A Dragon for George Chapter 1

A  family friendly novel about a twelve-year-old boy and his pet cat... or maybe not a cat. Maybe something else. I was told no spoilers. This is chapter 1 of 19 or so. It would be a good idea to listen to them in order.

Transcript

Chapter 1

George knew it was wrong to look through the satchel. But it was just sitting there at the bottom of the gully, beneath the rocks, under the bush, deep in the dark woods.

His father would say it was impractical to look through such things. George had work to do in the stables. He should quit his dawdling, dallying, and daydreaming.

His mother would say he should report the satchel’s whereabouts to the proper authorities. He definitely shouldn’t touch the thing as it might be part of a crime scene. She’d watched a lot of shows on crime scenes. Best leave this to properly trained, stunningly attractive, squabbling investigators.

His older brother Max would’ve encouraged George. Max had always encouraged George in nearly everything. He even encouraged George’s various phases. He’d bought George a space fighting game during his space phase, before their parents banned all electronic games from their house. During the dinosaur phase, when all George would talk about was Tyrannosaurs and pteranodons (not technically dinosaurs, but close enough), Max had given him skeleton models to put together and his very own paleontologist kit that included a mini-magnifying glass and a tiny scraper for cleaning fossils.

Max had full-on inspired George’s current phase. Max’s room was filled with books about knights, chivalry, and adventure. George was in the forest right now to practice fencing against the thwacking tree that Max had shown him. If George hadn’t spotted something in the gully he’d be thwacking that tree already.

He opened the satchel, damp like everything else in this part of the forest. He found a hammer, a screwdriver, a wrench, a suction cup thingy, and dozens of jewels – rubies, sapphires, diamonds, emeralds – sparkling in the forest light. The sorts of jewels a pirate might run his fingers through, gleefully letting them fall into his treasure chest filled with booty.

(George wondered why no one called it a booty chest filled with treasure, but only very briefly.)

George knew it best not to touch the jewels. A good knight wouldn’t be so greedy. Plus, if fingerprints from a crime scene were going to be anywhere it was on these jewels. George should probably take the satchel straight home and tell his parents so they could call the police. Handing evidence to the police would be adventure enough for one morning and George would get back to the stables on time, pleasing his father, his mother and, to a lesser extent, himself.

As George pulled the straps to tie the satchel closed, he saw a coconut-sized egg beside the jewels. The egg was dull greenish-yellow: nearly the same color as the satchel.

“It’s probably just a soap egg,” George said to himself. Max had given him a soap egg four Christmases ago. “Dinosaur inside!” the exciting letters on the side of the box had said. “It really grows!” But, after months of exclusively using the egg to lather every bit of dirt and grime off his hands, his heart breaking every time it slipped from his fingers into the sink, thinking he might’ve killed a baby dinosaur, all George found in the center was a tiny stegosaurus-shaped blue sponge that, when placed in water, became a somewhat larger and very much soggier sponge.

George pulled the crusty egg from the satchel. This egg felt rough and leathery. Not soapy at all. It was heavy too.

“Probably just a more expensive toy or something,” George said to himself, returning the egg to the satchel. He would not be tricked again. He wasn’t a foolish little kid anymore. He was twelve now.

A twig cracked from the path above. George looked up to see a woman, dressed in black from neck to toe, running towards him. Her face was stern. Her hair was cropped but messy. Her eyes darted along the gully, fixing upon the satchel in George’s hand.

George looked around for something to defend himself with, should this woman be a foe intent on stealing the satchel. George looked carefully at the stone behind him, hoping, foolishly he knew, that a sword might be sticking out of it. No such luck. Behind him he saw bramble, beside him the bush, above him the lady, and in front of him a pointed stick. It wasn’t exactly a sword, but every knight had to start somewhere.

George placed the satchel behind him as he picked up the stick, holding it as if it were a sword. He’d practiced fencing every day with Max for nearly three months, and since then had practiced on his own using scrap pieces of metal or wood. He could wield a pointed stick just fine.

The woman leapt down into the gully, landing a foot in front of George.

“Give me that satchel,” she said. “Quick now. They’re after me.”

“I will defend this satchel with my honour,” George said, raising the stick higher.

“You’re as bad as him,” said the lady, putting her hand to her forehead, grimacing as she rubbed it.

“Who?” George asked.

“Give me the satchel already,” said the lady. “They can smell me.”

“Who can?” asked George.

