Chapter 6: CHAPTER SIX

They arrived mid-morning, in the middle of a cool spell that didn’t bode well for the cast and crew from Los Angeles. Director and cast and crew marched into the village, lugging cameras, microphones, and other equipment. Harold Creighton was giving directions, as if he was familiar with the village. The stars of the movie, Benita Corovelli and Cal Torrence, as well as secondary and minor actors stood off to one side, shuffling about nervously. Did Creighton have to bring them up here? If any more showed up, there’d be more humans than Tereskàdians here.

“Hello, Fenwick,” Creighton said, motioning to the plane. “Rented this baby till the end of the year. Cost me a pretty penny.”

“I didn’t know you could fly.”

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me. This way, we get the film done, load everything and everybody up and away we go.” He swept his hand upward.

I hope you fly better than you make movies, Fenwick thought.

“I want to start shooting as soon as possible,” Creighton said. “So where are these aliens and their pets?”

“Don’t call them pets,” he said. “They’re much more than that.”

“Whatever,” Creighton said. “You think I got all day? All we need is one of those dragons for a few external shots, a few scenes with the cast, and we’ll be on our way.” He made cursory introductions, first names, last names, job descriptions.

“Fifteen people?”

Benita came over, hugging herself, shivering. “It’s so cold here.” She was wearing a fur coat, mink perhaps, although Fenwick couldn’t see how she could afford it. It wouldn’t have surprised him if Creighton had given it to her as a gift, a little payment for snuggling real close.

Tereskàdians and whistling dragons watched them. The village was tiny compared to Los Angeles, but it did have a certain charm. Now that Creighton had seen its alien inhabitants, however, he didn’t like what he saw, and he had no idea why. They wouldn’t do anything, couldn’t do anything, unless one of these humans decided to attack one of them. Hopefully, no one would be that stupid.

Creighton took his arm, steered him away from the others. “We have to talk.”

“We can chat in the diner over there.” He nodded at the building up the street.

They found a table near the back. When Alice came to take their order, Fenwick asked for a bottle of beer. Creighton just shrugged.

“Spaghetti and meatballs is on special,” Alice said. She raised her eyebrows at Fenwick, questions almost written on her eyeballs. Who is this guy, and what are all these people doing out there?

“Fine. Let me have some,” Creighton said.

Fenwick tried not to watch Creighton. The man had such intense eyes, eyes that wanted to burrow into you, into your soul. He glanced out the window, at a pair of aliens passing by. He couldn’t tell who it might be, although with their fox-like looks and their auburn fur their appearance was eerily similar.

“What am I doing here?” Creighton asked. “What the fuck am I doing in this God-forsaken, backward country? Where the hell am I? Some alien planet?” He laughed loud enough for the few patrons in the diner to see what the matter was. “Must be. There are aliens out there.”

Fenwick sighed. Leave it to Creighton to rant about something ten minutes after arriving here. “I’m still trying to convince Chandrha to let us use Jhevharel.”

“Jhevharel? Is that the dragon’s name? I can see it now: ‘The Pit of Hell,’ starring Jhevharel. You’ll have to let me know how to spell that.”

“I showed her the script,” he said. “She was wondering where her part is.”

“Her part?” Creighton said, louder than necessary. “Her part?” A little quieter this time. “We have our actors, now I want a dragon that can look menacing.”

“Jhevharel doesn’t have to look menacing,” he said. “All he has to do is fly.”

“And the alien wants a part, just because her dragon is in it.”

“Yes.”

“Can you make him breathe fire?”

“He’s a mammal.”

“Can she tell him to keep his cock inside?”

“Weren’t we talking about fire?”

“Well, can you?”

“I can, but...”

“But?”

“She won’t like it.”

Alice came over with a large plate of spaghetti and meatballs, plunked it in front of Creighton.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what she does and doesn’t like,” Creighton said. “We’re going to use her dragon, and if she wants some money for his use, we can provide that too. Let me enjoy this meal. I have things to discuss with the rest of the cast and crew.”

Fenwick stayed, waited for his beer. He usually didn’t drink this early in the morning, but that didn’t matter right now.

“You sure you don’t want to eat something?” Alice asked when she brought over the bottle. “Some waffles maybe. Chocolate chip?”

“I’m fine,” he said. He turned the twist cap, put the bottle to his lips. He could see Creighton standing just outside the window that had the name of the diner on it. Large letters curved upward, then back down again. Renney’s. Who the heck was Renney?

