by Paul Cude
Chapter 8: The Faint Whiff of... Octopus
Unable to concentrate on anything at all, Peter felt like he was in a constant daze. The first thing he'd done the following day was check the telepathic papers for details of Mark Hiscock's demise. Sure enough, in two of the more reputable editions he'd found obituaries for his deceased colleague. Holding with dragon custom, the funeral would take place exactly ten days after his death. Undoubtedly, dragons who'd known him would attend, probably from all across the globe. Peter would most certainly be going to not only that, but the human service as well.
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 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.
Startled out of his musings by the sound of rock grating on rock, he looked over to his right and could just make out a huge disc of rock rolling along the wall, revealing a dark passage behind it. At first, his highly advanced dragon senses could only detect movement. Rapidly, a line of dragons flew out of the darkness, eight in all, with the last two clutching the wings of the perfectly preserved corpse of Mark Hiscock in his natural dragon form. Something akin to an aerial display, the troupe flew in formation in and around the grotto for over five minutes, swooping low, and close to the audience at times, affording everyone a good view of the deceased. As one, the flight stopped and hovered in the exact centre of the grotto, above the roiling lava. Glancing left and right, Peter watched all the other dragons bow their heads in respect. Immediately he followed suit, adding a silent farewell as he did so. From out of nowhere, the master of the bereavement grotto flew silently up to Mark's dragon body, and using a sacred set of ceremonial clippers, that looked more like bolt cutters, clipped a single scale from his tail, which she then slotted elegantly into a prearranged space in the ceiling. Mark was now at home with the rest of his brethren, watching over them all.
The all encompassing silence was broken by the ting of a triangle echoing gently around the grotto. As one, every dragon instantly placed the silver horn to their lips. Peter did the same, a split second behind everyone else. As the last note of the triangle faded to nothing, all of the dragons blew into their horns simultaneously.
At that exact same moment the two dragons holding Mark's corpse released it, letting it tumble down into the lava below. The giant dragon body hit the molten liquid with a mighty splash, floating on the surface for a few seconds before slowly sinking, and with one final gurgle, was gobbled up by the lava forever.
As the horns stopped playing, the formation of flying dragons did one more lap before disappearing back down the dark tunnel, which was in turn covered back up by the moving disc of rock.
As the rock crunched back into place, the grotto became a whole lot lighter, dragons filed back out towards the reception area, handing back their horns as they went. Peter followed, handing his back to the serious looking female dragon, who now just looked relieved, more than anything. Heading back through the tunnel, he patiently waited his turn as hundreds of dragons boarded the silver monorail carriages, all shooting off in different directions. Standing, head bowed, on the shiny stone floor of the platform, he felt empty. He'd thought the service would give him closure of some sort, but it hadn't. If anything, it had sent his thoughts racing, about Mark, the events leading up to his death and about what part, if any, Manson had played in it. The whole house thing was odd. Very odd. With nearly all the dragons having departed, Peter reluctantly boarded the last carriage bound for Manchester.
Hurtling along at nearly five hundred miles an hour, dragons all around him chatting, laughing, joking and just generally getting on with things, he felt miserable. Before he knew it, the monorail had pulled onto the Manchester concourse. Stepping off, he looked around for the next carriage to Birmingham. As he did so, a London bound carriage glided effortlessly into the adjacent platform. The word 'London' conjured up only one image in his head. Tank! Wishing for nothing more than to see his friend, he jumped through the whooshing doors, just before they closed, and took a seat.
Less than forty minutes later, he found himself walking through the narrow, shadow filled streets that led to Gee Tee's Mantra Emporium. Buoyed by the thought of seeing his friend, he quickened his step, smiling as he realised that he was even in the right form to enter the shop without getting an ear bashing from the owner, unlike last time. Trying desperately to clamp down on what he knew to be his scarlet cheeks (he was still full of shame and embarrassment at the whole 'underpants issue' and just recalling it was enough to turn him a totally different shade), he turned into Camelot Arcade, making his way along until he reached the old wooden door with the squeaky handle.
