Bentwhistle the Dragon Box

by Paul Cude

  The world had slowed, with the whole field caught up in a scene from a slow motion, high definition, action replay. Emma had stopped running, reeling in her stick, realising what had just happened. Richie stood frozen to the spot, too terrified to move. Attitude advanced menacingly towards the Salisbridge captain, raging anger swirling in her eyes.

  Many hundreds looked on, aware in the back of their minds, even though they had no knowledge of this wonderful game, that a turning point had been reached. Something was about to unfold. Expectation engulfed the crowd.

  Attitude's grimace transformed into the tiniest of grins as she put everything into powering the ball. It was a shot, certainly not a pass, just in front of her own goal, just aimed at a person rather than the netting between two sticks. That was some achievement. Also, probably the hardest and fastest one she'd ever let fly. A warm glow spread throughout her as something deep within was finally satisfied.

  The ex-dragon saw what was coming from only three or so yards away. She had no chance... NONE! Still caught up in the slow motion replay, she looked on as the perfectly formed, spinning ball exploded out of Attitude's stick, heading directly towards her right eye. Images zipped through her mind. Feelings as well. She was aware of the ring, continuing to burn the skin beneath her top. Briefly, she knew solace, but we're talking about units of time only usually reserved for Grand Prix teams. And then every fibre, nerve ending... atom, exploded into action, like an Olympic sprinter out of the blocks. By now the orange ball had covered over half the distance, looking more like an out of control, raging sun, than something used to play this totally addictive, adrenaline filled, all consuming sport. But angles had been calculated, power transferred, agility and strength maximised, almost as if her old self (not that she knew any different) had stirred from somewhere deep inside, unlocking exactly what she required, exactly when needed. In a whirling blur, her stick came up, well... more round actually, stopping directly in front of her face, the ball cannoning into the pocket of her stick, the leathers and nylon cord being stretched to their limits, straining to contain such power, and stopping only a fraction short of the surface of Richie's right eyeball. If the take that Attitude had made only moments before had been good (and it had been) then a whole new scale of brilliance was needed to describe this. 'Godlike' and 'out of this world' were but a couple of ways to express accurately what had just happened.

  Quite appropriately, in the blink of an eye, it was all over. The sharp shrill of the umpire's whistle reverberated across the playing fields as the enormous crowd let out a collective sigh of relief, nearly all not having realised they'd been holding their breath. Then the applause broke out, ringing all around them. It seemed almost inappropriate.

  There was still the matter of the standoff between Richie, who hadn't moved a muscle since catching the ball, and Attitude who stood close by, dumbfounded at being confounded. The umpire strode over purposefully. Players from both sides crowded around the two of them. Thrusting out a red card in front of him, towards Attitude, the umpire muttered, "You're done," before turning around and striding back. The spectators started flooding towards their cars, and for those on foot, the exit. Players from all the other games trudged back to their designated changing rooms, leaving two ladies lacrosse teams (minus Sue) on the field of play, angry and very much determined to find some answers. But before they could, Tina, the Salisbridge defender stepped forward, ripped Attitude's stick from her hand, threw it off to one side and pronounced,

  "That... was ASSAULT! I'm a police officer, and you're coming with me."

  The gathered players had been stunned before, but this was something else entirely. Before any of them could gather their thoughts, the Avengers' captain, the woman who Richie thought of as Pony Tail, stepped forward.

  "I don't know what your game is, but you can be damn sure it's not lacrosse. I've never been so disgusted in my entire life. YOU will NEVER play for us again. EVER!"

  Echoing their captain's sentiments, the rest of the team pitched in, the Salisbridge players all nodding their agreement.

  Tina grabbed Attitude by the arm, with a view to doing who knows what. But Richie stepped forward, at the same time dropping her stick carefully to the ground, afraid of her rising temper.

  "Hang on a minute," cried the ex-dragon. "I want to know what's going on!"

  Tina released her grip, momentarily at least. Richie stormed forward, invading her tormentor's personal space, right up close.

  "What's this all about?" she spat, jabbing a finger right in the middle of Attitude's chest.

  "Like you don't know," snarled her opponent.

  "I don't," replied Richie, genuinely surprised.

  Both teams gathered round, with Richie and Attitude smack bang in the middle of the circle, all the players waiting for an explanation, along with the ex-dragon.

