by Paul Cude
Staff at Cropptech found it difficult to come to terms with Mark's death. Every time Peter ventured out to a different part of the site, he caught someone weeping or trying to conceal their puffy eyes from having just done so. It was a testament to just how popular a figure Mark had been in his role as Chief Security Co-ordinator. Over and over, Peter chastised himself for not realising just how ill his manager had been, and for not having visited him. He should have known something was up. It was rare that dragons get ill, even more so for it to be anything serious. He'd naturally assumed he was being treated by dragon physicians below ground, but hadn't actually checked to see if that was the case. Perhaps he should have. It had never actually occurred to him at the time to do so. Even more surprising was the fact that in dragon terms, Mark was relatively young, only 120 years old.
Peter's sour mood wasn't helped by having no outlet to let off steam. The hockey season had just finished, with very little else for the second team players planned until pre-season training, which was months away.
With the above ground funeral scheduled for Friday, many at Cropptech had contributed towards a fitting wreath, with the vast majority of the staff that had known him personally planning to attend. On his travels across the site, Peter had taken to eavesdropping with his dragon abilities. Possibly frowned upon by his dragon superiors, he justified it by telling himself that it was all about the security of the company, which was indeed why he was there in the first place.
Wandering around the day before the funeral, he started to notice a definite theme as he picked up on conversations between people: anger and confusion at just why Al Garrett hadn't appeared at this time of need. He'd always done so in the past, taking the initiative, offering the family any assistance they needed and always reassuring the staff in whatever way possible. But here and now, just when they needed him the most, he was nowhere to be seen. Worse still were the whispers centred around whether or not Garrett would attend the funeral. It was unthinkable really that this should be in doubt, given his kind and caring nature, but with his current odd behaviour, nobody was sure just what would happen.
Friday arrived, and after having crossed the crisp fresh grass from the car park to the chapel, Peter chose a seat in the very back pew, nodding at the staff he recognised as they came in. He tried to look unaware of what was going on, but even without his dragon senses, it was obvious everyone was looking to see if Garrett was there.
With the chapel full to bursting and Garrett nowhere to be seen, the vicar checked his watch, before reluctantly starting. Peter sat and listened to the kind words, all the time looking around at the others there, all in various states of emotional distress. There and then it brought home to him just how much deception was involved in a dragon's life. People here were genuinely upset at the death of a man they probably, in reality, never really knew, because at the end of the day he was a dragon. That in itself would have meant keeping numerous secrets as well as not revealing very much about his personality. And yet, with proof sitting all around Peter, he'd still made friends, lots of them, all sitting there grieving for him. Sitting there amongst them he felt confused, especially at the realisation that Mark's body wasn't actually here. His true body was being prepared for the underground service, many miles away. Clearly the dragon Council had more than a hand in this cunning deception. Yet more dragon lies. Where would it all end?
Following the queue of mourners outside, Peter found himself making small talk with those staff that he vaguely knew, aware the mood had turned from sadness to quiet contemplation. Staring out at the well maintained grounds, a tap on his shoulder surprised him. He turned to face a well dressed, middle aged gentleman whom he didn't recognise.
"Excuse me, but are you Peter Bentwhistle?" the gentleman asked.
Suspicious of everything at the moment, and always more pessimistic than not, Peter suddenly became alert and aware of everything around him.
"I am," he replied cautiously.
The man offered out his hand.
"Good morning. I'm Oliver Burns, of Burns and Haybell solicitors."
Shaking the outstretched hand, Peter looked bemused.
"Nice to meet you."
"You don't know why I'm here?" asked Mr Burns.
"Sorry, no," replied Peter.
"We're handling Mr Hiscock's will."
"What has that got to do with me?"
"Mr Hiscock made you the sole executor of his will. You didn't know?"
"I had no idea," announced Peter, shocked.
"Well it's a little unusual," said Mr Burns, "but never mind. Basically Mr Hiscock left his whole estate to charity. There's some paperwork to do, and then you need to arrange for his possessions to go to the charity in question."
"Can I ask what the charity is?" Peter enquired.
"The children's hospital over on the other side of town."
Peter nodded thoughtfully.
"I wonder why he chose me?" he mused, out loud.
Mr Burns flipped open his paperwork and began to scan through it.
"Ahh... it says here, that as well as working for Cropptech, you are both of the same descent."
It was all Peter could do not to choke, as panic raced through every fibre of his body. He wanted to snatch the papers and destroy them, but instead stood very still, with everybody all around, watching.
Mr Burns studied the document in closer detail, before looking up. Peter's heart was in his mouth.
"Ah yes. Here it is. It says that you are both originally of Irish descent."
Relief, as well as steam, poured off Peter.
"That's right," confirmed Peter, "I'd forgotten I'd even told him about that."
"Well, that's cleared up why he selected you," said Mr Burns happily.
Before leaving the crematorium, Peter signed Mr Burns’ paperwork, and told him that he would go round to Mark's house and sort out his belongings. Mr Burns told Peter to make an appointment to see him once he was ready, and handed him Mark's house keys.
