The Bone Dragon (9 page)

I don’t say any of this to the Dragon, but feel its amusement anyway.

We turn off the towpath and bump along a farm track. To one side, a shallow wash of icy water glints across a flooded field. On the other, summer-golden grasses are crumpled, browning. I let the bike stutter to a stop. Leaning it against a fence post, I climb on to the top rail. In the bracken, dew has traced the lines of a pair of cobwebs.

‘Do you think they share?’ I ask the Dragon. ‘The kills, I mean. Do you think one of them gives the other food if his web is unlucky?’

The Dragon communicates the fact that spiders do not hunt together and so they do not share: at least not willingly.

‘Do dragons?’ I ask.

Dragons are protectors
, I am told, as if I should have known this without asking.

I watch a bead of dew run down a length of cobweb and drip on to a soggy, hunched frond of bracken. ‘Are we going to go out every night now?’

When it does not rain
, the Dragon says, as if such things matter even in dreams.

‘So what are we going to do every night?’ I press.

Tomorrow we will go to the mere and look at the birch trees in the moonlight. The stars will be very bright. And the night after
.

‘Ten days till the new moon.’

The next dark moon
, the Dragon corrects me.

‘The dark moon,’ I say, testing out the words, feeling the weight of the power and portent in them.

The dark moon is a time of waking visions
, the Dragon tells me.
Visions that show our deepest longings come to life. It is also a time for change: for beginnings. The dark moon marks the birth of the new moon, like a phoenix rising from the ashes
.

‘Is there really such a thing as a phoenix?’

You may answer that for yourself
, the Dragon says shortly.
Do not ask me about unicorns
.

‘I don’t want to,’ I say. ‘They only go to the pure. Those who are chaste.’

You have no need of a unicorn
, the Dragon tells me firmly.
It would be of no use to you. It is well that you wished for a dragon. You have need of
me.

And with that the Dragon rises, moving with sinuous grace, winding down my arm and settling on the back of my hand, tail curled around my little finger, possessive and warm.

‘I’m freezing. If you’re so much more useful than a unicorn, you could help me build a fire.’

I will help
, the Dragon says,
when my help is needed
.

‘But what’s the point of all this roaming about on the fens at night?’ I burst out, despite myself. ‘Am I meant to learn something? In books, when people have adventures with mystical creatures they have to learn something.’

And then the adventure is over
, the Dragon says.
So although you are afraid to fail, you are also afraid to succeed. But you may learn what you will: that is your own affair. It is not my purpose, nor a part of our contract. I will only leave you if you wish me to
.

‘Then what am I meant to do?’ I plead.

The Dragon regards me steadily.
You are meant to heal. There is beauty and wild magic in the night. Enough to make you ache with joy and grow strong. There is no lesson in that. There is just reward, waiting for you, that asks nothing and demands no payment. Look!
the Dragon orders.
Look and tell me what more is needed.

So I look out at the night-time fields and the yellow glow of storm clouds to the east.

Taste the stars and listen to the darkness
, the Dragon commands and then we are silent.

Is this not enough?
asks the Dragon. 

‘“To be or not to be: that is the question”. Possibly the most famous line from any play in the English language,’ Ms Winters is saying. ‘Comic book
away
, Fred. Evie, could you read the next few lines for us?’ she asks, smiling at me as if we’re conspirators.

In a way we are: I know now that it’s not just that Ms Winters is my favourite teacher, but I’m her favourite pupil too. Even now that she knows about Fiona and her parents.

Somehow I can’t help thinking that maybe, after our sessions together, she even likes me a bit more than she did before and that makes me feel . . . warm. And strange. Because I’d never imagined anyone could possibly like me
more
for knowing. I always thought it would be ‘in spite of’. But not with Ms Winters. It’s not like that at all.

‘Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,’

I recite.

‘Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

And by opposing end them . . .’

‘Let’s stop there for a moment,’ Ms Winters interrupts. ‘Who can tell me what this is all about? What is Hamlet asking when he delivers that famous question?’

No one puts up their hand. I sigh but I don’t want to raise mine. Not after just reading aloud.

Some of the class are funny about me liking English so much. Not just Fred and Sonny Rawlins: I wouldn’t really care if it was just them. But the last thing I want right now is to stick out even more than I do anyway after the operation, even if it
is
in a good way, like being clever enough to know what Shakespeare means.

‘Jenny, what do you think?’

Jenny stares wall-eyed at Ms Winters. ‘He’s not sure that war is a good thing?’

Ms Winters smiles. ‘Actually, that’s not such a bad way to put it. But it’s a little bit metaphorical . . . What sort of war is he talking about? Lynne, what do you think?’

Lynne elbows me as if I can somehow whisper the answer without Ms Winters hearing. ‘Um . . .’ she dithers. ‘Well, I guess . . .’ She nudges her notebook in my direction.

Revenge 4 dad
, I scribble, pretending to stretch my other arm to hide the movements of my pen.

‘He’s . . .’ Lynne’s eyes flick down to the page. ‘It’s about getting revenge for his father. Because his uncle killed his father and that’s who the ghost is, right?’

‘Partly,’ says Ms Winters, shooting me a look that plainly says ‘Very subtle, Evie’ before she turns to the blackboard. ‘That
is
part of it . . . But what’s the point of this particular section? Anyone?’

I raise my hand in the silence, speaking before Ms Winters has even given me the nod. ‘But
isn’t
it about revenge?’ I insist, both confused and upset to have given Lynne the wrong answer. ‘Only he’s torn between what it’ll cost him: he’s afraid of losing even more than he already has. Isn’t that what it’s about? Whether he should hold on to what he’s got – Ophelia and his friends and his place in the kingdom – or go after what the ghost is demanding? Isn’t the problem that he doesn’t know whether justice is worth all that?’

