Chapter 1: ONE

Clarence Fenwick stood at ease in front of Creighton’s cluttered desk, feet slightly apart, hands behind his back. He wasn’t sure he had heard right, didn’t want to ask again. Creighton wasn’t the kind of man to repeat his words.

“Something wrong with your hearing, Fenwick?”

“No, sir.”

“I... need... a dragon.” The man’s eyes burrowed into him as he chewed on his fat brown cigar.

A dragon. For his next so-called epic. “What kind of dragon?” he asked.

Creighton took the cigar out of his mouth, waved it in front of Fenwick’s face. “What kind do you think? The kind that breathes fire... devastates villages... terrorizes young maidens... What am I paying you for, Fenwick? You’re in charge of special effects, so go make me a dragon.” He stuck the vile-smelling cigar back in his mouth.

Fenwick relaxed his stance, stepped back. “How big?” He had to force out those two words as he tried not to cough.

Creighton scanned the ceiling, contemplating his next statement. “How big? Oh shit, I don’t know. You’re the expert.”

Clarence Fenwick took two small steps back, edging closer to the door. He wanted to walk out of there before a bout of coughing incapacitated him. What the hell was this man smoking? Harold Creighton, he of the ever-present cigar, head of Creighton Studios, writer, producer, director of this sorry excuse of a movie. His one claim to fame, if you wanted to call it that, was a long forgotten feature called ‘Teen Monsters from Mars,’ a film that didn’t even show up on only a few critic’s radar screen.

The stifling atmosphere gave Fenwick an excruciating headache, and he prayed to whatever gods were watching that this meeting would be over soon. Creighton’s office wasn’t big enough to turn around in, let alone hold a meaningful conversation. He was well aware that Creighton ran the show, so he stood there, and let him ramble on about his movie, how this one would put him in the same league as Steven Spielberg and Martin Scorsese and the rest of the big shots. One word came to Fenwick’s mind.

“I want you to think about it,” Creighton babbled on. “I’m giving you three days to come up with a dragon that’ll make the audience piss their pants.”

With the budget we have for this fiasco, Fenwick thought, I’d be lucky to come up with a flying turtle.

The Honda Civic sat in the employee parking lot. As he unlocked the door, one of the stars of the film, the one Creighton had cast to play the Maiden in Distress walked up to him. ‘Star’ was perhaps the wrong word. Benita Corovelli had been cast in a few minor roles before Creighton plucked her off a street in Italy and brought her over here. She tested for the part, and Creighton hired her despite her inability to get rid of her heavy accent. Hired more for her looks than her talent, which wouldn’t fill a teaspoon. It was no secret that Benita slept with the writer/producer/director, and she’d sleep with anyone who helped her to the top of the acting profession.

“Hello, Clarence.” Voice soft and airy, like a small bird. As though she might ask him to make love to her.

He winced, scrunched up his face as he turned his head away from her. When he turned back to face her, he had a smile plastered on his face, a smile he was going to wipe off as soon as he was out of her sight. “Hi, Benita. Are you and Cal studying the script?” Cal Torrence co-starred in this film, playing Prince Whatever-his-name-was, Charming, most likely. Brave Prince Charming, fighting the evil dragon and rescuing the fair princess. Fair? Fenwick suppressed a chuckle. What a bunch of steaming horseshit. Benita Corovelli’s background was Italian, and her dark hair and swarthy complexion was a long way from anyone mistaking her for a fair princess.

“We are just taking a break,” she said. “I am on my way to lunch. There is a restaurant ten minute walk from here.” Her English had improved, he had to admit that, but they’d still have to dub her lines.

“How’s it going?”

“It is not easy being an actor,” she said. “Would you like to have lunch with me?”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I have to come up with a dragon.”

“Should not be too hard. You do all that... GCI stuff, no?”

“CGI... computer-generated imagery.”

“I love watching science fiction movies. I have seen a lot in Italy, but they are dubbed.”

You wouldn’t want to watch this one. “I have to go. Things to do, you know.”

“See you later, Clarence.”

She headed down the street, wagging her tail, if she had one. Mmm, not bad looking, he had to admit that. She’d be a good lay, if Creighton didn’t have his grubby paws all over her. Fifty-eight years old, married, with two grown children, although the thirty-year union was about to explode into tiny fragments and blow away.

Walking helped him think. He didn’t know how it would help him come up with a dragon that was different from everybody else’s, but if nothing else, he’d at least get a bit of exercise.

He walked along a quiet residential neighborhood. The month was October, autumn, comfortable mid-70’s. People mowed lawns, washed cars, chatted across fences. The kind of day that made you glad you were alive. That song from ‘Oklahoma,’ something about a beautiful morning, popped into his head.

He picked up a couple of donuts and a coffee at Magee’s Donuts. It wasn’t what anyone would call lunch, but he wasn’t that hungry. The time spent in Creighton’s office had curbed his appetite to the point where even the thought of two donuts didn’t appeal to him.

