Dancing Jax

by Robin Jarvis

  “You three get going,” Conor called back.

  “No!” Sandra objected. “We can’t leave him.”

  Emma looked down into the tilt yard. The jackals that had killed Drew and the others had left their mauled corpses and were now sniffing the air and eyeing the ramparts.

  “Oh, yes we bloody can!” she said when she saw them loping towards the stacked stones. Snatching up the remaining dagger, she rushed along the parapet and Sandra and Lukas followed.

  On the gatehouse, the Ismus grinned into the camera.

  “You should have voted for Mauger,” he berated the viewers. “He’d have seen them off. Don’t worry, they won’t get far. There’s more surprises just around the corner for them. Now let’s crack on with our spiced-up telling of the Christmas story. When those not-so-wise men visited Herod and told him they were going to pay homage to the newborn King of the Jews, he ordered the killing of every male child in the vicinity of Bethlehem. Sounds like my kinda guy.”

  “’Scuse me!” the puppet Ismus interrupted as the picture cut away to another pre-filmed sequence. “I feel I should point out here,” he said, now dressed like a Victorian undertaker, standing next to an upended, open coffin, in which the Swazzle butler was pulling faces, with pennies covering his eyes, “that Herod the Great had karked it back in four BC, nine years before the census of Quirinius. Problematical? Not half!”

  The live footage returned and the real Ismus cupped an ear with his hand.

  “Hark,” he said, “what heavenly music is this? Whoever can it be?”

  The choir had begun to sing ‘The Coventry Carol’ and witchcam flew over the gatehouse and drawbridge. It swivelled about to show the castle side of the moat. A tiered stage had been built on the grassy bank there. Standing on it, miming badly to the real choir, who were hidden with the orchestra round the back of the castle, the young aberrants dressed in surplices held hymn sheets in trembling hands. This was their time.

  “Lully, lullay, Thou little tiny Child,

  Bye, bye, lully, lullay.”

  When the picture cut back to the Ismus, he was wearing a richly decorated purple surcoat and a crimson, pillbox-shaped crown, rattling with small gold discs and beads. The very image of an ancient ruler of Judea.

  “Go get them, lads,” he whispered.

  “Herod, the king, in his raging,

  Charged he hath this day

  His men of might, in his own sight,

  All young children to slay.”

  Out on to the banks of the moat, ten Punchinellos, led by Captain Swazzle, went berserking, with spears and swords in their fists. Squealing barbarously, they set about doing what they loved best of all. The young aberrants tried to run, but it was no use.

  The Ismus threw back his head and hooted. The central dial on the console began to glimmer. One of the ancient symbols lit up and the needle jerked round a degree.

  In the unlit formal gardens of the castle, Maggie couldn’t blot out the harrowing sounds of slaughter. She and the other shepherds had been waiting in the cold and dark for hours. Weeping in silence, her hands covering her ears, she tried not to imagine what was happening outside the walls, but it was impossible not to and every mental image gushed with blood.

  The Germans and Americans were on their knees, praying and sobbing, and she almost joined them. But she had her own charges to think about. With a tremendous effort of will, she forced herself to think about them and only them. Their moment was nearly here, the time they’d been dreading – when they too would have to Flee the Beast.

  23

  ONE OF THE many remote cameras inside the castle walls panned right, over the ornamental hedges and flowers of the Gentle Garden. It was swamped in deep shadow. There was a crash of cymbals and blue-tinted lights flooded the entire area, making it appear bathed in a frosty moonglow.

  Next to one of the fountains, Maggie and the other teenagers who were dressed as shepherds were startled by the sudden glare.

  “In the fields of Judea,” the Ismus’s voice-over began, “shepherds were tending their flocks by night. Not that they’d do that in the middle of winter, but never mind, we’ve already established what drivel this is. Wait a moment, oh, dear, where are those flocks? Can you see them? Not a baa-lamb in sight. What good-for-nothing shepherds! We don’t like shepherds in Mooncaster, do we?”

  Around the world the audience booed and shook their fists at their screens. The Ismus chuckled.

  The girls dressed as sheep had been taken from the cells before anyone else, and Maggie had been fretting about what had happened to them. She had made a promise to Charm to look out for her girls – but where were they?