Having left the crematorium, Peter really couldn't face going back into work as he'd planned, so phoned and told them he'd be back on Tuesday, having already booked Monday off to attend the dragon funeral for Mark.
With the hockey having finished, the weekend passed really slowly, with odd jobs around the house that had been put off for months, the name of the game. Having ticked off nearly all the jobs from the list stored in his eidetic dragon memory, pleased with his day's work, he vowed that Sunday would be all about Mark's house.
After something of a Sunday morning lie in, Peter crawled out of bed, downcast at the thought of having to go to Mark's house to sort out all his belongings. It wasn't something he was looking forward to doing, and was compounded by the guilt that he felt for not having even thought about going to visit the sick dragon. If he could turn back time he'd have made much more of an effort, something of course we all wish we could do.
Making sure he had the keys to Mark's house, he drove with care through the quiet, suburban streets of Salisbridge. Turning into Romany Road, he tootled along with all the speed of a pensioner at the wheel, all the time keeping an eye out for number seventy-two. That was more difficult than it seemed because of wayward hedges, and the fact that some of the houses had names instead of numbers, so it was only when he reached number ninety that he realised he'd gone too far. Opting to park in a free space there rather than turn back around, knowing that he was only really going to be checking what was there rather than anything else, he headed back off down the street, looking for number seventy-two. Abruptly, the butterfly feeling he'd always associated with being bullied in the nursery ring, hit him like a sucker punch from a boxer. Scanning the immediate area, there was no sign of the nursery ring bullies.
It was then that he stopped dead in his tracks, the uneasy feeling in his stomach trebled. There, parked right outside number seventy-two, was the black Mercedes that Manson drove. He didn't even have to double check it. He was good with cars anyway, maybe
because he had a fascination with them. That, combined with his eidetic memory, sent his stomach into a series of somersaults. Sweat starting to sting his eyes, and the thought of sticking out like a sore thumb in this quiet, leafy, suburban street, prompted him into action. Opening the gate and stepping onto the crazy paving path, Tank's words came bubbling back to him.
"I know you have it in you to stand up and be counted."
'Well,' he thought, taking the house key out of his pocket and lining it up with the lock on the door, 'I'm not at work at the moment, and I have every right to be here. So I WILL stand up for myself.'
Clutching the key tightly, he took a deep breath, and on deciding it was best to make as much noise as possible, he turned the key sharply in the lock and pushed open the door. Stepping over the threshold, he gazed down the long hallway, just making out the kitchen at the end. Out of the blue, a door halfway down the left hand side as Peter looked at it, snapped open, followed by the familiar sight of Manson, slapping his walking stick on the bare wooden floorboards as he moved. Framed by the open front door behind him, Peter stood still and waited for Manson's next move.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Manson sneered, his top lip wriggling like a caterpillar at a disco.
Using all his courage to compose himself, Peter replied,
"I might ask you the same question."
Manson appeared to consider his response carefully, something that set alarm bells ringing deep inside Peter's head.
"Mr Hiscock and I were friends," Manson said, changing his tone from disdain to blasé. "He even gave me a key," he added, holding one up that was identical to Peter's in every way.
"Still doesn't explain what you're doing here."
Manson's tone turned back to one of contempt, screwing up his face as he replied.
"I lent Hiscock a book and wanted to retrieve it before it was thrown out. It's very important and has been in my family for generations."
"Where is it then?" asked Peter, trying desperately to sound confident, even though that's not at all how he felt.
"It doesn't appear to be here," Manson said with murder in his eyes. "You still haven't told me what you're doing here."
"I'm the executor of Mark's will. I'm here to sort out his things," replied Peter smugly.
A tense silence enveloped the hallway. Manson appeared to be weighing up his options. Seconds passed as both stood in silence, glaring at one another. Finally a look of resignation crossed Manson's face.
"I'll be going now. If you find my book, give it away with the rest of the stuff," he quipped, barging past Peter on his way out.
Peter stood in the entrance, watching him go. As Manson reached the pavement, he turned and shouted back to Peter, a mean expression imprinted on his face.
"I expect I'll see you at work."
Standing stock still, Peter watched as the black Mercedes tore off down the street, narrowly missing a cyclist.
Shutting the front door and making sure it was locked from the inside, Peter wandered back down the hall and into the room that Manson had just come out of. Unmistakeably it was the living room, but it looked as though a hurricane had cut a path through it. Books were strewn across the floor, DVD's littered the sofa, some open, all mixed up. The cupboard doors on the dresser were open, with the entire contents emptied out onto the carpet in front of it. A very odd and powerful smell seemed to be ingrained in just about everything.
'What the hell has Manson been doing?' Peter thought to himself. There was definitely something very... how would the humans put it? Something very... crabby? No... eely? No... Ah yes! Something fishy was going on.
Touring the rest of the house, he found that every other room was in the same state. He started to tidy, not really knowing where to start. But as the time ticked by, he couldn't help being concerned about Manson's actions. After about an hour of thankless tidying, worry prompted him into action. He phoned a twenty-four hour locksmith, and got them to change all the locks on the house. Now he was the only one with a set of keys.
