by Jon Jacks
April Queen, May Fool
Jon Jacks
Other New Adult and Children’s books by Jon Jacks
The Caught – The Rules – Chapter One – The Changes – Sleeping Ugly
The Barking Detective Agency – The Healing – The Lost Fairy Tale
A Horse for a Kingdom – Charity – The Most Beautiful Things (Now includes The Last Train)
The Dream Swallowers – Nyx; Granddaughter of the Night – Jonah and the Alligator
Glastonbury Sirens – Dr Jekyll’s Maid – The 500-Year Circus – The Desire: Class of 666
P – The Endless Game – DoriaN A – Wyrd Girl – The Wicker Slippers – Gorgesque
Heartache High (Vol I) – Heartache High: The Primer (Vol II) – Heartache High: The Wakening (Vol III)
Miss Terry Charm, Merry Kris Mouse & The Silver Egg – The Last Angel – Eve of the Serpent
Seecrets – The Cull – Dragonsapien – The Boy in White Linen – Porcelain Princess – Freaking Freak
Died Blondes – Queen of all the Knowing World – The Truth About Fairies – Lowlife
Elm of False Dreams – God of the 4th Sun – A Guide for Young Wytches – Lady of the Wasteland
The Wendygo House – Americarnie Trash – An Incomparable Pearl – We Three Queens – Cygnet Czarinas
Memesis
Text copyright© 2016 Jon Jacks
All rights reserved
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Chapter 1
The Queen of Crystals
What a miserable life he led!
The doctor had resented been called out in such a terrible storm, especially as his journey would take him out across the moors, where the wind faced no obstacles to constrain its power.
Now that wind cut through him like knives being flung at him from out of the darkness.
He cursed his car, rather than himself, for the fact that it had run out of petrol.
Surely he had filled its tank only yesterday?
*
If only there had been some way to predict that all this unfortunate madness would fall upon him!
He could have ignored the urgently ringing telephone at the side of his bed. He could still be warm and snug in that bed!
He had nothing but his bag with him, the only thing he could carry: and that was cumbersome enough. It was wet and slippery too, the leather freezing to his touch. He hadn’t thought to bring out gloves.
And the young woman thought she had complications!
Complications!
Then why hadn’t she called an ambulance? Or a midwife?
Why him?
His shoes were caked with mud, every step like one taken by a deep-sea diver in leaden boots. His jacket and trousers were soaked. What little was left of his hair briefly and coldly flattened against the top of his head, at least whenever the whirling wind thankfully eased for a moment.
All those years of training, of late nights cramming his brain with symptoms, ailments and procedures: and here he was, after all that, at the beck and call of a woman who’d spent her own nights without a care of any consequences!
Could his life get any worse than this?
If it was a question he was seriously asking, then suddenly he had his answer: yes, his life could be much, much worse!
For his way was abruptly blocked by a hellhound: a gigantic black dog with furnaces for eyes and a forge for a maw.
*
‘Don’t worry; he just wants to be friends.’
The doctor wanted to point out bitterly that he had absolutely no wish to be friends with a dog the size of a mule and possessing the temperament of a devil.
‘Oh good, good,’ he trilled nervously, searching the darkness for the source of the placating if distinctly grizzled voice.
When he found the speaker, he instantly wished he hadn’t.
The ‘man’ reeked of evil every bit as much as his dog.
His long coat was as dark as the surrounding night. His face was as wizened and knotted as the gnarled roots of the small bushes that managed to eke a living out of the poor soil of the moors.
He was also ridiculously tall, a giant by any standard.
‘Well, well, I must rush,’ the doctor insisted edgily, attempting to work his way around the man and dog blocking his way. ‘I’ve a baby to help bring into the world!’ he added with a relish he’d previously lacked, now glad of a good reason for him to be allowed to continue on his way.
‘Ah, but have you?’ the man snarled threateningly.
