by Robin Jarvis
“And so, my friends,” he addressed the world one last time, “the moment, long anticipated, is here. The time of rapture, when, together, we shall read the furtherance of the hallowed text and the way shall be opened. Never again shall we dream of this depressing place. But, before the manuscript goes live for you to download and awake eternally in Mooncaster, let us conclude this night’s entertainment with a final look at the colossal lie at the heart of this farce they called Christmas.”
He clicked his fingers. High overhead there began the clanking and squeaking of metal and machinery. The jib of the crane, from which the neon star was suspended, started to turn. It angled away from the eastern section of the castle, out towards the west. On top of the West Tower where, in the book, the House of Hearts dwelt, arc lights suddenly flashed on.
Martin darted forward at what he saw there, in the distance, but the Black Face Dames restrained him.
The harsh glare of the lights revealed a rustic-looking structure built on top of the tower. It had a narrow, pointed roof, covered in mossy tiles. There were no walls, just four square posts at each corner. Beneath the roof was a manger. It was a life-sized Nativity scene, but there were only three figures. In a costume identical to the one Esther had worn earlier that night was Carol Thornbury. At her side, her eldest son, Paul, had been divested of his royal robes and was now dressed as a drummer boy.
Leaning over the manger, with a knife poised above it as a warning, was a Punchinello. When the lights came on, the guard put the knife away and stepped out of the tableau. Carol and Paul were free to move and speak.
Carol immediately reached in and took her infant son from the straw-filled ox stall and held him desperately. Then she turned to see where Paul was pointing, down over the battlements to the gatehouse.
“Martin!” they shouted at the ragged man. “Martin!”
Martin couldn’t hear them above the din of the departing helicopters and the excited multitude. But he saw them and his heart leaped.
“Carol!” he yelled. “Carol! Paul!”
The woman rose. She wanted to run down there and press the baby into his arms, then kiss him and never let go. But the Punchinello was lurking behind the lights. They weren’t allowed to leave this spot.
Carol held out the swaddled baby. “He’s yours, Martin!” she cried. “He’s yours! This is your son! I love you so much!”
“He can’t hear us, Mum,” Paul said. “He can’t hear us.”
Holding on to one another, they stared down at the gatehouse.
“Let me go to them!” Martin raged, straining to get free of the Black Face Dames. “I’ve got to see her! You promised!”
“Ah ah,” the Ismus warned. “Not yet – you still haven’t given your party piece. That’s coming up next. Whilst the world is reading Fighting Pax, your performance is going to be my own personal diversion. So remember, you have to give your all. I’m looking to be impressed here. I’m a very harsh critic and won’t be satisfied with any half-hearted effort.”
“What’ve I got to do?”
“One moment, Mr Baxter. I do believe…”
The orchestra struck up a rousing fanfare and the chimes of Big Ben were broadcast live from London.
“Midnight!” the Ismus proclaimed as an even greater barrage of fireworks than earlier boomed in the sky, creating a canopy of brilliant, jewelled fire, high over the castle. “The new text is now released to every one of my servers around the world. Good people of Mooncaster, are you sitting comfortably? Then let us end this grey dream once and for always. I, the Holy Enchanter, give you… Fighting Pax! Download it and welcome home!”
The cheers and roars of jubilation jolted through Martin’s bones more violently than the exploding rockets. It was staggering and terrible; the world was spiralling towards the end of everything.
And then, abruptly, the deafening riot ceased and the last falling sparks were extinguished in the moat. The unnatural silence that followed was even more frightening. Stillness gripped the planet. It happened so fast, it was as if an iron fist had smashed the world’s voice and Martin’s ears rang with the loss.
Dragging his eyes away from the West Tower, he gazed out over the countryside and saw the ghostly glow of over a hundred million hand-held devices, stretching to the horizon. It was like moonlight on the ocean, and that illusion was reinforced when the lights began to move, rippling like waves. Martin knew the people were rocking backwards and forwards as they read. The haunting image imprinted on his soul. The population of the earth was reading Fighting Pax. Seven billion minds were entering that strange other world.
