Dominoes

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “I have no problems,” roared Henry VIII. “I have the God-given right to demand anything I wish.”

  “The king is anointed to do right for his people,” said Richard.

  “Which is why I killed the heathens and heretics,” said Henry V.

  Poppy recognised the word heretic and suddenly stopped laughing. She marched over and kicked the king on the leg. He was furious and reached out to grab her but Nathan, Alfie, John and Richard all grabbed his arms and stopped him. “You do not attack young women,” said Richard, “such behaviour is not worthy of a king.”

  “Well, he’s the one who had two of his young wives executed,” said Poppy.

  “And divorced two more, one of them just because she wasn’t pretty enough or something,” added Nathan.

  It had been cold when they all arrived, and it had got colder as all the arguments continued. Gradually the night had lightened, and a pale dawn had peeped up over the palace roof, but the sun was not yet fully up and the wind had grown icy. Then, quite abruptly, it began to snow.

  “But it was summer when we left Lashtang,” complained Alfie.

  “And proper hot on Sparkan,” said John.

  “It’s always hot on Sparkan,” grinned Poppy.

  “Well I’ve lost track of when and where we are,” sighed Nathan. “But wherever it is, it’s winter. This snow is getting stronger.”

  It was. The soft white flakes began to spiral, blowing hard into their faces, and building up around their legs. Whistling in the tall cypress trees at their side, the wind almost lifted Poppy off her feet, and the snow collected in her hair until it looked as though she was becoming a little old lady with white hair. Even John’s very dark hair was turning white, and the crystals were settling on Deben’s long nose. Round and round it blew as Richard stamped his feet to keep warm, and Henry V said Richard was being a baby to worry about the weather, and Henry VIII swallowed a mouthful of snowflakes as he stared up at the sky and started to curse as he chocked, and his tongue froze. He bent, gathered up a handful of snow, squashed it around a small hard stone, and threw it at Henry V. Henry retaliated, but his snowball missed Henry VIII and hit Richard on the forehead.

  “Here,” grinned Alfie, handing Richard the huge snowball he’d just made. “Wallop them both.” Richard threw the ice ball and it landed hard on Henry VIII’s chin. Henry fell backwards, while Henry V rushed forwards to throw more snow.

  Deben was now just throwing cold wet stones, and this was becoming increasingly dangerous, so Alfie, John and Nathan all rushed him, grabbed his arms, and threatened him with crocodiles and dragons if he didn’t behave himself. Meanwhile Richard strode forwards and thwacked Deben over the head with the flat of his sword.

  Lob decided to join in at this point, but not to help his son. He threw a small handful of snow at Nathan, but he quickly walked a little backwards, avoiding the skirmish which now had both Henrys, Richard, and Lob all hitting each other, tripping each other up in the snow banks, slipping over on the ice and scrambling up to hit someone else, and getting increasingly angry.

  “Well,” nodded Alfie, “kings are used to having other people obey them, not being a group of three kings all falling in the cold and hitting each other.”

  Richard had lost the armour from one leg, so the padding and warm undergarment showed through, but was now wet and the knee was thick white ice. He stopped to brush the snow from his knee, but then a whole pile of icicles from above thumped onto the back of his head. Henry V was about to laugh when he slid, carried on for some distance and looked as though he was skating. He ended in a snow bank, with only his nose and his helmet with the little crown stuck on top showing, poking up from the snow.

  Henry VIII, who was not wearing armour, was in a worse condition. His grand velvets and satins were now all stained and soaked. He had snow down the back of his neck, his shoes were all squelchy, and soon one fell off which made him limp and groan. His legs, wearing only tight woollen hose, were soaked and the knitted fabric was getting loose and baggy, and finally fell into holes. His hands were numb, and he lost his sword because he couldn’t hold the hilt properly, and then his crown blew off, and he had to run after it, his fat stomach wobbled up and down, and he was limping and shouting as the golden crown blew and danced in the air and finally landed in a pond. The pond was all iced over but when Henry tried to take a few steps to claim it back, the ice broke under his weight, and he sank up to his large fat waist in the freezing water. He had been going very red with temper, but now he seemed blue all over. Richard and Henry went over to help, but they weren’t going to risk falling into the water, so Richard called, “It’s not deep, man. Walk back to the bank and we’ll help you out.”