  "You did it! YOU! You ruined our lives. And all for what? Just so that you could have some petty sort of vengeance," cried Attitude.

  By now Richie had taken a couple of breaths, most of the anger inside her having drifted away. She was calm, focused and determined to get to the bottom of what was going on.

  "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about," answered the Salisbridge captain. "Why don't you enlighten us all?"

  Attitude swallowed visibly, seeming to take in her situation for the first time. Surrounded by two teams of really... 'disappointed off' (see what I did there?), angry lacrosse players, with no place to run, and no place to hide.

  "It all started two weeks after we played you last year," she uttered.

  "When you say 'WE', you mean Bristol Fire Foxes (Attitude's former club)?"

  "Yes."

  "And...?"

  "We beat you in the last minute of a very niggly game, something you were most upset about," announced Attitude smugly.

  Richie could vaguely remember the game and her feelings associated with it, but it did all seem a bit of a blur, that and a lot of other things from her past.

  "Anyhow, a little under two weeks after the match, my brother, who at the time was living with my parents, had a job interview at Cropptech, here in Salisbridge."

  'Wow,' thought Richie. 'I didn't see that coming. I wonder where this is all going?'

  "After spending the whole day here, he returned home to inform us that he hadn't been successful. When we asked him why, he told us it was the fault of the woman in the training department, who plays lacrosse. That is you, isn't it?"

  Richie mumbled a "Yes," as her mind recounted what she'd just been told. She'd never been involved in any interviews... why would she? And as for being asked about her opinion on new staff, that had never happened either. This was all most odd.

  "So you see," continued Attitude, "you ruined our lives. My brother had been back living with my parents for over three years, putting great pressure and strain on them, both physically and financially, eventually leading to my father having to go into hospital not long after the job interview. So there, there it is... the reason I despise you, and your petty... hatefulness."

  Richie moved across to Emma and whispered something in her ear, causing the young forward to sprint off in the direction of the temporary changing rooms. Turning back to face Attitude, Richie rubbed her chin in front of what was, by now, a very expectant audience.

  "I've never had anything to do with interviewing people... NEVER! As you so rightly pointed out, I work in the TRAINING department. And as for the match... yes I was frustrated, but only for a few hours. After that, just like every other match... the frustrations are forgotten. And just so you know... I would never do what you've just accused me of. Not in a million years!" exclaimed Richie, a little undercurrent of anger running through her voice.

  Emma pushed through the throng of players, holding out Richie's mobile phone. Richie took it and thrust it in Attitude's direction.

  "PHONE HIM!" she ordered. "I want to hear all about this interview."

  "Uhhhh... I'm not sure I'll be able to ge
t hold of him," she replied nervously.

  "YOU WILL get hold of him. Because if you don't, things are going to go very badly for you, very quickly," threatened Richie.

  Attitude took the phone and dialled the number. Richie leant over and hit the speaker button. The ring tone echoed around the circle of players. Three rings later, a voice answered.

  "Hello?"

  "Hi Jeff, it's me... Lynn."

  "Hi sis," replied Jeff.

  "Ummm... I'm going to ask something a little bit strange now, but can you just do it without arguing please? It's really important."

  "Okay," replied Jeff.

  "You remember that interview you had last year with Cropptech? Could you just tell me about it again?"

  "Uhhh... okay. Sure."

  "You told me it was the fault of the lacrosse playing woman in the training department. What exactly did she say to you?"

  There was a very long pause. It was clear the line hadn't gone dead and that someone was still there, but it was all a little too quiet. Something wasn't quite right, a fact that everybody there had noticed.

  "Well?" demanded Attitude.

  "I... uh... uh... uh... didn't actually see that woman," stuttered Jeff.

  "What do you mean you didn't see her? You came home and told us it was her fault you didn't get the job. How can you not have seen her?"

  "Uhhh... well, it was this Manson fella. I spent most of the day with him, and right at the very end he told me he would have loved to have offered me the job, but that some lacrosse playing woman in the training department had put a stop to the whole thing. He sounded really genuine, and devastated that he couldn't take me on."