“The dogs of course,” said the lady, trying to snatch the satchel. 

George dodged, pointing his stick at the lady’s heart. 

“Listen kid, I don’t want to hurt you, but I am quite willing to hurt you if you don’t hand that satchel over with speed.”

“If this is your satchel,” said George, “what’s in it?”

“Various tools, jewels, and a large egg,” said the lady as the echo of a bugle blasted through the forest. Dogs barked in the distance. “They’re almost here,” she said, wiping a rag over her face to sop up sweat and grime. “They’ll do nasty things if they catch me. Give me the darned satchel.”

“You’re a damsel in distress,” said George.

“No, I’m wearing pants.”

“Not in ‘this dress’,” said George. “In distress. Because the man’s after you.”

“Exactly,” said the woman, nodding vigorously. “I’m a distressed damsel and he’s a… what do you call them? An anti-damsel man.”

“Then I shall help you,” said George, handing the satchel to the lady.

“Thanks kid,” she said, quickly glancing at the contents, before tying the straps tight.

The damsel leapt back onto the path and ran.

“Where are you going?” George called, scrambling out of the gully.

“To escape of course,” she said.

“I know a better way,” said George. “It’s up the path a bit. I can show you.”

“I don’t have time for games,” said the damsel. The bugle blasted again. The dogs barked, closer now than before.

“They’ll catch up to you soon,” said George. “I will not steer you wrong.”

“Okay,” said the damsel. “But only ’cause I’m desperate.” 

George sprinted to a spot distinct only in the sense that it was particularly indistinct. Yes, thick bramble grew wild above the ditches that lined the path here, but thick bramble grows wild above a lot of ditches.

“This way,” George said, jumping into the ditch on the right.

“You’re not leading me any way at all,” said the woman, looking back up the trail. “I’m losing valuable time here.”

George relaxed his eyes till he saw it. The small patch of bramble Max had shown him. A small patch that looked the same as all the other small patches unless you trained your eyes to see it differently. George lifted it like a hatch, revealing a gap just big enough to crawl through.

“I’ll come get you when they’re gone,” George said.

“Cool,” said the damsel, crawling through the gap.

As George let the patch of bramble back in place, he saw the damsel’s sweat rag. It was incriminating evidence, as George’s mom might say. He considered crawling through the bramble to return it. But the bugle blasted again. The dogs barked again. They had almost arrived.

An idea formed in George’s mind. A very good one, in fact. The sort of thing that might throw off even the most intelligent bickering investigators.

He crossed the path to the bramble on the other side, where he located another gap. This gap was also very small, but not exactly secret. George had discovered it when he was six and hadn’t even needed Max to show him.

George tore off a small piece of the damsel’s rag, leaving it in the gap. He continued into a small side path that wended around trees and stumps, more or less parallel to the main one. George tore off pieces of rag all along the way, dropping them like breadcrumbs behind him. The damsel probably wouldn’t like that he was destroying her rag. He imagined it being a special favourite of hers with great sentimental value. But he figured she’d value her freedom more.

Eventually the side path led him back to the gully, very near where he’d first found the satchel. George dropped the last few strands of rag at this path’s entrance.

He climbed up to the main path, where the dogs sniffed along, running and barking, sniffing his fingers where he’d held the rag. Two horsemen followed the dogs in close pursuit.

“That lady,” said the taller horseman, square jawed and strong, “which way did she go?”

“Follow the hounds, fool,” said the paler, lankier horseman. “’Tis why we bought and trained them.”

The dogs picked up the damsel’s trail, which led them up the path to the secret bramble door. They sniffed it briefly, but found no way through. The lead dog soon found a new scent, running over to the not so secret path, following the sweat rag pieces George had left for them.

The men could not pursue on their horses, so the square jawed horseman dismounted.

“That path doth wend in circles,” said the lanky horseman to his friend. “Move thyself not in case she doth return this way.”

George thought he might have accidentally got mixed up in a Live Action Role Playing (or “L.A.R.P.”) game, judging by the clothes of both horsemen, which looked like pictures from his books on knights, and also by the way the lanky horseman spoke. George had wanted to be part of a L.A.R.P. game ever since he first heard of such things.

So, when the lanky horseman returned on his steed, George played along and asked: “Doth thou speak about that damsel? That damsel who hath dressed in clothes as black as a starless night?”

“Silence,” said the lanky horseman. “The hunt is afoot.”

