Chapter 32: THIRTY ONE

Creighton sat in the director’s chair like a king on a throne, ready to tear out his hair. Whatever happened to the cast and crew that was supposed to shoot a film here? Cast and crew. Not the RCMP, not an Air Force Colonel, not an Air Force General. Who else was going to show up here? A revolving door in the middle of nowhere.

“The cast is ready,” Giselle Lambert said. She held the script. “Scene 42.”

“What? I thought that one was complete.”

“That was Scene 41. You need the one with the dragon, and then there’s the trek through the forest.”

“Yes, yes. Scene 42. Cue the dragon.”

“We’ll have to get in touch with Chandrha.”

“Do they always have to be together?” he complained.

“I guess so.” She opened the script. “He’s supposed to fly up and come plummeting down, injured.”

Chandrha trotted over, Jhevharel at her heels. The whistling dragon had spread his wings, ready to take off.

“Someone told me this morning that Jhevharel would be in one of the next scenes,” she said. “What do you want him to do?”

“Die,” Creighton said.

“What?” Eyes wide, mouth agape.

“I don’t mean actually die. I mean pretend. Have him climb up and then come down, you know, like he’s been shot.”

“We don’t pretend. Unless he’s injured while in flight he can’t just... fall out of the sky.”

“Didn’t you ever pretend when you were a kid... cub, whatever. Didn’t you ever play hunter?”

“That wasn’t play, that was real life.”

He scratched the back of his head. “What am I supposed to do now? The script calls for a dragon to fall out of the sky, splash into the lake...” He ran both hands down his cheeks. “Why can’t you aliens be like us? We play, we pretend, we become something else. You know Andrew Delmore? He’s been a priest, a cop... police officer, a mayor, even a drug addict. All pretend. That’s what the movie business is, pretend. When the actor goes in front of the camera, he becomes someone else, when he goes home, he’s himself again.”

“I don’t know what to say, Sen Creighton.”

“All right, if we have to... What does he like doing?”

“Flying... catching fish... he loves fish.”

He ran a finger across his lips, uttered a quiet, drawn out “Hmmm.”

She waited, tail still, arms at her sides.

“Is he hungry for fish right now, or do we have to wait?” The whistling dragon sat on his haunches, yawned. Remarkable animal. He wished his dog was that patient.

“All right,” he said, “we’ll have him act naturally. We’ll film him flying up, and he can dive into the lake and catch the fish. We’ll cut it off just before he dives... Does he go under water?”

“Yes. How else is he supposed to catch a fish?”

“Fine, fine. We’ll cut it off just before he goes under. Fenwick can fill in some CGI, and we’ll have a dragon plunging to his death.”

“What if something happens?”

“What can happen? This is all natural. It’s what he wants to do.”

A moment later Jhevharel had taken to the sky, flying high, almost beyond Creighton’s sight. The alien’s sight was a lot better than his, and Chandrha was seeing her whistling dragon clearly.

“Are you ready, Wilson?” he called to the cameraman.

“Ready, Mr. Creighton,” Wilson called back from behind the camera.

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“Tell your dragon to dive into the lake,” Creighton said to Chandrha. “Make him come down fast.”

“There you go again,” Chandrha said, the position of her ears, the flicking of her tail indicating anger. “I can’t make him do anything.”

“Ask him, suggest, I don’t give a flying fuck. Just make sure he dives into the lake.”

“Want me to film him coming out?” Wilson asked.

“No, you dolt, he’s gone under, he’s dead. He’s not coming up again in my film.”

Jhevharel was close to the trees now, and Creighton thought he’d fly between the trees, but he swooped above them, climbed up again.

“No, no, no,” Creighton yelled. “He’s not supposed to do that. Did you cut that, Wilson?”

“No, sir. I thought you said...”

Creighton stomped over to the cameraman, looked at the screen that showed the shots Wilson had taken with the portable camera. “He’s a dying dragon, Wilson. He dives into that water, he’s practically dead. D-E-A-D.”

“We can edit it.”

Creighton turned to Chandrha who had come to see what they were inspecting. “I didn’t like the way he came up again, but we can fix that. Is he going to catch that fish now?”

“He’s hungry.”

“All right, Wilson, let’s get this shot, and let’s get it right.”

Jhevharel cooperated fully by diving into the water, coming up with a large fish. Creighton didn’t know what kind it was, didn’t care. That part would be edited out.

When Jhevharel came down he hovered in front of Chandrha, and she drank. That drew a rather large crowd which Creighton didn’t like. Didn’t they have anything better to do? The day was still young, and he was eager to get started with the trek scene. He’d need Benita and Cal and Andrew for this scene. Andrew Delmore was here, waiting for his cue, but there was no sign of Cal and Benita.

Were they screwing again? Wouldn’t surprise him. He clenched his hands, stalked over to his chair, plunged into it. Damn that bitch. He had brought her here he had made her an actress, if that’s what you want to call it.

“What are you doing?” Fenwick asked beside him.

“I’m waiting for the two stars to finish fucking.”

“How do you know...?”

“I know, Fenwick, I know. Every time I don’t see them, I know they’re together in one of the rooms up there, and I can assure you, they’re not rehearsing their lines. Take a break, Delmore,” he called. “Who knows when we’re going to shoot next.”

“I’ll study the script.”

“You do that, Fenwick.” Said like a hungry shark. “I guess I should blame you for us being here.”

“You didn’t have to come. You were the one complaining about the furry dragon with the big prick. You were the one bitching ‘cause the Tereskàdians have to be with their whistling dragons.”

“God, I hate this fucking picture.”

“Then why are you making it?”

“I haven’t done diddly-squat. I know ‘Teen Monsters from Mars’ isn’t my magnum opus. I read the reviews. Worst picture of the year, worst director... Critics laughed at that movie, they laughed at me.”

“And you think this picture will put you in the big leagues?” Fenwick laughed, didn’t try too hard to suppress it. “Listen, Mr. Creighton, you’re a long way from the big leagues. You couldn’t direct if James Cameron or Christopher Nolan were standing at your side, giving you encouragement.”

Creighton stood up, faced Fenwick eye to eye. “You want to direct, big shot? You want to sit in this chair, tell actors what to do? I’m done, finished. You’re the fucking director.”

“I don’t want the job.”

“Then shut the fuck up.” He glanced at his watch. “Where the hell are they?”

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