He bought the ‘Los Angeles Times’ at a newsstand, although he wasn’t interested in reading the paper, it was just a tool to help him kill the time. As he turned the pages, headlines leaped out at him, begging him to read. He ignored the pleas, skipped past the business section, the comics, the sports...

When he reached the last page, ready to bite into the last bit of his donut, a headline sprang out, threatening to take him by the throat and throttling him. He picked up his mug of coffee and poised it in front of his mouth. The steam waved a greeting.

Of course. That’s it, that is absolutely it. I won’t have to bother with any CGI.

He tossed the bag the donuts came in into a nearby waste receptacle, rushed back to the studio. Halfway there he slowed his steps. What if Creighton didn’t go for the idea. He was expecting a more realistic dragon, wasn’t he? Some dark color, maybe red or black, horns sprouting from its forehead, and spikes from its head to the tip of its tail, and fire spewing out of its mouth. Definitely fire. Its sounds a spine-chilling, earth-rumbling roar. It would chew up the scenery, and maybe Miss Corovelli as well. Yeah, that would make the audience piss their pants.

But what was this here? An alien creature with wings and fur. Fur, for God’s sake. Dragons were reptiles, weren’t they? Sure, from a distance you might mistake him for a dragon, but somehow that might not convince Creighton. The man was stubborn. He wrote the script, he put up the money with a little help from friends you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley, and he’d direct this miserable piece of shit, so he wore the crown, and he called the shots.

Besides, this creature was linked somehow with an alien that, for want of a better description, resembled a fox, with her reddish brown fur and that long, bushy tail carried along her back. The pair was inseparable; one would never be seen without the other. If Creighton decided to accept...

No, that was impossible. Maybe one day when he climbed the ladder to the top and made movies, he’d hire them and call them dragon and alien, and he’d make a film that would get rave reviews...

What was he thinking? This was today, this was reality. His world consisted of a movie studio which was nothing more than a piece of cheap real estate. Helmed by a man who had made one miserable feature so far, he was busy working on another gem of a failure. A man who would never improve himself, never strive for perfection, no matter how much the critics roasted his films.

And with Benita Corovelli as his leading lady his eyes would forever remain clouded.

He knocked on the door to Creighton’s office, holding the newspaper, wiped the taste of donuts with the back of his other hand. The door opened, and Creighton stood there, wearing a T-shirt and dirty jeans. The T-shirt was covered with a logo from his previous disaster, showing three scantily-clad girls, supposedly the teen monsters from Mars. ‘One Night Of Love And You Will Never Be The Same’ stood out in blood-red letters above the three characters. One night of that film, and you’ll want to puke.

“You got a dragon?” Creighton asked. “I hope your team is working on it.”

“I might.”

“Get in here. If you got something, I want to know about it.” The ever-present cigar sat idly between his thumb and index finger. Fenwick tried his best not to breathe in too deeply.

He stepped into the room, opened the newspaper to the last page. It showed a picture of two alien beings, side by side, and the headline ‘Village of the Aliens.’

Creighton grabbed the paper, skimmed through the article. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he said a moment later.

Creighton’s reaction didn’t surprise him. He had him gauged right down to the sneer on his face.

“I just thought...”

“No, Fenwick, you didn’t think. I want a dragon, a reptile, not some furry... alien thing. And what am I supposed to do with her?” He tapped the female’s image with the index finger not holding the cigar. “You think I can afford to have her under my feet, just because they have to be together? And... and.. she has a... what do they call it? Mate. She has a mate, doesn’t she? And kids... cubs? Uh huh. I read too, you know. There’s about a hundred and what? Fifty? Living up there in the wilds of Canada... in a village built just for them.”

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A hundred and sixty something. Families that had somehow found their way from out there to here a few years ago. “Maybe we can use him for long shots, and use CGI for close-ups.”

Creighton snorted like a pig in heat. “Fenwick Fenwick Fenwick.” He paused momentarily, bowed, as if chanting the name were some kind of invocation. “I don’t think so. This... animal doesn’t even breathe fire. Just because he has those wings doesn’t make him a dragon. How big is he? He couldn’t even scare my cat, let alone people who’re going to pay good money to see this movie.”

What people? He’d take Creighton’s objections one by one. “Does a dragon have to breathe fire?”

“Of course he has to breathe fire. That makes him a dragon.”

“It says here the alien... the... what do they call themselves? Oh, yeah. Tere... skàdians (Tĕ rĕ skay dĭ ens)... the alien and her... companion have poison in their claws.”

“Poison. Oh, right. That’ll go over well on the screen.”

“He’s the size of a large tiger. And... and he comes across even larger when he spreads those wings.”

