School's Out!

by Gareth P. Jones

  Miss Gilfeather emitted a very precise laugh. “My dear, your mother is a pop star, not a musician.”

  “My mother has won awards,” Petal screamed. “She has fans all over the world.”

  “That must keep her very cool,” said Miss Gilfeather, maintaining her composure. “Now, kindly leave. You have wasted enough of my time.”

  Petal swung around and saw Holly. “What are you staring at?” she demanded.

  “I think you’d better give your psychiatrist a call,” replied Holly.

  “Hermann is a therapist,” replied Petal. “It’s Callum who needs a psychiatrist, a whole team of them, I heard.” Petal pointed at the dark-haired boy. “Crazy Callum, the Prime Minister’s son.”

  “Children, please don’t argue in my rehearsal rooms,” said Miss Gilfeather. “The acoustics are far too good to waste on shouting. If you wish to tear each other limb from limb, we have a perfectly good playground.”

  Petal stormed out of the room, slamming the door as she left.

  Holly had known that the Prime Minister’s son was in the year above her, but she had expected him to be one of the super-confident rich kids that she hated so much.

  “Petal reminds me of a violin I once had. Highly strung,” said Miss Gilfeather, turning to look at Holly. “Who are you?” she demanded. “You are not scheduled for a lesson.”

  “I’m Holly Bigsby. I’m new and I want to join the band.”

  “Impossible,” replied the teacher. “The concert is in five days’ time.”

  “I’m a quick learner. I only started here recently and I was hoping the band would help me make friends.”

  “It’s not about making friends. It’s about making music.”

  “Please, at least let me audition.”

  Miss Gilfeather gave Holly a sustained stare and then spoke. “OK. I will give you an audition after Mr Thackley’s lesson. Wait here.”

  Callum followed her into the room and the door shut behind them. The piano started again and the French horn joined in, hitting every note perfectly and playing with feeling and precision. It sounded beautiful. Holly was stunned.

  After half an hour, the door opened and the boy walked out, his instrument case clasped in his sweaty hands.

  “Excellent, Mr Thackley, as usual. See you on Monday for band rehearsals,” said Miss Gilfeather. “Now, Miss Bigsby, let’s see what you can do.”

  Holly got up nervously and went into the room. As she passed Callum he whispered, “Good luck.”

  “Now, Holly Bigsby,” said Miss Gilfeather, closing the door. “The terrible tearaway. Mr Palmer has mentioned you. Well, I don’t care for rebellion in my band. Music is unique in being both a science and an art. It should be studied with the brain and played with the heart. I see you play trumpet. I will accompany you on this piece.”

  She handed Holly a sheet of music.

  “I brought my own piece to play,” replied Holly.

  “If you are hoping to play in the concert you will have to demonstrate the ability to sight-read. Given enough time you can teach a monkey to play Mozart but they’ll never be able to sight-read.”

  “You can teach a monkey to play Mozart?”

  Miss Gilfeather ignored her question. “Please familiarize yourself with the key and we’ll begin.”

  The music looked difficult with three flats by the stave, plus a few more thrown in during the piece. Holly took her trumpet from its case and held it up to her lips. She got the first few notes in her head, working out the fingering, then nodded to Miss Gilfeather, who sat down at the piano and began to play.

  At the end of the piece, Miss Gilfeather said, “Well, Holly Bigsby, your embouchure is appalling, you hold the trumpet at the wrong angle, your timing is off and you seem determined to turn every first quaver into a semi-quaver.”

  Holly said nothing.

  “However,” she continued, “you do have some flare for the instrument and you have determination.” She picked up a folder and handed it to Holly. “We only have two trumpets at the moment so if you can learn all this you may play third.”

  “Brilliant.” Holly smiled.

  “But be warned, I expect utter dedication from my musicians. If I think you are damaging the integrity of the music you will be out of this band before your lips can touch that mouthpiece, young lady. Hold it up straight and stick your chin out. Band rehearsal is on Monday after school and the concert takes place on Thursday when we will spend the entire day at the concert hall.”

