by Robin Jarvis
The news teams began to murmur and some people spat on the floor in contempt.
“Do not be hasty to judge and denounce them as aberrants,” the Ismus chided gently. “Some paths meander and veer deep into shadowy woods before rejoining the true way. We must practise patience and show kindness to these sad wretches. Consider how isolated and empty their unhappy existence must be. To be locked in this drabness with no waking in the real world and no sight of Mooncaster’s white towers to set their hearts a-racing. They are to be pitied and must be guided to the right path. Have faith that, given time, the hallowed text will heal them of their ignorance. We are going to give them the weekend of their lives to atone for any sorrows they have endured. Glorious Mooncaster-themed fun, packed with games and feasts worthy of Mistress Slab, the castle cook, interspersed with communal readings led by our finest Shakespearean actors.”
The assembled press clapped and cheered at this most charitable intention. The Jacks and Jills joined in. Even the Jill of Spades seemed moved by this benevolence.
“Excuse me,” Kate interrupted.
“Miss Kryzewski!” the Ismus greeted her. “We meet again. How good of you to accept my invitation back to these shores.”
“It wasn’t easy,” she replied. “There are no direct flights from the US to Britain any more. Not since planes started to land back home with every passenger and crew member having been inducted into this… whatever you want to call it, somewhere over the Atlantic. Sam and me had to fly to France and come here on the Eurostar.”
“I hope the regrettable misunderstanding between our two countries will soon be resolved,” he said. “It must be very inconvenient for so many people.”
“The ‘misunderstanding’, as you call it, will stay in place for as long as your book continues to pose ‘a clear and present danger’ to our citizens. Since our last meeting, there have been outbreaks of violence across Europe. In the cities where Dancing Jax is being translated there have so far been two murders, one suicide and a German publishing house was the scene of an all-out battle between the staff. Do you still insist this book is anything but a negative and destructive force?”
“Change is always resisted,” the Ismus replied. “Every advancement mankind makes is met with suspicion and mistrust. Man’s first instinct is to smash what he fears and doesn’t understand. Luddites hatch faster than bluebottles, but their lifespan is just as brief.”
Kate hadn’t come all this way to hear the same old tunes. With this latest report, she was determined to cut through the tinsel and tights of this unhealthy mania and expose the man behind it as the pernicious dictator he really was. She wanted to put the Holy Enchanter right at the top of America’s Most Wanted List. The American Ambassador and his staff had been recalled from London, but they too were under the book’s insidious spell. They, together with the passengers and crews of the planes she had mentioned, were currently being detained at Vandenberg Air Force Base in California and undergoing psychological testing. Last week in Illinois there had been a tragedy involving three families who had come into contact with just one smuggled copy of the book. There had been five separate incidents in other states.
So far the President was dragging his feet over ‘the UK Issue’, as it had become known, and his procrastination was infuriating many. The Republicans were calling it a ‘Jaxis of Evil’. Kate intended her report to put even more pressure on him to finally initiate strong, maybe even military, action. She was going to provide irrefutable evidence that Dancing Jax was a weapon of mass mind destruction.
She was aware the other news crews around her were shifting in their seats, casting hostile glances in her direction, but she took no notice and continued to goad the Ismus. If she could get that soft-soap façade to crack just a little…
“So let me get this straight,” she said. “You’re rounding up all the minors who haven’t yet been brainwashed and bringing them here? Is that correct?”
His face might have been made from marble. “Only those between the ages of seven and sixteen,” he explained. “Any younger would be unthinkable. We are not barbarians.”
“And over the course of this weekend,” she carried on, “you’ll be hoping to work your voodoo on their impressionable minds? Isn’t that more than a little sinister?”
The Ismus laughed at her. “It is no more sinister than one of your Renaissance Fairs!” he said. “But a hundred times more authentic and joyful – and with a greater purpose.”
“So what happens after this jolly weekend? What happens to those kids who still haven’t found their way to your narrow idea of paradise? What will you do to them then? Have them put away?”
“That is why the gentlefolk of the press are here,” he answered suavely. “To inform their audience to treat such individuals with compassion.”
“That would certainly be a change from what I’ve heard…”
“You will insist on listening to scurrilous rumours. I assure you, and the rest of the world, that my only desire is to repair any wrong or hurt that has befallen them and usher in a new age of kindness and consideration for those little ones who, through no fault of their own, are shut out. They are still a precious part of the Dawn Prince’s flock, remember – and our future after all.”
Kate folded her arms. She wasn’t buying any of this snake oil.
“Sounds like a blatant PR exercise in damage limitation to me,” she said. “It’s got ‘desperate stunt’ stamped all over it.”
The Ismus’s eyes glittered at her.
“Why don’t we go outside,” he suggested, “and see what delights we have planned, before the children arrive? I’m sure your readers and viewers would find it most fascinating. The world should see what merry times are to be had in this, united, kingdom. There is nothing for them to be afraid of.”
He rose and his entourage moved with him to the doors. The crowd of press followed.
Kate hung back with Sam.
“I thought he was going to set his goons on you just now,” Sam said, lowering the camera. “Don’t push him too far, Kate.”
