Young Writers Society

This story takes place in Wulswich. On a Tuesday.

Bright brick-red houses line ancient roads with gardens that spill plentifully around every corner. An old stone church shoots gothic spires skyward as it chimes the hour. Loosely divided by crumbling stone walls, farmland sprawls in every direction, setting the land ablaze when the wheat ripens. Country people spend their days outside. While the rich are murdered mysteriously in the mansions on the hill. Truly, Wulswich is the very definition of quaint.

At the time, Cornelius Bottle, a man who lived up to his name both in size, and breadth of self-confidence. A man who could pull from his little head and with a flourish of his favorite green hat, an idiom for every occasion. A man who would cause a little groan inside when he came over and looked upon one’s work with his “inspection” face. Never could one find so indecipherable a look, as when Bottle would jovially appear and lean over washbin, fence, or cooking pot, purse his lips and survey with a positive “hum,” here, and a negative “oh,” there. One could only wait politely in annoyance until he turned and nodding, said: “Well you're doing a great job here—you really are. But, I do feel I should point out…”

Cornelius Bottle was, at that time, picking blackberries. He was humming along rather contentedly not only because he put more berries in his mouth than in his basket which, as a result was filled with more bits of blackberry branch and thorn than anything else. But, because of the great pile of biscuits he could see on the picnic blanket of the Wakes sisters whose house was nearby, and of whom he was just considering sidling up to for a snack.

But instead he was rudely interrupted by a thoroughly frightened woman who ran very nearly right into the blackberries, before coming to her wits enough to notice, and pick her way around them.

“Oh! Mr. Bottle, thank goodness—someone at last. I have run nearly a mile!” Mrs. Mcfee said. “Call the police! The royal guard! Sean Connery! Anybody!”

“Now calm down now, let’s not go bothering anybody yet.” Mr. Bottle said, trying to get to the bottom of the matter. “Besides, last I heard he’s on holiday in the Caribbean. Now, what is the matter?”“A dragon!” She shouted. “You must believe me! A gargantuan lizard beast! It came for the sheep, I saw it from the window. Poor Murphy was out with the sheepdog when it happened—I daren’t think what has happened to him!

Now, at the shouted word “dragon” of course a great number of people nearby had been aroused from their noonday naps and were gathering around. Not least of these were the picnicking Wakes sisters who swiftly finished their biscuits, Bottle noticed crossly, and drew closer. One by one they drew near and passed through the crowd. Bea; Lily; and Darcy. Light red, light brown, darkish.

“What is going on?” Darcy asked, pushing her way through first.

“Poor Mrs. Mcfee seems to have had a fright.”“She says there's a dragon?”

“Bosh!” Bottle replied. “No doubt she’s making a wasp’s nest of a pig’s hoard.”

“Well are you making a… erm… doing that?” Darcy asked.

Mrs. Mcfee positively refuted it. But, Bottle argued.

“Oh, have some sense. This is the woman who saw a rat and thought it was a pixy—and I think we all remember Christmas eve?”

“Nonetheless..” Darcy replied. “Someone ought to investigate.

“With only her word to go on? I won’t without at least another witness.”Darcy would have answered, but first, in burst Farmer Mcfee, red faced, huffing, and as frightened as his delighted wife had been (if not more so).

“A dragon!” He shouted. “You must have seen it! Massive thing! Came upon the field it did, took half me’ flock! We must call the police! The Guard! Sean Conne—”

His wife cut him off.

“We already discussed that dear, he’s out of the question it seems.”

“Just wait a moment, please?” Darcy leveled a hard look on Bottle. “Perhaps we should investigate?”

“Well…” He said quietly. “I suppose… One can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs—I’ll go check it out.”

And that is how Bottle found himself trudging up to farmer Mcfee’s fields on a Tuesday afternoon with the sun in his eyes, no picnic biscuits, and a basket full of blackberry thorns, and large ones at that, alongside Darcy Wakes.

“Remind me again why you’re coming?”

Far beyond her sisters in intellect, Darcy rarely spoke unless she had something to say, and when she did it was usually the right thing. She had dark hair which hid the mud that usually ended up in it when she went searching for new plants along river banks and inevitably slipped in having reached some too far for a strange looking lily. Through such experiences she had become the authority on getting dirty stains out of white clothes, and with her wisdom and articulate speech, had made a good business of the practice. Therefore, she answered with the usual eloquence.

“To make sure you keep your word. And to see your face when you see there is something frightening.”“Right, yes.” Bottle said. “And you’ve brought a gun. Why?”

“For the dragon. Or you.” She replied. “Whichever turns out to be more stubborn.”

“Where did you even get that? It’s rather improper.”

“It’s my Dad's.” She said, “And, I’d rather he doesn’t know I took it if that can be helped.”

“Fine then. I won’t be a turn-nose in the chicken’s hen”

They soon reached the hill of so much interest, and some more evidence—though not a great scaled beast. A small swath of turf had been upturned and scattered about the tall grass in long gashes, exposing the porous red soil underneath. From afar, as they crested the rise, they could see a sort of pattern to the mess. It was a bit like tracks, in fresh snow, much of it was messily upturned all around, but in some spots, undisturbed tracks were visible. This disturbed them both considerably.