  Holly thanked Miss Gilfeather and left. In the corridor, she found Callum, apparently waiting for her, but when she got near, he shrank away.

  “I got in,” she said. “I heard you play, you were amazing.”

  “I like music, I like playing, it makes me feel safe,” he said. “I heard you too. You made some mistakes.”

  Holly ignored this. “Don’t worry about Petal. She’s just mean. She killed my pet mouse.”

  “I don’t care about her,” he replied. “She doesn’t know anything, but I know. I see too much. They all think Callum is mad because of the monsters in my head. They are all in my head but they’re real too.”

  “Who?” asked Holly, concerned. “What are you talking about?”

  “The doctors call it post-traumatic stress.”

  “Why? What happened to you?”

  “They’re in the trees. They look like trees. You think they are trees, then they move and they talk and they have wings and teeth and I know they’re in my head, they’re all imaginary. They took me before and they’ll take me again. They’ll come soon. They told me they would but what does it matter if it’s all in Callum’s head? Callum can control it. That’s what the doctors said. There’s no such thing as monsters.”

  “Callum, what are you saying?” asked Holly, growing increasingly anxious.

  “No one believes Callum. No one does.”

  “I want to help you,” she persisted.

  “You can’t help me.”

  Holly reached for his arm but he shrugged her off, turned on his heel and hurried down the corridor.

  “Callum, wait!” she called after him, but he quickened his pace.

  Looking at the green English countryside whizzing past the train, Dirk felt a tingle of nerves in his stomach. London was his home. It was where he felt safe. All this space made him feel uneasy.

  The train had been travelling for a few hours when, finally, it stopped at a small village station with a sign that read Stonegarth. Professor Rosenfield got off the train, still clutching the silver case. He looked up and down the empty platform as the train pulled away and Dirk jumped over his head on to the station roof. It was a bright, sunny day and Dirk was grateful that dragons cast shadows upwards.

  He peered over the other side of the roof. In the car park of the station was an old yellow car, its paintwork chipped and eaten away by rust. Two men were leaning against the side of it. Dirk recognized them instantly.

  “What’s ’e a professor of then?” said a short, plump man with tightly curled red hair.

  “Although a valid question, I’m afraid that Mr G has not furnished me with a full biography of the gentleman concerned, so I will have to decline from honouring your inquisition with a satisfactory answer,” said the taller man, who had the merest wisp of hair combed carefully across his head.

  “You mean, you don’t know?”

  “I am saying words to that effect, yes, Reg.”

  It was the two idiot crooks who worked for the Kinghorns, Arthur and Reg. They had no idea that the Mr G they spoke of was in fact a dragon, the mysterious Vainclaw Grandin.

  “Mr G don’t tell us much, does ’e?” said Reg. “I still don’t know what that whole cat caper was about.”

  “He certainly likes to play his cards close to his chest, Reginald,” agreed Arthur. “But remember, it was he who paid for the lawyer who got us off. We owe him a great deal.”

  “We only got arrested because of ’im in the first place!” protested th
e short man.

  “Ah, look yonder, this must be the chap,” said Arthur, noticing Professor Rosenfield standing outside the station, scratching his head. Arthur walked towards him and extended a hand. “Professor Rosenfield, I presume?”

  “Er, yes,” replied the professor, shaking Arthur’s hand uncertainly.

  “My name is Arthur and this big-boned gentleman is my colleague, Reg. We are here to provide vehicular transportation to your destination.”

  Professor Rosenfield looked blankly at the two men.

  “We’re the wheels,” added Reg. “Don’t worry. I don’t understand half of what ’e’s on about neither. The trick is not to get too bogged down in listenin’ to the words.”

  “I’m sure the professor understands me perfectly adequately,” said Arthur. “He too is a man of learning.” He turned to Rosenfield, opened the back door of the car and said, “Worry not, Reg has very little in the way of grey matter but he is fully familiarized in the way of motorized wheel control.”

