chapter 7

A Dragon

The shell split in half, the two pieces opening like a gooey, prehistoric flower bud, revealing a wiggling and slightly sticky creature unlike any that Twig had ever seen.

Twig didn’t know what to think of the . . . what was it? It was covered with thousands of shiny, emerald-green scales. The scales rippled and shimmered, one moment flat against the curved back and round belly of the creature, then suddenly pointing out from its body, as though it was alarmed or excited.

A miniature mountain range of small, red-purple bumps ran down its spine, from the base of its head to the tip of its tail. It had two slightly rounded wings that looked as though they were made of soft, cinnamon-colored velvet, checkered with tiny veins of turquoise blue. A hooked claw jutted out at the crook of each wing, sharp and glinting in the sun.

Twig couldn’t stop staring at its eyes. They were like two kaleidoscopes, fiery sunflower yellow, with flecks of brilliant gold and burnished copper. The tiny creature tilted its head this way and that, studying its surroundings for the first time.

It was formidable, but adorable. And Twig knew exactly where he had seen one before; it closely resembled the pictures in his book collection. It was a dragon.

Twig was fascinated, but cautious.

“W-w-well, hello, little guy,” he ventured, his voice squeaky. “You’re . . . real. You’re not just a picture in a book!”

The dragon flicked its tail and jerked its head sideways, peering at Twig. Its scales rippled.

“Are you looking for your mommy?” Twig asked. “Where’s your momm . . . uh-oh?” He quickly spun around and looked in each direction.

The dragon stared at Twig for a moment, then opened its beak-like mouth.

“GRRRUUUK!”

Twig scooted back in surprise.

“GRRRRRRUUUUUUK!” It flapped its velvety wings in rapid beats.

“Oh!” Twig exclaimed. “I guess I’m the mommy!”

“GRRRUUUUUK!” The dragon hopped at Twig, wings still fluttering, mouth agape, eyes excited and golden, almost landing on top of him.

“Whoa, not so fast, little fella. I’m just a temporary mommy.”

There was a small cluster of wild grapes nearby; Twig hurriedly picked a few and laid them on the ground in front of the dragon baby, who sniffed at them with its tongue, as though experimenting, then looked up at Twig.

Twig was disappointed. “No?”

He thought for a moment, then took the grapes and squeezed them into a pulp.

“Better?”

The dragon sniffed again, then gobbled them down.

Twig lifted a small stone, finding a wriggling earthworm and a roly-poly bug, and made a presentation of them on a platter of bark.

“Here! How’s this?”

The dragon let out a squeaky, plaintive bleat, like a rusty gate in a breeze, and then ate them up.

Twig tore leaves into strips and then chewed them a little and spit them out, thinking that perhaps mother dragons regurgitated when feeding their offspring. The dragon ate those, too.

“Good?” Twig asked.

The dragon squeaked again.

The fresh smell of wild cucumber was near. Twig located a tiny patch of the short, umbrella-like plant, one of his favorites. Digging down, he found his prize and wiped the dirt from the crispy white tuber.

Twig held out one of the roots, then took a bite himself, chewing noisily.

Scrunch . . . scrunch . . . scrunch.

Suddenly the tangle of ferns and wild cucumber plants exploded in a burst of wind and wings, and Twig felt what seemed like pins being dragged across his back. He squeaked and catapulted in a somersault.

The shiny black talons of a hawk had just barely grazed his back; the hawk had misjudged her distance by but a hair. A tiny bit closer and Twig would have been swinging in a death grip, talons slicing through his spine, as the hawk carried him through the understory of the forest.

Twig knew the hawk would, in the shake of a chipmunk’s tail, return for a second attack. Quickly scanning the area, he saw a small pile of blue glass jars some distance away. Some lay with lids rusted tight; others were broken.

Wide-eyed, he turned to the dragon. “Quick!” he exclaimed. “Let’s go!”

The dragon looked at Twig blankly. In a panic Twig yanked at the dragon’s tail to pull it along, and then grabbed hold of one of the dragon’s wings. “Now!” he squealed, and then took off toward the broken jars. One was nearly covered with weeds and grasses. He darted to it, pushed the grasses aside, and pointed.

The dragon, as though this was a game, flapped and vibrated its tiny wings.

“In!” Twig squeaked at the dragon, pushing at its rear end. Twig immediately raced in behind, pulling grasses over the opening, and burrowed into the back of the jar.

Simultaneously they heard a loud clink as the hawk’s talons hit the jar. The cloudy glass distorted the looming face, but Twig could see, just a whisker away, the eyes of the hungry hawk.

They were trapped.

The hawk glared into the jar. Twig knew that if it weren’t for several millimeters of clear blue glass, the hawk would eat him. The hawk shrieked again, furious and frustrated. Her beak was hard-edged and strong. She snapped at the jar, attacking repeatedly.

Now, with the yellow eyes of the hawk staring in, the dragon seemed to sense the danger. It backed against the curve of the glass, quivering.

“It’s okay, buddy,” Twig whispered. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

They sat in the jar, Twig protectively covering the small dragon, until the hawk saw the futility of the situation, lifted her wings, and flew off.

Looking nervously at the sky, and heart still racing, Twig emerged from the jar, the dragon wiggling out after him. The fresh air outside was intoxicating, and Twig breathed in deeply. It felt good to be alive.

Now he suddenly wanted to be home. He looked at the dragon, his whiskers twitching. “Time for me to go,” he said. “I’m heading back home now.” He turned and started to scamper away, but the newly hatched dragon hopped after him.

“No, not with me,” Twig ordered. “Head back home. Wherever that is.”

The baby dragon blinked at Twig.

“Go home.”

The dragon flicked its tail.

This time it was Twig who blinked. He knew he couldn’t leave the defenseless creature alone in the Woods. But a dragon in the Hill? That wouldn’t work. The Council would not have it.

Twig looked sympathetically at the dragon. He pondered. It would be difficult, but maybe if he hid the dragon . . . at least for a while . . .

He started home, the dragon scurrying behind. With the Naming Ceremony approaching, this was just what Twig needed: a hungry, homeless dragon.