crispina kemp

Continuing the story of Thredwyl’s adventure. Read it all FOR FREE on Thredwyl’s very own site

* * *

Bored, Thredwyl paced. Three days, three chuffing days now, held in this high-security unit. Days broken only by Dr Ireson’s visits – the Iron Man, Thredwyl had decided to call him – and the attentions of Bessy and Night-Shift Louisa, her oppo.

Bessy was day shift, Bessy explained. Very chatty was Blessed Bessy. Blessed because Grandma had blessed her with ample curves, blessed because with her chattiness she divulged more than she ought. That first day in this high-security unit, Blessed Bessy had let slip that she was having what she called a ‘thing’ with Dwayne, over at Anthropology. Iron Man Ireson might want to keep secret the location of this facility for holding illegal aliens and questionable little fellows, but thanks to Blessed Bessy’s voluble mouth, it didn’t take much for Thredwyl to work out its location. Cambridge.

Blessed Bessy was a goodun. He’d heard that said of things and people several times since his miss-worded spell had landed him here in the Land of Giants, or rather, the Land of Man and His Unkind Kind. Goodun, aye, that’s a goodun, said with affection. Still, he’d had to train Bessy in the basics.

“Seeds, I only eat cold chuffing seeds,” he had shouted at her the second time she brought him a dish of steaming hot food. He didn’t know what the food was. Not seeds. Who’d ever heard of serving hot seeds? Not even the Fernamon did that.

But she’d taken it well. Nodded, put dish and tray down by the door, and scribbled a while on her clipboard.

With careful observation, Thredwyl had discovered a discernible pattern to her use of that board. When she came on duty, and again when she left for the night, she jotted on the first page. She jotted on the last page when, at two hourly intervals, she checked on his padded pants. Oh yea, that was a delightful humiliation.

“What’s this?” he’d asked the first day, pulling at the teddy-patterned padded pants that hugged his hips and padded his crotch as if he was hung like a Giant.

“That’s so you don’t mess – catches your doings.” Not a blush to Blessed Bessy’s fair freckled cheeks.

“My…?” Thredwyl had gulped and told her sternly. “I would prefer that you provided a pot, like Daisy did.”

“A pot is easily overturned. Or thrown.”

He stared at her, his cheeks burning like they were chasing embers through the spectrum. “Do I look the sort to play with my poop? Well, do I?”

She stuttered what might have become an explanation – had he allowed it.

“Just because I’m small, doesn’t mean I’m a baby. Would you wrap these things around a—” But he didn’t know what word to use. Aliens and little fellows, that’s what Iron Man Ireson had said. “An adult-sized person?”

Blessed Bessy had opened her mouth. But closed it again and nodded.

“What, you do make them wear these?” He pulled at the offending plastic. “By the cringe!”

“We have to collect it,” she said, very apologetic though not abashed. “It’s for the lab. It has to be analysed.”

He scrunched up his mouth and clenched his fists. He had to get out of this place.

She jotted what she explained were her observations of what he ate, how much, and if he asked for more.

She jotted again when he banged his head against the door. No handle, no visible lock, just an unmarked block of high-sheen metal.

She jotted when he pushed his bed closer to the window. But that bed was way below its level, and he still couldn’t see out. It didn’t take him long to solve that. He bounced on the bed till, woo-hey, with enough momentum gained he jumped and landed on the window-ledge. That panicked her.

“Chill, Bessy. I’m an ace-climber, me.” He cursed at how quickly he’d caught her speech.

He craned sideways out of the window. That frightened her further, fair peeing herself. “Well look at this.” Four windows stacked like a ladder. He must be on the fifth floor. Haps a mite too far for him to jump it.

Blessed Bessy jotted on her clipboard whenever Thredwyl spoke. He fast-jabbered a string of non-words and watched her try to keep up. She laughed when she realised the joke was on her. Then she jotted that too.

“But at least you speak English,” she said.

