Bentwhistle the Dragon Box

by Paul Cude

  Carefully, he stood, his legs shaking, partly from his emotional state, partly because he'd been sitting down for so long. Rummaging around in his pocket, eventually he found his keys. Holding them up to undo the door, it was then that a sudden need struck him. He needed to go there... NOW! He needed to see what was being done. He needed to see her one last time. He needed to say... GOODBYE! Turning, he sprinted down the path, vaulted the gate, crossed the road to his car and, sliding into the driver's seat, he turned the key in the ignition before shooting off down the road like a Formula One racing car exiting the pits.

  Tank, too, had thanked the police officer politely for the lift, before going straight into his rented house. But he was just passing through. A matter of seconds later, he found himself back in the comforting surroundings of the dragon domain, heading towards the monorail station, which would whisk him off to the master mantra maker in no time at all.

  * * *

  Feeling like a powerless teacher in a classroom of badly behaved children, he watched as they still argued, realising that he was starting to lose his temper, never a good thing, particularly when you're aware that it's happening and still can't do anything about it. It probably had something to do with the fact that he'd just found out about the bomb in Salisbridge, at some kind of club or other. When the dragon had come in and told him, he nearly went into meltdown. Luckily, the aide had quickly added that the blast had been contained, by a mantra no less, and that there were no reported casualties. On hearing that he'd breathed a huge sigh of relief. Because although he didn't have any offspring (the chance had never really presented itself, and he always seemed to be on one mission or another) getting to know his best friend's grandson in the way he had, made him feel... special. And although he wasn't a father, in a lot of ways he felt much like he imagined a parent would towards the young dragon, even in some regards towards his friends, and was determined to do everything he could to keep them safe from whatever threat the dragon community now faced. After all, hadn't they been through enough already?

  * * *

  Driving in through the gate, that's as far as he got before a very official man wearing a dark suit and grey trench coat stepped out in front of his car, signalling him to stop. Peter did so, knowing that this was one of the King's Guards. As the man headed round to the driver's side, he was staggered to see the huge hoarding screens erected around where the clubhouse had previously stood. Winding down the window, he listened to what the man had to say.

  "I'm sorry sir, the whole site is off limits to everyone I'm afraid," declared the dragon in disguise.

  "I need to be here. One of my friends, she was caught up in the blast," he pleaded.

  "I think you must be mistaken sir," replied the man, smiling. "Nobody was caught up in the blast. There were no casualties or fatalities."

  Starting to lose his patience, he leant out of the window, to get right up in the dragon's face, feeling the need to clear a few things up.

  "Listen to me. I was one of the two that applied the mantra that contained the blast."

  That certainly changed the dragon's outlook.

  "My friend, the dragon known as Richie Rump, and a human, were here when the explosion occurred, directly beneath the clubhouse... in the cellar I think. They were both caught up in the blast, of that much I'm sure."

  "And you saw this happen?"

  "Yes," he replied. "From right over there," he ventured, pointing to a spot at the edge of the car park.

  "But the report we had stated that nobody was even hurt, let alone caught up in the explosion. Why didn't you tell us sooner?"

  "Because," growled Peter, "both of us were locked up in a police cell, which incidentally is where I've just come from, having spent the best part of fifteen hours there, because the officers on the scene mistakenly thought that we'd blown the damn thing up."

  "Oh," was all the disguised dragon could say. Taking a step back, the guard closed his eyes, clearly having a telepathic conversation with somebody. It didn't take long.

  "Park over there," he ordered. "Then I'll take you through to my supervisor."

  After parking his car, he was led through a tiny little entrance at the bottom of one of the massive screens, into the sealed off area around the crater. Those dragons who'd been working to move some of the rubble at the bottom of the hole all stopped and were now looking in his direction. Another dragon, who Peter assumed was in charge, came over. Briefly he explained what had happened, down to the last detail, with the dragon in charge thinking long and hard about just what to do, all the time scratching his chin. After some time, he ordered those around him to redouble their efforts, telling them that the crater was not fit to be the resting place of any dragon, least of all the one he'd heard about.

  Standing safely out of the way, Peter watched the impressive rubble moving feats going on all around him, not knowing what to expect. Would there be enough for him to identify her? Would there just be the odd body part or two? To some degree it frightened him, but on another level he just knew he had to be here, if for no other reason than to give himself some sort of closure.

  * * *

  Tank, meanwhile, was in the middle of a dressing down, and was loving every minute of it. Ranting and raving in the only way he knew how, the old shopkeeper was still going on about "how worried" he'd been, "how just a short message would have been sufficient," about "who was going to make sure he had the right medication," and how "it was all very inconvenient."