  Yikker had brought her and the six lads here and ordered them to keep silent and still. He warned that they could only move when the lights came on and no earlier. If they disobeyed, he would bury his spear in their guts and tear out their livers. And they believed him. He was enraged to have missed out on the massacre, so was itching to make up for it.

  Squatting on a stone bench, blocking the exit leading to the common lawns and courtyards, and looking like the most grotesque garden gnome imaginable, the Punchinello squinted up at the harsh lights, then gave the order.

  “Go seek your lambies. Noble gardens only.”

  Maggie didn’t need any further prompting. She and the others ran over the grass, calling the girls’ names.

  There were three formal gardens in this part of the White Castle, between the two inner curtain walls. The Gentle, the Lordly and the Physic were linked by pleasant walks along meandering pathways that passed through arches of yew and climbing roses. It had taken 350 Jaxers a month to hard landscape and install the statuary, water features, fruiting trees and hardy plants. The last of the out-of-season flowers for the herbaceous borders had only been removed from greenhouses and planted that afternoon. The gardens were stuffed with summer blooms, most of which wouldn’t survive that night’s frost.

  Maggie called out desperately. Why didn’t they answer? Were they gagged? Those evil guards were capable of anything and her fears multiplied. Jumping over low box borders, she searched the Gentle Garden, where only the Jills and Under Queens were permitted to stroll. Frantic, she looked behind the rose arbours, trellises and wicker hurdles. Using her shepherd’s crook, she probed the bushes and parted the blousy profusion of flowers. The girls weren’t there. Dashing under the next archway, she raced into the Lordly Garden.

  This was more masculine in design and cloistered on three sides, with a stone terrace and wide steps to different levels. Carved, fiendish faces projected from the walls and featured on the terracotta urns that topped square pillars. The hedging was geometric, with uniform topiary of slender obelisks sitting on spheres, and the plants were architectural and robust.

  Maggie and the other shepherds searched every nook and corner.

  “No sign?” she asked them. The six boys shook their heads anxiously.

  The girl ran through a pleached alley leading to the Physic Garden. Gravel crunched under her feet. This garden was filled with plants and shrubs of medicinal virtue, from aloes and angelica to valerian, vervain and yarrow. A large, circular pond was in the centre and Maggie approached it with a gut-wrenching sense of dread. What if those girls had been drowned in some murderous pretence of sheep dipping? Anything was possible in this barbaric lunacy. Gazing down at the water, she swept aside the lily pads and was relieved to see only goldfish in there.

  A high wall, covered in jasmine and honeysuckle, marked the boundary. There was a green wooden door in the centre and Maggie hurried over to it. The door was locked. Whirling round, she didn’t know where to think of next. She ran to the straw beehives and tipped them over, but there weren’t even bees inside, and there was nobody trapped under the woodpiles.

  The boys were just as distressed. What could they do?

  “We look again!” Maggie shouted. “Check for hidden doors, panels – anything like that. We’ve got to find those girls before it’s too
late.”

  The cameras zoomed out and a high-angled shot showed them running through the gardens like mice in a maze.

  When the picture returned to the Ismus, he had cast off the Herod costume.

  “Dear oh dear,” he said. “If only they were more familiar with the sacred text, they would remember that there is still one more garden within the confines of the White Castle. You out there know that, don’t you? Yes, the Queen of Hearts’ very own private retreat – the Garden Apart. Let’s have a sneak peek inside there, shall we?”

  The scene switched to a walled garden, where topiary animals cast deep shadows across ugly plants. Six ornate wooden dovecots, set up on tall posts, formed a circle round the central minchet shrub that had been trained into the shape of a heart. Huddled about that were the young aberrant girls, in their sheep costumes.

  They had heard Maggie and the others call their names, but a Punchinello was holding a knife to Blueberry Muffin’s throat. If any of them cried out, she would die. The petrified children hugged each other. It wasn’t just the threat that instilled them with despair, but, overhead, they could hear something scratching inside the dovecots, trying to get out.

