The New Kid at School

Table of Contents

 

 

 

For Mrs. Roché-Albert
and all the great kids
in her class at P.S. 116

—K. McM.

Text copyright © 1997, 2003 by Kate McMullan. Illustrations copyright © 1997, 2003 by

Bill Basso. All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, a division of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers, 345 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Penguin Putnam Inc. Published simultaneously in Canada. S.A.

 

McMullan, K.H.
The new kid at school/by K.H. McMullan ; illustrated by Bill Basso.
p. cm.—(Dragon Slayers’ Academy ; 1)
Summary: Wiglaf is off to Dragon Slayers’ Academy and in for a first day of school he
will never forget.
[1. Dragons—Fiction. 2. First day of schoot—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction.]
1. Basso, Bill, ill. II. Title. III. Series: McMullan, K.H. Dragon Slayers’ Academy; 1.
PZ7.M47879Ne 1997 97-15520
[E]-dc21 CIP
AC

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-14202-8

“Who’s there?” Fergus bellowed from inside the hovel.

“A poor minstrel!” came a voice from out in the blizzard.

“A poor minstrel who?” Fergus called.

“Please! I am freezing!” cried the minstrel. “This is no time for a joke!”

“Pity!” Fergus yelled. “There’s nothing I like better than a good knock-knock!”

He yanked open the door. There stood a snow-covered man with a lute and a pack slung over his shoulder. Icicles hung from his nose and ears. His lips were blue from the cold.

“Be gone, varlet!” Fergus shouted through his dirty yellow beard. “There is no room here!”

Fergus spoke the truth. His whole hovel was but one cramped room, which he shared with his wife, Molwena, and their thirteen sons.

Twelve of these sons were big, beefy lads with greasy yellow hair like their father’s. They scowled out the door at the minstrel, shouting, “Be gone! Be gone!”

But the third-eldest son, Wiglaf, was different from his brothers. He was small for his age. He had hair the color of carrots. And he could not bear to see any creature suffer.

When Fergus reached out to slam the door in the shivering minstrel’s face, Wiglaf grabbed his arm.

“Wait, Father!” he said. “Could not the minstrel sleep in the pigsty?”

“I sing songs and tell fortunes,” the minstrel offered.

“Songs? Fortunes?” Fergus growled. “Pig droppings!”

“I also chop wood, shovel snow, slop pigs, rake dung, scrub floors, and wash dishes,” the minstrel added quickly.

“Oh, but we have Wiglaf to do all that,” Molwena told him.

“Please!” the minstrel begged through his chattering teeth. “There must be something I can do in return for a roof over my head.”

Fergus scratched his beard and tried to think.

“He might kill rats for us, Fergus,” Molwena suggested. “Wiglaf won’t do that.”

“Wiglaf feels sorry for the rats,” one of the younger brothers told the minstrel.

“Wiglaf won’t squish a cockroach,” another brother tattled. “He won’t even swat a fly.”

“Wiggie never wants to kill anything,” complained a third. “I was pulling the legs off a spider once, and—”

“I have it!” Fergus bellowed suddenly. “The minstrel can kill rats to earn his keep!” He grinned. “Show him to the sty, Wiglaf!”

So Wiglaf did just that. And later on he took a bowl of Molwena’s cabbage soup out to the minstrel for his supper.

“Ah! Hot soup to warm my cold bones!” The minstrel took a sip. “Gaaach!” he cried, and spat it out.

“It is foul-tasting at first,” Wiglaf admitted. “But you’ll get used to it.”

“I must or I shall starve,” the minstrel said. “Talk to me, lad, while I try to get it down.” Then he held his nose and jammed a spoonful into his mouth.

“You are lucky to bed out here with the pigs,” Wiglaf told him. “The sty smells far better than our hovel, for my father believes that bathing causes madness. And Daisy, here”—he patted the head of a plump young pig sitting next to him—“she is my best friend. And far better company than my brothers. They only like to fight and bloody each other’s noses.”

Wiglaf rubbed his own nose. It was still tender from one of his brother’s fists.

“They gang up on me something awful,” he added. “Then they call me a blister and a runt because I will not fight back. I know it is foolish,” he went on, “but sometimes I dream that one day I will become a mighty hero. Would not that surprise my brothers!”

