Read Online The Dragon of Avalon by T. A. Barron - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: T. A. Barron
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the cocoon—in which a plodding little caterpillar was now growing wings—and shook his head. How to change? Compared to that caterpillar, he knew almost nothing.
Glancing at his small, scaly torso, he scowled. Though now more than twenty years old, he wasn't even a hairsbreadth longer than he'd been on that day he first crawled out of his shell and heard the whispering voice of Aylah, the wind sister.
As if in answer, a subtle breeze blew through the oak branches, rustling them gently. But, of course, it carried no scent of cinnamon. It never did anymore.
Studying the cocoon, he could see the traces of thousands of threads, woven together with considerable skill. Maybe that little fellow in there wasn't so plodding after all. Maybe he was more than he appeared?
What about me? he wondered. Am I any more than I appear?
He rolled over on the cradling leaf, suddenly restless. Did change always mean a new shape? Growing wings or getting bigger? The most important changes in his life hadn't been visible to anyone except himself.
Not that those changes amounted to much. Here he was, still living a staid, predictable life, catching insects in one part of Woodroot. He'd never traveled anywhere else! The only journeys he'd ever taken were through the stories told by others. The only lasting friends he'd ever made were—well, himself. And the only real adventure he'd ever had, the only experience that was special somehow, was an intensely vivid dream that he couldn't forget.
Hearing the faint buzz of an approaching locust, he decided, halfheartedly, to have another bite to eat. Not that he felt hungry. Just bored—and tired of thinking. Besides, as small as he was, the locust was even smaller. So why not eat it? He'd always enjoyed the satisfying crunch of a locust in his jaws, even if it tasted like charcoal.
Without stirring from his niche, where his own green color matched perfectly the color of the leaf, he cast a small but potent smelt into the air just above his face. Instantly, the fragrance of yellow meadowsweet flowers—irresistible to any locust—wafted from the spot.
As expected, the insect flew heedlessly toward him. Basil watched out of a half-closed eye as the insect flew closer and closer.
Chomp. He snapped his jaws—on air.
How could I miss? he chided himself, as the locust whirred away, heading deeper into the forest. Too much thinking, not enough doing. Pull yourself together, my friend, or you'll soon be someone else's meal! He frowned, then added, Even if it's a very small meal.
His eyes narrowed in annoyance as he watched the locust disappear into a grove of hemlocks, elms, and lavender-hued birches. "Think you got the better of me, do you?"
He leaped off the oak tree and into the air. Flapping his leathery wings, he zipped after the insect—eager to regain his food, as well as his pride. Through the leafy boughs he raced, searching every hiding place he could see.
There! He spied the locust, diving into a thick bush of thornberries. Ha! thought Basil. As if a few little thorns could stop me. He swerved in midair and dropped down at the other side of the bush, just as the insect emerged.
Before Basil could pounce, though, the locust veered sharply and flew out of reach. Wings abuzz, the tiny beast escaped into a thick stand of tall, rust-colored grasses whose stalks resembled fountains spewing sprays of grain.
Basil, in hot pursuit, flew toward the grasses. Right before plunging in, however, he halted. Hovering just in front of the stalks, he watched the insect depart . . . and didn't follow it. All the while, his cup-shaped ears quivered, for a new thought had filled his mind.
I'm chasing him not because I'm hungry, but just because I'm bigger. Wincing, he realized that he was acting no differently than so many of the mean-spirited brutes who had pursued him over the years. Didn't dactylbirds act just the same way?
He flapped harder, lifting himself over the grasses. Green eyes aglow, he
Glancing at his small, scaly torso, he scowled. Though now more than twenty years old, he wasn't even a hairsbreadth longer than he'd been on that day he first crawled out of his shell and heard the whispering voice of Aylah, the wind sister.
As if in answer, a subtle breeze blew through the oak branches, rustling them gently. But, of course, it carried no scent of cinnamon. It never did anymore.
Studying the cocoon, he could see the traces of thousands of threads, woven together with considerable skill. Maybe that little fellow in there wasn't so plodding after all. Maybe he was more than he appeared?
What about me? he wondered. Am I any more than I appear?
He rolled over on the cradling leaf, suddenly restless. Did change always mean a new shape? Growing wings or getting bigger? The most important changes in his life hadn't been visible to anyone except himself.
Not that those changes amounted to much. Here he was, still living a staid, predictable life, catching insects in one part of Woodroot. He'd never traveled anywhere else! The only journeys he'd ever taken were through the stories told by others. The only lasting friends he'd ever made were—well, himself. And the only real adventure he'd ever had, the only experience that was special somehow, was an intensely vivid dream that he couldn't forget.
Hearing the faint buzz of an approaching locust, he decided, halfheartedly, to have another bite to eat. Not that he felt hungry. Just bored—and tired of thinking. Besides, as small as he was, the locust was even smaller. So why not eat it? He'd always enjoyed the satisfying crunch of a locust in his jaws, even if it tasted like charcoal.
Without stirring from his niche, where his own green color matched perfectly the color of the leaf, he cast a small but potent smelt into the air just above his face. Instantly, the fragrance of yellow meadowsweet flowers—irresistible to any locust—wafted from the spot.
As expected, the insect flew heedlessly toward him. Basil watched out of a half-closed eye as the insect flew closer and closer.
Chomp. He snapped his jaws—on air.
How could I miss? he chided himself, as the locust whirred away, heading deeper into the forest. Too much thinking, not enough doing. Pull yourself together, my friend, or you'll soon be someone else's meal! He frowned, then added, Even if it's a very small meal.
His eyes narrowed in annoyance as he watched the locust disappear into a grove of hemlocks, elms, and lavender-hued birches. "Think you got the better of me, do you?"
He leaped off the oak tree and into the air. Flapping his leathery wings, he zipped after the insect—eager to regain his food, as well as his pride. Through the leafy boughs he raced, searching every hiding place he could see.
There! He spied the locust, diving into a thick bush of thornberries. Ha! thought Basil. As if a few little thorns could stop me. He swerved in midair and dropped down at the other side of the bush, just as the insect emerged.
Before Basil could pounce, though, the locust veered sharply and flew out of reach. Wings abuzz, the tiny beast escaped into a thick stand of tall, rust-colored grasses whose stalks resembled fountains spewing sprays of grain.
Basil, in hot pursuit, flew toward the grasses. Right before plunging in, however, he halted. Hovering just in front of the stalks, he watched the insect depart . . . and didn't follow it. All the while, his cup-shaped ears quivered, for a new thought had filled his mind.
I'm chasing him not because I'm hungry, but just because I'm bigger. Wincing, he realized that he was acting no differently than so many of the mean-spirited brutes who had pursued him over the years. Didn't dactylbirds act just the same way?
He flapped harder, lifting himself over the grasses. Green eyes aglow, he
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