by Jon Jacks
There is another clue, of course, to his character. And that lies in the expression of the child, in reality lifeless and yet, in the Illuminator’s hands, full of life.
Of course, the Illuminator is only portraying what he believes is already there; the beginnings of life. And that means that her father will succeed. He will bring life to his daughter.
The way she had to conjure up an idea of this man from what she knew of his wife was a perfect reversal of Carey’s reality for, never having known her mother, she could only form a picture of what her mother had been like through her father’s own recollections.
She had been beautiful. She was kind. She was full of laughter. She would have loved to see how intelligent and beautiful Carey had become.
‘There’s so much of her in you, Carey,’ he would sigh, smiling sadly as he tenderly stroked her face.
He would smile in a similarly sad way as he carefully ran his delicate fingers over the face of a puppet that Carey’s mother had made.
‘It helps me remember her as she patiently created this face,’ he had explained when Carey had asked him why certain puppets seemed to make him both sad and happy at the same time. ‘I can feel the way she felt as she moulded the papier-mâché into a cheek, or into the hollow of an eye. Or, with this puppet, I can sense the care she took as she tenderly carved the wood into this hooked nose, this protruding chin.’
Handing the puppets to Carey, he had said, ‘Feel the faces, Carey; ignore the characters she’s creating, but simply clear your find so that you can feel her, feel her intent. Sense the senses that she’s using, the emotions she’s going through.’
Carey had delicately traced the contours of the faces, closing her eyes, hoping that it would somehow magically allow her to have a glimpse of her mother.
She felt the flow of the fingers that had smoothed the papier-mâché into a rounded cheek. She sensed the pressure of a thumb as it was used to form the hard differentiation between the neck and cheek. She was aware of the humour required to pinch the material into an upturned nose.
Her mother was at the table, straining her eyes in the poor light to make sure the face would be right. She wants it to be prefect, as she wants all her little dears to be prefect. They have to entertain, to enthral, after all. His expression must be mischievous, yes, but that doesn’t mean I can’t give him a knowing grin that, in other circumstances, becomes a warm smile.
She was bringing these wonderful characters to life for others to enjoy, to laugh at and to cheer them on whenever the character being played was clambering out of trouble.
What better life could there be than that?
Her mother was happy, content.
Carey had put the puppet down with a sad yet happy smile.
It was the Fading that had finally taken Carey’s mother, her father had told her. When she was young, too young to remember anything about her. It was too long ago for even the puppets to remember anything about her too, as their memories were short lived and always incomplete.
‘The Fading isn’t anything to be feared,’ her father tried to reassure her as he himself succumbed to it later in her life. ‘It gives us all time to say our goodbyes. There’s nothing worse than to lose someone and suddenly realise we’d left so many things unsaid.’
Carey had held her father’s hand for as long as she could before he finally began to slip away into nothingness.
‘I love you dad,’ she’d said, returning the last lingering glimpses of his sad smile.
*
‘Carey!’
Grudo’s gruff shout carried back from where he was seated on the caravan’s driving seat.
‘Someone on the road,’ he added. ‘Coming towards us.’
‘Shussh you lot!’ Carey hissed back towards the caravan’s rear room, where the others were laughing and joking as they recalled all the things that had gone wrong in previous shows.
The rear room suddenly went quiet. As Carey stoppered her pots of paint and oils, she could already hear the slightly out of tune singing of a man unhurriedly drawing closer.
*
Chapter 8
The Troubadour’s Song
The whitest skin, the fairest face,
An angel’s banquet you could grace
Oh lady lady would you marry me,
Even though a pauper I am to thee?
I am no prince, I am no king,
I am no knight, I wield only this ring
This ring with which I would marry thee,
Oh sweet princess, why do thine eyes ne’er notice me?
*
Chapter 9
Carey quickly scrambled through the cluttered carriage, crawling through the small door that led her out onto the driving seat alongside Grudo.
They were approaching a crossroads. A single rider was heading towards them from the opposite direction.
‘He can’t hit his high notes, can he?’ Grudo winced.
‘Bit of a problem too, I think, for a troubadour,’ Carey agreed.
‘I didn’t know we still had any troubadours; and if they sing like that, I can’t say I’m surprised.’
The troubadour suddenly stopped singing, letting his lute drop down by his side. He stared at the steam wagon in wide-eyed amazement. Then, with a sharp flex of his knees, he urged his horse into a gallop, rushing across the dusty crossroads towards them.
‘My lady, my lady!’ he cried, holding on with one hand to both his lute and his large, feathered hat to stop it blowing off. ‘At last I have–’
As he brought his horse to a sudden halt alongside the caravan, a large shoulder bag that had gathered momentum in the charge suddenly rose up from behind to strike him heavily across the back of his head. The unexpected blow knocked him out of his saddle, sending him sprawling in the dust. Sheets of paper from the bag scattered high into the air, before falling around him like heavy snow.
‘Oh no! Are you all right?’ Carey asked in alarm.
She would have jumped down to help, but was blocked by Grudo’s massive form as he casually stretched out to pluck the falling sheets from the air.
