Bentwhistle the Dragon Box

by Paul Cude

  One of the two beleaguered umpires blew their whistle to signal the end of the ladies' game in front of them. Grabbing balls from the plastic white bucket marked 'Second Team', all the players scooted out onto the pitch to continue warming up, weaving around opposing ladies arguing after the previous match. For Peter, now it was game time. He'd been thinking about it all morning, and not even a single thought of Janice or his friends interrupted his train of thought. It was all about holding the stick, feeling the power and a very different kind of magic to the one he was used to, as well as the potential, the ebb and flow of another great chance to line up alongside his teammates. Essentially he was caught up in a small fantasy world, one with sticks and a ball, two umpires, a D, penalty corners, no offside, two goals, and a billion possibilities. Game on!

  * * *

  Strolling calmly out onto the pitch as a group, the ladies' lacrosse team were focused, determined and unified. It was to some degree quite a scary sight, especially for their opposition, who had been doing all sorts of hakka-like nonsense at the time. In a very precise and controlled manner, the Salisbridge players all started their warm up, ignoring the opposition, throwing the ball with their sticks at what looked like the speed of a bullet, with not one being missed, their accuracy was so great. As the young women ran through all of this, blissfully unaware of their opponents, a persistent confidence grew across all of the players' faces. They were well and truly in the zone, if such a thing existed. To them, there was nothing else. No clubhouse, no showers, no cars, no money... no nothing!

  A penetrating, high-pitched whistle carried across the pitch, indicating the match was about to start. Quickly the practice balls were put away, as the women lined up ready for their next skirmish.

  * * *

  As the hockey, lacrosse and rugby players outside weaved and darted, dummied and dribbled, Janice found herself crisscrossing the tables filled with customers, picking up empty glasses and plates that were finished with, all the while gazing longingly out of the window and across to the Astroturf pitch. Suddenly she spotted exactly what she'd been looking for. With half a dozen dirty pint glasses piled high in one hand and a stack of dirty plates in the other, she extracted herself from the forest of tables and chairs, scooting quickly back to the kitchen. Once there, and having deposited her load, she swiftly arranged to take her well earned break, and headed outside to see the love of her life doing what he did best.

  * * *

  'It's looking like a great counter attack,' Peter thought as he spurred his body on, determined to catch up with play and offer his teammates another option. Already he could tell things were pretty evenly matched between the two teams, even though the game had only started a few minutes ago. However, at this early stage his team, Salisbridge, had already squandered two half decent attempts at goal and so he figured if he could help them score it would calm the nerves of some of the younger players, settle things down and be a good base to build on for the rest of the half. Just as that thought zigzagged across his mind, the youngster on the ball, instead of passing to one of his teammates who'd busted a gut to catch up with him, tried very stupidly to take on a wily old defender who looked full of experience, if not fitness and pace. Time and time again he'd tried to drill into the younger players that the best way to beat an opponent was to PASS the ball... But would they listen? Would they CARK! The youngster, thinking rather highly of his dribbling abilities, had just been dispossessed and now, thanks to his selfishness, the entire team were out of position, Peter included. Immediately he turned round and pounded the Astroturf in an attempt to get back into his own half, always keeping an eye on the ball over his shoulder. His breathing was ragged and sweat oozed down his back, as he purposefully blocked out access to his dragon abilities, well... the physical ones anyway.

  One of the opposition midfielders had played a defence splitting pass through to their centre forward, who was currently trying to take it wide on the open side of the Salisbridge centre back. Gaining ground rapidly, he didn't like the look of what he was seeing as he sprinted back. One of the youngest players in the team, the centre back looked as though he was about to pay for his inexperience. Sure he could make it back to cover his teammate, just then Peter's concentration wavered a little as a flicker of recognition and the scent of perfume brushed a tiny part of his mind. Puffing, putting all his effort into getting back into position, the faintest of smiles crossed his face, knowing that she was somewhere nearby, having sneaked out to watch him. That fact alone was enough to spur him on to greater things, make him more powerful, more dangerous and, for a while, keep him at the top of his game.

  Performing THE most outrageous dummy he'd ever seen, the attacker left the young centre back for dead. Peter knew that he'd never have fallen for it in a million years, unlike his out of the equation teammate. Thinking about a shot at goal after having written the centre back totally off, Peter's sprinting form had now entered the frame. If his opponent took his stick off the ball, Peter would win it outright. So the very brazen and cheeky, to say the least, attacker, performed the second most outrageous dummy Peter had ever seen. Or at least, tried to. Peter's experience and instinct told him exactly what was about to happen, and while looking for an instant as though he was going to fall for it, a split second later he laid down his stick strongly on the floor, at a slight angle, with his left hand... and waited. Sure enough, he took the ball cleanly away from his opponent, whose momentum had taken him off to Peter's left somewhere. Inside, a small part of him chuckled at what had just happened, but he knew better than to get cocky. Pulling the ball back onto his open side, he got his head up and looked for the best pass, all the time the end of his stick caressing the ball. The Salisbridge right back had done much the same as Peter and come bombing back from the counter attack that had broken down, so seeing him out wide with no player nearby and with an opposing midfield player threatening to close him down, Peter bent his knees a little more, turned his shoulders, shifted his weight and momentum, and with a flick of his wrist sent the ball hurtling towards his teammate, who picked it up cleanly on the end of his stick, the incoming midfielder sliding to a halt just in front of him, disappointed that he'd been thwarted by a pass. Meanwhile, the right back had played it forward to Andy the captain on the right side of midfield, and the match continued, all the time Peter immersed but also aware of the beautiful bar worker trying incredibly hard to hide her existence on the sideline. 'Thrilling' couldn't begin to describe the feeling running through his bogus body.