‘Oh, er, yes, yes, I most definitely have,’ the doctor responded fearfully, ‘I need urgently to attend to a poor young girl who’s suffered complications in her pregnancy–’
‘But the crystals – indeed, the Queen of Crystals – has forewarned me that this child, this boy, will cause me harm!’ the giant growled.
He raised a surprisingly small hand, stopping the doctor from making any attempt at further progress.
‘Ah, so…so you don’t wish me to attend this birth?’ the doctor stammered in a strange mix of relief and anxiety (what if, after all, this man was going to make sure he didn’t attend?).
He moved to turn around, to head back as quickly as he could towards his car.
The giant’s hand might have been small, yet when it grabbed the doctor by the upturned collar of his soaked jacket it had more than enough strength to haul him back.
‘Now what good would you not attending do me?’ the giant snapped irately. ‘The boy will still be born!’
‘Well, er, complications can result in–’
‘Here’s what you’re gonna do for me, doctor: you’re gonna ensure that it’s not a boy, but a girl!’
‘Oh, ahh, I’m afraid you don’t seem to understand how–’
‘You saying you can’t do it? Then maybe I should set Throttler here on you?’
The hellhound stepped a little closer towards the doctor, its flame-red mouth slavering, its leash of nothing but frayed string straining.
The man jerked the dog back, the string twanging as a couple of its threads snapped,
‘Whereas if you help me,’ the man continued, ‘then unimaginable riches could be yours!’
Unimaginable riches or being riven apart by a hellhound? It didn’t take the doctor long to consider his options.
It would be a crystal clear choice if it weren’t for one small problem.
‘But…but, you see, it’s not possible–’
He almost froze with terror as the man sprouted a third arm, one shooting out from within the man’s long coat at waist level.
‘This makes it possible,’ hissed a muffled voice from inside the thick coat.
The hand shook slightly, drawing the doctor’s attention to a dangling, dark blue crystal suspended on a chain.
It glittered as if it were a fragment of the heavens itself. It was so incredibly dark, and yet also sparkled everywhere all at once, as if filled with stars. It was also perfectly spherical, such that when any light striking it caused it to glow in its entirety, it could have been a miniature moon.
The hand stretched out, pushing the glistening crystal towards the doctor. The purpose of its actions were now clear; the doctor was supposed to take the dangling crystal.
The bewildered doctor took the chain and its glittering crystal, so darkly blue it could be a portion of the night, frozen for all eternity.
He tried to avoid staring at the ‘man’ handing him the crystal.
Were they just children? he wondered hopefully. One sitting on another’s shoulders to give the impre
ssion they were a single man? And all simply to scare him?
But then again, the face of this man belonged to no child. And if it was a mask, it was the most horrifically realistic mask he had ever come across.
Besides, there was also the dog; that was for real, sure enough.
‘What…what do I do with it?’ the doctor asked hesitantly.
‘You let it swing over this young girl’s swollen stomach–’
‘Ah yes, yes,’ the doctor nervously interrupted, ‘I’ve heard how this can predict a child’s gend–’
A fourth arm came out from beneath the coat in a short, sharp jab to the doctor’s stomach. It struck him so hard it made him double up with pain.
‘This one is the Queen of Crystals: it will ensure the child is a girl!’ the waist-high voice hissed persistently.
‘You’ve just got to make sure it seems to be spinning a little to the left, a touch anticlockwise, got that doctor?’ the crooked face snapped down at him.
‘Yes, yes; anticlockwise, anticlockwise,’ the still winded doctor replied meekly.
He stared once again at the crystal in his hand, marvelling at the internal glittering of what could be thousands of captured stars.
‘And then you’ll leave the Queen of Crystals out here once more, for us to collect at our leisure,’ a third voice growled from somewhere even deeper within the coat.
The doctor somehow sensed the crystal’s forewarning that he should do exactly as these ‘children’ instructed.
‘Yes, yes; right here, right here – I’ll find the place again, don’t you worry!’
