Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 12 | Page 439

The Rebirth of the Dragons
St. Paul's Co-educational College Primary School, Fedoruk, Zoe Mae – 11
D
ragons are one of the most identifiable symbols of China. There were many stories of them being around
during the reign of the emperors, they had protected China from the many dangers around the world and
defended them against attackers, but after Kangxi’s death, they were never to be seen again. They disappeared with
no trace and have been considered a myth since then…or have they?
Andre Durant, whose parents were foreigners in China, had been living with them in Shanghai. He had been
born in Paris, France, and moved to China when he was four. He lived just like any other French citizen in the
French concession, and had grown familiar with the environment. Every night when he went to bed as a child, his
father would always tell him an old Shanghai adventure story. Andre especially loved hearing the ones with dragons
in them, though he knew they could never be real.
He did his usual stroll through the antique shops just down the street from his home. He swung his head into
every shop he could find and left if he saw nothing worthy of his limited amount of money. As he took another
glimpse at an old shop filled with interesting little trinkets, then something caught his eye. He stopped and scanned
the shop to find the object that had caught his attention. The shop was decorated with what seemed like goat horns
and beside two highly polished birch wood tables stood an old scrawny man. The man eyed Andre through lace
curtains in front of the tables, smoking what smelled like bitter herbs with a hint of opium through a large pipe.
The smoke filled the air as Andre walked through the shop, obscuring the view of Andre. He wrinkled his nose in
disgust. Ignoring the smell of the smoke, Andre continued to scan the shelves lined along the wall of the shop.
Once again a shimmer caught his eye. He anxiously searched around for it until his eyes landed on a large oval rock.
As he slowly approached it, a strange feeling enveloped his lean figure and he examined it carefully. The rock was
about nine inches long and oval in shape. It glimmered a brilliant ruby red with golden veins coursing through the
almost transparent stone. He wondered why no one had bought such a rock. As he marveled at its beauty and
elegance, a dry cracked voice broke through to his consciousness.
“So, looking at that rock are we? Well now, when I first brought it to the shop, everyone seemed to want to
buy it, so I raised the price higher and higher until some man—said he was a jeweler—bought it for $200. Oh that
made my day! Yet the next day, he came back! He said ‘ain’t good for nothin’ rock, useless piece of thing. Doesn’t
even make a dent when I used my good ol’ steel hammer on it.’ With that he just demanded I give him back his
money—almost went broke then—then left, and never came back. I guess somehow word got around that the rock
wasn’t good for anything, and no one bought it. Just to make sure that it really couldn’t break—I swear I’ve never
done anything else to my other merchandise—I pounded as hard as I could on the rock with a hammer and it
really didn’t leave a scratch or anything! So it’s just been sitting there for decades now.”
He took another pull on his pipe and blew a cloud of smoke into Andre’s face. He waved his hand to get rid of
the horrid smell, then opened his mouth to inquire, yet the old man seemed to predict what Andre was going to
say and cut him off.
“If you want it, just take it. It’s no use to me anyways. I’ll give it to you for free, kiddo.” The corner of his
mouth lifted up until a smile was stretched upon his face.
Andre returned the smile and took the rock with gentle hands. With a flick of his wrist, the old man
motioned Andre out of his shop.
With little of the time he had left outside, Andre shuffled over to the Yangtze River, hugging the rock tightly
against his chest under his long furry coat.