  * * *

  Barely two hundred yards away, Tank had just taken a right uppercut to his chin in the front row of the scrum and he wasn't happy. It was the second time it had happened, on both occasions from a mean and moody looking giant of a human being... even compared with him, and he was by no means a slouch on the build front. But this guy really was built like the proverbial brick outhouse, with not an ounce of fat on him and being over six and a half feet tall. Judging from the punches he'd been throwing, he'd taken an instant dislike to Tank, for what reason the caring and sensitive mountain of a dragon had no idea whatsoever.

  Suddenly the mud-ridden ball bumbled its way erratically into view, just out of touching distance. Tank fired up all his muscles, not even flirting with the idea of using any of his hidden dragon power. Pushing with all his might, unyielding grunts and groans intermingled with sounds of overwhelming physical exertion and the whispered commands of the referee. The excitement was off the scale, a bit like the attitude of Mr Moody, the overly physical opponent. Again Tank heaved, the studs on his boots digging in for dear life; his back, neck and legs were the rope in a tug of war. Inch by inch, Salisbridge edged forward, each player in the scrum winning his own battle. Breathless panting formed the backdrop to all the other scary noises, so great was the effort put in by both sides. Tank's shoulders felt as though they'd been dipped in lava, they burned so much. For the merest instant he thought of Steel and his heroics beneath the boiling magma at the laminium b
all stadium. Screwing his eyes up tight, he pushed with all his might, the thought of one of his dragon idols inspiring him to greater deeds. As the scrum moved forward faster than previously, one of his teammates grabbed the oddly yet beautifully shaped ball and tossed it with great power, back through his legs. Tank's body automatically eased off, knowing that the scrum was about to break up. It was a shame, because if it hadn't, he might have seen the rather flagrant abuse of the game's law, in the form of another mighty punch, head his way. He didn't, and he hit the muddy ground with such force that some time later, just after the match had finished, the groundsman's son would remark to his daddy while strolling across the pitch that he'd found a hole that was, "exactly the same shape as a nose." Dismissing it as the ramblings of an over excited young child, it was a shame the groundsman never checked, because his son was right. And if he'd known what to look for, he might have seen the rest of Tank's face imprinted in the mud as well.

  * * *

  If Tank had been conscious, which at the moment he wasn't, and had looked over in the direction of the lacrosse pitch, he'd have seen his friend weaving her rather special blend of magic, and not the sort the three friends had to keep secret. Running full tilt towards her opponents' goal, ball cradled in the head of her stick which was twisting and turning as though it were cursed, the enigmatic and beautiful Richie Rump was on a mission, as always when playing lacrosse. Dropping her shoulder one way, and then in an instant cutting back the other, the smallest of openings lay visible before her. A natural calling took over, instinct on its basest level. With a movement that seemed so slight and yet contained so much power, the ball shot towards the goal as if it had been discharged from a cannon. If the opposing keeper had been given all the time in the world, she still wouldn't have saved the shot... it was THAT good. Whirling round, Richie pumped her stick in the air, her teammates slapping her on the back as they all turned to run back towards their own half. It hadn't even reached half time and the Salisbridge team were already cruising at 4-0 up, much to the delight of the spectators, who were mostly regulars and either friends or family of the players. As the gentle breeze whipped her curly brown hair across her freckled cheeks, a sense of freedom and openness engulfed the female dragon. Letting it wash over her, she fed off it. A beaming smile cut her face in half, that is until a slight tinge in the background threatened to burst through. Despite being the star of the show, the one everyone wanted to be... the captain, the leader, the inspiration... it didn't seem to be enough. She wanted more... or was it something different? At first the feeling was unrecognisable. But it stirred a memory deep within her, a memory from the previous bonfire night, the one when Peter had nearly died fighting the dark dragon Manson. It had nothing to do with that, or the psychopathic dark dragon. Leaping out at her clear as day, just before the restart of the match, she had felt the exact same way looking at all the human parents with their children on that fateful night, the night she had spent snuggled up to Tank, watching the fireworks explode overhead, while Peter was systematically tortured, nearly to death, only yards away. She was feeling... JEALOUS! But of what? The revelation came as something of a body blow, but she had no time to dwell on where or why it had come to her, now, in the middle of a lacrosse match. Taking a deep breath, and with the determination that was part of her natural make up, she sprinted off in search of the ball, pushing the thoughts from her mind, desperate to make the opposition pay even more than they had already.

