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