Arak had come into his line of sight. The old man said something to Creighton, emphasized his point by tapping the old man’s chest. Fenwick’s curiosity heightened, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out what Arak was saying.

He took a couple of swallows, set the bottle down. Arak and Creighton were still arguing, their verbal altercation attracting a number of onlookers, both Tereskàdian and human. He could see the script supervisor concentrating on Arak. What was her name? Giselle... something. Not far from her Benita and Cal stood together, holding hands. Playing the field, Benita?

“Check that,” Alice said, moving closer to the window.

Creighton and Arak were stabbing fingers at each other, yelling, almost screaming like two roosters. He thought of breaking it up, shook his head. Let them work it out.

He stood up, leaving the unfinished bottle on the table. When he opened the door, Arak was saying, “You get your crew together, and you get the hell out of this village.”

“Do you know who I am?” Creighton said, tapping his own chest. “I am Harold Creighton, writer, producer, director. I make movies. People know me, they don’t know an asshole like you, living out here in the middle of nowhere.”

Arak thrust his face at Creighton. The old man wasn’t afraid of someone at least twenty years younger. “Let me tell you who I am, writer, producer, director. I am the law around here... pilgrim.” Fenwick winced at the atrocious John Wayne imitation. “I was duly appointed by the Prime Minister of Canada to make sure these aliens aren't disturbed by people like you who think they can come here and walk all over everyone.”

That sounded so much like a steaming load of bullshit he could almost smell it, but Fenwick wasn’t going to argue with the old man about that.

“All I want to do is shoot a few scenes with that dragon... Jhevharel.”

“No.”

“I’ll pay ten thousand dollars.’

“No.”

“Why?”

“I don’t need the money. And the aliens don’t need money either. They hunt games in this area, and there’s plenty of that.”

Fenwick came to Creighton’s side. At the same time Giselle joined them. “We can go back and I’ll make a dragon,” Fenwick said, “just the way you want it.”

“Fuck it, Fenwick. I don’t want a CGI dragon. It’ll look like every blasted dragon from Dragonheart to Reign of Fire.”

“But you said...”

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Giselle stared hard at Arak, hands clenched into fists.

“I know what I said, but I can change my mind, can’t I?” He turned back to Arak. “Twenty thousand. And you get your name on the credits as... as...” He looked at Fenwick for inspiration.

“Technical advisor.”

“Yeah.”

“No,” Arak said.

“Arak, can I talk to you for a minute?” Another voice, female.

Fenwick turned around. One of the Tereskàdians walked toward them. If he had to hazard a guess, he’d venture Chandrha. And with her, Jhevharel. Always with her. It was hard not to imagine him as a pet, but if he had expressed that opinion out loud she’d have reprimanded him.

“Chandrha,” Arak said, “this doesn’t concern you. These people are here illegally...”

“We’re not here illegally,” Creighton protested. “We were given permission by the Canadian government, provided we use Canadians as members of the crew, and that’s what we’re doing. And...” He tried to find someone in the crowd. “One of the actors is also Canadian. Billy... Billy, where are you?”

A young man, with a shock of unruly sandy hair framing a pockmarked face, trotted up to Creighton. “Tell them who you are, and where you’re from,” Creighton said.

“Billy... William Tallard,” he said, regarding Chandrha rather nervously. “Born in Calgary, Alberta, but I live in Toronto now. I have a small part in Mr. Creighton’s movie... uh, not many lines, but it’s a start.”

A start to oblivion. The young man would welcome a part in a film, even a small part, but it wouldn’t guarantee success. More likely it meant trouble getting parts in better pictures.

Harold Creighton oozed poison from every pore of his body.

Fenwick shook his head, wondered what the supervisor of special effects was doing here.

An utter damn fool who wanted to enjoy seeing Creighton fail.

Chandrha was still talking with Arak. They had moved away from the curious, holding an animated conversation. What was she doing? Was she trying to convince Arak to let them stay? He moved a little closer, tried not to appear too obvious. He wished he had the Tereskàdians’ excellent hearing, but he found himself close enough to hear most of the conversation.

“I won’t let you do it,” Arak said.

“You can’t change my mind,” she said. “I want Jhevharel in this picture... as long as I’m in it too.”

Damn it. He slapped a palm on his forehead. Creighton would never go for that. All he wanted was a dragon, and just for long shots.