“He may be a crazy-assed sociopath,” she replied, “but he’s not stupid. He needs to keep us sweet right now. His grand plan isn’t going as smooth as he expected. He’s more anxious than ever to show the world his warped vision of Merrie Olde England.”
“I don’t get why he asked you back here in that case. You’re never going to give him a glowing testimonial.”
The woman agreed. “Just remember what I told you,” she warned. “Eat and drink only what we brought with us. If someone offers you anything, don’t touch it, not even if it’s an unopened can of soda.”
“Sure thing! Hey, do you think it’s true the Queen of England thinks she’s a miller’s wife and now bakes all the bread in Buckingham Palace?”
“Nothing would surprise me any more. OK, let’s go out there and do our job.”
The sun was finally attempting to break through the cheerless clouds and the spring flowers threw out their deepest colours. Four horses, arrayed in the pageantry of Mooncaster’s Royal Houses, were standing patiently by one of the cabins. A group of mummers were rehearsing and the narrow road outside the compound was already lined with cars and vans. Musicians and brightly dressed folk in the best replicas of Mooncaster apparel had arrived to make this an extra special celebration.
Here and there, in the gathering crowd, snatches of song could be heard and toes were pointed as steps of courtly dances were practised and instruments were plucked, or strummed or blown into. One of the horses leaned forward and grazed idly on the cascading blooms of a hanging basket.
With this in the background, Kate recorded an introductory segment to camera, explaining the farcical pantomime that was being put on today for the world to witness.
It was another forty minutes before the first cheerfully painted coach came lumbering up the forest road. The Ismus and his tame press crews stepped forward to welcome the weekend’s special guests.
; “Here they are!” he declared, holding his arms wide. “Our lost and lonely lambs. What a time they shall have; what pleasures and adventures lie in store for them.”
Pulling Sam through the crowd, Kate Kryzewski ploughed her way to the front and directed his lens up at the coach’s windows as it slowed to a stop.
Dozens of young faces were pressed against the glass.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Those poor kids. They look shell-shocked.”
No one would have believed the children in the coach were coming for a “glorious” weekend. Their little faces were sombre and still and a measure of fear dimmed every eye. Some had been crying. The adults who sat beside them had not bothered to wipe those tears away. Kate scanned along the wide windows. There was a mix of ages. Some appeared as young as seven but, here and there, were sullen teenagers who refused to look out and were staring morosely at the headrest immediately in front of them. Only the adults in the coach seemed excited to be here. They were all grinning and pointing and waving and laughing.
The door of the coach slid open.
At once the musicians struck up a joyous tune and the carollers sang a Maying song from the book.
“Welcome!” the Ismus called. “Welcome, one and all!”
The parents of the children rushed out, keen to breathe the same rarefied air as the Holy Enchanter and see the Jacks and Jills who were now seated upon the horses and were saluting and nodding in greeting.
Kate hadn’t even tried to interview any of those four. They were too deeply immersed in this madness to shed any light on it. They were living puppets, enslaved to the wishes of the Ismus, and had almost forgotten their original identities completely.
But at that moment she wasn’t thinking of them. She urgently wanted to speak to these stunned-looking kids. Impatient, she waited for the adults to leave the vehicle and, when no child came following, she jumped on to the coach, dragging Sam with her.
Right away her nostrils were assaulted by the rank stink of that foul plant and she saw that the seats and floor were strewn with stalks and well-chewed fibrous lumps. She knew the slimy debris was down to the adults. Minchet didn’t work on these kids. That was why they were here.
Seventeen children were still sitting in their allocated seats, dotted evenly down the length of the coach. The younger ones stared up at her, confused and unsure, cuddly toys clenched in desperate headlocks.
It had been a long journey. They had been collected from across the southern counties and hadn’t been allowed to sit together or talk to one another for the entire trip. Kate doubted if they even wanted to. They looked so withdrawn and unwilling to make eye contact with one another.
Kate was moved in the same way the grieving families of Gaza, Baghdad and Haiti had moved her when she reported from there. But she was a veteran at detachment. She had an important job to do and she trusted Sam to capture and linger on the children’s frightened, damaged expressions. It would make striking footage.
“Hi,” she began quickly. “My name is Kate and I’m a reporter for American TV. This scruffy guy with the camera is Sam. You don’t have to be scared of us. We’re your friends. We haven’t read that book. We haven’t tasted that minchet stuff. We’re on your side.”
Someone at the back hissed through his teeth. Kate looked over to where a pair of Nike trainers poked between two headrests, but whoever it was had slouched too far down and she couldn’t see who they belonged to.
“If I could have a few words with some of you,” she continued, fiercely aware that this precious time alone with them was limited. She was amazed no one had already come running in after her to shepherd the children out. A cursory glance through the window told her the Ismus was being mobbed by the kids’ parents and his bodyguards were being kept very busy. Good.
“Please, Miss,” a girl of seven near the front piped up in a timid whisper. “I’ve been sick.”
Kate went over to her. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” she asked.
“Puke-arella!” a boy of twelve said before she had a chance to answer.
