Chapter 17: CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Bill Tallard looked behind him, the feeling that someone was following him settling uneasily in his mind. Why had he asked the cub that question? What was her name? Lhorhanha? He had just blurted it out, just because he was curious about the genitals of Tereskàdians. Sure, he had seen photographs, diagrams in various books, but that wasn’t the same thing. It wasn’t that he was hung up on that particular aspect of the aliens. He was curious about their fur, their tail, the poison in their claws. The idea to write a book about these aliens from a human viewpoint had come to him a while ago, and one of the ways to get close to them was taking a part, however small, in Creighton’s picture.

He could have asked an adult, male or female. What would they have said? It wasn’t like their private parts were private, at least not when it came to male cubs. They thought nothing at all of bringing out their genitals. It’s normal, one of the adult Tereskàdians had told him. They had to realize that humans weren’t used to sights like that.

He whirled around just in time to see four cubs scurrying out of sight behind one of the trees. They had to be following him. That didn’t surprise him; these aliens had the ability to communicate with each other through their whistling dragons. It wouldn’t have surprised him if the entire village realized what he had done.

He walked further into the forest, checked behind him occasionally to see if the cubs were still following, but there was no one behind him. What was wrong with him? So he had asked the cub if he could see it. It wasn’t like he wanted to do something to her, no way. Maybe he should confront her parents and admit everything, bring it out into the open. They had that ability, so why bother to lie?

He stopped, rubbed his hands in the side of his jacket. Sweating, even though it was rather cool today. What would they do to him? He’d be a marked man, marked with the stigma of being a sexual offender, despite the innocent question. What if Lhorhanha had been a male cub, penis out, testicles out, everything showing? What was he supposed to do then? Was he supposed to close his eyes because he wasn’t supposed to see it? Did the fact that the female genitals was hidden underneath the tail prevent anyone from seeing it?

His mind whirled like a merry-go-round. He wished he were somewhere else right now, far, far away, back in Calgary, back in the theater where he had starred in an Ibsen play that ran for just seven evenings. He had received positive reviews, but the rest of the cast had not been so lucky. The critics pounced on them mercilessly, saying their acting lacked style and substance. Style and substance. What the hell was that supposed to mean? The critics wouldn’t know style and substance if it bit their balls.

Harold Creighton was calling the cast to order, his voice carrying into the forest. He stopped, looked back at the village. He was still young, so much to do, so many places to go. He had loftier goals in mind, but the cub was standing in his way. He thought of something he instantly regretted. Instead, he would turn around, go back, apologize to the cub, to the parents, promise never to do it again.

Promise. They took that seriously. A broken promise was a lie, he had read that in one of their books.

The farther he walked into the forest, the less Creighton’s voice came back to him, asking, cajoling, demanding, most of his words directed at Benita Corovelli.

Creighton bellowed his name, but he didn’t acknowledge it. Let them wait, let them shoot around him, right now he didn’t care. What did they need him for? Creighton was more interested in that whistling dragon; he was the star of the movie, wasn’t he?

He stood there, looking into the forest, hands at his sides. A sudden sound rang out behind him, but he didn’t turn around. Who was there? He didn’t care.

How sweet death would be right now?

“They’re waiting for you.”

Fenwick. The special effects guy. Head of that department. Rather useless up here in the cold gray world of northern Ontario.

“I suppose you’ve heard,” he said.

“Everyone has.”

“She could have just kept quiet.”

Fenwick came around to face him. “Do you know what you’ve done, Bill?”

“Do you know there are male cubs out here... adults even, who have their dicks hanging out there for all of us to see.”

“That’s not the point,” Fenwick said. “You don’t ask a cub if you could see her privates.”

“I was curious, that’s all. I read about it, so I wanted to see it.”

“You want to be known as a pedophile? That’s stupid.”

He pushed Fenwick, palms slapping against the special effects man’s chest. “Don’t call me stupid. I was... I was...”

“You’ll have to apologize to the family.”

“I thought about that. I don’t know if I can.”

“Fine.” Fenwick took a couple of steps back. “You stand here and think about it, and when you’re ready, you come back to the village and you apologize. You know what? You do that, and no charges will be laid.”

He chuckled. “You don’t expect me to believe that, do you? That RCMP guy is in the village right now, waiting to arrest me for... what do they call it? Sexual misconduct, something like that.”

“He’s here to investigate Arak’s murder.”

“I’ll think about it. Tell Creighton to give me five... ten minutes.”

Creighton was furious when Fenwick told him what Tallard had said. “Fuck him. We’ll write him out of the picture.”

“Just ten minutes,” Fenwick reiterated.

“This is costing me money,” Creighton said. “I don’t intend to stay here forever, you know.”

They waited. Cast and crew hovered around the director like chicks around a mother hen, waiting for word to continue shooting. Creighton glanced at his watch, announced that ten minutes had passed a long time ago, and for all he cared Tallard could fuck himself till the cows came home. Someone to his right remarked that maybe he was fucking cows right now, but someone else reminded him there were no cows in or near the village.

“Let’s shoot the scene on Page 72 and go to Page 77,” Creighton said. “That means you, Benita and you Cal.” He rolled his eyes, forced himself to smile. “It starts with you in Cal’s arms, Benita.”

