metal with a statue of Sir Reginald, the hero, his blade plunged through the dragon’s head.

“How about a cup of marigold tea?” asked Martha.

“I would like that,” said Henry.

“I’m sure you’ll get him next time.”

“He’s dead.”

“I bet he has a brother, or a sister.”

Henry perked up.

Martha said, “Or an angry mother.”

“That would be nice,” said Henry.

With that settled, Martha and Henry continued arm in arm down the road, away from the noise of the crowd.