SMIDGEON The Smallest Dragon in the World
© Elizabeth Jane Andreoli 1997
CHAPTER 1
This is the story of Smidgeon, the smallest dragon in the world. He was
so small that he could have bathed in a tea-cup. He was so small that he
could have slept in a matchbox, ridden on a mouse, or dined for two whole
days on one liquorice allsort. To him, a chair was like Mount Everest,
and a carpet like a deep ploughed field. He could have flown on the back
of a wren or gone deep-sea diving in a goldfish bowl.
There were lots of
wonderful things that Smidgeon could have done if he had been free, but he
wasn't. He was kept prisoner by a cruel and wicked witch who lived in a
filthy hovel on a bleak, windswept hillside.
Poor Smidgeon. He spent his days in the dark, dirty depths of the witch's
pocket, along with old handkerchiefs, used toffee papers, and nasty balls
of fluff. The only time he was ever let out was when the witch would call
"Smidgeon! Light!" Then he would have to climb out of the pocket and up,
and up - clinging with his little talons to her cloak - working carefully
across from button to button, never daring to look down in case he got
dizzy. Then came the worst bit of all... the long scramble along the
witch's outstretched arm until he reached her brown, stained fingers. He
had to be careful here not to scratch her. That would mean a whole day
without food, and a good whipping with a bit of knotted string. Slowly,
he would ease his way along to her fingertips. Then, leaning forward into
space, he would make a little tiny sound. A sort of "Whhuh!" Out of his
mouth would come a little tiny flame, like the flame of a birthday candle,
and the witch's cigarette would be lit.
Choking clouds of horrible smoke would swirl around him, and his eyes
would stream with tears. Coughing miserably, he would scuttle back
obediently into the black pocket, until the next time he was called.
It was no life for a young dragon, thought Smidgeon sadly. If only he
could grow bigger, perhaps he could escape. As it was, he was too small
to do anything much. His wings were too small to fly, and anyway, he was
afraid of heights. Even if he could fly, the wicked witch kept all the
doors and windows firmly shut, and his little claws were too small to
open them. It was hopeless. He was doomed to spend his whole life as a
cigarette lighter.
It had to be said that the witch had some pretty nasty habits. If there
was one thing she liked more than smoking her horrible cigarettes, it was
eating curry. Hot, steaming curry of the strongest sort of all - called
Vindaloo. It was so hot that if any of it splashed on the table, it burnt
a hole through the cloth. It was so hot, that when the witch had eaten it,
she burped and left scorch marks on the wallpaper. Everything in the
hovel tasted of curry. Even the drinking water. Poor Smidgeon had to
drink ink instead, which made his nose permanently blue. The witch didn't
drink water. She drank whisky straight from the bottle. Smidgeon tried
some once, and dived back into the pocket gasping for breath. Later on,
he had a headache, and was sick.
The witch spent her time devising evil spells, which she wrote down in a
great big book with a shabby green cover marked "RECIPES." There were
spells to cover every occasion. Spells to give measles to children on
their birthdays. Spells to make it rain during the summer holidays.
Spells to turn milk sour. Spells to turn boys into frogs. Spells to make
Christmas presents vanish in the post. Spells to make teachers cross, and
homework hard. There was no end to the nastiness of that book of spells.
The witch was working towards her Advanced Sorcery examinations, and was
always racking her brains for something new, and even more terrible, to
add to her collection. There was a Witches' Institute meeting every
Thursday afternoon, when she met up with all her classmates to swap ideas
and practise. It wasn't so bad, thought Smidgeon, when spells went
according to plan, but the mistakes could be really dreadful. There was
the time when everyone's hair turned green, and the time when the cauldron
grew legs and ran away. But that was mild compared to the time when all
the chairs and tables at the Institute came to life and started fighting
each other. The bill for the damages had been huge! The witches had been
up half the night forging the money to pay for it.
It was not long before the Examinations. All the witches were desperate
to be awarded their certificates of Supreme Sorcery. Once you had that,
the sky was your limit. There would be no more boring old frog and wart
spells. A Supreme Sorceress was in demand all over the world to cause
earthquakes or make volcanoes erupt, or start a little war here and
there. A Supreme Sorceress could forget about travelling by broomstick.
She would be able to afford her own Rolls Royce.
Smidgeon's witch knew she would have to create a special spell to make
the grade. Something completely new. For many days she sweated and
slaved in her kitchen, producing strange flashes and bangs, and weird
sounds and horrid smells. Smidgeon cowered in her pocket, too afraid to
watch. Fortunately, the witch was too busy to smoke her cigarettes, so
he didn't have to climb out into the open.
At last, one evening, she called him out. "Smidgeon! Smidgeon my pet, my
dear little dragon..." (Smidgeon began to sweat with fear. When she
called him her pet and her dear, it always meant that something awful was
going to happen.) "Come out Smidgeon! Come OUT!" she snapped. Smidgeon
peered over the top of the pocket and blinked at her. An evil smile split
her face, and her eyes were glittering. "I have made a spell, my pretty
one. A great spell! A truly Magnificent spell! And YOU shall be the
first to see it."
She opened the door, and took him outside. They went up and up the hill
until they reached a place where a great boulder of rock blocked their
way. She stretched out her hand, pointed out the rock and said:
"Eb Ot Esaec Lliw Boulder Eerht Owt Eno Fo Tnuoc Eht No!"
Nothing
happened. Then, casually, the witch muttered "One, two, three", and
snapped her fingers. Without a sound, the boulder vanished. No bangs, no
flashes, no nasty smells... and no boulder. The witch threw back her head
and cackled with glee. She had done it! She had made an 'Un-making'
spell that really worked! On the way back to the hovel she 'un-made' a
tree, a pair of passing rooks, a postman, and a cow. It was a mighty
spell. The most powerful she had ever made. Smidgeon sat in her pocket
trembling with fright. She had often threatened to turn him into a slug
or something if he didn't behave, and once or twice she had given him
warts just to teach him a lesson, but this was different. The next time
she was cross with him, she could just... 'un-make' him. Pouf! No more
Smidgeon. She had such a nasty temper that it could only be a matter of
time before it happened.
For many days he sat in the pocket and plotted his escape. Perhaps he
could crawl away while she was asleep, and hide in a corner until she
opened the door. No - that was too risky. He might get trodden on, or
worse - he could be found by a rat or something. Perhaps he could jump
out of her pocket when she went out to the Witches Institute, and hide in
the hedgerow. No - Smidgeon shuddered at the thought. He was so afraid
of heights that the thought of falling all that way was even worse than
the thought of being 'un-made.' "What a rotten dragon I am", he said to
himself. "Dragons are supposed to be big, brave and fearless. Dragons
are supposed to fly. And here I am, too small to be good for anything,
and too scared to run away." Two little tears oozed their way down his
scaly cheeks and soaked into the witch's dirty hanky. There was no hope.
Absolutely no hope at all, thought Smidgeon. He may as well lie down and
die.
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Modified:3/8/97
Created:26/7/97