The Dragon of Butterscotch Hill

Then she packed a jam sandwich, in case she got hungry. She brought her grandfather's old helmet, in case of fire. And she packed her mother's smallest teaspoon, in case of, well, she wasn't sure. Then Greta put on her old helmet, slung her satchel over her shoulders, and marched straight up Butterscotch Hill.

The steep hill hummed with bees. Halfway up, Greta heard something above her… “Wooooo-eeeeeee!” Greta froze with one boot in the air.

“That’s funny, it doesn’t sound like a roar; it sounds like a kettle.” At the top, Greta saw a thin ribbon of smoke… “That’s funny, it doesn’t look like dragon fire; it looks like a chimney.” Greta stood at the mouth of the cave and called, “Hello?”

Then everything went very quiet… A deep voice called, “Nobody’s home.” Greta said, “Yes there is... you just spoke.” The hidden voice said, “That was the wind.”

Greta said, “The wind doesn’t say ‘nobody’s home.’” The hidden voice said, “Some winds do.” Greta called, “I’ve brought you a teaspoon.” The silence became interested…

A huge green dragon stepped out of the shadows. On one tremendous claw sat a tiny rose-covered teacup. The dragon asked, “A real teaspoon for me? Please come in!” The dragon introduced himself as Cinders and accepted the teaspoon with one careful claw.

Inside, Greta found cups in every nook and on every ledge. Beside the singing kettle sat Mrs. Puddifoot’s best sugar bowl. Cinders mumbled, “I only borrowed them; I always meant to give them back.” “But every time I started down the hill, I heard the villagers talking about the terrible dragon.”

“So I came back up again.” Greta asked, “Why do you need so many cups?” Cinders said, “You cannot have a tea party with only one cup.” “I have waited three hundred years for somebody to have tea with.”

Greta looked at him and said, “Well, I like two sugars.” Cinders blinked and asked, “You’ll stay?” “I brought a jam sandwich we can share,” said Greta. Cinders poured the tea with two very careful claws.

Greta cut the sandwich into triangles because triangles are fancier. Greta said, “So your roar is the kettle.” “Yes,” said Cinders. “And your dragon fire is the little stove”.

“Yes.” “And your terrible treasure is a cupboard of teacups” Cinders stood tall and declared, “It is a very good cupboard!” Greta giggled at Cinders’s proud reply.

That was the finest tea party ever held on Butterscotch Hill. The next morning, Greta came walking down the hill. Behind her came Cinders with a pine-branch basket. The baker dropped his bread, and the blacksmith hid behind his door.

Mrs. Puddifoot marched up and took her sugar bowl. The sugar bowl was full of golden wild honey. “Interest,” Cinders rumbled politely. Mrs. Puddifoot looked up, and Cinders looked down.

Mrs. Puddifoot said, “I suppose you had better come to tea.” Now the whole village climbs Butterscotch Hill every Saturday. The baker brings buns, and Mrs. Puddifoot brings her never-empty sugar bowl. Cinders places cups, one for everyone.

The kettle whistles its terrible roar while the little stove puffs its terrible smoke. Cinders pours tea for the friends he waited three hundred years to meet. Down in Fernwick, the doors are never locked now. If you hear a story that does not add up, remember Greta.

So pack a sandwich, bring a spoon, and go see for yourself.