Cressida Cowell_How to Train Your Dragon_04 (13 page)

He strode around the room, tearing at his beard.

Old Wrinkly, Camicazi, and One Eye sat at Hiccup's bedside.

One Eye didn't seem as happy as he might have been two days ago at the thought of one less Human in the world.

A big tear rolled out of his one eye and down his Saber-Tooth and plopped onto the ground.

Hiccup was stiff as a board, and his body was now red, and boiling hot. Toothless licked his poor red face, to try to cool it down.

"THE DOOMFANG!"
cried Stoick the Vast.
"I COULD TRACK DOWN THE DOOMFANG AND WRESTLE THE POTATO FROM HIM.!"

"You're going to find the Doomfang in the vast and trackless wastes of an immense and fathomless Ocean," said Old Wrinkly wearily, checking the time again on the clock, "in
TWO
minutes?"

"Face it, Stoick," whispered Old Wrinkly. "What you're talking about is not just im-PROBABLE ... it's im-POSSIBLE..."

Fishlegs had drawn back into the shadows, and he was watching his friend's face.

Hiccup was trying to say something, but his frozen, burning mouth made it difficult for him to say the words.

In fact he looked very like the Doomfang, when he was trying to speak to Hiccup out on the Sullen Sea.

"Ooot me ... ," mumbled Hiccup desperately.
"OOOOOT ME!"
and he tried to point, but his arms were as stiff as if they were made out of wood.

Old Wrinkly patted his hand, and bathed his forehead with water. Stoick's shoulders heaved with sobs.

"OOOOT ME!" cried poor Hiccup again.

Fishlegs tried to follow where his friend's eyes were looking, and it seemed like they were staring at the table by the door.

On that table lay Hiccup's furry coat and his helmet, bow, and arrows that he had thrown there when he first came in the room.

"One minute left," whispered Old Wrinkly.

"OOOOOOOOOOT ME!" repeated Hiccup desperately.

Sometimes it is only a True Friend who knows what we mean when we try to speak.

Somebody who has spent a lot of time with us, and listens carefully to what we are trying to say, and tries to understand.

Fishlegs
understood.

He didn't know
why
he was supposed to do what he was about to do, but he trusted Hiccup, who always seemed to know the right thing to do.

Fishlegs picked up Hiccup's bow.

Out of the arrow case he drew an arrow, a singularly beautiful arrow, decorated with feathers from birds Fishlegs had never seen before.

Fishlegs fitted the arrow to the bow, and pointed the bow toward Hiccup.

Stoick looked up from his sobbing, in amazement. Here was his son, moments away from dying, and that weird fish-faced friend of his appeared to be about to SHOOT him. TYPICAL. What a nutcase, 
cried Stoick. "DON'T SHOOT!" Stoick threw his vast bulk across the room in an attempt to shield his son from the arrow.

Of course, he was trying to protect Hiccup's heart and chest. He didn't realize what an appalling shot Fishlegs was, so he jumped far too high.

Fishlegs let the arrow go, and it soared in a wobbly unsteady arc, finally landing in Hiccup's right big toe, piercing through his wet boots, and into the skin.

It was a bit of a miracle it hit Hiccup at all. In fact, it may just be the only time Fishlegs has EVER hit something he was actually
aiming
at the arrow that pierced the skin of Hiccup's big toe at ten o'clock on the morning of Freya'sday Friday was the same arrow that had been soaking for the last fifteen years in the magical juices of THE POTATO.

Over the past decade and a half, those juices had concentrated on the surface of the metal, and the antidote now made its way into Hiccup's bloodstream, taking its cooling, healing work up every little vein, 
down every little artery, into every little corner of Hiccup's poor, rigid, boiling little body.

In front of their eyes, Hiccup's stiff arms softened. His chest rose and fell. The breath blew out of his nostrils, and his eyes opened.

"Hello, Father," said Hiccup.

This was just too much for Stoick. He fainted dead away, on the spot, all six foot seven and three-feet round of him, and it took a great deal more trouble to revive HIM.

He was out cold, and Old Wrinkly slapped him, and Hiccup shook him, and Camicazi tickled his feet, and eventually it was Fishlegs who ran out and filled an enormous bucket full of snow, and threw it right in Stoick's face.
That
brought him to his senses, and Stoick sat bolt upright, spluttering and spitting snow out of his beard.

"You're ALIVE!" he shouted joyfully, and he hugged his son so hard Hiccup thought his ribs might crack. "By the Bristly Beard and Thunderous Thighs of Great Goddess Freya, you're ALIVE!"

"He
is
alive," said Old Wrinkly pointedly, "and I think some apologies are in order."

Stoick's brows lowered. However relieved and 
happy he is, a Great Chieftain used to absolute power does not like to apologize, but after a short struggle, Stoick swallowed his pride.

"You are right," said Stoick. "I have been thoroughly wrong, and I am sorry. Old Wrinkly, you are
not
the most pathetic soothsayer in the uncivilized world, and I am sorry I ever said you were. Hiccup, you were
right
to go on the quest for the Frozen Potato to try and save the life of your odd little friend."

Stoick turned to Fishlegs.