Oh, aye, he spoke English. And wasn’t that as well with the number of questions Iron Man Ireson asked him – over and over. But at least the irksome doctor only popped in in the morning.

Where was he from, Dr Ireson asked him. How did he get here? Did he have help? Did more of his people come with him? Was he the norm amongst his people, or was he the only size-challenged man? At first, Thredwyl complied, in the hope he’d then be released. But next morning, the irksome Iron Man returned and asked the same cringing questions.

“Nay, Docky-Man” – he’d learned that from Bessy – “I answered those questions yester-morn. And I saw that you noted my answers then. So why ask me again?”

Thredwyl knew the answer. Because Iron Man Ireson didn’t believe him. Was Dr Ireson the professor’s servitor? Sure, he must be, aye?

Thredwyl adopted a clued-up wise-guy’s stance like he’d seen on the Dooleys’ magic-movie-box. “So, Bessy, this Docky-Man Ireson, he’s in the pay of Professor Angelus Margev, right?”

“Yeah, like you’re winding me, huh? Like, who’s this professor geezer?”

Seemed Blessed Bessy didn’t know Angelus. But Thredwyl figured it. Must be that with the professor’s role now played in disposing of him, he’d bucked out. That suited Thredwyl fine. But what to do about the Iron Man?

“Where were you born?” Docky-Man asked. “In which country? You know its name, I suppose?”

“Dolstone,” Thredwyl repeated yesterday’s answer.

“Is that Cornwall?” the irksome doctor asked. Again.

“No, it’s chuffing Rock Wall. It’s a chuffing cave,” Thredwyl was ready to pull out his hair.

Iron Man Ireson jotted on a clipboard that looked like Blessed Bessy’s, except hers was dark blue and his was black. Also, his had a cover that folded over to resemble one of those books Daisy had shown him.

“All right, we’ll leave that for now. Now, how did you get here? In a boat? Hidden in a crate?”

Thredwyl thought of the trunk in the attic that held Mrs Dooley’s theatrical costumes. Was it possible he had arrived through that? Yet he distinctly remembered hurting his fingers as he dug them into the crevasses between the floorboards.

‘I told you, a spell went wrong. But you spell-less spawn of a black dawn, can’t get your gigantic head around that.”

Docky-Man Ireson nodded to Blessed Bessy who then scribbled again on her board.

“Sarcasm and anger will get you nowhere around here,” the doctor chided him.

“Neither will telling the truth,’ Thredwyl snarled.

“That’s another we’ll try tomorrow,’ said the doctor. “Next, did anyone help you? Organise the transport for you, perhaps? Who? And who met you this end?”

The first time asked, Thredwyl had answered “Grandma”, and “Fleur”, this being as close to an answer as he could come.

Next time he answered in an exaggerated long-suffering tone, “Nay, my kind and patient doctor. I did it all on my own.”

Although the doctor’s left-side gingery eyebrow rose, he nodded and noted it down. “That’s better. Now, did you come here alone? Or say, with your friends or your kin?”

“Nay, neither friends nor kin. My cousins were expecting me to arrive at Gruff’s Cavern so how could they come with me?”

“Gruff’s Cavern,” Docky-Man Ireson repeated and nodded significantly to Blessed Bessy who scribbled away on her board. “And where is Gruff’s Cavern?”

Thredwyl rolled his eyes in exaggerated fashion. “In Dolstone – how else would my cousins gain it? Oh, you want me to be more precise? So it’s part-way into Dolfernan, but we’ve never been called for the trespass.”

Every morning, that’s how it went. This morning Iron Man Ireson had started thumping on about his size. All apologetic of course. “Are you the only one in…” cough “…Dolstone of such…” cough “…diminutive size?”

“I’m a Stone, what other size should I be?”

“We’ve taken samples – to check for growth hormone disorder,” the doctor informed Blessed Bessy. “But I can’t help but think he’s one of those homo floresiensis. Oh, think if he is…. We’ll be able to name our grants. But if news of this leaks…. Why must the lab take so long with the results of his DNA test? Another three weeks. Three BLOODY weeks!”

