Let Sleeping Dragons Lie (The Modern Dragon Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  Copyright © 2017 Ty Burson

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1974258079

  ISBN-10: 1974258076

  Chapter 1

  Steve was late meeting his dad at the marina, which was a big deal—way worse than being late to school, or anywhere lame like that; at least there he could usually just apologize and get away with it. The difference was Steve’s dad and the disappointed face he would make, the one that said, “You messed up.” Steve hated messing up, and disappointing his dad was the worst sort of messing up.

  To make things worse, the wind had decided to fight Steve today. Honestly, the weather wasn’t that much different from any other day—the wind in northern California was always a bully, shoving around both the waves and eleven-year-old bicyclists. It was simply that this wind was wilder than usual, forcing Steve to crank his entire body up and down on his pedals to make any progress at all.

  It stayed like this until Steve left the minor shelter of his neighborhood; that’s when he really got pounded. By then, it was all he could do to keep his bike upright and on the sidewalk. Still, despite the threat of being blown into the street, Steve could not help looking out to his right, out to the seemingly endless, raw metal grey of the Pacific Ocean.

  Below Steve, at the bottom of a modest cliff, was a popular beach. He and some of his friends had once managed to find places where they could slip and slide all the way down the muddy cliff to the seashore below, to the fear and amazement of the tourists; the locals had not been so easily impressed. There were no beach lovers today, though, and not even the most stubborn surfer would be willing to suffer winds like these. In fact, the only person Steve encountered on his way to the marina was a sopping wet jogger. As he passed, Steve couldn’t decide if that painful look on the man’s face was because of the weather, because Steve was hogging the sidewalk, or because he was jogging. Either way, Steve thought the dork should have gone to the gym.

  Ahead, he could make out the old lighthouse, or at least its bright yellow, rotating glass orb. As he got closer he could make out its horn, which bellowed regularly, just for the tourists; Steve was pretty sure the fishermen didn’t need it anymore because most boats had pretty nifty GPS stuff on board. But it worked. The horn attracted tourists. “And tourists bring money,” as his dad liked to say. Whatever. Tourists, as far as Steve was concerned, were primarily there to gum up traffic and ask really stupid questions, like, “Is it always so beautiful here?”

  “Nope,” Steve often felt like answering, “usually it’s a soupy, foggy mess, and that’s when it’s not raining.”

  Fortunately, Steve wouldn’t have to deal with any of that today; the giant marina parking lot in front of the lighthouse was nearly deserted—there were almost no gawky crowds of grey-haired retirees or frantic parents trying to corral their rug rats. Of course, Steve couldn’t blame them for coming to this spot. He loved it too. It wasn’t only that it looked like a postcard: spectacular views, blah, blah, blah. It was that this was where the seagulls gathered. They made Steve think of air pirates; sometimes in formation, sometimes alone, they would drift silently on an updraft, see a target, and attack. Boom! They’d hit a piece of popcorn, or swipe a bag of chips. He’d even seen one brave bird snatch a hotdog right out from some screaming kid’s stroller. They were awesome!

  Steve liked to pretend that the birds coordinated their food expeditions. “Gull One, you are clear to begin your descent, target ahead: Doritos next to the Chihuahua on the retractable leash. Roger, Roger, beginning descent Gull leader.” Some of the older kids who hung around the marina called them flying rats and tossed things in the air to see if they could catch them. Teenagers liked to throw them stuff that made them sick, like Tums. Seagulls weren’t rats, Steve decided, teenagers were.

  Unfortunately, Steve didn’t have time to admire the aerial ballet today; he was in a hurry. The marina wasn’t too much further, just across the parking lot and down the main street a little ways. The marina was where everyone parked their boats: sailboats, recreation boats, and even some good-sized fishing vessels. It was also where his dad’s bait, tackle, and sandwich shop, The Worm Hole, was.

