How to Train Your Dragon: How to Cheat a Dragon's Curse Page 13
Look at me, the skinniest, most unlikely Viking
ever, now known as this great Hero all around the world.
Again and again, I have the same dream. Norbert the
Nutjob has thrown the axe high, high into the air, it is
turning round and round, and the black side is going to
plunge into the ground first… Bad Luck will follow and
the Tribe will be DOOMED. Again and again I make
the same leap, I dodge the bright and black murderous
blades, I catch the axe before it lands, I make my
own luck.
If none of this had happened, the potato would
still be stuck frozen on Hysteria, of no use to anybody.
Instead of which, I buried the arrow which saved my life
in some muddy ground behind my house, and, miracle
of miracles! A single seed must have been sticking to
the metal!
For some time later, in the springtime, I noticed
a strange green plant in that particular spot, and I dug
the arrow up again. A new potato, larger than the one
I lost, had grown right around the arrow’s point. From
that new potato, I grew more potatoes, and now there
are potatoes growing all over Berk and the whole of the
Barbaric Archipelago, and not a SINGLE PERSON
236
or dragon has died a terrible death from Vorpent stings
EVER SINCE.
(The potatoes are also rather delicious when
they are cooked, either mashed or just plain with a little
dollop of melted butter.)
But more importantly still, if I had never gone
on the quest for the Frozen Potato, I would never have
saved the life of my good friend Fishlegs, who, although
some people thought of him as a little weirdo, was the
best and truest friend a Viking ever—
HANG ON A SECOND.
You see how confusing all of this is.
I didn’t save the life of my good friend Fishlegs,
after all, did I? Because Fishlegs was never ill in the first
place.
I saved myself.
237
What Happens Next?
Will Norbert the Nutjob set out on a quest to go back to
America? And, indeed, does this land they call America
really exist, and is the world really a circle that has no end?
And what has happened to Alvin the Treacherous,
Hiccup’s arch-enemy, who we rather hoped had been killed
when he dropped from a hot-air balloon into a sea boiling
with ravenous Sharkworms? I can’t think how he might
have got out of that tricky situation…
But I have a nasty feeling in the pit of
my stomach that Hiccup hasn’t seen
the last of these two mad, wicked and
dangerous villains, both of whom have
sworn to kill him...
Watch out for the next volume of Hiccup’s memoirs,
How to Twist a Dragon’s Tale
1. THE HERDING-REINDEER-
ON-DRAGONBACK LESSON
Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third never forgot
the day he met an Exterminator Dragon for the very first
time.
How could he?
It was one of the most terrifying experiences of
his short, adventurous life.
There he was, sitting in the middle of a circle of
fire which was getting smaller and smaller, with no way
out, and prowling through the flames, getting closer
and closer, were these sinister leopard-like shapes, the
slinking silhouettes of Exterminator Dragons sharpening
their talons and getting ready to leap –
Hang on a second.
I had better start at the beginning.
It all took place during a heatwave in August,
which was surprising, for Augusts in the Viking
territories were normally rather cool, wet affairs. But it
had been growing hotter and hotter over the course of
the summer, and as the temperatures rose, Hiccup’s
grandfather Old Wrinkly had been babbling on about
how the unexpected warmth was a terrible Omen of
Doom, and a new kind of Terror-Dragon had awoken
in the West, and would descend upon them all with Fire
and Destruction…
But unfortunately nobody really took Old
Wrinkly seriously, because he wasn’t very good at
looking into the future.
On this particular day, the sun was beating down
relentlessly on the usually soggy Isle of Berk as if it had
lost its way, and thought it was in Africa.
There was not a cloud (let alone an Exterminator
Dragon) in the sky.
Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third, only
son of Chief Stoick the Vast, was on the Hooligan Pirate
Training Programme on the Isle of Berk.
His teacher, Gobber the Belch, had decided
that on this particularly still, stuffy summer’s day,
when all you really wanted to do was to find a nice
tree and lie gasping underneath it, downing lots of
drinking-horns of nice cool water, it would, in fact, be
an EXCELLENT idea to hold a Herding-Reindeer-on-
Dragonback lesson.
Hiccup did not agree with
Gobber the Belch.
But Gobber the Belch had not asked Hiccup’s
opinion on the matter.