  The professor looked at the crooks as though they had just landed from a different planet. “Er… Are you sure it’s me you’re here to pick up?”

  “I suppose there is a possibility that we have been sent to collect a different man with the same name as you from this exact spot, yes, but you would have to admit that it would be a staggering coincidence,” replied Arthur.

  “Well, yes, I suppose so,” admitted the professor.

  “In you go, then.” Arthur helped the professor into the back. “Look at that, we’re already discussing probability,” he said. “It is nice to have civilized company for a change.”

  “I know about probability,” said Reg. “It’s gamblin’, ain’t it?”

  “You see what I have to put up with,” sighed Arthur.

  The two crooks took their seats in the front and drove away.

  Dirk followed, firstly using the roofs of the houses, then, when they reached the edge of town, flying low behind the hedgerows, keeping his wings out of sight from the road, but also watching out for any farmers who might see him. He skirted the edge of a field of cows that mooed fearfully at him and retreated to the other side of the field.

  The road ran alongside a large lake and Dirk skimmed across the surface, dipping his claws in and causing water to spray up. He had forgotten how much fun proper flying could be. Maybe it was good to get out of London, after all.

  The car took a road that cut through a dense forest over a small hill. Dirk flew over the trees, keeping the car in sight. At the base of the hill it turned on to a smaller dirt track that led deeper into the forest. At the end of the track was a rundown old cottage with black-and-white walls. The car stopped outside and all three men got out.

  Dirk swooped down and ducked behind the low stone wall that surrounded the cottage.

  “Well, Professor Rosenfield,” said Arthur, opening the professor’s door. “It has been a pleasure. As you can imagine, working mostly with Reg I am generally starved of intellectual discourse. Except on the subject of light ales from around the world, Reg has very little in the way of knowledge.”

  The professor climbed out of the car, holding the silver case with both arms.

  “Who did you say you worked for?” he asked.

  “Sadly, we are not at liberty to divulge that particular piece of information, are we, Reg?”

  “What, about workin’ for Mr G? No, can’t say a word,” replied Reg.

  Arthur raised a hand and casually whacked Reg around the back of his head.

  “Ow, what did you do that for?”

  “I must apologize for my colleague,” Arthur said to the professor. “When it comes to acting the fool, Reg is very much from the method school of acting.”

  Neither Reg nor the professor looked like they had the remotest idea what this meant, but the professor said, “Is Mr G the deep-voiced gentleman I spoke to?”

  “Goodbye, professor,” said Arthur, backing away.

  “Nice to meet you,” added Reg, following Arthur.

  The two men got in the car.

  “Aren’t you staying with me?” the professor shouted after them.

  “I’m afraid not,” replied Arthur, as Reg started the engine. “Our instructions were to leave you here. We will return each morn to provide transportation for procurement of provisions. Come on, Reg, allez!”

  “A what?”

  “It means go, you nincompoop.”

  Reg let the handbrake off and they drove away, leaving the professor to enter the cottage through its only door.

  Dirk scurried forwards. There were two dirty windows. Looking through the nearest one, he saw inside the small, dusty and distinctly basic cottage. Rosenfield sat down on a rickety wooden chair and placed the silver case on the kitchen table. He pressed a button on the side of the case and the lid opened, blocking out the professor’s face. Dirk needed to see what he was doing but suddenly he felt a sharp pain shoot through his tail.

  He looked round to see the silver bark-like skin of a Tree Dragon. Its teeth were clamped over Dirk’s tail. Its pale green eyes were staring at him wildly.

  Dirk tried to swing his tail, but the Tree Dragon’s grip was firm, secured by its claws digging into the ground like roots. Its mossy teeth had penetrated the soft underside of his tail, drawing dark green blood. The pain was immense.

  Dirk opened his mouth and exhaled fire, singeing his own tail but forcing the Tree Dragon to release him. He leaped on to the dragon’s back, pressing the tips of his claws against its throat.

