Ironsides

A tenacious beautiful vine will grow in unlikely places, as happened on a ramshackle building in the back of “Ironsides.”  The sun, struggling at times through the cascading metal towers, encouraged delicate trumpet blooms to erupt in fiery hues – beauty, out of place in a kingdom reigned by rust and discarded treasures. Growing up, Artie rarely went back there. Memories lingered, like fleeting wisps of smoke, dancing in the air: a loving touch, soft voice, tendrils of hair curling a caramel face; idyllic moments halted before age three. With mom gone, it was just Artie and Mike.  Mike had little time for emotions, less for a child. He raised Artie the best he could, teaching him business, cars, and welding. On Artie’s 18^th birthday, Mike left a note, “The kingdom is yours.” and disappeared.

Artie absently tapped the fender of a rusty 1966 Dodge Charger, adjusted his leather jacket, stroked his beard, and stared with discerning gold eyes over his metal kingdom. Needing supplies, meant an uncomfortable trip to town and worse, people. Those who knew him, liked him. Others feared him. Growing up in the junkyard gave well-muscled definition to his 6’2” frame. He dressed in black to hide grease and rode a motorcycle, both for practicality and rebelliousness. Strangers thought he was trouble. He liked that.

It had been raining before Artie arrived in town. His boots and jeans were spattered with mud. Artie parked his bike, took off his helmet and shook his long, black hair. Looking around he saw the 5’2” enigma again, her hair in vibrant curls of blue and purple. She wore her customary pretty dress stopping just above her knees, her bag clasped tight to her chest. She never paid a damn bit of attention to the world around her.

Currently, her head was buried in a newspaper, obscuring her view of the car barreling toward her. Artie didn’t have time to think. He scooped up her slight frame in his arms, moving her out of danger. She screamed and flailed, pounding her tiny fists against his enormous chest, trying to escape his grasp.

“Help! Help!” She screeched, garnering a few strange looks.

Artie growled, sounding like a feral dog. “Quit struggling! You could’ve been killed!”

“By you… you overgrown, hairy, oaf!”

“By the car!” Artie retorted, dropping her abruptly to the ground. Her pretty, soft, doe eyes filled with fear.

“Ugh, now I’m covered in mud too! I just wanted coffee, a safe, cheap place to stay and a visit to the library. But no, this stupid behemoth got mud all over me…” she whirled around, flailing her arms, ranting to herself.

Artie ran his hand over his neck in exasperation. “This stupid behemoth needs to go.”

His sarcasm captured her attention. “Sorry… I’m Gwendolyn… Gwen,” reaching out her hand.

Artie heard the car before seeing it. He yanked her close, shielding her body with his, as the car zoomed past.

“Princess, who did you piss off?”

“Umm… I…” she looked at him helplessly, wringing her hands.

“Never mind, fill me in later!”

Artie dragged Gwen and unceremoniously plopped her down on the motorcycle, shoved his helmet at her, and climbed in front.

“Where’re we going?”

“My kingdom. You’ll like it. It has a cottage, fantastical creatures, 12 horses… a guard dragon.”

“Okay– nice, insane man, I’m getting off this bike now…”

Artie pulled her back. “Sit!” he commanded.

He revved his engine, bringing the bike to life and took off while a car sped toward them.

Leaving town, Artie expertly traversed muddy roads, the car followed, increasing its speed. Artie gunned his engine going through brush and bramble trying to outmaneuver. He had a plan, if he could get enough of a lead, he could get Gwen to safety. Greyhawk would do the rest. They flew, soaring over hills, mud spewing around them. Gwen’s grip grew tighter on his waist. Racing toward “Ironsides,” his remote button opened the gates just in time. Greyhawk, a silver dragon formed from a magnet crane, protruded majestically above Artie as he navigated rows of metallic corpses.

Artie shouted “I’ll drop you off. Run inside, lock the door, and throw that damn shoulder bag in my footlocker under the bed. The code is ‘sebara.’“He pulled to a screeching stop outside the floral covered cottage. Eleven iron horses lined either side, like a bastion of soldiers waiting to protect her. “Stay!” He shouted. He took off to lead the car, now aimlessly driving through the scrapyard, to its unsuspecting doom.

Gwen ran inside, locking the door. The king-sized bed dominated the cottage, she blushed slightly at unbidden thoughts, and reached under for the footlocker. Sliding it forward, she twisted the letters to form the literal magic word, threw her bag inside, and replaced it. Breathing deeply, she took in her surroundings. Every shelf featured magical creatures of shiny metal: fairies danced with delicate wings, gnomes sat atop silver toadstools, and frogs looked at her quizzically. Two stalwart silver dogs guarded the door.

Artie raced through the lot leading the pursuit with purpose. Whoever chased Gwen drove a 2004 Audi, if Greyhawk didn’t get them, smoke leaking from their overheating engine would. He leaned into a sharp left curve smoothly, with perfect timing, and jumped off his bike sending it skittering across the lot. He climbed into the cab and nodding to his metal guardian, lowered Greyhawk’s massive wings. Artie dropped the magnet upon the unsuspecting pursuers, abruptly halting the chase. Pressing forward, he raised Greyhawk’s wings high, hoisting the Audi occupants far above him. The men hung in the air, screaming, too petrified to move. The sun glinted off Greyhawk and Artie could’ve sworn the mighty dragon winked.

Returning to the cottage, he found Gwen anxiously waiting, curled up on his bed, looking impossibly fragile.

“Princess, why do I have Greyhawk guarding two men and which side of the law are you on?”

Gwen smiled sheepishly. “It’s kind of a long story.”