  “Poor lost little lambs,” the Ismus said. “A heavenly host is about to descend upon them – Mooncaster style. Will their shepherds find them in time? Let’s play Fleeeeee the Beeeeeast!”

  The viewers’ jubilant cries and wild foot-stamping sent tremors through the landscape that broke the surface of the moat, scattering small waves against the blood-soaked banks. Inside his barred kennel in the gatehouse, Mauger gave a mighty, demonic roar.

  As the theme tune played, the same image of him zipped across the screen, accompanied by a picture of a creature with a sharp black beak and great transparent wings.

  “Crowflies or Mauger!” the Ismus exclaimed. “Which is it to be this time? Won’t our Growly Guardian of the Gateway ever get released? Show him some love, people! Vote now or text ‘Crow’ or ‘Mauger’ – and let’s see what little sheep are made of.”

  The world gave its attention to the voting and the red levels shot up the blue bars. Once again it was a close-run race. Once again there came a disappointed bellow.

  “Release the flying steeds of Haxxentrot’s Bogey Boys,” the Ismus commanded.

  In the Garden Apart, the Punchinello pushed Blueberry Muffin to the ground, then went up to the tall, supporting poles of the dovecots and hastily wound a lever on each one. Their conical roofs furled up like fans and out of every high, whitewashed hut flew three crowflies.

  Swooping and zigzagging about the garden, they croaked and cawed. Their wings buzzed loudly and their bird-like talons scratched the air. Then their heads turned to the children dressed as sheep and they came zooming down to harry and snatch them.

  The girls screamed and scattered and the crowflies attacked in groups. They clustered round a victim, biting and clawing. The hats shaped like sheep heads were torn off and savage beaks nipped in to pinch and pierce exposed necks. Ears and eyes were targeted and the beaks darted and pecked to get at them.

  Four crowflies swarmed about the girl called Dandelion and Burdock. One flew at her face while another perched on her head, clinging to her hair and raking its talons through her scalp. The others bit the fingers that covered her ears. The girl charged through the garden, crying out for help.

  The Punchinello that had released them watched appreciatively.

  “Nicey gorcrows,” he warbled. “Gobble your ickle crumbs and wormies.”

  Suddenly one of them dived at his hooked nose and impaled it. The strong beak drove right through the fleshy cartilage and the guard squealed shrilly. Grabbing the creature, he ripped it clear and the crowfly lashed out with all six legs. The Punchinello howled when one of those claws slashed his left eye. Snarling, he wrung its neck and threw it down. Then a second bombed into his face.

  Maggie and the boys had run through the Lordly Garden and into the Gentle the instant they heard the girls’ screams. They cast around, but they were still nowhere to be seen.

  Yikker was still sitting on the stone bench, a hideous smirk on his face. They pleaded with him, but he wouldn’t give any hint or clue as to where the Garden Apart was situated.

  “Curse you!” Maggie spat. “If they’re harmed, I’ll keep that promise and kill you. You hear me?”

  “Sexy Bo Peep,” the guard hissed lustily, waggling his tongue at her.

  Maggie turned away in disgust.

  “Over here!” Ryan, one of the American lads, shouted. “They’re behind this wall.”

  “What?” she cried. “There’s no door! How’d we get in?”

  Three of the boys tried to scale it, but the wall was covered in climbing roses growing from ornate lead troughs. Their cruel thorns cut like razor wire. It was no use. They couldn’t do it. Frantically they attempted to clear the woody stems aside with their crooks, but they were tethered firmly to the brickwork. The screams beyond the wall continued.

  Maggie couldn’t bear it.

  “Listen to them!” she wept, distraught. “Oh, please – no!”

  Despairing, she looked back, over the Gentle Garden; if they pulled a trellis down, they might be able to use it as a ladder… Then she noticed something she hadn’t spotted before. The badges of the Royal Houses had been clipped into the box hedges; spades, diamonds, clubs and hearts, each of the four was equally represented. Why then was the heart the only sign to feature prominently on a statue?

  The marble sculpture she was staring at was a voluptuous naked nymph called Chloris, whose right arm was laden with a bouquet of flowers, but the other extended in a graceful gesture towards the wall. In that hand was clasped a silver heart that gleamed under the blue lights.