Stepping inside, the shop looked exactly like it had last time, right down to the last cobweb. The obsessive compulsive in him wanted a vacuum cleaner here and now, although given his last spider encounter here, the rest of him wasn't so sure. Making his way straight to the front of the shop, all the while keeping an eye out for anything exotic and unusual, he tried to make it obvious he was there, without being obvious about it. As you can imagine, it didn't go well. He looked like an uncoordinated, drunken dinosaur that had been out in the sun for far too long. All he could think of once he'd reached the shop counter, was,
'Why don’t they get a bell on the front door? At least that way they'd know when a customer came in.'
Flapping his wings while blowing hoops of crackling yellow flame in the hope of attracting some attention, he failed to spot the ancient figure looming out from one side of a bookcase that he'd already passed.
"Hello child," ventured a velvety smooth voice.
Peter nearly choked on his own flames at the sight of Gee Tee emerging from behind the bookcase.
"Uhh... hi there Mr... Tee," uttered Peter nervously.
"Hello again, child. What can we do for you today?"
"I was hoping to speak to Tank," stuttered Peter, totally flummoxed.
"I'm afraid he's not here at the moment... child."
"Oh... okay. Can you just tell him I'll catch up with him later?” said Peter, disappointed.
"Certainly," replied Gee Tee, sensing Peter's disappointment. "Is there anything I can help you with?"
"No I don't think... well, actually, maybe... yes," answered Peter.
"Is it re
garding the man you work with that we discussed last time?" remarked the old shopkeeper, peering over the top of his precariously placed square plastic glasses.
"Yes it is," replied Peter, keen as mustard.
"Right, I'll tell you what. You help me put some books back on the shelves, and I'll listen to what you have to tell me. Deal?"
"You're not going to turn me into a spider are you?" added Peter, only half joking.
"That rather depends on how well you put the books back," cautioned the master mantra maker, the tiniest of grins etched across his face.
What remained of Peter's nerves, tried to make a break for the door. Today was not going well.
"I'm kidding of course," said the old shopkeeper smiling. "I mean how hard can it be? You can't be any worse than that best friend of yours."
Peter followed the old dragon back through the maze of bookcases, wondering exactly what he'd let himself in for. Pulling up in front of one that said 'Mantra Additions For The Human Form' on the top, it was only then that he noticed the dusty pile of tomes that rose up past his waist on the floor beside it. It looked like he was very much going to fulfil his need to clean something. Gee Tee explained that the books needed to be cleaned and then returned in alphabetical order, from the top of the pile. Taking the strange feather duster offered to him by the old shopkeeper, one that looked as though a chicken had been involved in a very violent and bloody confrontation with a rainbow, he picked up the top book entitled 'Abdominal Flab And How To Coax The Beer Belly Out Of You', and gave it a quick clean.
"So child, why don't you tell me what troubles you?" spluttered Gee Tee, blowing a whole load of dust from the front cover of a book called 'Nose Hair - Amazon Rainforest, Or Well Manicured Garden'.
"Well, it's like this..." Peter began, updating the shopkeeper on his encounter with Manson at the industrial unit, telling him about Dr Island's shock dismissal, and about discovering Manson at Mark's house. All the time the two of them continued to put books back on the shelf after having cleaned them, with the latest clutched in Peter's hands, being called 'Double Chins - The Best A Man Can Get'.
After having listened intently to everything Peter had to say, Gee Tee put down the next book he was holding, took off his glasses and scratched his nose vigorously.
"Well child, it does all sound very suspicious. Can you describe in detail the aroma from Garrett's office and Mark's house? Were they identical?”
"It's difficult to put into words. Really bitter and overpowering, with just a hint of... something... citrusy, I think.”
"Have you ever had any problems with your sense of smell?" asked the old shopkeeper, curiously.
"No," replied Peter. "Never. I passed all the senses tests in the nursery ring with flying colours. Not quite top of the class, but nearly."
"The young female, the third of your little trio, I would guess."
Peter nodded.
"That's right. She was top for most things."