The dogs streamed out of the side path and into the gully. They climbed back on to the path, sniffing around in circles, barking in confusion.

“Excuse me, sire,” said George, thoroughly enjoying himself. “But the damsel didst speed her feet back the way thou and thy servant hath just come.”

“I only just spake that thou shouldst speak not,” said the lanky horseman.

“He may have useful information,” said the square jawed horseman, riding back up the path.

“I didst not permit thy words neither,” said the lanky horseman. “And thou shouldst speak properly if thou needst speak at all.”

“Right. Yes. Uhhmm… ’Tis possible this boy hath information most desirable,” said the square jawed horseman.

“Pish posh and flim flummery! The boy spake false, obviously. Had the lady attempted a brazen escape our way, our hounds wouldst have been alerted to her scent.”

“But the creek doth still… er… run up that way a bit,” said George. “Oft doth the damsel leap into the creeks and gullies of this land. I have seen her do it and thought it very odd.”

The lanky horseman narrowed his eyes, blue and mean looking. “Thou hast best not be speaking false, boy.”

“’Twould explain our predicament,” said the square jawed horseman.

“Away then!” said the lanky horseman, digging his stirrups into his steed, which galloped back up the path, leading the dogs and other horseman.

George stared at them till they were out of sight and then sprinted back to the secret gap in the bramble. He opened it up, shimmying through on his back, letting the bramble door close behind him. He inched along, contorting his body in several awkward shapes to avoid getting scratched up.

He got scratched up anyway, but soon found himself in the secret forest room. A canopy of evergreen trees made the ceiling. Pine cones and no-longer-green needles covered the floor. Ancient stumps, mossy stones, and fern-covered fallen logs were the chairs, couches, and tables. George felt more at home here than the house where he lived.

He walked through to the far side, looking through the thick trees for any sign of the damsel. He waved his arms, crucking like a raven.

A raven crucked back, swooping out of the trees to investigate.

“Good impersonation,” said the damsel, climbing out of a red cedar as the raven returned to the trees.

“My brother Max hath taught me,” said George.

“I don’t care,” said the damsel. “I mean, that’s great, kid. More pressingly though, is the coast clear?”

“They hath sped their steeds away.”

“They’re gone then?” said the damsel.

George nodded.

“They’ll be back,” said the damsel, patting George on the shoulder. “I should get out of here. Where’s that secret path again?”

George pointed the way, almost as hard to find from this side of the bramble as the other. 

“Thanks,” said the damsel. “I owe you one.” She shimmied through the bramble door, cursing quietly every time a thorn scratched her, which was a lot of times.

George took a breath. That had been a pretty good adventure for a Saturday morning. He should get back to the stables already.

But George had first come to the forest for a reason other than satchels and damsels. He was going to practice fencing, whether his parents liked it or not. He felt around under some ferns, picking up the length of rebar he used as a sword.

Thwack! He hit the largest branch of the “thwacking tree”, a dead cedar. The branch rebounded, rushing back toward George, who blocked it with the rebar. He thwacked the branch again and again. Harder and harder, letting out the anger he wished he didn’t have. The anger that had been building and building for months and months. Max would’ve encouraged this. Max encouraged him in everything.

Thwack! The branch struck George’s cheek. He felt for blood but found none. Still, it would leave a mark. George hit the tree a dozen times, avenging himself for the pain.

He breathed heavy. Exhausted. He faced the tree, raising his sword to his nose. He then slashed downwards, saluting the tree with honour. 

George returned the rebar to its hiding spot amongst the ferns when he saw something very slightly out of place. A fern that wasn’t quite exactly where it was supposed to be. Curious, he lifted a frond to reveal the leathery soap egg.

“She must have dropped it,” George said to himself. “What do you think, Max?” 

A gust of wind blew as if to answer. George’s heart beat fast. Gusts of wind almost never blew through the secret room within the forest.

“You’re right,” George said, “she must have left it for me to find.”

Of course George knew the egg was, at best, part of the L.A.R.P. game the grownups were probably playing. Of course he knew the damsel was really just a woman who had simply dropped the egg or left it behind because it wasn’t worth much and was only weighing her down. He knew Max hadn’t sent that gust of wind. Max had died. Max wasn’t coming back. Wishful thinking couldn’t change that no matter how much he wanted it to and he’d only get angry with himself for getting his hopes up. Of course George knew all that stuff.

But he took the egg all the same.