  Putting his head down, Steve redoubled his efforts and pressed on, squinting his eyes against the salty, biting wind. Maybe it was because his attention was focused a few feet in front of his wheels that he didn’t see the first grey and white streak—a seagull—zip just inches above his head. The next one, however, almost knocked him off his bike. Then another one, and another, over and over. It was like being caught in a bird tornado. In desperation, he dropped his bike and covered his head with his arms. Because a drizzling rain had joined the wind, he couldn’t tell if it was one looney bird or a hundred. He ducked as much as he could, praying he wouldn’t end up carried off by a whole flock of seagulls.

  Not long after, once he no longer sensed any more attacks, Steve eased one eyeball out for a quick peek. The sky looked clear of any marauding birds. He dropped both arms and picked up his bicycle. Had anyone else seen that? He wondered if someone had recorded it, if maybe he’d show up on YouTube: “Crescent City’s Bird-Boy.” He decided it might have been better if no one was around, after all. He didn’t want to be called Bird-Boy for the rest of his life.

  Steve began walking again, still grasping for an explanation because seagulls didn’t attack people for no reason. Hotdogs, yes, but people, no. That must be it! He checked his pockets to see if he had any leftover snacks: movie popcorn, Skittles, melted chocolate. Nothing. Or, maybe it was the wicked, intense wind. The birds were probably getting buffeted around, right into him, right? No mystery there.

  He was still trying to work it out when he remembered that he had someplace to be. He decided he had to brave the wind if he was going to make it on time. Unfortunately, Steve only got in about two pedal strokes when a bird appeared from out of nowhere, flying rings around him, keeping him from going forward, left, or right. It wouldn’t even let him go backwards. The crazy bird finally stopped its circling right as Steve was about to make a break for it; it kind of hovered in the wind, swaying back and forth in the air, like it was trying to zero in on a target. Steve gulped.

  Steve stared at the bird; the bird stared back. Then it dropped right down on Steve’s handle bars. Not sure what to do, Steve tilted his bike left, hoping to dislodge it, but the bird just flapped its wings to keep its balance. Steve tilted the bike right; same result. Steve shook it both ways and the bird spread its wings wide, refusing to be shook lose.

  “Sh-sh-shoo! G-g-get,” he stammered out. “G-g-go on, get!” No response, so he tried to reason with it. “I’m l-l-late. You’ve got to g-g-go away,” he stammered, because that’s what he did when he got upset. The bird, however, didn’t care. It flapped once, poked its bullet beak forward and screeched into his face. Steve jumped back and tripped over his bike. His foot-tall avian tormentor lightly avoided the tumbling bike, landed gently, and strutted over to where Steve lay on his butt. It proceeded to give him a thorough beak-lashing before lifting its head up and screeching into the air. In response, a dozen seagulls dropped down around Steve and his new bird buddy. Everywhere he looked, a tiny set of black eyes stared back at him.

  Then, things got really weird. The first bird croaked, “Steve,” or that’s what Steve thought it said. Wait, said? Steve’s eyes widened, but then the next bird over squawked out something that kind of sounded like another word. That was followed by the following bird, and so on. While the birds squawked, Steve tried to scoot away, but birds adjusted and moved with him. Apparently, they had no interest in letting him
leave. Steve began to realize that each bird kept repeating the same thing and that, if he listened real hard, he could put together what they were saying: “Steve” “list” “en” “be” “ware” “don’t” “be” “a” “fraid” “I’ll” “help” “you”.

  He concentrated as each bird chirped its syllable again and again until he was absolutely sure what they were saying: “Beware? Don’t be afraid?” Steve asked, his voice a slightly higher pitch than usual. Beware what? Was it possible to beware and not be afraid? Steve decided the birds were talking nonsense, then shook his head. Talking, yeah right. It had to be a trick. Steve looked around for who was behind it, but there was no one nearby that he could see. If only someone were there, he thought, someone who could tell him if he was going crazy, or what.

  Almost as soon as he thought he should go find someone, the seagull chorus stopped. One by one the birds stretched out their wings, flapped a few times, and whooshed away. All Steve could do was stare at their feathery behinds as they took off and wonder what in the world had just happened.