With about half the house having been tidied to some degree or another, he eventually left at about nine-thirty, eager to get home for something to eat and a shower before bed. It was only on the short journey home that it occurred to him that the smell permeating Mark's house, was the exact same one that he'd noticed in Garrett's office. Confused and tired, he drifted off to sleep, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together in his mind as he did so, the spectacle of the dragon funeral the following day barely entering his thoughts.
He awoke the next morning from the worst night's sleep of his entire life. Not so much sleep, as a series of twenty minute naps with an hour of being awake in between. Tired and emotional at the thought of the funeral, he dipped into the secret cubby hole at the back of his wardrobe and found the brightest cloak he owned, and in nothing but his birthday suit, made his way through the concealed entrance and out into the steamy dragon domain. Concealed by the darkness, he changed into his dragon persona as soon as he hit the public walkway, having dropped the garish cloak on the cool stone floor. Change complete, he strapped the cloak around his neck, and headed off into the humid tunnels in the direction of the monorail station, the cloak billowing out behind him as he walked. His destination was the Dragon Bereavement Grotto at Honister Pass Boulders in Cumbria, over three hundred miles away.
Every dragon community in the world has its own bereavement grotto. Some, such as the United States, Russia and China, have more than just one. The grottos are the final resting places of dragons who have passed away. The word grotto implies something small and cosy, which in some cases is true. Take for example Liechtenstein. The grotto there is only fifty metres long and thirty metres wide, adjacent to an underground lake that has a stunning waterfall that trickles down a rock face imbued with marble and gold, occasionally spilling over into the lava, throwing up huge plumes of steam that carry nearly two miles overhead, eventually breaking the surface. Accessible only from under water, those that pay their respects must all swim the length of an underground river, maintaining their human forms at all times. It is most unusual. That said, there are few more enchanting sights throughout the dragon domain than a bereavement ceremony in the country of Liechtenstein, although no dragon has died there in over a hundred years. Taking this to the other extreme, some grottos can be the size of a laminium ball stadium.
No matter what their size, all of these grottos have several things in common. First is the fact that somewhere inside them there is always an area of lava large enough to submerge a fully grown dragon. Secondly, the grotto must be able to accommodate one dragon scale from any corpse that is submerged there. Normally incorporated into the cavern's ceiling, occasionally something different is done, with walls, murals, and even self sustaining floating islands, being just some of the ways that the dragons who've passed away can be remembered. Last, but by no means least, the grotto must be looked after and guarded so that it is only used for these ceremonies, being such a sacred place. Throughout dragon history, there is no record of such a place ever being violated, despite a whole host of disagreements and wars.
Striding onto the correct platform, feeling a little self conscious about his cloak, Peter waited patiently, knowing that his whole journey would take about fifty five minutes, but only because he'd have to change three times, first at Birmingham, then Manchester, and finally Windermere; from there the monorail would travel straight into the reception area of the grotto.
Tail slumped comfortably through the hole in his seat, watching the darkened rock faces whizz by, he tried to relax, thinking of everything going on around him. While he'd been the only one wearing a cloak at Salisbridge station, he found he wasn't alone after changing at Birmingham, with many other dragons sporting similar bright, gaudy attire. By the time he alighted at the grotto there were literally hundreds of dragons, all wearing brightly coloured cloaks. Having never been to anything like this before, Peter found himself following the crowd, something
easily done, all the time hoping the overwhelming colours of the cloaks didn't provoke some kind of adverse reaction. Thankfully it proved the right decision as they all moved from the reception area through a single tunnel and into the grotto itself. As the throng of dragons came out the other side, a very tall, serious looking, female dragon, dressed in long shimmering purple robes, handed everyone a silver horn from a large wooden table that was stacked high with them.
Peter accepted his when it was offered to him and nodded a thank you to the serious dragon. Moving deeper into the grotto, he suddenly became more aware of just how beautiful this place was, as an usher led him towards the next available free seat on a rock ledge overlooking the swirling mass of bright orange lava that continually twisted and writhed, forming eddies and whirlpools every now and then. Bright light from the lava's intense orange glow reflected off the high grotto ceiling, making it look like the surface of a strange and distant world, set amongst a celestial backdrop. It was mesmerising. He knew that what appeared to be stars high above him, were actually scales from dragons long since passed. Each dragon has a scale removed from his or her body when they go through the funeral rite and that scale becomes part of the ever changing starscape that visitors to the grotto will always remember.
The steady trickle of dragons entering the grotto died away to nothing, the silence only interrupted by the occasional bursting bubble of steaming hot molten lava wriggling about below them. Sitting back, he took in the whole ceiling of star-like scales. It was such a peaceful moment, unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. Taking a sneaky look at those around him, he noticed they were all doing the same thing. Some were even whispering a silent prayer, although who to, it was difficult to tell. He now understood just why the grottos were so sacred, and why working in them was such a sought after and highly valued occupation.