The faint shouts of Carol and Paul made him wrest his eyes away. Finally he could hear them.
“We’ll be together soon!” he called.
“Martin!” Carol cried out, holding the baby up again. “He’s—”
The noise of an explosion blotted out her words. But this was no firework. A fireball erupted in the great distance, among the crowd.
“Dear, dear,” the Ismus tutted. “That pilot really should have waited to land before starting to read.”
Another explosion followed, then many more. Fiery roses blossomed across the glimmering landscape as other helicopters dropped out of the sky.
“Such impatience, not like my Black Face Dames and the Harlequin Priests. They have selflessly vowed not to dip into the manuscript until my night’s work is complete.”
The Jockey stepped forward. “What of me, my Lord?” he asked humbly.
The Ismus smiled indulgently. “Of course. Take yourself away to the Great Hall and enter the furtherance with the rest of the Court there. You have behaved yourself well this night, my caramel-coloured jackanapes. I thank you for that. Go and find your deserved reward – and take Posy here with you. I’m sure she is also anxious to read Fighting Pax.”
“I want to get home and be partic’lar nosy!” little Nabi declared with an emphatic nod. “I want to hide behind tapestries and under tables, and spy through keyholes and listen at windows.”
“Be off with you then. Very shortly you shall uncover the best secret of them all.”
Nabi clapped her hands joyously. The Jockey pointed a toe and bowed. Then they descended the steps and headed for the Keep.
The Ismus moved to the Bakelite console and was pleased to discover two more symbols illuminated. His fingers eased a control along its slot. Then he unhooked a horn-shaped microphone that hung at the side.
“Swazzle,” he spoke into it. “Be an angel: round up the stray sheep, shepherds and wise men and take them to the crib. It’s far too bare up there at the moment. Use whatever force you deem appropriate.”
The Punchinello’s answering voice snickered foully.
“And no, I haven’t forgotten you, Martin,” the Ismus muttered, not looking up from the dials. “Do you recall this morning, when I said I’d brought a few things from home? This is one of them. I know how much of a sci-fi freak you are. Isn’t it ravishing? And still way ahead of its time. My sister, Augusta, helped me devise it; she was a genius with a cat’s whisker. Another souvenir of home has been built into the side of the Keep. Can you guess what it is?”
Martin shook his head.
“No matter. I doubt you’d appreciate it. Now where were we?”
Looking up over the top of the console, the crooked smile stole across his face.
“I reckon my avid fan base have about twenty minutes before they put down their e-readers and begin killing one another. Barely time enough for you to save the ones who are left, if you have the courage, and if you want to join the happy Nativity scene on the West Tower.”
“Save them?” Martin asked in confusion. “How?”
The Ismus turned his face towards the unlit South Tower. He flicked a switch and a single spotlight shone on the top of the turret.
Martin narrowed his eyes. Was that a bench or a table up there? No, it was a person lying on a medical bed, covered in a pale green sheet. Monitoring equipment and a stand ho
lding a saline drip were close by. It was too far away to see who that patient was.
“Regardez our Castle Creeper,” the Ismus enlightened him.
“Lee?”
“Yes, the Peckham hard nut or should I say ‘Brazil nut’? is sleeping, deep as death. Since I shipped him from North Korea, his earthly body has been kept safe and well, as I promised him it would.”
“So what’s he doing up there?”
“That, Martin, is your party piece. Even as we speak, in that other Realm, the Creeper is approaching the cave of the Cinnamon Bear, where the Bad Shepherd has been hiding. It won’t be long now before he accomplishes his part of the pact. He loves his girlfriend so much he’s going to commit one of the most heinous deeds in creation. I sooo admire him for that. You do comprehend the significance of what he’s about to do, don’t you?”
“I know who the Bad Shepherd is supposed to be.”