  As soon as Jeff had uttered the word 'MANSON', the ring around Richie's neck felt as though it had turned to lava and was burning its way through her pale flesh. So much so, that she couldn't help but look down to make sure that wasn't the case... and it wasn't, so she tried her best to ignore the strange feeling, but that wasn't the only one she was having. Currently, her skin felt as though it were crawling and her legs seemed a little weak. Strangely, that word conjured up images of Peter, but she wasn't sure why. Something just out of reach in her mind constantly slipped away as she tried to grab hold of it, wriggling and squirming, both wanting to be noticed and to conceal itself. In the end she gave up the chase, but it continued to nag at her and would do so for many hours to come.

  "Oh Jeff," said Attitude, barely holding it together, "that's not what you told me."

  "I know," replied Jeff. "Sorry."

  Rubbing her eyes, barely containing tears, Attitude, or Lynn as they now knew her to be, said,

  "I've got to go. I'll give you a call later."

  "Okay," whispered Jeff. "Is everything alright?"

  "Yeah, yeah. I'll call you later. Bye."

  Lynn cancelled the call and handed the phone back to Richie, all the time not able to look her in the eye.

  "I'm sorry," she said as she did so.

  "Not good enough," piped up Tina, once again grabbing her arm.

  Richie stepped in.

  "Just leave it. It's not worth it."

  "You don't want to press charges?"

  "No," stated Richie, deflated. "All I want is a shower, and to forget all about today."

  And with that, it was all over. Well nearly. The Avengers told Attitude in no uncertain terms that she would never play for them again, that she would have to find her own way back to Somerset, and then threw all her stuff out of the changing room. The disgraced lacrosse player was last seen walking into town, still dressed in her kit, looking very sad and lonely indeed.

  Both teams made their way to the local pub to join up with the other teams that had played that afternoon, where refreshments and food had been put on. It had been an extraordinary day, and Richie was just looking forward to hooking up with her friends Peter, Tank and Flash.

  41 Shake, Rattle And... Roll

  Somehow it seemed quieter than usual, something that given the prisoners' unchanging circumstances was unlikely at best, impossibly bad at worst. Inadequate lighting flickered, hissed and spluttered as the fast flowing, ice cold stream gurgled, guzzled, groaned and grumbled. Something extraordinary seemed to radiate from it.

  And then there was the old dragon. Which one? The one punished the most by this harsh environment, if that were at all possible, the one transfixed in his natural form... Bag O' Bones!

  Despite the freezer-like prison having an air of being quieter, the old dragon's wheezing, spluttering, moaning and hacking cough had grown worse over the last week or so. Even though there was no visible way to track the passage of time, Fredric had always been able to ascertain the passing of minutes, hours and weeks with astonishing accuracy, even without his dragon magic. By his estimate it had been eleven days, six hours and about forty minutes since that lowlife jailer had last appeared, inflicting devastating beatings on both dragons, while leaving the naga king to watch in silence. A little over three days later, Bag O' Bones, as both Fredric and the naga king had come to think of him, had started to sound much, much worse. Gradual at first, now the noises he made almost seemed too much for any one being to bear. Fredric glanced over to his fellow prisoner. For some time now he'd thought of them as comrades in arms, despite their clear differences and beliefs, bringing to mind that old dragon saying, 'My enemy's enemy is my friend.' Just as he did so, the naga king imperceptibly nodded back, a movement so small that unless you knew what to look for, you wouldn't have noticed a thing.

  It had been more than sixteen hours or so since their last telepathic communication, in which both had expressed their concern about not only the odd feeling of emptiness and change around the icy hellhole, but about the deteriorating condition of the suffering, ancient dragon guard nearby. Contact between both prisoners had grown a little more frequent, with short bursts preferred to longer periods of fruitless trying. A few important words or a well thought out question seemed to work much better than what had been going on before. Each of them worked out what they wanted to say, long before the toll taking exchanges took place, leading to things being smoother and quicker, as well as them being able to 'exchange' more often. Fredric found it somewhat frustrating, mostly because there was so much that he wanted to ask. The only thing he'd learnt so far that he considered of any real value, regarded the chains that bound the three of them in place. Supposedly they were unbreakable, and were able to constrain and retain both magical and physical powers to one degree or another. According to the naga king, no being in his race's history had ever escaped from them. Fredric was, he considered, ever the optimist, but this information hit him hard. Always assuming that eventually he'd break free, given enough time and provided he wasn't murdered by one of his captors before the opportunity presented itself, for the naga king to reveal this meant real trouble and sapped the life, and some of the hope, from him. Over the past few hours he'd considered all possibilities, almost recovered as he was from the jailer's beating. The only smidgen of hope that he'd come up with was that if the chains weren't too long, just maybe he could reach what they were attached to, release them, free the naga king and make their escape with them still on. In fact, before now he'd tried to dig his way into the solid wall of ice surrounding them, and had received many beatings just for his token efforts. But that was when the jailer frequented their prison far more often. Perhaps now, given the infrequency of the visits, any of which might be the last, it was worth making another attempt. He vowed to ask the naga king his opinion the next time they communicated.