‘All right?’ the boy said with a laugh as he scrambled up from the floor and dusted himself down. ‘How could I be otherwise, my love, when–’
He abruptly paused, his eyes now wide with confusion as he stared once again at Carey. Along with his dusty, dishevelled clothing, and an untidy mass of golden hair that curled around his otherwise boyishly-handsome face, his puzzled frown made him look like some poor Fool from a play.
‘I didn’t know we still had any troubadours,’ Grudo said gruffly to the bemused boy as he handed down some of the papers to him.
‘Oh, er, yes, really?’ The boy was as bewildered as if waking up to a painful reality from a pleasant dream. ‘We don’t, I mean, there probably aren’t any other troubadours; I mean, I’m probably the only one now.’
He affected an elegant bow, sweeping his feathered hat low across the ground and stirring up another cloud of dust that made him choke and cough.
‘Grudo!’
Carey was aghast when she saw that Grudo was reading through the papers he still held in his hands. She gave him an admonishing jab with her elbow.
‘What? Oh yes, sorry,’ Grudo growled, turning to hand down the rest of the papers to the boy. ‘All this “thee” and “thine”; does anyone still talk like that?’
‘They do in my songs,’ the boy happily declared, gratefully taking hold of the papers and carelessly stuffing them back into his bag. ‘Besides, the words aren’t quite right just yet in some of them. I’m still working on those.’
‘Ah, I noticed that none of them had any end
ings; unless they’ve become a little mixed up.’
The boy quickly checked the sheets he still held in his hand.
‘No, no; they’re not mixed up,’ he sighed thankfully before looking back up at Grudo and Carey. ‘There are no endings. I haven’t thought of them yet; the endings, I mean. I can’t put in an ending before I’ve thought of it, can I now?’
‘Stories with no endings?’ Carey exclaimed.
‘I take it you don’t make much money from being a troubadour,’ Grudo scornfully added.
‘Ah, now, with that, you may have a point.’ The boy was bent low, collecting some of his papers that were still scattered across the ground. ‘For I admit, I’m no good at my endings – you know, in the same way that some artists aren’t any good at hands.’
‘He wouldn’t be much of an artist now, would he, if he couldn’t draw hands?’ Grudo curtly pointed out as Carey gave him a sharp push, hissing at him that they should help the boy pick up his songs.
‘He would if he stuck to painting elephants,’ the boy said as Grudo clambered down from his seat to help him collect up the scattered papers.
‘And there’s a great call for that is there, where you come from? Portraits of elephants?’
‘Besides,’ Carey pointed out more kindly than Grudo, as she also jumped down to help collect the papers, ‘you’re sticking with writing songs you admit you can’t finish!’
‘Ah, but one day, I will finish them. Finish them all at once, in one day, too. All my life, you see, I’ve been working towards the perfect ending.’
‘Will they be happy endings?’ Carey asked hopefully.
The boy shrugged miserably.
‘Who’s to say? Not me, for sure.’
‘Well if you don’t know,’ Grudo snorted in exasperation, ‘just who is supposed to know?’
‘Ah, but who’s to say what a happy ending is? If my love loves another, it’s happy for her, but misery for me.’
‘Ah, so you’re not sure if the girl you love loves someone else?’ said Carey, thinking she was beginning to understand at last. ‘You could ask her, you know? That’s usually the easiest way to have an answer.’
‘I haven’t met her yet, I’m afraid,’ the boy shouted up from beneath the caravan, where he’d crawled to retrieve the last of his sheets before they blew away. ‘Unless you count meeting her in my dreams.’
‘I’m not sure that counts at all,’ Grudo sniffed as he tried to straighten out his crumpled collection of sheets. ‘Girls in dreams shift and change; who can tell what they really look like?’
Carey stared at Grudo in surprise. Grudo shrugged.
The boy lightly bumped his head on the underside of the caravan as he finally scrambled out from underneath it.
‘But in my case, everyone knows what she looks like. Why, isn’t she the most famous, the most beautiful princess in the entire world? So wise, so kind, so charming, so full of laughter!’
Carey and Grudo swapped knowing glances.
‘The Porcelain Princess?’ Carey said.
The boy nodded sheepishly, but his whole face lit up as if just the mention of her name had somehow conjured her up into life before him.
‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in stories,’ Grudo observed grumpily.
Carey recognised Grudo’s familiar complaint. How often had she heard him say this when she was once again letting her hopes rise too high?
‘What he means is,’ she said to the boy, ‘that this girl might all just be nothing more than wishful thinking; she probably isn’t real, you know?’
The boy gasped in horror.
‘Not real? Everyone knows the Porcelain Princess is as real as you and me!’
‘Yes, yes, but I mean the girl you’ve fallen in love with probably isn’t anything like the real Princess.’
‘Well, she’s made of porcelain for a start!’ Grudo snorted brusquely.
The boy smiled as he crammed his saddle bags full with the crumpled sheets.
‘Ah, but on that point, my love for her will transform her! And on yours,’ he said, grinning warmly at Carey, ‘whenever I touch her picture, she comes to life at my touch! We can talk, we can walk together, we can hold each other close!’