The Ismus snorted. “Oh, he’s not just the Bethlehem birthday boy! The Bad Shepherd is the embodiment of every prophet. Not only the ones with top billing. I was very thorough when I compiled the sacred text, you see. I created a watertight contract and nothing was left to chance; there are no loopholes or get-out clauses. When the Creeper kills the shepherd, the laws that govern such things will erase all knowledge, all memory, all writings of those intolerant advocates. It will be as if they never existed here. Every place of worship shall disappear; religious art and music will vanish and be forgotten.”
“Isn’t what you’ve already done enough?” Martin asked. “What’s the point?”
“Pay attention at the back, Baxter. When my murderous readers are finally unfriended and realise the brutal horrors they are guilty of, there will be no quarter, no sliver of hope, no forgiveness for them, no one to pray to – only intolerable despair. Those woebegones will seek to make an end of it and, before sunrise, there won’t be very many people left in the world at all. Naturally, human nature being what it is, not everyone will be overcome with remorse and embrace suicide as the only option, but what an interesting place it will be, populated with such psychotic detritus. I’m really looking forward to it.”
“Not much of a kingdom for you to rule over.”
The Ismus looked disappointed in him. “I haven’t done this for me, Martin. But, if you don’t wish to live in a world of psychopaths, I’m giving you the chance to make it less bleak.”
Reaching for the golden dagger at his hip, he drew it from the red velvet scabbard and held the hilt towards Martin.
“Take it,” he said. “Go on, I brought it specially for you to use.”
Suspicious, Martin reached out and grasped it, sliding the glittering blade out of the Ismus’s hands.
“Don’t get any impulsive ideas,” the Holy Enchanter warned when he saw the man glance quickly at the Black Face Dames and read his intention. “They’d rip your arms off. Besides, you can’t use that puny weapon against Austerly Fellows. I’m beyond the reach of such things now.”
“Why don’t I find that out for myself?”
“You’re wasting time. In roughly fifteen minutes, when my readers emerge from Fighting Pax and go berserk, do you want to save the guilt-ridden survivors or not?”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“Add it up, Martin, add it up. The Castle Creeper is going to kill the Bad Shepherd, yes? So all you have to do… is get to the Creeper first and prevent him. That’s what the dagger is for.”
“What?” Martin cried. “Kill Lee?”
“It’s the only way to stop your precious prophets from being erased. Who will my unfriended readers turn to in their darkest moment if not to them? Think of the billions of suicides you’ll be preventing.”
“You’re seriously asking me to murder Lee?”
“Not asking you at all, no. I’d prefer it if you didn’t, but I’m offering you a chance to be the saviour you always wanted to be, Martin. This is the performance I want from you tonight; this is your speciality act, your golden opportunity to shine. If you pull it off, just look at what you’ll win: possibly half the population of the world rescued from the pits of anguish and, best of all, you get to play happy families with Paul and Carol… and your baby son.”
“My son?”
“Yes, Martin. That bonny infant playing gentle Jesus so convincingly up there is your flesh and blood. I should have asked Swazzle for one of his ostentatious cigars for you. Congratulations.”
“My son…” Martin repeated, staring at the West Tower, where Carol and Paul were gazing down at him.
His mind was in turmoil. Months ago, from the moment he’d learned about the pregnancy, he’d never dared dream the child might be his. He couldn’t begin to process the emotions that were battering and smashing against him. He felt like the smallest of boats, floundering in a tempest. But, up there, Carol, Paul and his baby, they were his beacon. They were the guiding lights of home. He would do anything to be with them. Anything.
“It’s not as if you even liked the Creeper,” the Ismus continued. “He was council-estate scum – a mindless thug from a violent gang. Weren’t you two always at each other’s throats in that draughty mountain? He won’t feel a thing, you know. One swift thrust in the chest or neck will do it. He’s just lying there, in a vegetative state that he’ll never recover from. He may as well be dead already. It would be a mercy – and think of the atrocity he’s about to commit in that other Realm. You’ll be saving Jesus Christ himself, not to mention all those other sandalled seers. You’d be a bloody hero, Martin – a bona-fide saviour of the race.”