Thredwyl didn’t know about DNA. Nor what might happen following the results in three BLOODY weeks. But he did know what would happen if his presence here was leaked. He’d become ‘high profile’. Then he’d have Professor Angelus Margev attacking again with his wild accusations that he belonged to some demon-worshipping cult, probably one that sacrificed babies. He needed to speak with Daisy. A word dropped to Blessed Bessy to say something to her friend Dwayne, that Dwayne could repeat to Jace? And Dwayne would oblige because, despite the thing he was having with Bessy, Dwayne had the hots for Fleur. Now, what would the best word be? Help?

Continuing the story of Thredwyl’s adventure. Read it all FOR FREE on Thredwyl’s very own site

* * *

Thredwyl lay as still as the Stone that he was and scarcely breathed. With him less than half the size of a Hobbit – whatever one of those was – they’d easily miss him beneath the carelessly discarded bath towel. He honed his ears. But the densely fluffy fabric muffled all but the loudest of sounds – the creak of an opening door. And now they were near. Thredwyl squeezed his eyes tight.

“I know what you’re saying, Dwayne,” said a hard-edged voice. “But the little wretch must be here somewhere.”

Nix nay, I’m not, I’m not, Thredwyl pressed himself yet further into the floor, trying to make himself insignificantly small. If only he still had his magic, he could magic himself smaller than the glitter, trodden in from Daisy’s room, that speckled the floor.

“But I tell you,” said another voice (Dwayne?), “I know the family, and if Fleur says the little fella’s gone and run off, then the little fella’s gone and run off. I mean, just look at that hutch back there, all broken and—”

“Yeah, and since when have big bazookas been a guarantee of honesty?”

Thredwyl wanted to nod but had to keep still. Even so, if Fleur had spun a misleading lie to keep him out of Anthropology clutches – by the cringe, that’s an amazement – then he owed Fleur a deed in return.

But that hard-edged male wasn’t easily duped. He sounded determined to find Thredwyl. Like he wouldn’t give up searching till he’d pulled every seed out of Thredwyl’s ‘doings’, and likely he’d enjoy it too, the nasty male-Man. He was probably tall, and thin, and all sharp angles, with a beak for a nose. One of the professor’s personal servants, without a doubt. Drat. Triple drat.

Thredwyl quietened his breathing, quietened his thoughts.

Footsteps…leaving the bathroom. Two came in, two gone out. The door clicked closed.

By Grandma’s Grimy Knickers…. Thredwyl let out his held breath and gasped in another. Gone. He was safe – at least for now.

He started to move, a slow push-up, a slow raise of his bum.

Slam.

“Ouch! This Kupie has stones, you know.” Pointless holding quiet now with that granite-slab of a shoe pinning him down. As if the male wouldn’t know the difference between fluffy towel and squashed Thredwyl.

“Dwayne,” the male called out, no release of pressure on Thredwyl’s delicate parts.

The door wheezed open. Footsteps. Dwayne’s re-entry.

“Here, just plonk your foot here. Not that hard – we don’t want him damaged. A rarity, this.”

Thredwyl was grateful for the reprimand, if tardily applied. He wanted to curl around his maltreated maleness, to hold it…them, to shield them, protect them from further abuse. But that mountainous boot still had him pinned.

And what were they doing? He could hear unfathomable movements and metallic clicks.

“How much are you giving him?” Dwayne’s outraged voice rapidly rose in pitch. Anyone would think they were his own stones so brutally stood upon.

“Have to make sure,” said the harsh-voiced male, probably the professor’s most dangerous servitor. “We don’t want him escaping in transit. Out there amongst the bushes, he’d be devilishly difficult to find.”

A muted pop sounded.

“Hey!” Dwayne squeaked.

And several things happened at once.

The clod’s heavy weight lifted.

A thud sounded loud in Thredwyl’s well-muffled ears accompanied by a gust of midden-scented air.