  Chapter 2

  Steve groaned to himself when he saw his dad hosing down the metal walkways in front of their bait shop. That was one of his jobs, and it meant that his dad had gotten tired of waiting on him. He knew his dad wouldn’t cuss at him like the dads of some of his friends, but knowing he had disappointed him was almost worse. Steve was about to call out to him when he saw Anthony heading down the docks to the Worm Hole.

  Anthony was a fisherman and one of his dad’s best friends. He always poked in between trips out to sea; he even dropped by the house occasionally. Steve could take or leave most adults, but Anthony was cool. He had a million tattoos and even more stories. The guy had been everywhere. He always put Steve’s dad in a good mood, so his timing was perfect.

  Steve’s dad dropped the hose when he saw Anthony. The pair shook hands, one tall with pink skin peeking out between his many tattoos, the other short and tanned with his Portuguese heritage showing. Steve grimaced; his dad looked so short next to the taller man. Steve probably wouldn’t have cared as much, except he took after his dad.

  It wasn’t such a big deal in elementary school because everyone was pretty short, but now that he was going into 6th grade, well, secretly he was worried. Even his baby sister was beginning to catch up to him. She got her height from their mom, who was tall. “Oh God,” he thought, “don’t let me be shorter than my sister.” The men’s laughter startled him out of his troubled thoughts.

  Steve rode up alongside Anthony, “Hey, Anthony, you just get home?” he asked.

  “Yup, what you been up to young ‘un?” he replied.

  Steve was a moment away from telling him and his father about the wild experience with the seagulls when his dad interrupted, “Stevie, go put your bike up and finish washing everything down. When you get done, there are some rods and tackle that got tangled yesterday.”

  “Y-y-yeah, okay, D-d-dad, but—”

  “Steve, I’ve been waiting around for you all morning. Now go get your chores done,” his dad said.

  Steve hesitated because he really wanted to tell someone about what had happened. And Anthony was there too. Anthony would really appreciate what had happened. Reluctantly, he just said okay and dragged his bike around to the side of the shop. Taking his time, he shuffled over and retrieved the hose and began washing away the mud and sand and fish guts that littered the walkways around the little shack. When he finished, his dad told him to go on and fix the mess the tourists made of the rods and line yesterday.

  Steve went in the back door and dragged the whole tangled bunch of fishing rods over to the counter. He tried to listen to what the men were talking about. “No, Roger, it was real bad,” he heard Anthony say. “Thirty foot swells, waves taller than a house. And we hadn’t caught much of anything, so we were working in the worst of it. John, you know him, right? Yeah, well he was up on the pots, trying to cinch ‘em down when we took a really big wave and off he went.”

  Steve heard his dad ask, “He okay? He didn’t drown?”

  “Naw, but he almost did. It took us a while to get him back in the boat, and by then he had hypothermia. We had to get him to a hospital, so our trip was a complete bust,” Anthony explained.

  Steve quietly dragged the whole mess of tangled line, rods and hooks off the counter and closer to the front door so he wouldn’t miss anything. Anthony’s stories were epic. Plus, he kind of hoped he could find a way to talk about his own recent experience.

  Steve’s dad spoke up, “The season’s not over yet, I’m surprised to see you back. Couldn’t get on another boat?”

  Anthony reached into his back pocket and took out his can of dip. He offered it to Roger, who declined. “Jeanie would skin me for chewing,” Roger replied.

  Anthony tucked the dark stinky stuff between his cheek and gum, “Yup, vile stuff. Probably why I can’t keep a girlfriend,” he grinned.

  Roger laughed and Steve considered whether he should start chewing tobacco. Then he remembered how some of the older kids from school had found a discarded packet of Red Man chewing tobacco outside the janitor’s closet. All three of them ended up puking in the woods behind the soccer field. Plus, you can’t blow bubbles with chewing tobacco. He’d stay a gum-man—nothing stronger than Big League Chew.

  Anthony’s voice interrupted his lifestyle decisions, “Naw, my brother got into some trouble again, so Ma called me to pick him up.”

  “Not Vince again?” Roger asked.

  “Who else? I swear Ma must have adopted that one.”

