The Bone Dragon Read Online Free PDF

in the snout, while the muzzle flares back towards the eyes, set down on to the sides of the face like a cat. That is what the shape of the eyes reminds me of: a cat’s eyes. Like a teardrop with two points, only one tilts downward towards the nose and the other points up towards the ears. If you crossed a cat with a lizard, this is what you would get: every line a study in power and arrogance, beautiful to the point of cruelty.
    The dragon sits on my hand, bluish in the moonlight, while the stereo whirrs softly in the background and the wizard Howl surrenders his heart to a falling star to give it new life as a fire demon. I would give my heart to the dragon to bring it to life. I’d give it gladly to be tied so tight to something so wonderful.
    My throat closes with longing and, as I swallow, the scar across my side and the bone-ends beneath ache anew with the sense that something is missing: some part of me is gone there, just a few inches below my heart.
    Sometimes in the night I rear up from the bed, curling over that gap, trying to protect the place where I’m most vulnerable: more vulnerable than ever now with that hole in the armour of my ribcage where there isn’t even broken bone any more.
    I don’t remember the nightmare that jerks me so roughly off my pillows: I never do. In the instant when the pain hits and I jolt awake, my attention goes to bracing my ribs, to registering the pain and the need to be still.
    Moonlight is falling on the foot of the bed. The coverlet glows and darkens, glows and darkens. Slowly, so slowly, I shift to my knees, edge forwards until I can see out of the window. The clouds are ragged flecks of darkness fleeing across the sky, but as they pass the moon they blush suddenly with colour – dim blues and greens and yellows – until they almost dissolve into the light. Just for an instant.
    From my palm, the dragon watches with me, unblinking.
    Then there are no more tatters of clouds. Just the moon, heavy in the hollow sky amid the sharp, cruel points of the stars.
    The stereo has hissed to a stop and in the silence the echo of a song surprises me: ‘When you wish upon a star’. For an instant I remember the blue-white fairy moving brilliant across the screen in front of the dim interior of Geppetto’s shop. And Fiona is in the seat on my left and she smiles in the darkness of the cinema as she turns to say something. Her hand is warm and soft around mine. And I know that we went in the middle of the day. Just the two of us. And she laughed and bought me an ice cream and neither of us wanted to go home. The light when we stepped out on to the street was a blow, ripping away the warm safety of the darkness.
    I like the idea that it makes no difference who you are when you’re wishing on star. It matters in prayers: it matters who you are and what you are and all sorts of things. If God listens, he listens differently to different people and so it matters. But it doesn’t matter with wishes. And even though I’m old enough to understand that neither wishes nor prayers really come true – things just happen or they don’t – it’s still nice to think that all that matters is me. All that matters is that I wish what I wish.
    And so I wish. Even though I know it’s stupid and childish and it won’t make the slightest bit of difference. I wish until my heart aches with fierceness because it’s night-time and it’s dark and no one can see me. So I can wish if I want. There’s nothing at all to stop me. No reason not to because, even if it is just silliness, I want to.
    I wish for the dragon to come to life.
    I wish until the clouds return, more and more and darker and darker. Until the moon is gone and so are the stars.
    Then I click the stereo back on and put the dragon back in its pot on the table by the bed. As I slip towards sleep, I stumble between low stools and workbenches in Geppetto’s shop as things unseen stir the darkness and the dust in the corners.
    Then