“Perhaps we ought to alert the authorities after all…” Darcy mused. She had not truly believed there would be a dragon either—they were not all the different as it seems—but instead, perhaps a wolf or something equally frightening. Now she held her gun much closer.

Yet, springing on this disquiet at once Bottle said.

“Ah ha! The pot calls the kettle darkly! Someone has been speaking through both sides of their mouth it seems? Fine then, run along to the police, and I’ll deal with it as I said.” Here was quite a cruel side of Bottle revealed. He was also thoroughly unnerved by the marks—only quite good at hiding the fact. He still hoped he might be able to turn around once out of sight and pronounce the issue solved. However, he couldn't do that with Darcy nearby.

“I’m not a kettle!? What do you even mean by that? No, don’t answer. It doesn’t matter. I’m coming anyway, but no doubt you’ll be leaving soon.” Darcy was not really the kind of person Bottle’s tricks worked on, and in fact the inverse effect was produced. She stormed resolutely onward.

And so, off they were going again after the “dragon.” They searched high and low, getting further and further into the wilderness. Finding yet more, and more great furrows which, as they went along, became progressively more smoke filled. Until at last they left the shade of trees and found themselves at the foot of the nearest mountain, staring up at a great crack therein. Like a split log. And from far within came a putrid smoke.

Hupping up to the opening, gun held tensely in hand, Darcy peered in. It was dark, the only movement the trills of smoke thick and thin that arose. Cornelius held back, shuffling nervously and checking behind him as though someone was after his head (someone probably was). Finally she climbed down.

“Anything?” Cornelius asked.

Her reply was muted, and her expression cautious. The cave exuded a strangeness which was multiplied sevenfold when she climbed up and peered into its darkness. She wondered if they really ought to have gotten the police.

“Just smoke.” She said, “Do you think he’s out?”

“What do you mean?”

“On a walk or something.”

“Nonsense.” Bottle replied. “On a Tuesday?”

“Perhaps getting more sheep?”

“At this hour? I doubt it.”

Cornelius pondered the opening for some time. Little lines chasing each other across his brow the only movement to betray his thoughts.

“Oughtn’t we…”

“What?”

“Well, not to sound a puckered ram but.. Oughtn’t we knock?”Darcy was slower than usual to the uptake.

“On…?”

“The… Well.” Cornelius gestured to the crack until Darcy understood. “Not much of a door to bell upon but nonetheless it's no use ringing a slipstick for a shoehorn.”

“True.” Dracy replied. “...I think.”

Following this was a slow and monotonous conversation about what exactly constitutes a door. And, whether the lack thereof implies it is open or closed. And, if the former: whether knocking is rude, and if not, where to do it? And if so… Well, that got them back to the beginning again and a keen observer would infer that both of them were realising the stakes of the situation and stalling in lieu of either venturing into the unknown hazy darkness. Or, admitting they were scared and turning back.

Yet, soon their talking brought about just that which they feared. Aroused by their talking, the dragon emerged from his cave.

Green scales, as large as spades were speckled with worn patches of dirt and rock long lodged underneath. And the smoke proceeded it in volumes as the beast slunk up from the depths. Emerging into the light it snorted a perterbent jet of flame that licked back around the slight skull for a moment before dissipating, to reveal it’s eyes glowering with a deep fire.

“Hullo.” It said, “Do you need something?”

Quite taken aback neither of them could reply for some time.

“Only you were being quite loud upon my doorstep. It was very rude.”

Still neither spoke. They would have run away far before then, but under a dragon’s stern gaze few can muster more than a twitch. With no answer he shuffled back into his cavern, thoroughly annoyed at the interruption to what had been a comfortable nap.

Recovering her senses first, and chiding herself for her former meekness, Darcy scrambled up the rock after him and sent off a feint shot toward the vanishing tail. The sharp crack of gunfire snapped Cornelius to himself in time for him to scramble up and pull her back as flames spewed forth like a volcano from the opening.

“Why’d you do that?” Cornelius shrieked.

Bursting from the cave and knocking some of it apart in the process, the dragon left no time for Darcy’s answer.

“WHO do you think you are?” It roared.

“Cornelius Bottle—I believe.” Came the reply, although, as uncertainty crossed his face, he slid his bag off and rustled around in it for something. Meanwhile Darcy addressed the dragon.

“We’ve come to confront you.” She said,

The dragon shrugged.

“I’m rather full at the moment. Only three hours past I had several sheep. Come back tomorrow if you still wish to seal your doom.”

“We won’t be letting you eat us!” Darcy shouted, raising her gun. “We came to tell you to stop you from killing our sheep, or else.”“How moronic.” The dragon noted. He would have continued had not Bottle shouted out and quite unabashedly pushed something so far toward the beast’s nose that it could not see it without moving back.