"So I gather, so I gather," Gee Tee chuckled softly to himself, all the time pondering everything he'd been told. "It's most odd that you struggle to identify this mysterious smell, but then again, perhaps not. After all, most poisons are designed to be hard to identify, particularly slow acting ones, so maybe we shouldn't be surprised."
"You think Mark was poisoned?" declared Peter, taken aback.
"It does at least seem to be a possibility."
Peter let his big dragon bum slide down the wall beside the bookcase, until he slumped to the floor with a 'THUMP', and just sat there dejectedly. With his tail curled up and his wings folded over his head, he looked a forlorn sight.
"I can't believe all of this is happening to me," he announced from beneath his wings. "What am I supposed to do? I'm pretty sure there were no lessons that covered this in the nursery ring. Who do I trust? Who will believe me?" he said, holding back the tears.
Gee Tee let out a little snigger. Peter looked out beneath both wings, rage building up on his face.
"It's all right child. I'm not laughing at you... honest! It's just this whole situation reminds me of something I've been involved with before. The other person I helped was a lot like you."
"Does that mean you're going to help me?” Peter queried hopefully.
"Ummmmm... I suppose so... yes," replied the old shopkeeper smiling, "but I'm not exactly sure how much help I'll be, as I've never taken human form, let alone met a real one in person, or even been to the surface. I've only ever read about their customs and beliefs, so I have no real firsthand experience of what you're talking about."
"Who cares?" raved Peter, grinning from ear to ear. "Someone who believes in me, how fantastic is that?"
"Well, you can blame Tank partly for that," replied the old dragon, getting back to business. "You see, although I may think you're okay, the fact that Tank thinks of you as his best friend, counts for a great deal. In all the time I've worked with the young fellow, the only time I've known his judgement to be suspect was the incident with the Egyptian morphbeetle that I told you about. I would suggest he has a better understanding of dragons, humans, plants and animals than any other being I've ever encountered. On that, I trust him totally. So if I can't help out his best friend, what would the world be coming to?"
Gee Tee proffered an outstretched hand, and pulled Peter up off the floor.
"Perhaps we'd better devote our time to something more productive than stacking bookcases," the shop owner said, as he led the young dragon back through the maze, towards the shop counter.
"It's such a shame dragons don't do autopsies. In that we could take a lesson from our charges on the surface."
Peter looked on astonished.
"Close your mouth child, before something unpleasant takes up residence in there."
Peter did as he was told.
"I might not have been to the surface, or have ever met a real human, but I've studied them inside and out. A very contradictory species if you ask me. Full of real promise, but with an innate desire to self destruct, particularly when things seem to be going so well. Like Indian food and steam trains, two things I'd very much like to try, this autopsy thing of theirs seems a well thought out idea. If one had been done on Mark's dragon body, then just maybe we would have found something of the poison's identity, which would have been a start. Without that though, things are going to be tough. Never mind. We'll just have to find another way."
Slumping down in one of the oversized dragon chairs in the workshop, the old shopkeeper let out a giant sigh, while indicating to Peter that he should sit in the chair opposite. He duly complied.
"Now tell me child, do you have to go back to Mark's house again?"
"Yes," replied Peter. "I have to finish sorting out all of his stuff and make sure it gets to the children's hospital as per his wishes."
"Well," said Gee Tee, rummaging through the bottom of a stack of books, "I'm not sure being exposed to whatever is in that house for a prolonged period is a very good idea."
"But... but..." Peter started to protest.
"Yes I know. You have to go back and sort it out. Ahhhh... here it is. Just what we need. Now let's have a look and see if this will do," mused the old shopkeeper enthusiastically, sweeping books, papers, pens and bottles of ink off the desk he was sitting at and onto the floor with a flick from one of his giant wings. Opening up a rolled up sheet of parchment, he began to study it intently.
Waiting in silence, Peter tried to glimpse over Gee Tee's shoulder, hoping to get some idea of just what he was so engrossed in. After a few minutes of muttering and mumbling under his breath, the old dragon turned round to face Peter.
"It's not quite what I had in mind, but I think it will do."
