Hazel Boonton's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

Morning came, and the buns were hungry. Hazel counted the last of the clover she had carried in. Three wilted stems for seven small mouths. The stored food in this warren lay in a root cellar past the front door, and the front door faced the clearing. The dragon still lay there, its scales shining in bands of color. One way out. One way to the food. It sat between them and both. Hazel pressed her nose to the round window and studied the beast. It had not moved all night. It had not clawed the door or breathed fire. It only watched. A hunter would have struck by now. She decided to test it. She eased the broken door open and stepped into the cold. Her legs shook. The dragon lifted its head, and its eyes fixed on her. Hazel held still. She spoke, though her voice cracked. "We have young ones inside. They will starve. I only need to reach the cellar." The dragon did not lunge. It tilted its head, the way a bird studies the ground. Then it did something Hazel did not expect. It shifted its long body to one side, clearing the path to the cellar door. It was making room. Hazel did not trust it. But hunger pushed harder than fear. She darted for the cellar, hauled the hatch open, and dragged out a bundle of dried roots and grain. The dragon watched every move. It never reached for her. When she turned back, something small burst from the trees. An orange kitty bounded across the clearing, tail high, and skidded to a stop at the dragon's foot. It rubbed its ginger head against one great claw and purred loud enough for Hazel to hear. "You know this cat," Hazel said. The dragon lowered its head to the kitty. She understood then. The beast was not guarding a hunting ground. It was tame, or near it, and this clearing was a home it shared. A pink shape trotted out next, a shaggy dog with a fluffy coat, sniffing toward the warren's door. Behind them, past the trees, Hazel saw the corner of a small pink cabin with a covered porch. People lived here. This was not wild land. She had led seven buns into someone's yard. The kitty trotted to Hazel and sniffed the grain in her arms. It did not hiss. It looked back at the cabin, then at her, as if it wanted her to follow. Hazel carried the food inside and fed the buns. They ate fast and warm. She had won the food. But now she knew the truth of this place. The abandoned warren was not abandoned. It belonged to whoever lived in that pink cabin, and the animals here answered to them. Soon those people would learn seven buns had moved into their ground. Hazel had to decide what to tell them before they came asking.