  “Who are you?” he whispered, not wanting to attract the professor’s attention. “Why did you attack me?”

  “Get off me. You’re ouching me.”

  It was a female.

  “Tell me and I’ll get off your back,” replied Dirk, holding down the Tree Dragon’s writhing limbs and digging his claws in further.

  She screamed in agony.

  “Who’s there?” shouted the professor from inside the cottage.

  Dirk released the Tree Dragon, who darted up an oak tree, her body twisting easily around the thick trunk, disappearing into the dense forest.

  “Who’s there? Show yourself!” yelled the professor, coming to the window.

  Dirk took after the Tree Dragon.

  Tree Dragons were fast movers in their own territory, where they could swing from tree to tree, so it was difficult to keep up. He followed her deep into the forest until she stopped, landing on a malformed dead tree in the centre of a clearing, illuminated by white sunlight cutting through the green leaves.

  “What do you want to know, Mountain Dragon?” she said.

  “Who … are … you?” panted Dirk, catching his breath.

  “My name’s Betula Pendula,” she replied.

  “Why did you attack me?” asked Dirk.

  “You were schnooking on the manuman.”

  “Er… What?”

  All dragons learned to speak human languages by eavesdropping, but it appeared that this one had got the words jumbled up and ended up with a language all of her own.

  “You were schnooking on the manuman,” repeated Betula.

  “I was spying on the human?” translated Dirk. “Yes. His name is Professor Rosenfield.”

  “What do you know about the manuman?” snapped Betula.

  “Who are you working for, bark-back?” snarled Dirk.

  “That’s enough interroquests,” she replied.

  “If I don’t get some answers I’m going to open my mouth and burn down that tree – and you with it,” threatened Dirk.

  Betula laughed and said, “Come on, bark-sisters.”

  The tree began to move, branches slowly peeling away, dismantling itself, lowering Betula down to the ground and splitting into more parts. What Dirk had taken for a tree was actually four Tree Dragons balanced on top of each other like acrobats, each one with a different bark-coloured skin.

  “These are my cofrienions,” said Betula, introducing the Tree Dragons as they arranged themse
lves into attack formation in front of Dirk. “This is Buxus Sempervirens, Tilia Cordata, Salix Alba and Acer Campestre.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Dirk stood his ground. “Now, tell me what you’re doing here.”

  “Come on, let’s schmunch him.” Buxus snapped her teeth viciously.

  “Let me do it,” said Acer, who had a white back covered in fine ridges.

  “No, Acer,” replied Betula angrily. “We’re all going to kill him. It’s not about notches on your bark.”

  “You’ve already had your go, Betula,” Acer replied. “It’s my turn.”

  “You heard what Betula said,” added Salix, whose back was greeny-red.

  “Strush up, Salix!” snapped Acer. “You’re always siding with Betula.”

  “Oh, just let her,” said Tilia, who was thinner and darker than the others. “What harm will it do?”

  “Yeah, let’s go one on one, you and me, bark-back,” challenged Dirk.

  Five sets of pale green eyes glared at him.

  “Oh, let’s just get him,” said Betula, diving forwards and whacking Dirk in the face.

  He swiped at her with his tail but she evaded him by somersaulting over his head. A second one came at him from the side. Dirk deflected the attack with a wing, but a third had already locked her jaws around his leg. Pain raced through his body. He lashed out his tail and whacked the dragon over the head. She released her grip, but more came at him, their sharp teeth latching on to his leg and tail.

  There were too many of them and they were too quick.

  Fire burst from Dirk’s mouth but one of his assailants landed heavily on his back. He fell to the ground and the fire went out in a puff of smoke. His wings were clamped down and blood poured from his cuts. Another Tree Dragon landed on his shoulders and stood on his jaw, preventing him from breathing any more fire.

  Betula’s face appeared in front of his. “This is what you get for schnooking, Mountain Dragon,” she said, opening her mouth to finish him off.

  “Mmmaknghurn.” Dirk struggled to speak.

  “What’s that?” said Betula.