Seven

On the next day, she waited until the afternoon, and picked six apples.

She put three on the doorstep, and brought the others home, eating one on her rock, and sneaking two into her bedroom.

*   *   *

At suppertime, her mother seemed tired. She had been working so hard on the flowers and the stems for three days.

Merle wanted to give her one of her apples. She always felt so much better after eating them, but she knew that if she did she would have to say where it came from, so she didn’t.

“Merle,” said Bridget, “you haven’t been to the western side without me, have you? To the old man’s house?”

Merle shook her head.

“You won’t do that, will you? It might seem tempting, but you mustn’t. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mommy,” said Merle. She felt bad about lying, but she would confess it to her hare at bedtime and that would make it better.

*   *   *

Next day, when she went back to the western side, she had not even got up the path before she realized that the three apples she had left the day before were still there.

“That’s not right,” she said.

She walked up to the house, and for some reason, she didn’t feel afraid.

There were the three apples from the day before, sitting where she’d left them.

Not right.

She stood at the front door, an absolutely tiny figure against its vast size. She stretched up one tiny hand and knocked.

It made almost no sound, so she tried again, as hard as she could.

Now she was sure that the old man must have heard her, so she waited, and waited for something to happen, but nothing did.

She tried to open the door then, but although she could just reach the handle, the door seemed to be locked.

“That’s odd,” she said.

She looked to her left.

There was the gallery that ran around the house, and she decided to see if there was another way in. She turned the corner, feeling the wood of the balustrade under her hand, slightly peeling light blue paint, the lovely smell of warm wood, and then there was the orchard below her, and then, there … there was a door.

It was open, and Merle knew she would have to go into the dragon’s lair.

Timidly, like a hare, she stuck her head around the corner of the door.

It took her a moment to see.

It was so dark inside, with very few windows, and her eyes took a while to adjust.

It was a huge room, more a space than a room, like the inside of a church. At first she saw nothing, but then she heard a faint noise from some way inside.

Then she saw him.

“Oh!” she cried.

He was lying on the floor, on his side.

At her shriek, he opened his eyes.

Merle thought he seemed confused.

“Oh,” she said again. “Are you all right? Why are you lying on the floor? Can’t you get up?”

The old man’s eyes focused on her now.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

Then he simply shook his head.

“Wait there!” cried Merle, “I’ll get Mommy!”

She ran, ran fast, and all the way up the hill, and didn’t stop till she burst in through the kitchen door.

“It’s the dragon man,” she cried. “He’s ill!”