The girl’s face crumpled, but she didn’t cry.
Kate glared at the boy. “Hey, watch your mouth, wise-ass,” she told him.
The boy looked up at her with an anguished, jumbled expression of gratitude and helplessness on his face. Then he burst into tears. That one rebuke was the most normal interaction he’d had in the past few months. Kate bit the inside of her cheek. Dear God, this was tough. These poor kids were totally messed up and traumatised.
“It’s OK,” she told him in a gentler tone. “You’re going to be all right. My report is going to show the whole of America what’s happening here. You’ll be fine. I promise.”
Another dismissive hiss sounded from beyond those Nikes at the back.
“Christina,” the girl who had been ill voiced meekly. “My name’s Christina.”
The front of her dress was soaked in a spectacular display of sick. It was cold and Kate wondered how long her parents had let her sit like that. How could they not care? How could they forget all the love they must have had for her before the pages of that book ruined everything? Which of those hyper couples, now fawning over the Ismus and capering around the Jacks, trying to get their autographs and have their pictures taken with them, were her mom and dad?
“Well, don’t you worry, Christina,” Kate said, taking hold of her small hand and squeezing it comfortingly. “We’ll find you clean clothes and have you feeling better in no time.”
“The cases are in the luggage hold,” a new voice piped up. It belonged to an older, studious-looking girl, with short, mouse-coloured hair, wearing a shapeless, apple-green cardigan and faded, baggy jeans. “You really think they’ll let you broadcast this? You’re a deludanoid.”
Kate ignored that for the moment. “Hi,” she said. “And who are you? Where’s that lovely accent from?”
“Jody. From Bristol. Could you be any more patronising?”
“Hello, Jody. And what would you like to say to the Americans watching this?”
The girl looked away. “Not much,” she answered flatly. “They’ll find out soon enough I reckon.”
“I’d really like to hear your story, Jody,” Kate persevered. “I’m sure it’s a fascinating one.”
Still gazing into space, the girl shook her head. “Nothing to tell,” she answered. “’Cept I’ve been in this cattle wagon for eight hours an’ there weren’t enough bog stops.”
“What about Dancing Jax? How has it affected your life and that of your family and friends?”
Jody shrugged. It was obvious she was afraid to criticise any aspect of the book. “Just didn’t work on me, that’s all,” she answered evasively. “It didn’t work on none of us in here. We’re duds – rejects.”
“That isn’t true!” Kate said sternly. “You’re the innocent victims of some mass hysteria, a nationwide sickness that we haven’t been able to understand yet. But it is containable. I’m going to use this report to ensure you all get away from this country, to places of safety where this won’t ever touch you. The UN is going to intervene and begin putting everything right.”
The older children turned their eyes away. They had experienced too many crushed hopes in recent months to invest in any more. The younger ones, however, grew excited. One of them punched the air and another cheered.
“Raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens,” Jody mumbled with weary sarcasm.
Kate knew exactly what she meant. Pity and promises weren’t what they needed. But first things first…
“This is what’s going to happen,” she told them. “Sam is going to walk down the middle here and I want each of you to look into the camera and state your name, age and where you’re from. Speak up nice and clear – you’ll be famous the world over.”
Again the hiss sounded at the back.
The reporter liked whoever that was. At least one of these kids had some fight left in him. She’d get to Nike boy soon, but first she t
old Sam to start. She knew it was of vital importance to get a record of the kids. Heaven knows what the real intention of the Ismus was, but it certainly wasn’t to give them a fun weekend. She’d stake her life on that.
As Sam moved down the coach, they heard the noise of another vehicle approaching. Kate stared out and saw a second coach driving up the forest road.
“More rejects,” Jody observed.
It turned into the compound and parked close by. Again eager parents came piling out first. Kate saw more wretched young faces left behind in their seats.
Sam concentrated on the task at hand. The older kids gave their names grudgingly; the ones of around ten and eleven did it with stilted shyness. Most of the youngest stood up to do it, with emphatic nods. Others had to be prompted to speak louder.
“Daniel Foster, nine and a quarter, Weymouth.”
“Beth McCormack, Marlborough, twelve.”
“Patrick… Patrick Hunter, eight… ummm Horsham – twenty-three Elm Tree Grove.”
“Christina Carter, I’m seven and a half and… I’ve forgotten.”
“Never mind, honey,” Kate reassured her.
“Jody, fourteen, Bristol and you’re wasting your time.”
“Mason Stuart from Ashford, eleven.”
“Brenda Jenkins, ten, Epsom.”
“Rupesh Karim, Upton Park, nine.”
The next child was a thin, frail-looking boy with an ashen face. There was a large bruise on his forehead. Sam made sure the camera picked that up. The boy stared dumbly into the lens, like a startled baby bird.
“And what’s your name, little buddy?” Sam asked.
The boy mouthed something inaudible, then murmured a bit louder, “I’m seven.”
“Tell the folks in the US who you are,” Sam coaxed.
The boy took a breath and the bruise crinkled as he frowned with concentration.
“I think I was called Thomas Williams,” he began in a bewildered, faltering voice. “But now… now…”