“There, see?” Cornelius said triumphantly. “Cornelius, Rachmaninoff, Bottle.” It was his birth certificate.

“Oh.” The dragon said. “Interesting.” Then he huffed and a small flame sent the document to ashes. Cornelius was much disturbed.

“I needed that…”

“Anyway.” Continued the beast. “As I said, come back tomorrow if you’d like to be eaten. But, I’ll be going now—”

Darcy cocked her gun. The dragon deftly snapped it like a twig.

“No. Thank you very much. Best leave that behind next time dearie. Tally-ho.”

And off it slunk again.

“Now what?” Darcy wondered.

“My Birth Certificate!” Bottle whined, picking at the ashes. “That was important.”

After about an hour had passed and suppertime was nearing, Darcy decided the dragon should be asleep again and it was time to make their move.

“You mean run away right? That’s our move?” Bottle asked.

But, of course it wasn’t. Once again Darcy clambered up the rocky doorstep, which was now more gravel than anything else, and into the cave. Having splinted her gun in the intervening time (which is never a good idea) she probed into the lair. Something tugged horribly at Cornelius compelling him to follow, it may have been a touch of loyalty. But, he justified it by telling himself he couldn’t give Darcy a chance to say she’d gone when he’d stayed behind.

Descending deeper, they swiftly experienced the stifling heat of the cave. Furrowed with dents and hollows from ancient spring water, the cave was a sweltering furnace. Each step closer to the dragon’s deep chamber, the hot air compressed upon them. Their clothes grew heavy with sweat, and their lungs rasped for fresh air. Soon Bottle felt he could go no longer, and stopped to heave over and catch his breath. A little farther in, so did Darcy. She could only glimpse the dragon’s green bulk, splayed out contentedly for a nap, through a crack ahead. She noted a small area in its lower chest, swollen red and with many broken or irregularly wedged scales, bent out in what must have been a sore and uncomfortable manner, underneath a few spots of tender skin. The heat was so absolute there that tiny flames licked through thin air to devour the smallest bit of dust, or simply to lash out madly for a moment and then disappear. Darcy feared if she went any lower she would similarly combust.

Raising her crooked barrel in sweaty hands, she sighted through the crack, toward the soft red spot, and fired. The explosion sent the gun to pieces once again. And had there been any thought to gathering them and repairing it, they were swiftly dashed as the splinters caught flame and blackened to ash. The bullet meanwhile, ricocheted off some of the cave, and then another, and another, until it clattered to the floor, its disagreeable cacophony of echoes resounding loudly in Darcy’s ears and muffling Bottle’s terrified shrieks.

She was smart as I have said and didn’t need his warning to tell her to run. Fast.

Out lumbered the beast after her. Thoroughly enraged now and without care for wasting food, only revenge. His outstretched claws sent sparks up from the floor, and before him up the cave he sent a roar like a thunderclap followed by a flame that enveloped the lair, singeing Darcy’s back as she dove for cover near Cornelius.

They hid in some of the small hollows scattered around the cave, Darcy into the wall, and Bottle in a hollow in the floor, and so were spared the bulk of flame which passed over or by them and out of the cave far quicker than they could have. Right behind it came the dragon, muttering filthy things about trespassers, and bothersome people and many worse things. All the time spurting and sputtering sharp bolts of flame which licked around the cave. As his dirty scaled bulk, thick and fat from his meal, hoved into view. Darcy hurriedly pointed to Bottle’s basket whispering unintelligibly.

The weak spot she had seen earlier, as she tried to communicate to Cornelius, was about to pass right over his hiding place in the floor, and he ought to give it a good stab with one of the thorns from his basket..

“Little good, giving a great big dragon a prick with a thorn.” he muttered grumpily.

But, as the beast hoved over his hiding spot, Cornelius put a hand into his now, partly crushed basket, and after pricking himself a number of times pulled out a thorn about the size of his thumb, and shoved it upward.

It didn’t go in at first. “There, see of course it— Oh!”

But then it did.

And faster than he must have ever in his life, he rolled himself around and scampered out from under the beast as it began to writhe and wither, grasping the cave about it and shouting in horror: “No! Not again!” Before bowling it to bits as Darcy and Cornelius flew far, far away.

The beast was terribly allergic to blackberries.

Outside of the cave, the evening light was falling over the hills as both figures watched the dragon trail away through the forest, until they lost sight of it’s smoke somewhere deep within. Fidgeting, Cornelius rubbed his hands together, long lines chasing each other across his brow again. At last he sighed.

“Darcy- Ms.. Wakes.” He began. “I- I, well I think I ought to, apologise for, the great amount of, disparaging remarks, or, I suppose a rather, austere attitude. That is to say, how much I acted the- the, mule on a high horse, in other words…” For convenience sake, I have shortened the rest. “All of which is to say: In short: I suppose: I’m sorry for the real mug I’ve been.”

Darcy frowned.

“What?” Cornelius asked.

She shook her head sadly and started down the hill and back to town.

“That was Dad’s favorite gun.”

The End.