Dragon Rider

Page 32

18. A Visitor for the Professor
Barnabas Greenbloom was packing his bags, not that he had a lot to pack. He traveled light, with only a battered old bag into which he flung some shirts and underwear, his favorite sweater, and a pencil box. He always packed a camera, too, and a thick, much-stained notebook in which he wrote all the stories he came across, illustrating them with photographs, copies of any inscriptions he found, and drawings he had done from descriptions given to him by people who had met fabulous creatures. The professor had already filled almost a hundred such notebooks. They were all in his study at home, neatly sorted according to the species of creatures and the places where they had appeared. This one, thought Barnabas Greenbloom, stroking the current volume lovingly, this one would be given a place of honor, for it contained a photograph of Firedrake. The dragon had allowed him to take his picture out of gratitude for being rescued from the basilisk.
“I can’t wait to hear what Vita has to say,” breathed the professor, stowing the book away in his bag. “She’s always feared that dragons were extinct.” Smiling happily, he picked up a towel and went out into the evening twilight, on his way to wash the dust and sweat off his face before his journey.
His tent was on the outskirts of the camp, close to the only well. A donkey and a few camels, tied to stakes not far away, were dozing in the warm evening air. There were no other human beings in sight. The camp was as good as deserted, for most of its occupants had gone into the nearby town. The rest were in their tents, asleep, writing letters home, or keeping their notes up to date.
Barnabas Greenbloom went over to the big well, hung his towel over the edge of the little wall around it, and drew up a bucket of the wonderfully cool water. As he did, he whistled softly and looked up at the stars. They were as numerous this evening as the grains of sand beneath his feet.
Suddenly the donkey and the camels raised their heads in alarm. They snorted, jumped up, and tugged at their ropes. Barnabas didn’t notice. He was thinking about his daughter, wondering whether she’d have grown much in the four weeks since he’d last seen her. Then a noise startled him out of these pleasant thoughts and jolted him back to the present. The noise came from the depths of the well, and it sounded like heavy breathing — the heavy breathing of a very, very large animal.
Alarmed, the professor put down the bucket on the rim of the well and took a step back. No one knew better than he did that the bottom of a well may shelter extremely unpleasant creatures. However, his curiosity was always stronger than his caution, so he did not do the sensible thing, which would have been to turn and run away as fast as he could go. Instead, Barnabas Greenbloom stayed put and waited with interest to see just what was about to crawl out of the well. He did put his left hand to his back pocket, ready to take out the little mirror that he kept there for emergencies. The pocket also held a number of other items that might prove useful in times of danger.
The heavy breathing was getting louder, and a strange rattling noise came from the well, as if a thousand iron rings were scraping against the rough stones.
The professor frowned. What fabulous creature would make a sound like that? Hard as he tried, he couldn’t think of a single one, so for safety’s sake he took another step back. Just as the rising moon disappeared for a moment behind wisps of black cloud a huge, golden, scaly claw emerged from the well.
The animals bleated and rolled their eyes, tore their stakes out of the sand, and fled into the desert, dragging the stakes behind them. Barnabas Greenbloom, however, was rooted to the spot.
“Barnabas,” he muttered to himself, “get out of here, you stupid idiot!” His feet took yet another step backward — and stopped.
The sturdy wall around the top of the well fell apart like a set of dominoes, and a mighty dragon forced his way out of the shaft. His golden scales shone in the moonlight like a giant’s suit of mail. His black claws dug deep into the sand and his long, spiny tail rattled as it dragged after him. A dwarf holding a huge feather duster was clinging to one of his horns.
Slowly, with steps that seemed to make the desert quake, the monster moved heavily toward Barnabas Greenbloom. His eyes glowed red as blood in the darkness.
“You have something that belongs to me!” growled Nettlebrand, his voice resounding in the professor’s ears.
Professor Greenbloom looked straight up into the monster’s open jaws. “Oh, yes, and what might that be?” he inquired, addressing the sharp teeth inside those jaws. As he spoke, he was very slowly putting his left hand inside his back pocket to find a small box that was in there with the mirror.
“My scale, fool!” Nettlebrand snarled. His icy breath made Barnabas Greenbloom shiver. “Give me back my scale or I’ll crush you like a louse.”
“Ah, the scale!” cried the professor, clapping a hand to his brow. “Of course — the golden scale. So it’s yours. How interesting. How very interesting. But how did you know I had it?”
“Stop stalling!” roared Nettlebrand, coming so close that one of his black claws touched Barnabas Greenbloom’s knee. “I can tell that you have it. Hand it over to the dwarf. Come on, do it now!”
The professor’s mind was racing. How had this monster found him? Did he know who had the other scale, too? Was Ben in danger? How could he warn the boy?
The mountain dwarf began scrambling down from Nettlebrand’s head.
At that moment Barnabas Greenbloom dived forward and ducked beneath the gigantic dragon’s body. He made for the creature’s hind legs, jumped up on one of the mighty feet, and clung to the monster’s scaly armor.
“Come on out!” bellowed Nettlebrand, spinning around furiously. “Where are you?”
The dwarf dropped to the sand like a ripe plum and quickly took shelter between some rocks to avoid being trampled to death as his master stamped around furiously. Barnabas Greenbloom just held on to Nettlebrand’s leg, laughing.
“Where am I?” he called to the monster. “Where you can’t get me, of course.”
Nettlebrand stood still, breathing hard, and tried to reach his muzzle around to his hind leg, but his body wasn’t flexible enough. All he could do was put his head down between his front legs and stare furiously at the little human being clinging like a tick to his golden body.
“Give me the scale!” bellowed Nettlebrand again. “Give me my scale and I won’t eat you. My word of honor!”
“Your word of honor? Oh, my word!” Barnabas tapped the giant leg to which he was clinging. The sound was like hitting an iron saucepan. “You know something? I believe I know who you are. You’re the one they call Nettlebrand in the old tales, aren’t you?”
Nettlebrand did not reply. He stamped as hard as he could to shake off the man. But his claws only sank into the desert sand, and Barnabas was still clinging firmly to his leg.
“Yes, you’re Nettlebrand!” he cried. “Nettlebrand, the Golden One! How could I ever forget the stories about you? I ought to have remembered them as soon as I saw that golden scale. You’re said to be a bloodthirsty, cunning liar, murderous and vain. They even say you ate your maker, but let’s face it, he deserved it for creating a monster like you.”
Nettlebrand listened to the professor, his head lowered. His horns bored into the sand.