‘And in these dreams, does she tell you she loves you?’
‘Ah, if only she did! But I don’t wish to waste our time together by asking her this! Besides, what if the question embarrasses her? What if it embarrasses me, when she answers no?’
‘Let’s not forget it’s an old tale.’ Grudo avoided Carey’s glare. Once again, it was an old complaint of Grudo’s. ‘Which means she might also be old.’
‘Ah, but as you yourself pointed out my friend, she’s of the finest porcelain! How will she age, when there’s obviously magic involved?’
‘But what about yourself?’ Carey asked kindly. ‘If you find her, you’d grow old while she would always be a young girl.’
‘Ah yes, I have considered this,’ the boy admittedly sadly, ‘but at worst, I at least get to spend some time with her. And when I’m too old to deserve her love, then I sadly move on. Besides,’ he added, brightening, ‘isn’t it a magical kingdom? How old must the Illuminator be?’
‘If he is still alive,’ Grudo growled miserably.
‘He’s still producing his books, surely?’
‘Haven’t you heard of children who inherit their father’s talents?’
Recognising these arguments once more, Carey scowled at Grudo.
‘We’re searching for her too,’ she said to the boy. ‘You could join us.’
Now it was Grudo’s turn to scowl at her.
‘Hmn, I’m tempted,’ the boy lied, having noticed Grudo’s discouraging grimace. ‘But perhaps I’d be better taking this road to my right.’
‘Then we’ll do the same,’ Grudo said as the boy mounted his horse. ‘We’ll take the road to our right.’
‘And if I find I don’t end up where I want to be after all, who knows? I might turn around and follow after you!’
‘Have you never become disheartened on your search?’ Carey suddenly asked him. ‘I mean, have you ever wondered if you might be wrong that the kingdom really exists?’
The boy shook his head, a shower of dust falling from out of his hair.
‘If I stopped searching, what meaning would my life hold then? Besides, if I hadn’t been searching, then a famous king who now rules his kingdom would still be undiscovered, rotting away in a high tower. He heard my singing and, being a bit of a troubadour himself, responded with his own singing! And so at last, his countrymen knew where he was being held!’
‘Oh, and he let down his hair did he, to let you climb up?’ Grudo chuckled.
‘You’re mixing up your fairy stories and your histories, my friend,’ the boy replied jovially.
‘Ah, so, hearing you singing outside his window, he decided he’d have to escape?’
‘Grudo! Why are you being so rude?’ Carey snapped.
‘I’m not offended,’ the boy laughed, tugging on his horse’s reins, turning her to face the track to his right. ‘Whichever way you look at it, my song was the key that unlocked his prison; and you can’t expect more of a song than that!’
And with a polite doff of his cap, the troubadour rode off, singing once more.
*
Chapter 10
The Troubadour’s Second Song
I’ve heard thine hair shines like the finest silk
Your kindness flows more pure than milk
Your face as smooth and white as por…celain
Yet I fear thine heart will ne’er be mine to win
You are the moon, the sun and stars
But alongside your Venus, mine own countenance only jars
I dream the dream that to your queen I’ll be king
Yet I dread you won’t hear of the lo
ve I sing
*
Chapter 11
‘Grudo! Why were you being so incredibly nasty to that poor boy?’
As they climbed back onto the caravan’s driving seat, Carey glared angrily at Grudo.
Grudo replied with an embarrassed shrug.
‘Well, you know, what with your father no longer being around…’
‘You felt it was your role to protect me? From some poor, lovesick boy?’
‘Ah, a very handsome and charming boy; but one who lives in dreams, rather than realities.’
‘And you don’t think I should live in dreams, right?’
Grudo shrugged again.
‘Life is hard enough without seeing our hopes for a better life constantly dashed away.’
‘Hmn, maybe you’re right,’ Carey sternly declared, to Grudo’s pleasant surprise. ‘He was handsome and charming, wasn’t he?’ she added with a sigh and a dreamy face.
Grudo was horrified.
‘Carey, he would only–’
He stopped, having at last noticed Carey’s mischievous smirk.
‘But nay, he ne’er had eyes for me,’ she said with a theatrical sadness.
Grudo smiled.
‘Get thee back to work girl,’ he chuckled, starting up the caravan.
*
A landscape of pleasant homesteads and well-tended fields soon gave way to thick forest. The track remained straight but narrow, yet it stretched ahead of them as if it were endless, such that the trees appeared to be closing in on it and cutting it off.
Even as night fell, they still hadn’t cleared the forest, and still had a long way to go. Everyone had taken up watch around the caravan, on the lookout for any signs of wolves, bears or any other wild creatures that might inhabit the wood. They hoped the caravan’s cacophony of noises, its clouds of smoke and steam, and the fiery glow of its furnace, would be enough to scare off any unwanted attention.
Although they had hoped to leave the forest far behind them before setting up camp for the night, they began to realise this would be impossible. Even Grudo and the others required sleep, and everyone was exhausted after a day of constant and fruitless travel. Everyone had begun to doubt that they had chosen the right path to travel. The forest seemed endless, and it felt like it would be days before they reached a town or even a village where they could put on a show.