  * * *

  Tank had been carried off by two of his team's substitutes, both of whom now felt as though they'd played an entire game, despite not having come on yet. Having recovered from his momentary lack of consciousness, something only he seemed aware of, which, in his mind was a good thing, because he was determined to go back on and make amends. How, he wasn't sure... but he would, one way or another.

  * * *

  At half time on the hockey pitch, both teams were enjoying the ancient tradition, which had turned into something of a rarity, of having delicious orange segments to sustain themselves, along with the usual assortment of liquids, of course. It was a nice touch, Andy the captain of the second team thought, and most visiting teams seemed to appreciate harking back to a bygone era.

  * * *

  Having scurried back into the bar as soon as the whistle blew for half time, hoping he hadn't spotted her, Janice was pretty sure she hadn't been caught up until now, and today seemed no different. Having been very careful, she even had an excuse prepared. "Just checking to see if any normal glasses have been taken outside, instead of the usual plastic ones that are supposed to be exclusively used out here." That was her justification, and if the need ever arose, that was what she would be sticking to.

  * * *

  Determined to put as much distance between him and it as he could, he'd headed south west on the main road after leaving, believing that to be the best route to get as far away as possible, in the quickest amount of time, and he'd been right. It had been just under an hour since he'd screamed out of the car park, much to the dismay of everyone there, and in that time he'd covered nearly fifty miles. Safe, probably ten times over from what little he knew, that didn't stop his need to keep on driving. Now he was hurtling along a busy dual carriageway, having slowed from ninety miles an hour to a more sedate seventy, for fear of attracting police attention. Even if they pulled him over, there was nothing to find: no incriminating evidence, nothing untoward in the car itself, nothing in his background to suggest anything unusual. With every passing mile, a weight lifted from his chest; the stress blew itself out of the driver's open side window. All in all, things were looking pretty good, he thought, pulling back into the nearside lane, having just overtaken another of those pesky caravans. Flicking the car's indicator back into the off position, thinking about just how pointless caravans actually were, suddenly... BOOOOM!!!!!!!!

  * * *

  Watching yet another posh car overtake him as he carefully maintained control of his car and the heavy load it was towing, he could almost see the driver of the BMW thumb his nose up at him as he did so.

  'Ahhh... a BMW, what a surprise," he thought, as the sparkling black car cut back in front of him, some two hundred or so yards ahead. In the blink of an eye the pristine black vehicle, without warning, turned from a glinting, speeding beast, into a splintered, ravaged fireball. Depressing the brake pedal hard, causing his wife to spill her drink in the seat next to him and his children in the back to cry out in fear as they lurched forward, their safety belts preventing anything more than a nasty shock, the driver and his family managed to pull up just short of the deadly ball of flaming metal that now encompassed both sides of the carriageway, all to the sound of squealing brakes from the traffic behind them. Being a teacher at a primary school, a job he loved dearly, he had of course been trained in both adult and child first aid. But even without that training, just by looking at the fireball, the plumes of poisonous black smoke that spiralled into the air from it and the splintered wreckage strewn all around him, he instantly knew that nothing on this or any other planet could have survived what had just happened. In weeks to come, the police would of course investigate. But by then it would be too late. Their resources would be stretched, and they would have more important things to keep them occupied.

  * * *

  On the wooden desk inside the locked chairman's office, red digital numbers continued to count down, in unison with all the other devices across the world. Time was running out. The hour was nearly at hand.

  * * *

  During the half time break, Tank had successfully pleaded his case with the coach and had been allowed to line up for the second half, the other players glad to have him back, particularly for his attitude, the encouragement and belief he gave and his own self control. Little did they know that his renowned willpower had all but got up and left. "Deeply disappointed," would have been his description of how he currently felt, strong words indeed for such a mild mannered dragon. Worse still was the fact
that he was looking to get even with the huge man mountain of a human opponent who'd laid him out only a short time ago. In his mind, it was just a matter of how he went about it. Harking back to something Richie always droned on about, something he normally didn't agree with, her words came flooding back to him.

  "Sometimes," she would say, "you have to take one or two of these humans down a peg or two, purely for their own good."

  'Well,' he thought, striding purposefully back onto the pitch, 'this one needs taking down, and it'll be more than a couple of pegs by the time I've finished with him.'

  * * *

  Back on the Astroturf, Peter's team were struggling to overcome a 1-0 deficit, with the attack that had led to the goal being almost a carbon copy of the one where Peter had come to the rescue at the last minute, buoyed by Janice's presence on the sideline. Once again, the young, inexperienced, cocksure attacker had been robbed of the ball instead of passing to any number of his teammates, trying to show off with a fancy dribbling move that had ended in embarrassment. Two things made it worse than the first time. One, was the youngster's lack of movement after losing the ball, not even attempting to run back to try and make amends for his stupidity. Two, was the fact that because so many of his team had been up in support, it had allowed their opponents to counter with speed and relative ease, something even Peter had been unable to prevent, and had ended with the conceded goal. This time even the unflappable, and normally full of praise captain, Andy, had seen enough, immediately substituting the talented youngster with a less gifted but much harder working player, vowing not to bring the moody and selfish player back on under any circumstances, for the rest of the match.