The probable professor’s dangerous servitor screamed an unintelligible stream of hard-edged curses.

Thredwyl seized his chance while the foot was removed. Up he pushed from the floor…to have a solid boot kick him full in the face.

He reeled and sucked down the blood. But he didn’t give up, fast onto his feet…if only the entangling towel hadn’t brought him back down. He tried again, this time squiggling out from under it before he stood up. Done it. With a hand to cradle his painful parts, he hobbled and scuttled fast as he could to the open door.

“Oh no you don’t,” the nasty hard-voiced male shouted.

Another pop sounded.

Thredwyl screamed as something sharp and piercing drove into his butt. The room began to waver around him. He clutched at the door, all fuzzy and light-headed. So why did he feel so heavy?

An indeterminable while later…Thredwyl woke to noises most unfamiliar. He didn’t open his eyes, first he wanted to know where he was.

A loud tick tock.

A snuffle.

Feet pattering.

A squeak, squeak, squeak.

A rustle, rhythmically alternating loud and soft.

A bird – he thought it a bird – chirping.

Other noises, distant. Those at first had puzzled him until he remembered his jaunt in Daisy’s stifling bag. Traffic sounds.

At the same time, he named the most prominent smell. A dog. A dog with bad intestines that occasionally farted. Phew, keep that broiled beast away from me. But he’d no fear of the dog eating him alive. No, he’d be dead before that happened, dead from its ghastly gas.

Close to his nose he could smell…flowers? Or was it Daisy’s scented bath bubbles?

Other smells remained beyond his naming. Clean smells with tangy undertones.

And food. Cooked food, like the Dooley family ate – animal fats, animal meat. And the strong reek of cabbage.

So long as the dog didn’t come close, Thredwyl was content to remain, unmoving, where he was. It was pleasant enough. Beneath him was something firm yet soft. Covering him was a fabric smooth and light. A bed, a Man Kind’s bed!

Panic seized. Not Fleur’s bed, please. But no, he remembered no clean smells with tangy undertones from there. Her scents had been so thick in the air he had tasted them. Yuck.

Nix nay, be still, no need to move. This comfort’s multi-times better than the pink palace. And no need to run nor hide. But he did wonder where he was.

Slowly, he became aware of something that didn’t belong on the back of his hand. What the grubby knickers was that? He cracked open an eye. A fine transparent tube affixed to a yellow dart-like thing disappeared beneath a large pink patch.

“What the…?” He jerked his hand away – or at least he tried but it seemed his body was still asleep.

“Hi, Doctor Ireson?” said a female voice. “Yea, he’s now waking up.”

The squeaky sounds sounded again, growing louder, coming closer. The dog barked.

“Jacko, scat!” the female said. “You’ll get me fired.’

The dog whined, and from the sounds of it, slunk away.

Thredwyl tried to turn his head, enough to see this squeaky-shoed female who now approached him. But his muscles were as flaccid as an unused pizzle.

“Hush,” the female said. “Relax, all’s okay. There’s fears you might be dangerous so you’re under sedation. I’m here to attend you and to make observations. Doctor Ireson will explain everything when he arrives.”

A new noise sounded. Beeps. Six. They played out a pattern. Then a squish. A door opening?

The dog’s whine became an excited snuffle.

“Jacko, out!” ordered a male’s deep voice. “Bessy, how many times have I told you? We don’t allow dogs in the high-security unit, no matter how violent the man.”

Thredwyl swallowed. High security? Violent? Dangerous? He groaned. He still couldn’t turn his head, yet he managed a hoarse, “Where…?”

“Where are you?” Doctor Ireson completed Thredwyl’s question. “Sorry, little fellow, but I can’t tell you that. Secret facility for holding illegal aliens and, um, the likes of you until we can ascertain their, um, proper status and security risk.”

Thredwyl groaned, long and low, a vibration that reached his innards before it returned. Could the dice roll more viciously against him? The pink plastic palace may have been an embarrassment but…. High-security? Secret facility? He was locked away, and he didn’t know where.