It took a while to get the scene ready because Benita wasn’t standing in the right spot, and Cal forgot to wear the cap he had been wearing all along. The continuity girl almost missed that, and when she pointed it out at the last second, Creighton yelled at her to watch what she was doing. The girl looked at the script, at her notes, muttered ‘sorry.’

“ ‘Oh, please-a, kinda sir,’ ” Benita read, looking into Cal’s brown eyes.

“Cut, cut, fucking cut,” Creighton yelled. “Benita, can you please lose that Eye-talian accent?”

“It is so hard, Harold.”

“You’re just reading the fucking lines, you’re not acting.” He tossed the script on his director’s chair. No one made a move when it slid to the ground.

“She’s trying,” Cal said.

“And you... you stop standing there like a fucking wooden soldier. Put some life into your acting.”

“Well... I... I...”

“Let’s do it again,” Creighton barked. “If you must use an accent, Benita, use one of those high-falutin’ English ones. That would fit in nicely with the dragon theme.”

“ ‘Oh, please, kind sir,’ ” Benita said, following the script, “ ‘I must get away from this village. I am so afraid of that mean old dragon.’ ” She looked at Creighton for guidance, but he just urged her on.

“ ‘I cannot take you,’ ” Cal said. “ ‘I am but the king’s messenger.’ ”

“ ‘Oh, please.’ ” The back of her hand touched her forehead, and she sighed, as if she were breathing her last breath.

“ ‘You must tell your father then.’ ”

“ ‘He must not know.’ ”

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“ ‘Forshooth...’ uh... wait.”

“Forshooth. Forshooth,” Creighton barked. “What the hell is a ‘forshooth?’ ”

“I’m sorry,” Cal said. “Do I have to say it? It sounds so... ancient.”

“Of course it does,” Creighton said, exasperation evident in his voice. “This takes place during Arthur’s time, you know, way back when. That’s why you’re wearing those costumes, and talking the way you are.”

“All right,” Cal said. “I’m ready.”

“Let’s take it from the ‘forsooth.’ ” Creighton emphasized the word.

“Stop the movie,” Daniel de Montelier called.

“What the fuck?” Creighton waited until Montelier had approached him. “You mind telling me what the hell this is all about?”

“It’s that young man... Bill Tallard. He’s dead.”

“How...?”

“Apparently he killed himself. I guess when somebody wants to do it, they just... do it. Some of those... cubs found him. It’s not a pretty sight.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Creighton said. “I might write a nice family comedy. First that old guy, and now one of my young actors. What next?”

“I was with him last,” Fenwick said. “I talked with him, and the last thing he wanted me to tell Creighton to give him five... ten minutes. I had no idea he was going to kill himself.”

“Suicide doesn’t concern me right now,” Montelier said. “I’m still concerned with Arak’s death. He was murdered, and the killer is right here, in this village. I know it’s not one of those aliens, so who does that leave?”

“I’m trying to shoot a movie here,” Creighton said.

“From what I’ve seen, I’ve watched better movies shot by university students,” Montelier said, “but that’s just my opinion.” He walked, stopped, turned. “You’re still my number one suspect, Creighton.”

“Fine. I’m not going anywhere.”

Fenwick whispered. “Son of a bitch.”

“I’d like to take that Mountie hat and wrap it around his throat,” Creighton said.

“Are you going to finish the scene.”

Benita and Cal were standing side by side, waiting. Was he making eyes at her, and was that dreamy look in her eyes directed at him. Benita Corovelli and Cal Torrence, the two leads in his new picture.

“Oh shit,” he said quietly. “I just don’t feel like it anymore. Maybe later tonight we can shoot the scene on Page 83. We should be ok once the street lamps come on.”

“Mr. Creighton...”

“Don’t talk to me anymore, Fenwick. I have to figure out what to do about Tallard’s scenes. He didn’t have to do much, but his scenes were important.” He tapped his lips with one finger as he studied Fenwick. “Didn’t you use to act a few years back.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I never kid.”

“I’m thirty-three years old.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’ve still got that youthful look. Could pass for a teenager with a bit of makeup.”

“I don’t know...”

“I need you, Fenwick.”

“You need CGI. That’s my job.”

“Fuck the fire breathing dragon. I want you to take Tallard’s part.”

“What about the dragon?”

“We’ll use him as he is... fur, balls, and all.”

“He’s not a dragon, not in the sense we know dragons.”

“He has wings.”

“So you’re changing your mind again.”

“Yes, I am. I can do that. I wrote this movie, I’m putting up most of the goddamn money. I’m the one working my ass to the bones trying to direct this.”

“And where do I come in.”

“Page 87... tomorrow.”

“I don’t know the lines.”

Creighton thrust a copy of the script at him. “Learn them. You’ll be playing Benita’s brother. You’ll be the one who’s suspicious of Cal’s character.”

“Tallard was Cal’s rival, not Benita’s brother.”

“So I’m changing it.”

“Again?”

“Again... and again, if I have to. Get a good night’s rest, Fenwick. Tomorrow you’re going to be in front of the camera.”

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