“No doubt it would,” the minstrel said. He jammed one last spoonful of soup into his mouth. Then he burped. “Ah! That’s better. Now, my boy, I know some tales of mighty heroes. Would you care to hear one?”

“I would, indeed!” Wiglaf exclaimed.

No one had ever told Wiglaf a tale before. Oh, Molwena sometimes told him what she would do to him if he did not wash the dishes. And Fergus often told him how he was no use at all in the cabbage fields. But those tales were not so much fun to hear.

Wiglaf settled down in the straw next to his pig to listen. The tale was indeed about a mighty hero. A hero who tried to slay a dragon named Gorzil.

When at last the minstrel came to the end, his voice dropped low. “Then Gorzil roared a roar of thunder. Bolts of lightning shot from his nose. And from out of the fire and smoke came a CRUNCH...CRUNCH...CRUNCH! And a mighty GULP!

“When the smoke cleared, the knight and his steed were gone,” the minstrel said. “But Gorzil was sitting high on his pile of gold—using the knight’s own sword for a toothpick.”

“No!” cried Wiglaf.

“‘Tis true,” the minstrel told the boy. “My grandfather was a dragon hunter. He saw it happen with his own two eyes—well, with his one good eye, anyway.”

“Pray, tell,” Wiglaf asked, “who finally killed this dragon?”

“Oh, Gorzil is still very much alive.” The minstrel grew thoughtful. “My grandfather told me that every dragon has a secret weakness. Take Old Snart, for instance. For years, that dragon set fire to villages for sport. Then one day Sir Gilford stuck out his tongue and said, ‘Nonny-nonny poo-poo, you old sissy!’ Well, Old Snart hated to be teased. He began whimpering and crying until he collapsed in a pool of tears. He hardly noticed when Sir Gilford sliced off his head.”

“And what is the dragon Gorzil’s weakness?” Wiglaf asked.

“That,” said the minstrel, “no one knows.” He picked up his lute. “I have written a song about Gorzil. Listen:

From that night on, Wiglaf brought the minstrel a bowl of cabbage soup for supper. In return, the minstrel told Wiglaf many a dragon tale. And he taught the boy many a useful skill: how to stand on his head; how to wiggle his ears; and how to imitate the call of a lovesick toad.

By the time the snow began to melt, he had even taught the boy how to read and write.

Then one spring morning, Wiglaf brought the pigs their slop and found the minstrel packing.

“Are you off for good?” Wiglaf asked sadly.

“Aye, lad. A minstrel must wander,” the minstrel explained. “And”—he burped—“eat something besides cabbage soup. But here, give me your hand. Before I go, I shall tell your fortune.”

Wiglaf held out his palm. The minstrel studied it for a long time.

“What do you see?” Wiglaf finally asked.

“Something I never thought to see,” the minstrel replied. “The lines on your palm say that you were born to be a mighty hero!”

“Me?” Wiglaf cried. “Are you sure?”

The minstrel nodded. “In all my years of telling fortunes, I have never been wrong.”

“Imagine!” Wiglaf exclaimed. “But what brave deed will I do?”

“That,” said the minstrel, “you must discover for yourself. Now I must be off. I shall miss you, Wiglaf.”

“Wait!” Wiglaf said. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a tattered piece of cloth. “This is all I have left of...well, of something I had when I was very young. I carry it with me always, for good luck.” He held the rag out to the minstrel. “Here. I should like you to have it.”

“Keep your good-luck charm, Wiglaf,” the minstrel said, shouldering his lute. “The road a hero travels is never an easy one. I fear you shall need much luck.”

And with that he was gone.

Knock! Knock!“ Fergus bellowed one fine summer morning at the breakfast table.

Wiglaf didn’t answer. He poked at his cabbage pancake, lost in his own thoughts.

It had been months since the minstrel went away. And as far as Wiglaf could tell, he had not become a hero. True, he had saved a chipmunk from drowning in the pigs’ water trough. And he had rescued six spiders from his brothers’ cruel hands. But surely these were not the deeds of a mighty hero.

Wiglaf kept brooding. He never noticed Fergus bending down close to his ear.

“KNOCK! KNOCK!” Fergus shouted.

Wiglaf jumped. “Who—who’s there?”

“Harry!” Fergus cried.

“Harry who?” asked Wiglaf.

“Harry up and eat your pancakes!” Fergus roared. “We go to the Pinwick Fair today!”