  “Or push you back in if you keep saying you’re King of England,” threatened Henry V, and Henry VIII began to roar and thump his fists on the ice, which broke again.

  John was sitting on Deben while watching what else was going on, and called out, “Tis a better game than football, I reckons.”

  From behind him, Poppy chucked a snowball down onto the back of Deben’s head. “Tried to put me in the dungeons, didn’t you,” she giggled. “See what happens when you go against the Octobrs!”

  It soon became obvious that something else flew within the snow storm. Something brightly coloured seemed to be glimpsed through the blinding white ice, and the more he stared, the more Nathan was convinced that this was the wizard’s balloon.

  And as it shimmered its colours between the sweeping curtains of freezing snow, even though the sound was hidden behind the howling wind, it came bumping and bouncing closer and closer until everyone saw it and stood staring.

  “And so here we are again, my faithful friends,” called a voice from above, and twirling and twisting through the swirls of white, the great striped balloon, almost landed on their heads, with Brewster peering down over the edge of the little basket. “Missed your twinny-win-winnies, have you my dears?” he called.

  The three kings looked up in absolute amazement. “What’s that, who’s that, whatever is going on?” Not one of they had ever before seen a balloon in their lives.

  Then, sudden and unexpected, Brewster tipped someone from the bottom of the basket, a slim figure in Lashtang clothes who tumbled and grunted, landing with an enormous thump right in the middle of the angry kings. With a flash of steel blades Richard and Henry V stood shocked, and Henry VIII who still sat in the pond, actually stopped yelling as Brewster flew off again up into the storm,, waving madly through the gale and ice.

  But the man who had been tossed from the basket was struggling to rise, and Richard leaned forwards to help him up. Henry V hurried over, and taking an elbow each, they helped the new arrival to stand.

  Confused, befuddled and somewhat frightened, covered in snow and dust from the basket, Ninester stumbled to his feet, and coughed. “Oh dear,” he said. “Have I been naughty again?”

  Now it was Nathan, Poppy, Alfie and John who rushed over. “No, no,” said Poppy. “Of course not. It was just horrible Brewster being mean.”

  From high in the clouds, almost invisible behind the swirling snowflakes, Brewster still hovered, and he called, “Tis me being a good boy, it is. Remember Popsie Poppy, I owes you a favour. Now here’s the chance for the first Ninester to meet the second.”

  “But what about all these confused kings?” she demanded.

  “Not my doing, Popsy-Woppsy,” Brewster called, almost as though he was singing. “That was the Cracky-Whacky Deben. Got his magic wrong, he did, all back the front, cos he wasn’t in Lashtang anymore. Too many kings and not enough wizards.”

  Flopping down in the snow, Ninester was cuddling his soft toy llama. But he was staring at Deben. “That’s the nasty one,” he pointed, trembling. “Don’t let my dad see him. He’ll say, ‘Off with his head’ but to me, not to him.”

  “What’s that?” yelled Henry VIII from the pond. “Off with his head? Whoever he is, take him to the Tower.”

  Ninester
burst into tears and Poppy rushed over to comfort him. Meanwhile Richard was helping drag Henry VIII out of the water, Brewster with a loud cackle of laughter, flew out of sight, and Deben, released by John, managed to stand up and stared at Ninester.

  “I know that fool,” he snorted.

  “And I know you,” sobbed Ninester.

  “And now it’s time to do something about it all,” sighed Nathan, “so wait till I ask the Knife of Clarr.”

  “A knife?” shouted Henry V. “I still have my sword and have just won the greatest victory in history. Do not threaten me with a knife, young man.”

  “Off with his head,” screamed Henry VIII.

  “This is the right time for discussion, not battle,” said Richard.

  Poppy, creeping around unseen, was trying to take photos of the kings, and Nathan pulled the knife from his pocket, holding it up to the reflections of the snow.