  Almost smiling, knowing that this dressing down was Gee Tee's way of showing that he cared, yes, he was worried, more so than he was letting on by the looks of things, and not for all the selfish reasons that he proffered. But Tank could see from his body language and the look in his eyes, that what really scared him was the thought that he'd been caught up in that explosion. It was then that he remembered Richie, her brown curly hair, her freckly complexion, her lack of inhibitions and the fun loving way in which she lived her life. His train of thought was interrupted by the old shopkeeper.

  "Are you alright? You must know I don't mean everything I say."

  Tank nodded, his face full of sorrow.

  "Then what is it, youngster?"

  "It's Richie, she was caught up in the explosion. She's dead!"

  It was all Gee Tee could do to stay on his feet.

  "Dead, you say?" he uttered softly.

  Tank nodded, the tears welling up in his eyes. He tried to hold it back, but with very little success.

  "I'm sorry youngster. I know how close the two of you were."

  Tank nodded, unable to speak, while the old shopkeeper thought carefully about what to do. Over the course of his incredibly long life, he'd found himself in this position on a few occasions, and while most thought him uncaring, devoid of emotion and rather self obsessed, those close to him knew otherwise. Wrapping a large, flimsy dragon wing around his former apprentice, the master mantra maker ushered him into a chair in the workshop and asked him to recount exactly what had happened, hoping that this would help unburden his young... friend.

  * * *

  Standing and watching for just over an hour as the mountain of rubble and debris, that would normally have taken days to excavate with human machines, was sifted through carefully and methodically, he wondered just how long he'd have to wait and if they'd find anything at all. After all, he'd witnessed the sheer extraordinary raw power of the explosion, enhanced by the laminium. It would have been no real surprise, to him at least, if every last trace of his friend had been wiped from existence. Abruptly, a cry from one of the mantra using dragons startled him out of his thoughts. Other dragons working alongside finished moving material they currently had hold of, before moving to join their colleague. Skirting around the edge of the crater until he reached the gathering of dragons who were all staring intently down into the large gaping hole, Peter followed their gaze, having to enhance his eyesight with more than a little of his magical power. When he did, he let out an almighty gasp. Th
ere, poking out from beneath a huge chunk of rubble, were two arms.

  'No, hang on a minute,' he thought. 'Not two arms. Three arms!' By now, the dragons around him had sprung swiftly into action, just like the cohesive unit they were. Two of the dragons held all the debris back on both sides of the area with the bodies in, while at the same time one of the other dragons gently lifted up the rocks on or around the twisted corpses. Once the wreckage had been removed, their leader used his magical abilities to levitate out the two broken, battered and bloodstained carcasses. Gently, he lowered them onto an area of finely cut grass off to one side, as the whole group moved to gather round the two blast victims. It seemed like the right thing to do. Looking down at the two lovers, side by side, for that's who they were, he assumed it had been Tim in the cellar with her, and he was proved right, not that he took any comfort from it. Lying there, perfectly still, their pale faces in total contrast to the blood soaked clothes they wore, they reminded him of the story of Romeo and Juliet. Part of him thought how fitting it was that she'd died with her human lover, sure she'd have thought it a suitable way to go. Swallowing awkwardly, thinking about just how short her life had been cut, it made him sad to his very core.

  And then it happened. A racking cough of epic proportions, followed by a huge mouthful of blood, shot out of Richie's bruised and cut mouth. Instinctively they all took a step back, at first anyway. But these were well trained dragons, trained for nearly anything... any eventuality. Once again, with a professionalism that would put any human to shame, they launched into action. Drawing out his mobile phone, much as a cowboy would draw his pistol, the leader started speaking into it, telling whoever was on the other end to "initiate medical protocol three, at Salisbridge District hospital." To most it would mean very little, but Peter understood only too well, as the very same thing had been implemented for him after his battle with Manson on that cold November night. Right at this very moment, a room deep in the bowels of the hospital was being readied, shifts and rotas were being changed, dragons of all sorts were being moved like chess pieces on a board, into strategic positions. Just as the leader said the words "dispatch an ambulance," a sickly coughing sound erupted from the other body, followed by a mouthful of vomit.

  "NO, make that two ambulances," the leaded screamed into the phone. All the time, Peter stood watching in complete and utter amazement.

  'She's alive,' he told himself. 'She's alive!'

  * * *

  Both ambulances duly arrived, each staffed by dragon paramedics. The two survivors were quickly carried on board, having already received the benefit of over a dozen well crafted healing mantras. Peter had wanted to travel in the ambulance with Richie, but he hadn't been allowed, so instead followed in his car, breaking the speed limit just trying to keep up. In the end he lost them, but it didn't matter because he knew their final destination.

  After parking his car, he sprinted through the main entrance, fairly certain of how to find the obscure area in which they were being treated. As he did so, it suddenly occurred to him that Tank needed to know what had happened. Finding himself a quiet corner of the gleaming white corridor, he phoned his friend. Typically, he couldn't get through.

