broken things that used to be part of happiness.
Paul asks me a question and I hum in reply. This seems to satisfy him, and he turns away towards the till. I trail behind.
When I first saw the pictures in the locket, oh how I longed to have mine added. But I’m not jealous any more. Amy keeps Adam’s picture close, but locked away. And I have everything else.
‘Is this because of what Paul and Uncle Ben are up to?’ I huff to the Dragon as I stump along the furrow between two rows of cabbages or cauliflowers or whatever the low-growing crop is: the lines of plants are merely darker stripes of near-black across the fenland fields. It is so dark I could easily be walking between little bushes with squirls of pasta hanging off them. ‘Couldn’t we stay out of their way somewhere nicer?’ The Dragon does not deign to reply. With a sigh, I give in to the silence.
The world is purple and velvet blue, the darkness like black mist. One minute I think my eyes are starting to adjust to the night and I can see. The next, the image of the landscape around me fades away and reforms into something different. The horizon, usually a faint grey-orange cast by the distant lights of Cambridge, is rust and brown tonight, like long-dried blood.
But with the Dragon on my shoulder I am not afraid. Rather I am slowly growing dizzy with disorientation. Down keeps shifting, just slightly, as I step on the bank of the crop-row to my right then stumble into the rise on the left.
‘Where are we going?’ I hiss in exasperation as I stagger to a stop, panting with the effort of wading through the darkness. ‘I thought we were going to do something special tonight.’
This dark moon is not the one for action , the Dragon says.
I snort. ‘Sounds like a big, fat excuse to me.’
The Dragon tightens its grip on my shoulder until I feel the pinch of its claws even through my coat.
‘OK, then tell me what wonderful plans we’re going to be working on in the middle of this field in the pitch black!’
That is not the way to persuade me to share anything of value , the Dragon returns sniffily, managing to convey the fact that dragons require a certain level of respect whether one is standing ankle-deep in mud or not. A wish must always have a purpose , the Dragon finally deigns to tell me. And a purpose is the seed of a plan .
‘Well, I wished you were a real dragon and you are, so that was the purpose of the wish, but I don’t see where the plans come in unless they’re the same as the purpose . . .’
The Dragon efficiently communicates the message that I am being immensely stupid.
‘OK, so . . . So if I wished you, then your purpose is to grow plans?’ I venture. ‘At least with seed packets you know what you’re growing,’ I say grumpily.
A part of my purpose – and the keystone of our contract – is that you should only understand as much as is to your benefit. You must trust. You wished me and I am here .
I roll my eyes but continue along the furrow. ‘Don’t I even get a hint instead of all this cryptic . . .’ – the word ‘rubbish’ comes into my head: the Dragon seems to read it from my thoughts and its disdain magnifies – ‘. . . stuff?’ I amend, trying to make my tone as polite and conciliatory as it’s possible to be while sliding about in a field on a moonless night.
Reach out your hand , the Dragon commands.
I touch tree bark.
Move ahead carefully .
Long grasses tug at my legs, treacherous with rotting leaves. Roots distort the ground. There are branches in my hair, thin and cold, as if I have plunged underwater in the blackness and the long, long reeds of the fenland waterways are reaching out to caress my face.
We may stop here .
I stand in the embrace of the trees, the branches grounding me in the darkness. ‘What are we waiting for?’ I whisper. ‘I can’t see a thing!’
No , says the Dragon, you cannot .
‘So what do you expect me to look at?’
I do not expect
Paul asks me a question and I hum in reply. This seems to satisfy him, and he turns away towards the till. I trail behind.
When I first saw the pictures in the locket, oh how I longed to have mine added. But I’m not jealous any more. Amy keeps Adam’s picture close, but locked away. And I have everything else.
‘Is this because of what Paul and Uncle Ben are up to?’ I huff to the Dragon as I stump along the furrow between two rows of cabbages or cauliflowers or whatever the low-growing crop is: the lines of plants are merely darker stripes of near-black across the fenland fields. It is so dark I could easily be walking between little bushes with squirls of pasta hanging off them. ‘Couldn’t we stay out of their way somewhere nicer?’ The Dragon does not deign to reply. With a sigh, I give in to the silence.
The world is purple and velvet blue, the darkness like black mist. One minute I think my eyes are starting to adjust to the night and I can see. The next, the image of the landscape around me fades away and reforms into something different. The horizon, usually a faint grey-orange cast by the distant lights of Cambridge, is rust and brown tonight, like long-dried blood.
But with the Dragon on my shoulder I am not afraid. Rather I am slowly growing dizzy with disorientation. Down keeps shifting, just slightly, as I step on the bank of the crop-row to my right then stumble into the rise on the left.
‘Where are we going?’ I hiss in exasperation as I stagger to a stop, panting with the effort of wading through the darkness. ‘I thought we were going to do something special tonight.’
This dark moon is not the one for action , the Dragon says.
I snort. ‘Sounds like a big, fat excuse to me.’
The Dragon tightens its grip on my shoulder until I feel the pinch of its claws even through my coat.
‘OK, then tell me what wonderful plans we’re going to be working on in the middle of this field in the pitch black!’
That is not the way to persuade me to share anything of value , the Dragon returns sniffily, managing to convey the fact that dragons require a certain level of respect whether one is standing ankle-deep in mud or not. A wish must always have a purpose , the Dragon finally deigns to tell me. And a purpose is the seed of a plan .
‘Well, I wished you were a real dragon and you are, so that was the purpose of the wish, but I don’t see where the plans come in unless they’re the same as the purpose . . .’
The Dragon efficiently communicates the message that I am being immensely stupid.
‘OK, so . . . So if I wished you, then your purpose is to grow plans?’ I venture. ‘At least with seed packets you know what you’re growing,’ I say grumpily.
A part of my purpose – and the keystone of our contract – is that you should only understand as much as is to your benefit. You must trust. You wished me and I am here .
I roll my eyes but continue along the furrow. ‘Don’t I even get a hint instead of all this cryptic . . .’ – the word ‘rubbish’ comes into my head: the Dragon seems to read it from my thoughts and its disdain magnifies – ‘. . . stuff?’ I amend, trying to make my tone as polite and conciliatory as it’s possible to be while sliding about in a field on a moonless night.
Reach out your hand , the Dragon commands.
I touch tree bark.
Move ahead carefully .
Long grasses tug at my legs, treacherous with rotting leaves. Roots distort the ground. There are branches in my hair, thin and cold, as if I have plunged underwater in the blackness and the long, long reeds of the fenland waterways are reaching out to caress my face.
We may stop here .
I stand in the embrace of the trees, the branches grounding me in the darkness. ‘What are we waiting for?’ I whisper. ‘I can’t see a thing!’
No , says the Dragon, you cannot .
‘So what do you expect me to look at?’
I do not expect
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