This was the first time in both visits that Peter had seen the master mantra maker smile, and looking at the parchment on the desk had clearly put a spring in the old dragon's step. It was more than a little disconcerting.
Gee Tee ushered Peter to the centre of the room with one lar
ge wing, before asking him to stand still. Returning to the table, he stretched out the parchment once again, holding it in place with two bottles of rainbow dazzling mantra ink. Turning back towards Peter, he said,
"Although not specifically designed to protect against poison, I do think it will be strong enough to grant you temporary immunity to whatever evil lurks in that house. I strongly suggest you try your best to keep everyone away from the house in general until we can come up with a way to neutralise whatever it was that was being used."
Poking his glasses high up his nose, he turned to look at the parchment on the table, all the time addressing the young dragon.
"Stand perfectly still; this will only take a few seconds."
Closing his eyes, the old shopkeeper began muttering words in a language Peter couldn't understand, made all the more remarkable because all dragons are masters of languages, encouraged to learn at least twenty different tongues in the nursery ring, with most going on to learn a lot more.
Concentrating on standing perfectly still, Peter chose to focus on Gee Tee's square plastic spectacles. On doing so, he could just make out the small beads of sweat, from the effort, wriggling down the old dragon's nose.
'These words seem to be taking a lot out of him,' he thought, just as Gee Tee finished. Staggering over to where he'd left the chair, the master mantra maker collapsed bum first into it, the wheels beneath the legs squeaking as he did so. Peter, who was by now tingling all over, hurried over and knelt beside the chair.
"Are you okay?" he asked, concerned.
Struggling to catch his breath, Gee Tee replied,
"I will be in a few minutes child. Reciting ancient Polynesian mantras takes a lot of energy, and I'm not as young as I once was."
Unexpectedly, a voice from the doorway behind them, interrupted.
"What on Earth is going on here?” demanded Tank, rushing in and barging Peter out of the way so that he could get to his employer's side.
"It's alright, my young apprentice," murmured Gee Tee, still wheezing, "I was just showing your friend here a mantra or two."
"You know you're not supposed to cast powerful, high draining mantras, when there’s nobody else present," chided Tank in his best school master voice, while glaring daggers at Peter.
Gee Tee smiled.
"There was somebody about," he said, pointing at Peter, who was now really confused as to exactly what was going on.
"You know what I mean," Tank added with scorn on his face.
"I know, I know," ventured Gee Tee remorsefully. "Why don't you take your young friend here and make us all some steaming hot charcoal?"
Tank knew better than to argue when he heard that tone of voice.
"Come on Peter," Tank said, motioning to the door with one of his wings.
Peter followed Tank out onto the shop floor, when suddenly the master mantra maker's words came booming out from behind them.
"Marshmallows!"
"He'll be lucky," whispered Tank quietly, leading the way towards the deepest, darkest part of the shop. In between two of the dustiest bookcases Peter had seen so far was a dark red wooden door. Peter followed his friend inside, to be greeted by a very small ramshackle room, used as a makeshift kitchen. Flicking the gas on the hob on, Tank lit it with a flimsy streak of flame from between his jaws, before putting a gigantic copper coloured kettle, filled with water, on to boil.
"What went on while I was away Peter?"
"Well I came to see you and you weren't here so Gee Tee and I talked and I told him what was happening with Manson and then he agreed to help me, and then he cast a mantra on me to protect me from the poison and..."
"Whoa, whoa. Poison? What poison?” Tank asked, worriedly.
While the steaming kettle whistled quietly, Peter explained what had been happening regarding the funeral and being the executor of Mark's will, as Tank carefully sorted heaped spoonfuls of dark black charcoal into three oversized, ultra thick mugs, with huge handles that only a dragon could grip. Peter smiled at Gee Tee's mug that had a script he didn't recognise going all the way around it, while Tank's had a tiger morphing into a butterfly on it. The remaining mug which he assumed was for him, was just plain purple and had obviously seen better days.
As Tank poured the steaming hot water onto the contents of each mug, he turned to Peter and said,
"There's something you need to understand. Gee Tee won't reveal his true age to anyone, but it's thought that he's over six hundred years old."