And Gobber the Belch was a six-and-a-half-foot
axe-wielding lunatic who was not the kind of teacher
you argued with.
So there they all were, all twelve pupils on the
Programme, standing in a hot, bedraggled, wilting line,
halfway up Huge Hill, swatting off the midges that were
gathering in great clouds in the still and steamy air.
There was Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the
Third, rather surprisingly the Hero of this story, for he
was extremely ordinary-looking, with bright-red hair that
shot straight up in the air whatever you did to it, and no
obvious Heroic qualities.
There was Hiccup’s best friend Fishlegs, the
only boy on the Pirate Training Programme who was
even worse at being a Viking than Hiccup was. He had
asthma, eczema, short-sight, flat-feet, knock-knees,
an allergy to reptiles, heather, and animal fur, and he
couldn’t swim. He bore a strong resemblance to a
runner-bean wearing glasses.
There was Snotface Snotlout. A delightful boy
– if you happen to like unpleasant teenagers with skull
tattoos who bully anything that moves and is smaller
than them.
There was Tuffnut Junior. A pleasure to meet –
if you happen to like meeting pimply young plug-uglies
who pick their noses, and sleep with an axe under their
pillows.
And Dogsbreath the Duhbrain, the largest,
sweatiest, and smelliest of the lot of them, had all the
grace and charm of a pig in a helmet.
There they all were, this horrid collection of
spotty Viking pre-teens, and Gobber was shouting at
them, in his usual cheery fashion.
‘RIGHT!’ yelled Gobber, the sweat pouring down
his lobster-red cheeks and into his beard, turning it as
limp and steamy as a jungle rainforest. ‘I PRESUME
YOU HAVE ALL BROUGHT YOUR HUNTING-
DRAGONS?’
; They had all brought their hunting-dragons. All
except for Clueless,who really was so stupid that he
shouldn’t have been allowed out without a minder. He
had brought his hunting FLAGON, which wasn’t the
same thing at all.
But everybody else had brought their hunting-
dragons.
Most of the hunting-dragons were looking as
cross at being called out on this mission as their Masters
were, panting heavily with their forked tongues hanging
out, and swishing their tails to keep off the midges and
the flies.
Snotlout’s dragon, Fireworm, who looked a bit
like a flame-red Rottweiler with a face like a snooty
alligator, was curling dangerously around Snotlout’s legs,
wondering whether she would get in trouble if she gave
Gobber a big fat bite on his big fat hairy bottom.
If it was a big enough chomp, it might just stop
the lesson while Gobber went to the Hospital Hut…
But, reluctantly, she decided that she would get
in trouble.
Fishlegs’s dragon, Horrorcow, the only vegetarian
hunting-dragon anybody has ever heard of, had gone to
sleep in Fishlegs’s arms on the way up, and Fishlegs was
trying to hold her head up in a way that looked like she
was awake, and listening intently, because Gobber had
strong views on how everybody at the lesson really ought
to be conscious.
And all the other dragons were lounging at their
Master’s feet, or hovering limply a little way above their
Master’s heads, wishing they were somewhere else.
Hiccup’s hunting-dragon, Toothless, was by far
the smallest, a bright-green little Common-or-Garden
dragon, about the size of a naughty dachshund, or Jack
Russell terrier.
He was also the only dragon showing the same
amount of enthusiasm for this expedition as Gobber.
He was fidgeting in and out of Hiccup’s
waistcoat in a whirl of impatience, scurrying up his shirt,
his little claws tickling Hiccup’s tummy, and then up
out the collar and on to Hiccup’s head. Then he would
perch on Hiccup’s helmet, spreading his wings and
hooting in short, excitable bursts before scampering
back down Hiccup’s body again.
‘Are we s-s-starting yet? Are we s-s-starting?’
chirped Toothless. ‘When are we going to start? H-h-how
many minutes? C-c-can T-T-Toothless go first? Me! Me!
M-m-me!’
‘Calm down, Toothless,’ said Hiccup, as Toothless
accidentally stuck his claw up Hiccup’s nostril on the way
down. ‘We’ve only just got here.’ *
‘OK, BOYS, LISTEN UP!’ bellowed Gobber.
‘Herding reindeer is a lot like herding sheep, but
reindeer are bigger.’
Clueless put his hand up.
‘Which is bigger?’ asked Clueless.