'And most of all, FISHEGGS," he boomed solemnly, "I have misjudged YOU."

Fishlegs blushed. "No, no," he stammered.

"Yes," said Stoick, holding up a hairy hand. "I have. A Chief has to be big enough to admit it when he is wrong. You
are
a little weirdo, it is true, but you are a LOYAL little weirdo, and one day when my son is Chief I have a feeling he will need some loyal people about him."

Meanwhile, Toothless, who really couldn't stand all this soppy hugging and apologizing, flapped away to find a nice warm spot by the fire.

"Hiccup," Toothless called out sleepily, when he had found himself a particularly cozy position, "issa anyone else gonna d-d-die innanext f-f-five minutes?"

Hiccup laughed, and he asked Old Wrinkly.

"No," said Old Wrinkly solemnly. "I have examined the fire very carefully, and I can say, absolutely DEFINITELY, that NOBODY is going to die in the next five minutes. However, Gobber the Belch, I'm afraid, will catch Fishlegs's cold, and it's a nasty one."

"OK, then," yawned Toothless. "Iffa no one need T-t-toothless, Toothless go back to sleep."

So just when the Inner Isles were waking up from the coldest, longest winter in a hundred years, when the snow was melting, when all the other hunting dragons were opening their eyes underground preparing to burrow upward, and spring was eventually deciding it was time to arrive, just at
this
moment, Toothless FINALLY relaxed and went back into Hibernation Sleep.

One Eye settled down next to him, snoring like a dinosaur with sinus problems.

Old Wrinkly began to explain to Stoick some of the finer points of soothsaying.

And Hiccup and his good friends Fishlegs and Camicazi wandered outside to spend the rest of the day not doing very much at all -- my favorite kind of day.

As for Gobber the Belch, why Gobber the Belch woke up with a throbbing head and a sore throat and a nose that ran like a great green river.

So it appears that Vikings DO catch colds after all....

Vikings don't get sick...flu is for softies...plagues are for girlies...

EPILOGUE BY HICCUP HORRENDOUS HADDOCK THE THIRD, THE LAST OF THE GREAT VIKING HEROES

I guessed, but never knew for
sure,
what had happened in that strange frozen moment in my childhood, when the Doomfang stole my potato.

But many years later, when I was a tall young man in command of my first ship and we were just returning home from some wild and dangerous adventure, we suddenly realized that we were being
followed
by something. For days and days it followed us, always staying at the same distance behind the boat. I spent hours up the mast watching the black pinprick on the horizon and trying to work out what it was, whale or shark or dragon monster, friend or foe, with some nagging feeling at the back of my mind that this was something I recognized from somewhere in my past.

It wasn't until we entered the Sullen Sea that the creature came right up close. It was immediately clear from its glossy dark color that it was a Doomfang. It 
didn't attack us, as I had been secretly dreading, but began to play with the boat, swimming alongside, diving underneath and coming up the other side, getting nearer and nearer with each circle that it made.

This is common enough behavior in dolphins, and even in humpback whales, who are fascinated by boats, and will play like this for hours. But it is hugely unusual in a Doomfang. Doomfangs normally have the same attitude toward humans that
we
have toward insects: they loftily ignore us.

But this Doomfang was different. Even though it was clearly a fully grown animal, at least five times as long and as big as our ship, it played with us like a child, swimming around and around the boat, until finally the great creature gave a mighty thrash with its tail and soared out of the water, spreading wide its wings. It jumped right over the ship, just clearing the mast.

My Warriors gasped in awe and fear and amazement and wonder, as the great long body blocked out the sun, and I gasped too, for I recognized the animal at last. This was
my
Doomfang, not slain, not dead, not gone away, but in the very pink of health, and it seemed rather pleased with itself, and with me.

For when it entered the water on the other side, 
the great Doomfang tucked its legs up neatly and entered the water at exactly the right angle, so that it would not cause a single ripple to rock our little boat. And when the creature swam alongside, so close now that we could reach out and touch its glistening raven black sides, it rolled onto its back and moved its wing almost like it was waving, and its terrible mouth seemed to be grinning at me.

That very same Doomfang has followed my boat ever after, not like a Doom or a Curse, but more like a guardian angel.

I have lost count of the times when I have been out at sea in the most dreadful peril (for we Vikings lead dangerous and exciting lives) and just at the moment when all hope is lost, the Doomfang has appeared.

That Doomfang has steered my boat through the Great Storm that drowned a thousand ships in the Restless West Sea; it has rescued me from shipwreck on Cannibal Isle; it has fought great Monsters that had my ship wrapped around with their squids' tentacles like a cat's cradle.

It has returned the favor I once did it of saving its life in a cold, cold world, a hundred times over.

It is following me still, even though I don't need rescuing so much now I am old and slow as a great sea turtle, and my hair is as white as a Semi-Spotted Snow pecker.

You
can
Cheat a Dragon's Curse.

You do not have to accept the hand that Fate has dealt you.

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 around and around, 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 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 important 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.

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 archenemy, who we rather hoped had been killed
when he dropped from a hot-air balloon into a sea boiling
with ravenous Shark worms? I can't think
how
he might
have gotten 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
...