Peter nearly dropped the mug that Tank had just handed to him.
"Over six hundred years old! I think someone's been pulling your leg. No dragon can live that long."
Tank just stood with a sombre expression.
"Just between us, it's true Peter. He is over six centuries old. He's also very frail and gets tired incredibly quickly. When I told you the other day that I wouldn't lose my job, it wasn't only because of the work that I do here. It's because I help look after him as well. The doctor visits once a week and he's on all sorts of medication. He may act all tough and arrogant, but he's really not like that at all. He shouldn't be wearing himself out performing crazy protective mantras when they're not required."
"I didn't make him do it... honest Tank," Peter pleaded.
"I'm sure you didn't Pete. But it makes no difference. By spinning him your tale, he thinks he can help you and turn things around. He's not willing to admit to himself just how unwell and fragile he really is."
Peter glugged down a huge mouthful of the eye wateringly hot drink, before looking up at his friend.
"I'm sorry Tank. I had no idea."
"I know you didn't. Hardly anyone does. All I'm asking is that you try not to get him too excited and involved in stuff. I know how his twisted mind works. Conspiracies and underhanded schemes all too often feature. He claims to have thwarted many in the past, some singlehandedly, others by just providing his valuable knowledge. Whether it’s true or not, I don't really know. All I do know is that he's attracted by the idea, something I believe will do him no good at all in his current state. By all means talk to him and pick his brain, but try not to wear him out, and quit if he starts to look too tired."
"Sure thing," Peter agreed as the two friends headed back across the shop floor with their hot drinks. Tank smiled at his friend.
"So a protection mantra, eh? Just one more thing you should be aware of Pete. Gee Tee is probably the world's foremost expert on everything and anything to do with mantras. Those in this shop are unlike any others found on this planet. Some of them date back thousands of years and he is the only one that can make head or tail of them. That said, even the great dragon himself can make mistakes from time to time, especially when he's tired and hasn't taken his medication."
"What are you saying?" asked Peter anxiously.
Tank smiled in a way that made Peter feel very nervous.
"Be thankful that you didn't end up in the body of a spider."
Most of the time Peter could tell when his friend was being serious or whether he was joking, but at this exact moment, he really didn't have a clue. Returning to the workshop, they found that Gee Tee had recovered from his exertions and was gathering up everything he'd previously strewn across the floor. The three of them each took a chair and sat sipping their drinks in comparative silence. That is, until the old shopkeeper piped up.
"I knew there was a reason I continue to employ you," he said smiling and licking his great big jaw. "In all my years I've never come across anyone that can make steaming hot charcoal like you can."
Tank's moody expression seemed to soften just slightly, particularly when his employer let out a resounding 'BURRRRRRRP'.
Looking directly at Tank, Gee Tee pushed his glasses as far up his nose as he could, and said,
"I know you only have my best interests at heart apprentice, something I really do appreciate, and show far less frequently than I should. But I'm not quite as frail or infirm as you would believe.”
Tank's softened expression turned back to one of moodiness, and Peter could see that his friend was just about to lecture the old dragon again, when the shopkeeper held up his wing to stop his young apprentice.
"I've lived for a very long time and have a great many experiences to call upon, all of which currently tell me two things. One is that your friend, Peter, has got himself tangled up in something very unusual indeed and needs OUR help. And two, despite my vast years, I'm still a very long way off joining the great river of lava."
At this last comment, Tank broke into a real smile, the first time Peter had seen him do so today.
"So," continued Gee Tee, "we will continue our research here and try to find a mantra that will totally neutralise what we believe to be poison in Mark's house on the surface. While you, young Peter, must practice caution. If indeed Manson is not as he appears to be, then he could potentially be very dangerous. If I were you, I would continue to gather more information and avoid any unnecessary confrontation with him."
Peter nodded his agreement and left the Mantra Emporium feeling genuinely happy for the first time in as long as he could remember. He would continue to watch Manson and with the help of his friends, old and new, he was sure he could thwart whatever evil the crafty Major had in mind.