Chapter 5: CHAPTER FIVE

Creighton called him three days later, and it wasn’t the news he was waiting for. “I did it,” Creighton said, sounding like a kid who had just pitched a perfect game in little league. “I did it I did it I did it. You hear that, Fenwick? We’re coming up there... tonight. No, wait a minute. That place up there is about three hours ahead of us, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. I have eleven in the morning here.’

“It’s eight here. We’ll be there... oh, about five your time. Won’t be able to do much, but it’ll give me time to meet this dragon.”

Meet this dragon? What the hell was he talking about? Did he want to hold a conversation with Jhevharel?

“Have you told anyone in the village?” Creighton asked.

“Not yet?”

“What’s the matter with you? How would it look if we just dropped in there? You have to tell them.”

They’ll have me for dinner. “How many are you bringing up?”

“I don’t know. Twelve, thirteen, something like that.”

“Where are they going to stay?”

“You’re there. Where are you staying?”

“At the luxurious James Bay Hotel.”

“Really?”

“I’m joking. There’s a two story building here where I’m staying, but it’s nothing much to speak of. I’m staying in a little room with a bed that’s on its last legs, and a toilet that stinks like every animal has crapped in it. There’s a shower, if you don’t mind water that takes forever to get warm. There’s a diner which serves fairly decent food. If you and your crew want to come up here, don’t expect the five star treatment.”

“You’re the one who wanted a realistic dragon,” Creighton fumed. “What did I tell you? Make a CGI dragon, reptile, not cute and furry. But no, you had to come up here and...”

“You gave me your blessing.”

“I didn’t think it’d turn out this way. This call is costing me money, so I’m going to hang up. We’re coming up there. Hopefully, the shoot won’t take that long.”

What a bunch of crock. Creighton was never satisfied with one shot, or two, or ten. In his last movie, one poor actress had to say the line, ‘Fuck you, Andy’ twenty-four times before he was satisfied. Not that he was entirely to blame, the actress, plucked from some obscure town in Nebraska, was so bad she was nominated for a Razzie, and won hands down.

He moped around till lunchtime, when his stomach demanded nourishment. Every morning and every evening he had gone there to eat, trying different foods, but everything seemed either too bland or too spicy, or so old he could have sworn mold had made a home on a slice of bread. Most of the dishes contained meat, which was understandable since the Tereskàdians and their whistling dragons were carnivores. He drank water and juices, occasionally allowing himself a bottle of beer.

When he entered the diner Chandrha, her mate, their two cubs, and their whistling dragons sat at a table near the door. He took the empty table next to them, waited for the menu.

“I have to talk to you,” he said, leaning closer to Rheôvhan.

“We’re listening,” he said.

“The director of this film and a crew is coming up here,” he said. “They’ll be here about five this afternoon.”

“Are you crazy?” Chandrha yelled. Her ears had almost disappeared into her fur. “We do not want any more humans coming up here, bothering us. You can call your... your director, and tell him to stay away from here.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“He’s my boss. He pays my salary. If he doesn’t shoot this picture, I don’t get paid.”

“Is that important to you?” Rheôvhan asked.

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“We live in a materialistic world. If you want something, you have to pay for it. But you wouldn’t know about that, living up here, would you?”

The door opened, and Arak rushed into the diner.

Fenwick stood up. “I’d like to discuss this some more, but Arak has something to tell me.” When the old man reached his table, he said, “Is there a message for me.”

“Your boss called.”

“And?”

“How should I know? He wants to talk to you. You can take the call in my office.”

He rushed to Arak’s office, leaving his lunch unfinished. If the call didn’t take too long, he still intended to finish his sandwich. If Creighton didn’t blabber too much.

He picked up the receiver resting on a book about the North West Territories. “Mr. Creighton?”

“Where the hell are you? Time is money, you know.”

Leave it to Creighton to come up with a mundane cliche. “I’m in Arak’s office.” Didn’t take that long to get to the phone, so stop bitching.

“And I’m paying for what you’re shoveling in your mouth.’

“I’m paying for my food.”

“We have another problem,” Creighton said, and Fenwick could picture him chewing on his ever-present cigar. “We can come up there, if... if the majority of the crew is Canadian. Can you believe that? It’s my picture, I’m the producer, I’m the writer, I’m the director. I’m in charge of everything. These assholes want to stick their fucking noses in it. Who the hell do they think they are?”

“You’re shooting this film in their country.”

“You got a Canadian beaver up your ass, Fenwick? We’re shooting part of the film up there, not the whole picture. I tried to talk them out of it, but they wouldn’t have it. Said it had to be either a Canadian crew, or nothing at all. So what the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“Can’t you compromise?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Bring up a minimum crew, you know, important positions. Tell them these are the people you need, and the rest can be Canadian. I’m sure they’ll go for that.”

Silence on the other end. Then, “What makes you so damn smart, Fenwick? All right, what’ve I got to lose, except a picture? Let me see... I want you, since you’re up there already.”

“How about Barrett?”

“You kidding? I wouldn’t bring Barrett if he licked my ass.” Silence for a moment.

I’m up here to make a fool of myself. He wanted so much to be a part of this picture, part of the crap Harold Creighton thought would be a masterpiece. One problem was that Fenwick’s name would be on the credits. Did people read credits? Did they check who did what behind the scenes? Camera operators, lighting, editors, the second unit, special effects, the cast, of course... Clarence Fenwick, Special Effects Supervisor. That’s what they’d put on the screen for all the world to see. Of course he could always change his name.

“Are you still going to be there this afternoon?” he asked.

“We’ll be there tomorrow morning,” Creighton said. “When we get there I want you to show me around, and I want to meet these aliens and their whistling dragons.”

“See you later then.” He placed the receiver back in its cradle.

Damn it, why was this happening? He wanted Creighton to shoot this picture, and he wanted it to fail so badly the man would never make another picture, in Hollywood or anywhere else.

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