  Vince was the youngest brother of six in Anthony’s family and the only one who wasn’t a good fisherman. Steve thought he was kind of a jerk. Steve decided now was his chance to interrupt, “Dad, do you want me to make up some sandwiches?”

  “No, Steve,” his dad answered. “If we get some business we can make them up fresh, but check and see if we’re out of bologna and cheese.”

  Steve was about to go in the back to check when he heard his father say, “It’s bad this year, Anthony. We’ve had almost nothing for tourists because of the lousy weather. I haven’t rented out more than a dozen poles since Saturday and not a single crab trap in close to a month. Thank God Jeanie is doing all right with the house cleaning, or we wouldn’t make our mortgage.”

  Anthony leaned over the railing on the walkway and launched a long string of brown spit into the bay. It stubbornly sat there, like a mini oil slick. “I feel you buddy, lots of folks just hanging on right now. You know how things work around here; weather’ll clear up and tourists will be back. You still selling leftover fish guts to the hardware store?”

  Roger looked around for a second before answering and answered so quietly that Steve almost missed it, “You mean what I don’t set aside for, you know?” He went on, “Yeah, but without sun, folks aren’t working in their gardens as much and don’t need fertilizer. Craig hasn’t called for any in a few weeks. I never make much that way anyway.” Roger stopped and rubbed his face and neck before continuing, “I’m thinking about catching a ride up to Seattle and signing on for the next crabbing season.”

  What? Did he really just hear his dad talk about going fishing? Wow, when did he decide to try that? As long as Steve could remember, his father had never gone out on any of the big fishing boats. He never asked him about it, even when some of his friends’ dads came home from fishing up North with a ton of money. One friend of his came to school bragging that his dad made over $50,000 in a single month. At the time, Steve did not know how much $50,000 was. He wasn’t even sure how much that was now, but everyone said it was a lot. So, naturally, Steve started to fantasize about being rich: a new bike, a big screen TV, his own cell phone. Cool, that would be cool. But then reality stepped in. Paydays like that were not guaranteed, and most fishermen only made that kind of money a few months a year. Plus, Steve was smart enough to know that it was very dangerous work. Fishermen died. And even if they didn’t, they were gone a long time during f
ishing season. No, he decided, he’d rather have his dad and be poor.

  Anthony moved a little so Steve couldn’t see his face, but he could hear the emotion in Anthony’s voice, “Listen Roger, that’s a bad idea. Bad, bad karma. Look, I’ll get with the other guys and we’ll all kick in some dough to help you out. You can’t risk it man.”

  “Appreciate the offer, but no,” Roger replied. “I don’t want you guys helping me out. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. This,” Roger said pointing to his shop, “is no way to provide for a family. I should have tried something different a long time ago.”

  Anthony reached out and grasped his friend’s arm, “Man, we need you. You’re our good luck charm…well, not you exactly, but you know what I mean. Man, sailors are super superstitious. If we didn’t think we had you back here taking care of the drag--”

  “Shhh,” Roger insisted, “Keep it down, Anthony. I don’t want Steve to hear.”

  “Huh? Why not? He’ll be the one to take over after you.”

  “Long story, but I don’t want Steve to know right now.”

  Anthony answered, “Hey, your call. Anyway, don’t make any decisions yet. Let me poke around and see what I can come up with. One of my bros might have an idea or two. Cool?”

  Roger reluctantly nodded, “I wasn’t going to run off tomorrow. I was just considering, thinking of options.”

  “Cool, nothing rash. What was I saying before? Oh, yeah, I was telling you about that idiot brother of mine.”

  “Vince?”

  “Yeah, so okay. He got fired over at the grocery store for, well, doesn’t matter. He’s been fired from the last three jobs….”

  Steve stopped listening. What was it his father didn’t want him to know? And was he really planning to go off fishing. What would his mother say about it? Steve knew what she’d say about it; she’d lose her mind. Suddenly, the crazy business with the birds didn’t seem quite so important. It was kind of important, but not like his dad risking his life on a boat. His rambling thoughts were interrupted by Anthony’s infectious laughter.