Another symbol illuminated on the dial of the console.
“What’s the quickest way there?” Martin demanded.
The Ismus grinned. “Through that arch, turn right, then up the first flight of steps that takes you to the top of the inner curtain wall. Follow the sentry walk around, till you come to the tower, and climb the spiral stairway within. But you must run, Martin. Run before it’s too late – before the Creeper kills the Bad Shepherd.”
Martin Baxter was already leaping down the gatehouse steps. The Ismus threw back his head and laughed. This was better than he had hoped it would be.
He watched the man charge over the courtyard and heard his footfalls echo beneath an archway. Then his amusement changed to sneering contempt.
“Covered in the excrement of swine and rushing to kill a boy in a coma… the famous Martin Baxter. Could you have sunk any lower? The rest of the world is under the spell of my book and can’t help themselves. What’s your excuse? You’re worse than all of them. I didn’t expect it would be so easy. You disgust even me. How readily you became a beast to flee from.”
“Still,” he said, “at least Jangler will be avenged.”
Returning his attention to the console, he examined the meters. The levels were rising. Out there in the vast crowd the first whimpers of distress were beginning, as the readers experienced the traumas of Fighting Pax. The Ismus judged it was time for the next phase. Making the necessary adjustments, he whirled about to view the forest of cranes surrounding the castle.
The valves within the console began to hum and pulse. There was a pop and a spit of sparks and streaks of energy crackled along the cables that snaked from the back. Ribbons of blue light raced through the connections. Moments later, arcs of electricity were travelling up the steel masts.
“Such magnificent antennae,” he declared proudly. “The signal shall be strong and clear.”
Forks of lightning began to lick out from the jibs overhead. The neon star shattered, and fizzing sparks showered down on to the roof of the Nativity scene. Some bounced down on to the straw and set it alight. Paul rushed to stamp out the flames. Carol returned the baby to the manger and helped him. Across the castle, arc lights were exploding.
The crane jibs began to move. Turning inwards, they changed position, grazing and scraping over themselves with the sounds of squealing metal. Each one had been placed with extreme accuracy and the path they traced
had been carefully calculated. In that shifting cat’s cradle of steel, a pattern was beginning to form. The jibs started to align, creating long diagonals, criss-crossing high above the castle until, finally, it was done.
“Yes!” the Ismus shouted, gazing up in feverish excitement.
Dominating the sky above was an immense pentacle, and the lightning ripped and raged about it.
At the base of the Keep, close to the forty-metre-high Christmas tree, the other souvenir from Felixstowe was quaking and deep cracks radiated through the cobbled yard from it. The old wartime bunker that Austerly Fellows had built on the shoreline had been carefully excavated and removed in one massive piece and transported here. The castle stones had been laid around it and the wall of the Keep constructed on top. It was the only way to bring the Dark Door, which was set into it, here – for that great iron barrier was impossible to open from the outside. Now its rusty surface was bristling with whiskers of branching energy and tremors juddered through the concrete surround. There was a splutter of fire and a thin line began to burn over the metal’s surface, drawing a glowing symbol of a serpent and a crescent moon.
The Norwegian spruce’s thousands of fairy lights popped and banged like rapid gunfire and the tinsel-draped branches began to whip and flail the air as a windstorm came gusting through the archways.
At the console, the Ismus watched the levels rise on the gauges and he teased the controls around.
“Abase yourselves,” he commanded the Black Face Dames. “He is returning! The one true Majesty.”
The three bodyguards dropped to their knees and bowed their heads.
“Hail to the Dawn Prince,” the Ismus proclaimed. “The Bearer of Light! The Shining One, He who was cast down. The term of Your exile is over. The way is open. Come amongst us once more – in this realm I have prepared.”
Lightning scored the night and the castle jumped in and out of the stark, shivering flashes. Beneath the earth, a monstrous roar sounded. The ground shook. Scaffolding collapsed and loose stones went toppling from the walls.