  “Now,” he said. “Let’s put everything right.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The knife flashed white, then silver, and then gold.

  The day had dawned dark and behind the falling snow, the sky was heavy cloud. Everyone waited, looking towards Nathan as he spoke to the knife. “As the Lord of Clarr,” he said, “I ask the Knife of Clarr to return each of us to our proper places. The kings of England must return to their right time and place. Then I ask that all the rest of us return to the Parry household at the hour when we left it. I ask that the rightful Ninester travel with us. And I ask that Deben come too, before he returns to Lashtang.”

  There was a mighty roll of thunder through the gale and snow, and afterwards, there was a brilliant flash of white lightning, which could be seen forking and crackling right from the horizon up into the clouds above.

  “But the thunder is supposed to come after the lightning,” objected Poppy.

  Yet before he could answer, King Richard III, one leg in wet snowy armour and the other kicking and soaked in white padding, rose up into the echoes of the lightning, and began to fade until he had quite disappeared, waving goodbye as he went.

  Again the silver crackles of lighting split the sky behind the falling snow, and this time Henry V, holding tightly to his sword, went hurtling upwards and into the clouds just as though he was a leaf in the wind.

  Henry VIII was sprawled on the snow bank beside the pond. He had lost his crown and was utterly soaked. His short ginger hair was bedraggled and dripping water, and his hose were ripped. He had now lost both shoes, and most of the gold cords from his fancy embroidered sleeves. Now suddenly he rose into the air, turned a somersault, shrieked with anger, called out that he’d execute everyone, turned upside down so that his belt fell off back into the pond, and then he too disappeared, leaving behind the echoes of his fury.

  The others stood, holding their breath and even Deben clung to his father Lob, while Ninester clung to Nathan and Alfie.

  Finally they all seemed to be grabbed by invisible hands. The lightning struck again, the snow blew into their eyes, and they felt completely confused, until, suddenly and with a big bump, they felt themselves land on firm ground. Someone was playing the lute. The beautiful music was like a strange magical call behind all the snow. Then they all opened their eyes.

  The morning sunshine was beaming through the long windows, and they were back in Alice’s main hall. She was staring down at them, Peter was playing the lute, and the other Lashtang prisoners had all gone off to start their new jobs, although they peeped around the door to say thank you and, with curiosity, see what Deben was up to. They didn’t quite understand how he was covered in snow, but they didn’t dare ask, and closed the door behind them.

  Peter had a wide smile and put down his lute. “I thought playing the music might help you home,” he said.

  “We were so worried,” said Alice.

  “Well, it was all mighty strange,” said Alfie, “but here we are.” There was already a small melting puddle of snow around his feet.

  “But it’s a bright summer’s day, so why are you all covered in snow?” she asked.

  “Tis a long story,” said John. “but first we gotta deal wiv this pig Deben.”

  Ninester and Deben were glowering at each other. “I don’t like him,” muttered Ninester. “And I won’t give him my llama.”

  “No, I don’t think you should,” smiled Poppy, “and I won’t let him take it from you.”

  Before Deben had a chance to be rude, Nathan stood in front of him and said, “You know who this is, don’t you? This is the real Ninester, who would rightfully be emperor after his father. But because Ninester has no magic, Krillester chose you instead. But he chose you, not because he loves you or even likes you, but just because you are wicked and have deep magic.”

  Glaring and stamping his foot, Deben shouted, “None of your business, fool. Who are you any way? I bet you stole that magic knife.”

  “I am Nat, the present empole, son of the empress Messina Octobr,” said Nathan coolly. “And I am the Lord of Clarr and hold this magic knife by right. You are an imposter and have no right to rule. You should be in prison. But I can tell you this since I am the present time and you are the past. So I know your history. You are cruel, and you grow up even worse. But you are half serpent and live a miserable life. You turn into a hungry serpent at night and eventually someone kills you. Whereas this true Ninester, who is kind and loving, will have a wonderfully happy life with his mother Irina and the rest of us.”