  A noticeable vibration throughout the entire icy cavern shook him out of his reverie. Bag O' Bones was shaking violently, the tiny scarps of skin hanging from his broken wings flapping around furiously. It far exceeded any of the normal (if that's what they could be called) bouts of shivering, which they all suffered from at some point. This was something different. And all he could do was watch helplessly.

  Starting to flail about, the ancient dragon's talons, hands and head al
l waved around as if he were suffering from some kind of fit. And then he did... but of the coughing kind. It sounded disgusting, Fredric thought as he watched and listened. Abruptly it ended with a disturbing sound, just like that of a baby's rattle. More troubled than Fredric had ever seen him, the naga king looked over. Both turned back towards Bag O' Bones. Silence had overtaken him... FOREVER! With one final shudder, the tortured, ancient being toppled onto one side, rolled as far as the length of chain restraining him would allow, and was fortunate enough, finally, to leave the pain and sorrow of this unforgiving hellhole. Fredric promised himself he would remember, and that the dragon's pain and everything he'd gone through would someday count for something.

  42 Lost Puppy Looking For A Lead

  Perched on a high bar stool, nursing a cool diet Pepsi that reminded her of him, loneliness threatened to consume Janice, despite the crowded nature of the very popular pub. Having had no joy at finding Peter during all of the sports matches, she had reluctantly tagged along to the after match drinks and food that had been laid on at one of the nearest pubs. It wasn't odd for her to be there, at least she didn't think so; after all, she knew almost all the sports men and women, even if it was just to say hello to. Besides, most of the other bar workers from the sports club were there, as well as the manager himself. So it wasn't odd in any way, shape or form. What was peculiar though, was that Tank had still failed to turn up. It was practically the talk of the rugby section. From what she could gather from one of the very friendly rugby players (Hook, his name was, if she remembered correctly) the second XI had lost to the first, albeit by quite a narrow margin. The talk was that if Tank had been there, he would have been the difference between victory and defeat. His team were most disappointed, and more than a little concerned for his out of character no show.

  Taking the smallest slurp of her drink in the world (microbes would have downed more in one go), she wondered if Tank's absence was in any way related to the fact that Peter hadn't turned up. At first, she thought that she'd just missed him. It wouldn't have been an unreasonable assumption, not given the crowd of thousands that had turned up to support such a good cause. But on arriving at the pub, she'd bumped into Richie on her way to the toilets. 'Uncomfortable' would have been the very best that could be said about their encounter. After an awkward pause that lasted way too long, and with Richie just wanting to scoot past her in a very narrow corridor, Janice decided that she at least had to ask. So she had. She'd asked the young lacrosse player if Peter had turned up to watch, or was at least here in the pub. The answer had troubled her more than a little. Richie, despite clearly not wanting to engage Janice in conversation at all, had gone on to explain how Peter was supposed to have been there, and how unusual it was for him not to have been. That, combined with the missing-in-action Tank, led her to be concerned for both of them. Janice figured if Richie was more than a little anxious, then there was indeed something to worry about. After the painful conversation, Janice had done something that only a few hours ago would have seemed impossible for her to even contemplate. She'd phoned Peter. First on his mobile, and then, after no response and no option to even leave a message, at home. Getting through to his home answer phone, she even left a message asking him to call her back on her mobile as soon as possible, that's how worried she was. That was over ninety minutes ago, and still he hadn't returned her call. So here she was, afternoon dragging into evening, clinging onto her best hope of finding out what had happened to him and his friend, by hanging around the remaining sports players that still resided in the very noisy pub. A sense of real foreboding hung over her.