The Eyes of the Dragon by Stephen King Page B

like yourself, but good—like yourself. And if you want to give me a really fine present, work hard in your own bowmanship classes so you can take a first-class medal as Pete did today.”
    Thomas had taken a first in the lower-circle bowmanship courses the year before, but his father seemed to have forgotten this in his joy over Peter’s accomplishment. Thomas did not remind him; he merely stood there, looking at the boat in his father’s big hands. His cheeks and forehead had flushed to the color of old brick.
    â€œWhen it was at last down to just two boys—Peter and Lord Towson’s son—the instructor decreed they should draw back another forty koner. Towson’s boy looked downcast, but Peter just walked to the mark and nocked an arrow. I saw the look in his eyes, and I said to myself ‘He’s won! By all the gods that are, he hasn’t even fired an arrow yet and he’s won!’ And so he had! I tell you, Tommy, you should have been there! You should have . . .”
    The King prattled on, putting aside the boat Thomas had labored a whole day to make, with barely a second look. Thomas stood and listened, smiling mechanically, that dull, bricklike flush never leaving his face. His father would never bother to take the sailboat he had carved out to the moat—why should he? The sailboat was as pukey as Thomas felt. Peter could probably carve a better one blindfolded, and in half the time. It would look better to their father, at least.
    A miserable eternity later, Thomas was allowed to escape.
    â€œI believe the boy worked very hard on that boat,” Flagg remarked carelessly.
    â€œYes, I suppose he did,” Roland said. “Wretched-looking thing, isn’t it? Looks a little like a dog turd with a handkerchief sticking out of it.” And like something I would have made when I was his age , he added in his own mind.
    Thomas could not hear thoughts . . . but a hellish trick of acoustics brought Roland’s words to him just as he left the Great Hall. Suddenly the horrible green pressure in his stomach was a thousand times worse. He ran to his bedroom and was sick in a basin.
    The next day, while idling behind the outer kitchens, Thomas spied a half-crippled old dog foraging for garbage. He seized a rock and threw it. The stone flew to the mark. The dog yipped and fell down, badly hurt. Thomas knew his brother, although five years older, could not have made such a shot at half the distance—but that was a cold satisfaction, because he also knew that Pete never would have thrown a rock at a poor, hungry dog in the first place, especially one as old and decrepit as this one obviously was.
    For a moment, compassion filled Thomas’s heart and his eyes filled with tears. Then, for no reason at all, he thought of his father saying, Looks a little like a dog turd with a handerchief sticking out of it. He gathered up a handful of rocks, and went over to where the dog lay on its side, dazed and bleeding from one ear. Part of him wanted to let the dog alone, or perhaps heal it as Peter had healed Peony—to make it his very own dog and love it forever. But part of him wanted to hurt it, as if hurting the dog would ease some of his own hurt. He stood above it, undecided, and then a terrible thought came to him:
    Suppose that dog was Peter?
    That decided the case. Thomas stood over the old dog and threw stones at it until it was dead. No one saw him, but if someone had, he or she would have thought: There is a boy who is bad . . . bad, and perhaps even evil. But the person who saw only the cruel murder of that dog would not have seen what happened the day before—would not have seen Thomas throwing up into a basin and crying bitterly as he did it. He was often a confused boy, often a sadly unlucky boy, but I stick to what I said—he was never a bad boy, not really.
    I also said that no one saw the stoning of the mongrel dog behind the outer kitchens, but