crispina kemp

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

* * *

While Thredwyl liked his day-time carer, Blessed Bessy, by the cringe, he couldn’t abide her oppo, Louisa. Louisa cared only for her wages. Within a sweep of the clock’s long hand after Bessy had left, Louisa beeped her way through the high sheen door. She made her raspy jottings on her clipboard – hers was a purply-blue – angled the hard-seated metal-framed chair to where she could see all points of the room without turning her head, just a slight raise of her eyes, and flipped open her magazine. Thereafter, except that she completed her two-hourly checks, she rhythmically flipped the night away. She never spoke – never – except to say she was going to ‘spend a penny’. Then she’d be absent for five sweeps of the clock by its longest arm.

Within two hours of meeting the angular-bodied sharp-nosed night-carer, Thredwyl decided now was the time to pop out his poop. And every two hours thereafter. Let her deal with the stinking stuff. He only wished he ate something more offensive than seeds. He knew it was childish of him, but treat an adult like a child, sealing him into these huge hip-hugging padded-pants, and you’re asking for him to behave like one.

Every two hours her schedule required her to check on his pants, and every two hours he popped out a poop, so he didn’t sleep much at nights. But that gave him ample time to dream up a scheme: How to get a message to Daisy?

If nothing else, he must let her know she was safe. Safe? Aye, by Aunt Diddly’s doodads, he was safe from the dastardly machinations of Professor Angelus Margev – at least while he was resident at the facility for holding illegal aliens and questionable little fellows, sealed away from all malevolent intruders by a handle-less high sheen metal door.

But there was the rub. Safe he might be, but he didn’t want to remain here forever. Sooner or later the presence of this unaccountable little fellow would be leaked to the press and then…. But he had to be gone before then. Gone back home, to Dolstone. Yet how? He had lost his magic, and him a magical being. Without his magic, what use were his spells?

Sapphire, he sub-vocalised his cogitations, an eye to Louisa who, anyway, was enthralled by her mag.

Sapphire, Beloved of Grandma. Beloved, aye, yet marred.

Aye, marred by a deep flaw, the crack sustained when, as a young Kupie undergoing the clan’s unofficial initiation rites, he had fallen from the Giant’s Knee. Marred and marked. MARKED, the word shouted at him.

He jerked up straight.

Louisa the night-attendant shot to her feet. Her glossy mag, dropped, flopped in a sprawl on the cold lino floor. “What?”

Thredwyl blinked, forced a yawn, and fell back into a feigned deep sleep.

That’s why the spell had failed him, he continued to unfold the story. That’s why he had ended up here in the Land of Giants. He stifled a groan. It had been no chance happening that he’d stolen that spell. Destiny, aye destiny wanted him here in this Land of Giants. But why? Well, to serve as a Hero of course. The thought didn’t please him. In fact, it thoroughly chilled him. He shuddered beneath his covers. But like it or not, the logic held out. Except…

He didn’t want to complete that thought. But it hung around him, pestering for attention despite he had thoughts more pressing than that. Thoughts like how to get out of this secure and secret facility and get himself home.

Sacrifice, the word shouted at him. The word jumped up and down. It spun around him, tracing rings. For as everyone knew, a Hero’s not a Hero unless he sacrifices himself.

Yikes, yowl. Nix nay. But aye, he couldn’t argue himself from it. From the day of that dare gone wrong at the Giant’s Knee, Thredwyl’s destiny had been marked upon him. And no matter his reluctance – of all his high-climbing, risk-taking escapades, he’d never sweated the way he did now – Thredwyl knew what he must do. And despite his breath in clutching his lungs refused to come out, he nodded definitively. Problem solved.

Except that high sheen metal door still sat between him and his exit home – that very same high sheen metal door through which Night-Shift Louisa swiftly exited and, cheery as ever, Blessed Bessy entered.

She wished Thredwyl a bright good morning. Thredwyl looked away, no attempt to smile.

“Hey, whazzup, little fella? You’re looking glummer than a black clouded day. We can’t have that.”

He shrugged and kept his head down.

She frowned, put her clipboard down on the hard-seated metal-framed chair, and squatted down beside his bed.

“Hey, little fella,” she said, barely audible, and as close to his ear as he’d allow, “Today is Dock-Man Ireson’s day off.”

He sniffed. “And?”

“And I’ve a little surprise for you,” she said, still whispering close to him.

He looked up. Her large brown eyes looked back at him with a look he’d last seen on the Dooley’s dog Helas.

“What, I’m free to leave?” he asked, head atilt, and no serious belief that she’d say aye.

“Well, not quite that but…now, we have to be very quiet about this. No jumping and shouting. There’s a visitor for you.”

Thredwyl felt himself shrink. “Professor Angelus Margev?”

“No, silly you,” Blessed Bessy laughed, then continued on in a hushed voice, “No, it’s a little friend. Be here in” – she glanced back at the clock – “oh, about an hour.”

He had one friend in the Land of Giants, one amongst these Men and their Menacing Kind, and she wasn’t little, not compared to him. To be little it had to be one of his cousins. He didn’t stop to ask which one it was, he’d find out soon enough. One of his cousins come in search of him and now captured. Not a visitor as Bessy had said, but a fellow inmate. He scowled and drew in his breath.

But whichever cousin it was, Thredwyl wouldn’t have him see him in this sleep-slurred state. He was out of his bed, head dunked into the water provided fresh twice daily for his ablutions, face splashed, other bits wiped.

He tugged at his padded pants. “What about this? Can’t I take it off, just for the while? Please?”

‘Indeed you cannot!” She sounded shocked. “You’ll get me locked up.”

“How about clothes then?” He asked. “So this embarrassment” – he tugged again at his padded pants – “doesn’t show.”

“Soz,” said Bessy, and she did sound sorry.

He sat back down on his bed with a harrumph. Bessy swapped water for seeds. He picked at his food, not hungry, torn between excitement at seeing whichever cousin had found his way here, and a deep fret that that same cousin was now to share this secret facility.

His eyes strayed to the opposite wall, to the camera hidden in the small white box high above the lone hard-seated chair. Blessed Bessy had pointed it out to him on his first day, saying if he threatened her in any way, they – whoever they were – would soon know. Were they to observe the two together? What if they didn’t know about a Kupie’s sexual orientation? What if he and his cousin were expected to – gulp – mate?

At a knock on the handle-less high sheen door, Thredwyl leapt onto his bed and under the covers, pulling them up to his chin. At least that hid the embarrassment of his padded pants – though likely his cousin would be padded the same.

Blessed Bessy opened the door, a finger held to her lips. Thredwyl saw who waited there, and his sapphire eyes popped. This wasn’t the anticipated visitor. His eyes followed his visitor from the door to the room’s sole chair, then tracked up to the camera on the wall above her, and then to Bessy. Again, Bessy held a finger to her lips, and sidled out of the room.

A grin slowly spread across his face.

Daisy held up her hand, and silently counted off on her fingers. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. “Yay!” she exploded. “That’s the camera and mike switched off. Now we can talk.”

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?