The Dragon Who Guarded the Bakery

A village had a bakery, and Bess the badger ran it. She made loaves and buns and jammy tarts and iced things shaped like little hearts.

But every night, when Bess went home, the mice would come, and mice will roam, and nibble here, and nibble there, and leave the shelves a little bare.

So Bess put up a sign that read: “I need a guard. Just nights. No bed.” And Gerald, who’s a dragon, came, and said, “I’ll do it. I’m not tame,

but I’m quite kind, and I don’t bite, and I’ve got nothing on tonight.” Said Bess, “You’re hired. The buns are there. Don’t eat them. Don’t ignite the chair.”

So Gerald sat down by the door with fifty buns, and maybe more, and loaves in rows, and tarts in stacks, and Bess went off, and left the snacks.

Now Gerald was a dragon who was sleepy. Very. Through and through. He’d slept, in fact, for ninety years, and woke for cake, and shut his ears

to everything that wasn’t cake. And here was cake. He was awake. He looked at buns. He looked at tarts. He looked at iced things shaped like hearts.

He did not eat them. Not one bit. He looked. He sat. He guarded it. The clock struck nine. He gave a yawn, the sort of yawn that heats a lawn.

The buns went warm. The window steamed. He shut one eye. The other gleamed. The clock struck ten. A mouse came in beneath the door, beside the bin,

and saw a dragon on the floor, and thought, and went back out the door. Eleven struck. The mouse came back, and brought some friends, and brought a sack.

They looked at him. His eyes were shut, and one mouse whispered, “Go on.” But the dragon breathed, the way you do when fast asleep, and breath went through

the shop, and it was warm as toast, and warmest where the buns were most. The mice stood still. The mice got hot. They thought of running. They did not.

For out of doors was cold and wet, and this was warm. The warmest yet. So one mouse sat down by his toe, and one lay down, and one said, “Oh,”

and one stretched out along his tail, and one sat in the empty pail, and Gerald snored, and every snore went warm across the wooden floor,

and up the shelves, and round the tins, and warmed the mice, from tails to chins. The clock struck one. The clock struck two. The dragon slept. The mice did too.

And not one bun was gone. Not one. And nothing whatsoever done. The clock struck three. The clock struck four. A breeze came underneath the door,

and Gerald, dreaming, dreamed of cake, and sighed, and did not, quite, awake. At five the sky went thin and grey. The mice woke up, and crept away,

and one, the small one, turned around and whispered, “Thanks,” without a sound. At six, the key went in the lock, and in came Bess. She checked the stock.

The buns, all there. The tarts, all there. The loaves, all there. And, in her chair, a dragon, with his eyes shut tight, who’d clearly slept there half the night.

She said, “You slept.” Said Gerald, “No. I guarded them. I did it slow.” Bess felt the buns. The buns were warm. The shop was warmer than the norm.

She picked one up. She took a bite. She chewed. She thought. She said, “Oh. Right. You didn’t guard them,” Bess said. “No. You kept them warm. And, even so,

they’re all still here. And so are you. Come back tonight. You’ll do. You’ll do.” So Gerald guards the shop each night, and Bess has never known a bite

to go, and never lost a bun, and every night is like this one. The mice come in. They lie down near. They know that they are welcome here.

They don’t eat buns. They never do. They sleep. The dragon sleeps there too. And through the night, the snores go round, a slow and warm and floury sound,

and buns, and mice, and shop, and all are sleeping, snug, and safe, and small, and all the village, house by house, is sleeping, dragon, badger, mouse.