‘Sheep are the round fluffy ones, and reindeers
are the larger ones with the pointy things on their heads,’
explained Fishlegs kindly.
‘Thank you, Fishlegs,’ said Gobber. ‘You
will use your hunting-dragon to round up any stray
reindeer that try to break away from the group we are
herding. It’s a chance to put into practise all that you
have learnt in your Herding Sheep lessons.’
*Hiccup was the only Hooligan who could understand Dragonese, the
language that dragons spoke to each other.
‘I don’t know how Hiccup the Useless is ever
going to be the chief of this tribe,’ sneered Snotlout,
‘when he can’t even keep control of that minuscule
microbe of a dragon of his. Look what happened last
Herding Sheep lesson.’
Toothless had lost his head on that occasion,
and single-handedly CHARGED the flock, and chased
it into the Dragon Toilets. (He claimed it was an
accident, but Hiccup had his suspicions.)
It had taken three-quarters of an hour to get
the sheep out of the Toilets, and they still stunk to high
heaven four weeks later.
‘But the main business of the herding,’
continued Gobber, ‘will be performed by YOU on your
RIDING-DRAGONS…’
‘C-c-can Toothless EAT the reindeer when he
catch them?’ squeaked Toothless.
‘NOBODY is going to be EATING any reindeer,
Toothless!’ whispered Hiccup. ‘And we’re not going to
chase them, either. This is herding, not chasing. We will
just be gently guiding the reindeer in the right direction.’
‘Oh,’ said Toothless, hugely disappointed.
‘… None of you have ridden dragons before,’
Gobber boomed, ‘and you will find it is more difficult
than you think. And therefore the dragons that
you will be riding on today are NOT YET FULLY
GROWN. This means that they will not have the
strength to carry you up into the air.’
‘Oh, Sir…’ groaned Snotlout, ‘I thought we were
going to be FLYING today.’
‘First you learn to ride,’ said Gobber, ‘and
then later, MUCH LATER, you learn to fly. You fall
off a flying dragon, Snotlout, and you will end up a
SQUASHED Viking. Which would be difficult for me
to explain to your father.’
‘Can T-T-Toothless just eat a very small one?’
asked Toothless, in a very small voice.
‘No,’ whispered Hiccup.
‘So, ON our riding-dragons, we will approach
the reindeer QUIETLY – no farting, Dogsbreath – and
we will carefully surround the herd, and see whether
we can guide it back towards Hooligan Village. Any
questions so far? Yes, Clueless?’
‘Which were the round fluffy ones again?’
asked Clueless.
Gobber sighed.
‘The round fluffy ones are the SHEEP,
Clueless, they’re the SHEEP. Now. You will find the
riding-dragons rather a lively ride. They are just over
here – WHERE ARE THE RIDING-DRAGONS?’
asked Gobber in exasperation. ‘They were supposed to
be following us.’
‘I think they’re over there, sir,’ said Fishlegs,
pointing to a small, twisted tree a little way away.
The riding-dragons were looking far from lively.
They were lying in the shade, resting their heads on their
paws, their forked tongues hanging out.
Gobber strode towards them, clapping his hands
and shouting, ‘COME ON, UP YOU GET THERE,
YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE TERRIFYING, FOR
THOR’S SAKE!’
And as the riding-dragons got to their feet, and
slunk towards their Masters through the browned and
shrivelled heather, like a pack of surly lions, Hiccup
realised something that really WAS terrifying.
Something that gave a small indication that
perhaps the day might take an unexpected turn.
The tree the riding-dragons had been sheltering
under was blasted and twisted and reduced to carbon.
All around the tree were scorch-marks. And when
Hiccup moved a little closer to investigate, he found to
his horror that the entire hillside behind had b
een burnt
to a cinder and turned to sooty desert.
Where once heather grew and swayed in the
wind, covered with butterflies and grasshoppers and
buzzing nanodragons, now there was only ashy stubble,
scarred across with white, stretching out across the
whole of the slope.
Only one thing could do that to a hillside, and it
wasn’t the sun, however fiercely it might shine.
It was FIRE.
www.cressidacowell.co.uk
This is Cressida, age 9, writing on the island.
Join Hiccup and his dragons on
their original misadventures!
Find the adventures wherever books are sold, and play interactive games at
www.HowToTrainYourDragonSeries.com