Jason Hightman - The Saint of Dragons

His room in the lighthouse was plain and simple, often quite cold and drafty. The only thing notable about it was a fireplace, which he was never supposed to use without permission.

The other children were down the hill in dormitories that had once been used by Revolutionary War soldiers. So even the buildings had a past which Simon was left out of.

Simon did get some use out of the fireplace when he could get away with it. He loved the way the flames shivered and swayed, making little sculptures, how they created flickering shadow plays on the wall.

Recently, he had been caught several times and punished with cooking duty. He had started taking more chances in the things he did lately, that was certain. The principal had given him a stern talking-to. Old Denman the lighthouse keeper, who was Scottish, had tried to explain to Simon that fire was a terrible thing, the most awful, sickening thing imaginable to a wood and brick place like the school.

“You know how we feel about you, boy,” Denman had said, his wife looking on. “We’ve watched you since you were a little child. We’ve never tried to step in and replace your true parents. We’ve never looked at caring for you as anything but a job, to be done well and without complaint. And we’ve done it. But you listen to me: fire is nothing to play with. Don’t you ever harm this old lighthouse … it’s your sanctuary.”

These were more words than the lighthouse keeper had ever said to Simon at one time in his entire life. They didn’t talk much. They worked together tending the lighthouse and had the shared sense of accomplishment that came with it, but the old man was not a father figure. His wife was not motherly. Both of them had seemed old and tired since as far back as Simon could remember.

They were tired of Simon’s questions about his family.

Maybe the rumours were true: maybe he was a poor kid, an orphan, allowed to stay at school for free. Wouldn’t someone have told him if his parents were dead? Or was the school sparing him from the truth? For Simon, it was a depressing possibility. All he knew of his family came from the few things Denman had told him, that they were good people, that they cared about him, that they wanted the best for him. They felt he was better off here than living with them, for reasons Simon didn’t understand.

No one else at school knew much, either. The day after the beetles, at Halloween, Simon had sneaked into the school office to take a look at his file while everyone was out decorating for the masquerade. The file had nothing interesting in it, but the principal and his secretary passed through and Simon heard them talking while he hid.

“He claimed he was Simon St George’s father,” 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.