  “I don’t believe you. I’m not some stupid serpent. I’m a wizard,” said Deben, looking even angrier. “And a very good and strong wizard. That’s why Krillester chose me instead of his stupid son.” And he kicked out at Ninester, who hurried out of the way, still clutching his llama.

  Alice marched straight over to Deben and slapped his face, saying,. “Don’t be rude to Ninester who is a lovely person, not like you.”

  But Deben retaliated, swinging round to punch Alice on the nose. Alice managed to duck, and Nathan, John and Alfie all jumped on Deben. They dragged him to the ground, and although his real father Lob began to hurry over, ready to protect his son, he then thought better of it and strode over to a chair instead.

  Peter smiled, and once again began to play his lute. The music sweet and simple, calmed everyone down, even Deben. Alice poked her head around the door and called for the steward, asking for cold drinks for everyone, and soon it was the new chef’s assistant who brought in the tray and the jug, clearly feeling very proud of himself, but carefully not going too near Deben.

  It was Poppy who whispered to Nathan, “You made that up, didn’t you? I mean about the serpent. We don’t know what Deben did except be horrible, and we don’t know how he died either. You fibbed. “

  “A little bit,” Nathan admitted, going pink. “I just wanted to upset him and stop him being so nasty. And we do know that Brewster and Wagster have forked tongues and Clebbster turns into a snake. So all that must have come from somewhere. Deben is the first of his line after the real Ninester got chucked out. So it has to be him.”

  “So what do we do with him now?” asked Poppy.

  “Well, I’m going back to my parents in the cottage,” decided Nathan. “But I wish I could do something first to show Ninester how much better he is than Deben, and maybe even talk Deben into being nicer as well.”

  “Humph. You want miracles?” demanded Poppy.

  “I’ll ask the knife,” sighed Nathan. And once again he held up the silver blade, and this time it caught the reflections of sunshine instead of snow, ice and wild winds. “Please,” he asked, “can you show Ninester how good he is, and give him confidence? And show Deben how mean and cruel he is, and make him try to be better?”

  Nothing happened at first, and Nathan thought he had probably asked the impossible. Even the Knife of Clarr could not create magic beyond its own capacity. Indeed, he was just about to give up, and go out for a walk and a think in the sunshine, when something started to form in the centre of the large room. Everyone
was watching with curiosity, and Deben, having pushed his father away, was especially interested as he always liked to show off that his own magic was stronger than anyone else’s.

  Then something appeared to take shape, first just blurry, but then more definite. It was a little narrow winding wooden staircase, and very, very slowly, someone was coming down. Step by step, each step creaking a little as he came around and around, was climbing an exceedingly ancient man. He was bent and wrinkled, with a huge white beard, just a few scraps of white hair, very large spectacles balanced on his nose, a mouth completely invisible within the beard and moustache, hands very thin and wrinkled, and a rather sharp nose. He was wearing a long white gown, rather like a nightdress, but his feet were bare. He was clean and smelled a bit musty but actually very nice, but he was clearly poor and perhaps simple, and he took a long, long time to climb down the stairs.

  Eventually as he came to the bottom and stood in Alice’s grand hall, he turned a moment, clicked his fingers, and the stairs disappeared obediently. Then he came over to the long dining table and sat in the largest chair at one end. Looking around at everyone, he smiled, and then said, “Right now. Time to start.”

  “Good gracious, start what?” asked Alice suspiciously. “And if you don’t mind me asking, who on earth are you?”

  “Isn’t that obvious?” asked the man, peering over the top of his glasses. “I’m the Master of History. Some people call me Father Time, but it’s not a correct title, since I’m nobody’s father, and I only like time once it’s been and gone. History. That’s my speciality. I’m history’s master, and I rule the past.”

  “But when tis past,” frowned John, “you can’t change it. So I don’t get wot you’s master of.”

  Clearly the old man was not offended, and he chuckled, tapping his fingertips on the table. “That,” he said, “is assuming that time goes in a straight line. Which of course, it doesn’t. Most people get it wrong, so you’re not alone, young John Ten-Toes. But no, no, no! History goes in a spiral. Just like my staircase. At the end of each circle, time passes itself, but then on up it goes into another circle.”