  'He's gone straight to see Gee Tee, I bet,' he thought, not blaming him for one second. Momentarily, he thought about what to do next. Despite sporadic mobile reception areas underground, the coverage was subject to change all the time. In the past he'd managed to reach his friend at the Mantra Emporium, once or twice, but knew that it was more than a little hit and miss. So he decided to send a text, knowing that the instant there was a signal, the message should shoot straight through to his phone. Thoughtfully, he typed in: RICHIE FOUND IN CRATER. BADLY HURT BUT STILL ALIVE. MEET ME AT SALISBRIDGE HOSPITAL ASAP. PETER. Sending the message off into the ether, he tried hard to remember the maze of corridors and passageways that would lead him to where he wanted to go.

  * * *

  It felt good to have let it all out, get it all off his chest, so to speak, knowing full well that's what the old shopkeeper had intended all along. Not only was he mantra smart, but he was people, no... dragon smart as well, thought Tank, waiting for the kettle to boil in the tiny little kitchen off to one side of the shop floor in their place of work. Just as he was about to pour the steaming hot water into both giant mugs, filled a quarter of the way up with the blackest looking charcoal you've ever seen, the back right pocket of his trousers started to vibrate.

  'Let me guess,' he mused, pulling out the phone. 'More rugby related nonsense. It's a shame they didn't bother to phone me; at least that way I could tell them that there's now nowhere to coach... that it's all been destroyed.' Phone in one hand, one of the mugs in the other, he depressed the button to read the text with his nose. Tumbling precariously to the floor, spinning like an out of control fair ride, Gee Tee's favourite mug splintered into a thousand pieces across the dirty tiled floor. Stunned, he was unable to believe what he'd just read, well... for about a second anyway. After that, he moved with all the speed he'd been blessed with, first telling the old shopkeeper what had happened, next making his way back to Salisbridge with all the haste he could muster, all the time silently praying that she'd pull through.

  * * *

  Ending up sitting on a blue plastic seat mainly made up of holes, one from a row of four, Peter despised the dark and dreary corridor well beneath the main hospital building. They had refused him entry; this was as far as he'd been allowed to go. Many times over, he'd tried to explain who he was and what had happened, but it had all fallen on deaf ears. Hours had passed, well... about three anyway, and still they wouldn't tell him anything. Rubbing his longer than usual stubble with both hands, he gazed aimlessly at the notice board on the wall opposite, wondering what else he could do. It was then that a familiar shape came flying round the corner at the far end of the corridor.

  "Tank!" shouted Peter.

  Puffing, panting and sweating profusely, Tank doubled up in front of his friend, just about managing to get out a "Hi."

  Letting his best mate catch his breath, grateful to have some company in this fruitless situation, Peter sat back, wondering exactly what the doctors were doing.

  "How is she?" asked the strapping rugby player, once he'd recovered a little.

  "I don't know. They won't tell me anything."

  "Why the hell not?" replied Tank, absolutely furious.

  "I don't know. They won't tell me why they won't tell me," explained Peter as best he could.

  "Well, we'll soon see about that," announced Tank firmly, stalking off towards the nearest member of the King's Guard, further down the corridor.

  Trailing in his wake, Peter hoped they'd find out more about their friend. In the end though, it didn't happen. It took the appearance of four guards before Tank grudgingly made his way back to the row of blue seats. As the two friends sat in comparative silence, wondering just what was going on, Peter hit on an idea, well... more like an act of desperation. When Peter had been alone with him at his private residence, the king had given the young hockey playing dragon a telepathic way to get a message to him, should he ever need to do so. It was extremely private, and only something a few dragons knew about, and he'd been thinking about using it for a while now, but with everything that was going on across the globe, he wasn't sure it was such a good idea to try and disrupt what he knew would be a very busy, stressful and crucial time for the monarch. That and the fact that he felt more than a little selfish, using his connection to the king just to see if he could pull a few strings and find out what was going on with Richie. But as time ticked away in the airless corridor where both friends sat, the third of their little trio lying tortuously close in a room nearby, he came to a decision. Using his consciousness in much the same way as he would to download his favourite paper to fire off the message, he kept it short and to the point, hoping it would be enough.

  * * *

  Hours passed, with the two friends still sitting in the same place, only the Kin
g's Guards for company. They'd both found it odd that not a single noise had come out from the room that Richie and Tim were supposedly in. Not the hushed tones of a doctor, the sound of equipment being moved around, or the rustling of bed sheets. It was most disconcerting.

  Two hours or so later, the guards had a scheduled shift change, and were replaced by much sterner looking, human shaped dragons, with the one in the middle of the corridor nearest to the two friends having a permanent snarl drawn across his face. It was hard to take your eyes off him. Peter, fearful of anyone in authority, tried his best not to stare. Tank, not so much. After only a matter of minutes, said guard came swaggering down the corridor towards the pair of them. Peter swallowed uncomfortably. Tank continued to stare.