The Saint of Dragons. Jason Hightman
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said the secretary, and at this Simon perked up to listen, “but you should have seen him. He was a wreck. His hair hadn’t been washed for Lord knows how long, he had dirt and grime all over his face, he was wearing the shabbiest second-hand clothes you ever saw, and he had these wild eyes like a madman!”
“What did you tell him?” the principal asked.
“Well, I sent him away, of course,” she said. “I think he was a homeless man who had rifled through some of our garbage and found Simon’s name. Probably wanted to snake out some of the boy’s money. Of course, the money’s all set up in a trust fund and no one can get to it. His parents set that up years ago so they wouldn’t ever have to mess with him.”
“Scam artist,” muttered the principal. “He chose the wrong boy on that one. If Simon St George’s father ever shows up, I’ll have a cardiac arrest.”
Then they left and, hiding in the darkness, Simon tried not to feel bad. What they had said was true, after all. But it spooked him to know that someone was asking for him.
There was little doubt that the man was an imposter. In all his years at the Lighthouse School for Boys, Simon had never heard from his parents. Not once. They clearly did not want to hear from him. He didn’t even have an address to send them a Christmas card.
There was simply no reason for his father to appear out of nowhere after all this time.
At least that’s what he thought.
Later that afternoon he was cleaning the lighthouse windows, hanging from a rope tied to his waist. Below him was a cliff that dropped off to the sharp rocks of the shore. It was one of the dirty jobs he did from time to time for the lighthouse keeper.
Boys had walked by earlier and he heard them making fun of him. Even his friends, such as they were, avoided him when he was working. He was completely alone.
Simon was scrubbing the grimy film off the windows and thinking how badly they needed it. They had not been cleaned for months. He was listening to the wind whistle round the giant circle of the lighthouse when suddenly a hand reached out and grabbed his leg. He screamed and looked down in horror.
Standing on the narrow cliffside was a bright-eyed man who was in sorry need of a bath and a shave. The wind was blowing hard enough to carry him off the cliff, but still he stood there.
“I need to talk to you,” he whispered loudly.
Simon couldn’t believe it.
“They don’t believe I’m your father,” he whispered again.
“I don’t believe you’re my father,” said Simon, and he kicked loose from the man’s hand. The man had to catch his balance to keep from falling off the cliff.
“Just don’t scream,” said the man. “I only want a chance to tell you who you are.”
“You’re out of your mind,” said Simon, clinging to the rope.
“Don’t you see a family resemblance?” the man called.
Simon turned back, his heart drumming. The man looked crazy.
“I can answer so many questions for you,” the man said, and Simon could see he was desperate to talk. He seemed tired and in a hurry at the same time. “You could be in danger. Listen to me. I care what happens to you.”
“Then you are definitely not my father,” Simon called back, and he clambered up the rope and escaped to the lighthouse deck. When he looked back down, the man was gone.
Simon didn’t tell anyone about him. He didn’t want the man thrown in jail; the poor guy probably just needed a few bucks. And he surely didn’t want anyone thinking that was his father.
But what if he was telling the truth? He wondered if it was possible. Why had he looked so run-down – didn’t he have plenty of money? And why couldn’t he prove his identity to the principal?
The questions nagged at Simon all day.
The answers came during the Halloween masquerade. The lighthouse had been surrounded with jack-o’-lanterns and orange lights had been put up all over school. The library had been transformed with ribbons and banners and decorations, and there was music, but nobody danced. Girls from the nearby private school congregated around one punch bowl, and the boys stayed at the other. All of them were nervous, even though they were disguised in their costumes.
Once Simon looked out the window and thought he saw the man staring back at him … but when he looked closer, it was just the reflection of his own black knight mask.
Simon noticed that the girl from the novelty shop had come to the gathering, but before he could approach her, other boys moved in and he heard them making fun of him. At first he thought they couldn’t see him under his mask. Then he realised they were joking about his costume. Someone said he was the shortest knight in history. The girl didn’t laugh, but Simon slipped outside to escape them all anyway.
He was going to head to the lighthouse or the stables, where he often went to be alone, when he heard voices. He peeked around the building and could see a man dressed all in pale white, along with other men, servants perhaps, talking to the principal. Simon leaned forward, hearing only pieces of the conversation.
” … Simon St George here?” he heard the man in white say.
“Is he in some kind of trouble?” asked the principal, but the man answered that his father was inquiring about him.
His father? Simon tried to hear more. Then he glanced down and saw several rats. They had been scurrying beside the building and were now stopped, staring at him. Very large white rats with red eyes.
Simon froze where he was, afraid of getting bitten, afraid he might scream and give himself away.
“I’m very sorry to bother you at this late hour,” he heard the man in white say. “My plane arrived late and I just desperately wanted to speak with the boy.”
Simon winced as a rat began to crawl on to his foot. He was going to scream after all, but something the man said stopped him: “Has the boy been doing well?”
He strained to hear the reply: that Mr St George had nothing to worry about, the boy was doing fine, acceptable work, but he was curious as to why the family had never come to see him in person.
At this the man in white sounded sorry, as if it hurt to explain. “If he ever asks about that, you just tell him his father would like to see him very much, but work has taken him far from home and, you know, as time has gone on, it’s become harder for his father to simply show up out of nowhere. It’s difficult, as I’m sure you realise. His father thinks it might be better to stay away than to stir up a lot of angry feelings, especially if the boy is doing all right without him.”
Simon leaned out to look at the man’s face, but he couldn’t see clearly, not in the dim light. All he could see was a coat, a hat, nothing more.
“I can tell you,” said the principal, “the boy is doing well; you can be sure of it.”
“Well, that’s good,” the man said. “Because I have concerns for him.”
“Concerns?” the principal asked.
“There is always a certain kind of rabble who are drawn to a boy from a family of means,” said the man. “Rotten, disreputable people. I just want to make sure you turn away anyone … unsavoury … if someone should come round, looking in on the boy. You know, I suppose I should probably talk to him myself. Is Simon around?”
“Yes, of course. He’ll be thrilled. He’s here somewhere,” the principal said. “Might take me a moment to find him.”
“Well, now, wait a moment. I don’t want to interrupt all this if he’s having a good time,” said the man in white. “I can’t imagine a worse way to meet him, come to think of it. I didn’t know you were having a party here. I’ll tell you what. I’ll be back