  Maggie ran to it and reached up. Glancing at Yikker, she saw his expression change into an exasperated scowl and she knew she was right. Seizing the silver heart, she pulled and it twisted on a secret pivot.

  Immediately there came the sound of stone over stone. The middle section of wall and the lead planters at the base were opening outwards.

  Before Maggie and the boys could dash into the widening gap, a squealing guard burst through, thrashing his short arms above his head. Dark blood was streaming down his face. Squatting on his hump, a crowfly was greedily gulping down his remaining eye. Maggie and the others didn’t waste any time or pity on him. He blundered past, shrieking and yowling, into the Gentle Garden and Yikker’s displeasure intensified.

  There wasn’t time to be horrified at the scene beyond that wall. Shouting and yelling, the seven shepherds stormed into the Queen of Hearts’ hidden retreat and dashed to the aid of their flock.

  Most of the girls were cowering on the grass, their heads and limbs tucked in as tightly as possible. The crowflies were buzzing all around them, scraping and pulling at the fleecy costumes. Maggie barged over, wielding her crook with fury. No one fought more fiercely. She caught one of the foul creatures by surprise and struck it across the head. It went spinning to the ground and a German lad stamped its brains out.

  The other crowflies were too fast; they darted away and hovered just out of reach, croaking and screeching.

  “Stay up there!” Maggie threatened. Looking down at the girls, she promised them it was going to be all right. She wouldn’t let those things hurt them any more.

  “Crowd together,” she said. “Everyone OK?”

  The girls were badly scratched and bruised, and horribly afraid, but not too badly harmed.

  “Wait,” said one of the shepherds, who had been doing a quick headcount. “They’re not all here!”

  “Blueberry Muffin!” Charm’s girls cried in dismay. “Where is she?”

  Maggie spun round. There was a croaking commotion behind one of the large shrubs. As she watched, four of the crowflies rose up, buzzing and cawing, and their talons were hooked into the missing girl’s fleece. They lifted her, kicking and wailing, from the ground and other crowflies joined them, carrying the girl higher into the ai
r.

  “No!” Maggie screamed. Bulldozing through the flower beds, she leaped up to catch hold of the girl’s legs, but the crowflies hoisted her out of reach.

  Blueberry Muffin called for help. The crowflies rushed her across the garden, gaining enough height to convey her over the wall.

  Maggie raced after, lifting her shepherd’s crook as high as she could.

  “Grab on!” she shouted.

  The girl strained to reach it, but couldn’t and her heels brushed against the top of the wall as they bore her away. Determined not to lose her, Maggie yelled at the lads and four of them gave her a boost.

  “Now, sweetheart!” she instructed.

  Blueberry Muffin squirmed and twisted and pitched herself forward. Her fingers closed about the curved handle of the staff and Maggie pulled hard.

  The crowflies screeched as they were dragged down. Their wings buzzed louder than ever, but Maggie and the boys wrenched at the crook and the little girl was soon in her arms.

  Maggie’s fist clouted the creatures away and she hugged her tightly.

  “I knew you’d save me,” Blueberry Muffin said, throwing her arms about her neck.

  “Right,” Maggie announced with dogged resolve. “We’re getting out of here.”

  Like a determined hen with chicks, she led the girls to the secret entrance in the wall and the boys followed closely, keeping the angry crowflies at bay.

  Running across the Gentle Garden, they discovered the blinded Punchinello lying dead in the grass. His head had been hacked off.

  Before they had time to react, a dirty laugh sounded and Yikker stepped from behind the topiary. His spear was in one hand, a drawn sword was in the other and it was drenched in blood.

  “Me no likey Mizcha,” he said, staring down at the decapitated Punchinello. “Him yap yap too much. Him no yap no more. He no use with no eyes – is better this is.”

  His own eyes slid up at the aberrants and even under the blue lights they saw his cheeks were flushed. His infernal bloodlust was burning. He’d missed out on the massacre beside the moat and now he was determined to make up for it. He scythed his sword through a clump of plants and they gave off an aromatic, minty scent. His great nose inhaled deeply and the blade turned in his grasp as he looked from one child to the next.