Of course that little word ‘desperation’ would crop up if this back and forth squabbling wasn’t resolved soon.

Arak heaved a rather lengthy sigh. “All right, you talk with Creighton. What does Rheôvhan say about this?”

“Nothing,” she said. “I haven’t told him.”

“He won’t like this,” he said.

“It’s not his decision.” She walked away from the old man, strode a little faster to catch up with Creighton. The director was making his way back to the crew. “Sen Creighton,” she called, “wait a moment.”

He stopped, but didn’t turn around. Just stood there, with his arms at his sides, shoulders slumped, as if he were carrying a heavy burden.

She stopped behind him. “I want Jhevharel in your movie.”

“What are the conditions?” Back turned to her.

“I want to be in it.”

He turned around. “You want to be in my movie.” Voice slow, as if he were talking to a child. “What do you think this is, a science fiction epic? It’s a horror movie... scary stuff. You’re an alien.”

“So is Jhevharel.”

“But we can use him. We can’t use you.”

“Then he’s not in.”

He raised his hand, as if he wanted to strike Chandrha, a move that would have meant his death. “Fine. If we can’t get him I’m sure we can get someone else.”

Chandrha started to walk away, stopped, head down, as if deep in thought. Fenwick watched her stand like that for a while, almost a statue, her whistling dragon on his haunches beside her.

What was she thinking? Her whistling dragon knew. The link between them, mentally, emotionally, psychologically was strong. Thoughts and dreams intertwined like meandering vines. He couldn’t fathom a being reading his every thought; to him it smacked of an invasion into his own private world. But then he wasn’t a Tereskàdian, and he couldn’t conceive ever being one.

“What would he have to do?” she asked.

“Fly. All he’d have to do is fly.”

“You’re lying... no... I mean, you want him to fly, but you’re holding something back. Does it have something to do with breathing fire?” She regarded Fenwick briefly, returned her gaze to Creighton. ‘That human over there. Fenwick? He showed me the script. Your dragon is supposed to breathe fire. You want Jhevharel to come across like an ancient Earth dragon... evil, vicious. Spewing fire at villages, kidnapping young females... I don’t like this.”

“All we want Jhevharel to do is fly,” Creighton said in his syrupy smooth voice, “All the rest will be handled by Mr. Fenwick and his team. He’s in charge of special effects, and I can assure you what he does won’t affect your whistling dragon. It’s all make believe, and people will know it’s make believe.”

“I’ll have to talk with Rheôvhan,” she said, and wandered off, Jhevharel beside her.

Fenwick came over when Creighton motioned to him. He didn’t like the sour expression on the man’s face, but he was willing to put up with whatever his boss was going to rant about.

“You heard?” Creighton asked.

“Some of it.”

“I might change the entire picture,” he said. The dense forest west of the village received his attention. “Maybe I’ll even change the title, don’t know about that yet.”

You miserable son of a bitch. ‘The Pit of Hell’ was a title bad enough to keep people away from the theaters, now Creighton had something else in mind, something that might not spell ruin as clearly as Fenwick thought it might.

Maybe he was trying to better himself. Maybe the stupidity he foisted upon the public when ‘Teen Monsters from Mars’ came to the theaters had shown him that shoddy movies didn’t last too long. He who manufactures crap will reap twice that much.

Harold Creighton was Ed Wood reincarnated. You can’t make a cup of coffee out of lemons, can you?

“We’ll use the village here,” he said, sweeping his arms to encompass the buildings that comprised the village. “A love story, how about that? The villagers can be extras...some of them could even have lines, like Arak, and some of the aliens.”

Creighton seemed lost in some fantasy world. He stared straight ahead, as he took in the homes, and the diner. He mumbled something Fenwick didn’t understand, and the special effects supervisor didn’t bother to ask.

‘The Pit of Hell’ was about to become a mushy love story, something Fenwick didn’t like at all. He was pinning his hopes on Creighton’s film flubbing so badly he’d be laughed out of the film industry.

“Mr. Creighton, sir, are you sure you want to do this?”

“I still want the dragon,” Creighton said, shading his eyes as he scanned the sky. Half a dozen whistling dragons soared up there, as carefree as a litter of playful kittens. “And you’re still going to make it the meanest looking son of a bitch dragon. Damn it, why are they so cute and furry?”

Cute and furry? Furry, yes, of course, but cute was in the eye of the beholder.

“I’ll see what I can do.” He wasn’t going to promise anything.

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