Creighton put up his hands, waved them back and forth as if warding off some invisible monster. The cigar waving in his hand was momentarily forgotten. He stopped, placed it in the ashtray that sat on the poor excuse of a desk. A varnish and two coats of paint couldn’t have saved this second-hand piece of furniture. “Ooh, that’s so scary. I’m sure he’ll frighten a lot of people. Maybe he can whistle Yankee Doodle and send shivers up and down everyone’s back. That’s what they’re called, aren’t they? Whistling dragons? Whistling dragons.” The bushy eyebrows rose as he took another glance at the picture, shook his head. “You know something else? He’s a male, isn’t he? A mammal, and a male. You know what that means, don’t you? What if he decides to get horny in the middle of a shot? His big prick hanging out there for everyone to see. What am I making here, a porn film? I don’t do porn, Fenwick, I do sci fi, fantasy, horror. I give people excitement.”

You give people crap, Fenwick decided. “They keep their... um, equipment inside. Nothing shows, unless they have to... you know.”

“Doesn’t make me feel better.”

“How about a female? No... uh... prick.”

“Now a female.” Creighton sighed, shook his head. “You can’t give me a CGI dragon, can you? You’re a lazy, no good bastard, that’s what you are.”

“Mr. Creighton...”

Creighton waved his hand, dismissing him. “Go do some CGI stuff. Make a dragon. That’s what I’m paying you for. Forget about the aliens.” He rubbed his chin with his index finger. “Maybe we can get Sean Connery to do the voice. I loved him in Dragonheart.”

“He’s dead.” A talking dragon? Fenwick wanted to fade out right in front of Creighton, just like in the movies.

Fade to black.

The end.

“Can I at least talk with them?” he asked a moment later.

“What? Are you crazy? What the fuck is wrong with you? You think I’d let you go up to Canada to talk with a village full of aliens, just so you can get one of those animals to come down here to make a movie, when you know damn well I’ll refuse to let them anywhere near this picture.”

“Barrett can work on special effects.”

“Barrett is an asshole. The only reason I hired him is because his cousin is the daughter of one of my backers, and he needed a job. And... because he was good at designing things, he was plopped down in your department. He’s a pretty good go-fer, and a yes-man, but to lead the CGI department while your gallivanting around the snowy fields of Northern Canada is out of the question.”

“He can handle it.”

“Bah. He wouldn’t know how to handle his privates.”

“Let me talk with them. Give me... two weeks...”

“One week.”

“What?”

“One week. I don’t know why I’m doing this, but I’m giving you one week. Convince them to come down here, and we’ll see what develops. Now, let me tell you something, Fenwick. This does not... I repeat, not, mean that this... so-called dragon will be in this film, but you know what?”

“What, Mr. Creighton?”

“Maybe my next film will be another science fiction epic.’ He swept his right hand before him, like Moses parting the Red Sea. “ ‘Attack of the Furry Dragon.’ ” His eyes burrowed into Fenwick. “How does that sound?”

“It has possibilities.” Possibilities of failure, he amended.

‘Well, what are you waiting for, man? Go forth, and bring back the dragon and that... that...”

“Tereskàdian.”

“Yes... whatever.”

Fenwick left the office, carrying the paper, feeling like he had won the Super Bowl. At least Creighton had the sense to want to talk to the aliens. Alien, actually, since the whistling dragons couldn’t speak. Well, other than growls and snarls and purrs and... oh yes, that ability to whistle. It wouldn’t surprise him if the creature could whistle Yankee Doodle, and Dixie, and for that matter, all four movements of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.

He hummed the ‘Ode to Joy’ theme as he walked to his car. He’d get a plane ticket, fly to Toronto, and from there charter a plane, fly up to Northern Canada, to a place called Colbert’s Landing, in the province of Ontario. That’s what they had up there. Provinces, not states. He’d have to find out where this place was. The story in the paper didn’t provide the exact location, just that it was located near James Bay, and the nearest town was Moosonee. ‘Nearest’ was like saying Los Angeles was close to Bakersfield.

Now why would these aliens pick out such a God-forsaken spot to live?

In his apartment, he tossed the paper on the bed, packed the bare necessities for the trip. One suitcase should be enough. Even though Creighton had given him a week, he intended to get the job done in as little time as possible.

He zipped up the suitcase, sat on the edge of the bed. The story, and the picture caught his attention again. Her name was Chandrha (Chăn’ drah), her whistling dragon’s name was Jhevharel (Zhee’ vah rel). She was married... Married?... No, marriage was a human term. Her mate’s name was Rheôvhan (Ree’ oh vahn), and his whistling dragon’s name was Dharhonha (Dah’ roh nah). Parents of three cubs, but their names didn’t matter right now.

Chandrha. Rheôvhan.

Should have last names. Why didn’t they have last names?

Why did these aliens live so far from civilization? Why, indeed? Maybe if I were an alien, with the possibility of military humans coming to pick me up and take me to some secret location, the curious tossing questions left, right, and center, that’s where I’d want to live.

But then again, with that fur, living in a northern climate was probably the best option for them. And the northern area of Canada, in the far northern section of the province of Ontario, seemed an ideal environment for these aliens.

How familiar were they with the movie business?

Not very likely. They lived up there, isolated from the rest of the world, so they didn’t even know what went on anywhere else.

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