Ms Winters smiles. ‘Well, you’re not wrong about that being one of the questions that torments Hamlet throughout the play, as he struggles to decide what to do . . . But I don’t think that’s what this bit is really about. Have another look.’

I slump back in my chair with a frustrated sigh. Lynne nudges my foot with hers.

‘Sorry,’ I whisper.

She shrugs, grinning to show there are no hard feelings.

‘Why “To be or not to be”?’ Ms Winters is asking. ‘Why not “To do or not to do” if it’s revenge he’s talking about?’

‘’Cos it sounds better?’ Jenny suggests. Tucking her chin in towards her chest, she pulls a suspicious face at her book as if it requires careful watching.

Several people, Ms Winters included, laugh. ‘That may have played a role . . . But the way this soliloquy is generally understood is that Hamlet is talking about suicide.’

I lose what she says next as I frown down at my book. I still don’t get why my idea wasn’t just as valid.

‘Now who can give me another line from this soliloquy – remember that word from last week? – that’s part of the same theme about escaping from troubles through death?’

‘“The oppressor’s wrong”?’ Phee whispers to me. I nod quickly, but before Phee has even put up her hand, Sonny Rawlins is calling the words out.

All three of us turn to glare at him. He grins back and gives us the finger under the cover of his desk.

‘Yes,’ says Ms Winters, though her voice isn’t as encouraging as normal: as I know all too well, Ms Winters doesn’t miss much. ‘Can you extend that phrase and give me the whole of the bit that you think is important?’

Sonny Rawlins shoots a glare at me as if this is my fault. ‘“The . . . the proud man’s . . . con . . . contumely?”’

He pronounces it wrong and I grin.

‘Contumely,’ Ms Winters corrects. ‘Well, that’s part of the picture, but I was thinking more about the lead into the line you gave me, rather than the bit that follows on. “For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,” then, on the next line, “The oppressor’s wrong”. And by this he means “
or
the oppressor’s wrong” because he’s listing these with a whole raft of other things – including that bit about “the proud man’s contumely”,’ she adds, nodding in Sonny Rawlins’s direction. He glowers and slouches lower in his seat, turning his gaze to the window. ‘In other words, who would just sit there if someone’s doing you wrong: being mean to you? And how about the end of the next line: “the law’s delay”? What is Hamlet referring to here?’

Something wet splats across my cheek, and I miss what Ms Winters says next as I turn to glare at Sonny Rawlins and Fred just in time to see Fred launch the spit-ball that hits Lynne. She shrieks.

‘Are you all right, Lynne?’ Ms Winters asks. I see her eyes flick in Sonny Rawlins’s direction. They’ve tucked their ‘weapons’ away for now and are trying to smile innocently, pretending that they’re both enthralled by the lesson. Ms Winters gives them an arch look. ‘Perhaps it’s the draught. Sonny, why don’t you go and sit in that empty desk by the window. You’re a big, tough lad: I expect you won’t mind blocking some of that nasty breeze for the girls.’

Sonny kicks Phee’s chair as he passes.

‘Watch your feet with all those bags around,’ Ms Winters orders. ‘We don’t want you falling on anyone, do we? Now, as we were saying, the answer is in the last bit of that speech. Phee, why don’t you read that for us? From “And thus the native hue . . .”’

‘“Of resolution is . . . is sickled”?’ she hazards, turning it into a question and glancing over at me.

‘Sicklied,’ I whisper.

‘“. . . Sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought”. What does sicklied mean?’ she asks Ms Winters.

Something about the line nags me. I read it over, then over again, not even hearing Phee stumble through the rest of the speech until her voice goes up on, ‘“. . . turn awry”.’

‘“And lose the name of action,”’ she finishes triumphantly.

Something about the words has them echoing in my head, tugging my thoughts and attention away from the lesson. I read on, hoping to recognise what it is that is making these words feel so familiar. I’m pretty sure I haven’t read this scene yet, but I did flick through the play at one point, reading odd little bits.

I’d been whining about how much I hated
Hamlet
and how I couldn’t bear to do the essay Ms Winters had set on it, GCSE or no GCSE, so Amy showed me a painting to try to get me interested: it was of Ophelia in an ornate silver gown, hands just lifting up out of the water of a narrow, weed-choked stream. The idea worked to the extent that I was curious enough to trawl through the rest of the play trying to figure out how she had ended up in the river. But Amy and I still had a huge argument over the essay.

I decided that, instead of writing about
Hamlet
, I’d just come up with my own essay question about
The Tempest
, then Amy could write me a note explaining. Only Amy refused to write the note or, indeed, to condone the alternative essay at all. First we argued about the fact that Amy was sure I couldn’t
really
be upset over an essay so there must be something else bothering me that we needed to talk about. By the time I convinced her that
Hamlet
really was the problem, we were both so fed up that we had one of our rare almost-shouting matches. Amy even threatened to withhold my allowance. And then Paul had to come weighing in, backing her up . . .

I did the essay: got it over with in one go between glaring at the book, at the table, at Paul when he interrupted to bring me a drink, which I would have fetched for myself if I’d wanted one since I was in the kitchen . . .

Amy insisted on checking the essay when I finished, though she
never
does that unless I ask her to: the fact that I wasn’t talking to her by then meant we avoided another row over it, and somehow it had all blown over by bedtime. I mean, I understand that ‘GCSEs aren’t something to muck about with’ (as Paul put it), but I really hate
Hamlet
– even more so after the argument. And now I’ve got this nasty déjà-vu feeling about it too, though I just can’t quite put my finger on what it is exactly that seems so familiar.