‘Good; that’s our business here done with, doctor,’ the tall ‘man’ declared with gloating satisfaction.
‘So be on your way!’ the other voice hissed, the ‘man’ stepping aside, pulling the dog a little with him despite its inclination to refuse to move even an inch.
‘Oh, thank, thank you!’ the doctor said as brightly as he could manage, ducking past this evil trio and their dog as rapidly as he could manage.
He glanced back over his shoulder.
‘Oh, and the, er, unimaginable riches? When might I be expecting them?’
The man sniggered: not thrice, as the doctor might have expected, but four times, with four different voices.
Then one of the voices asked, ‘Have you ever heard anyone say life’s a rich tapestry?’
‘Why yes, yes, I suppose I have,’ the doctor replied curiously.
‘Well there you are,’ another voice hissed back at him, ‘only a few moments ago, you couldn’t have imagined getting out of this alive, could you?’
And of course, it didn’t take the Queen of Crystals to foresee that the doctor wouldn’t refuse this most remarkable of gifts called life.
*
Chapter 2
When they’re young, many girls dream of beautiful princesses. Of being a beautiful princess!
Even now, however, when most girls her age had put such fanciful dreams behind them, Crystine still found herself dreaming of her fairytale princess.
Not because Crystine actually wanted to dream of this princess, of course.
This princess intruded nightly into her dreams, despite Crystine dreading these invariably regular appearances.
Worst of all, she was an undoubtedly ugly princess.
To go, no doubt, with Crystine’s own ugly, unfairytale-like life.
Because it’s not as if, for instance, Crystine herself had actually been wanted by her mother.
So not wanted, in fact, that Crystine’s mum still acts like she resents that blurry night of conception. Like Crystine herself is somehow to blame.
So sometimes, when Crystine’s mother’s a little drunk, which she often is, when her memories are being reshuffled, with deliberately forgotten memories unintentionally resurfacing, she just might admit that she just might have been drunk then too; seeking a little bit of tenderness in her life, a little bit of love – Well, didn’t she deserve it, at least every now and again?
And so who was Crystine’s father?
Well, Crystine’s mother would say, in the midst of her stupor, she couldn’t really be expected to remember everything clearly, could she?
So that’s why Crystine makes up tales the way other girls her age make up their faces: to try and bring at least a sliver of something good and beautiful and acceptable into her life.
To create some sense of order, if only in her mind. To create a better life for herself at least in her imagination, if not reality.
To keep herself sane.
See, Crystine is just a touch bitter about the way her life has played out so far.
But then, if you’d found yourself living her life, wouldn’t you be a little bitter too?
*
Seeing Crystine and her mum together, it’s not really very easy to figure out who’s taking care of whom.
Her mum acts like she’s only just clinging on to her own weird version of reality.
Yeah, that’s how crazed she looks, Crystine would often tell herself.
How crazed she acts.
Just managing to hold it all together.
Like a ship in a storm, one requiring just one small gust of wind to cast it upon nearby rocks waiting to embrace it.
Stranger still, no other ships close by even realise there’s a storm blowing.
Life’s all relatively calm to them.
You could trace the blame for this sad state of affairs back to Crystine’s mum’s own parents, truth be known.
Raising her to feel so badly about herself.
Drumming it into her young, highly impressionable mind that she’s no good unless other people tell her she’s good.
Letting her know she’s not really an attractive, likeable person unless she pleases those people.
If you don’t get praise on a regular basis, then how can you flatter yourself you’re in any way worthy?
She’s too weak, too lacking in talent, to face the world on her own: she’ll always need the support of stronger, better people.
She was raised like a great many kids these days, in other words, especially young girls.
God forbid, Crystine thought, that included her.
She’d leave home, as soon as she were able, rather than that!
*
Chapter 3
Like their lives, their apartment was dingy, cramped – unliveable.
It was always cluttered with clothes hung out to dry, as there was nowhere convenient outside. (Unless you counted the old building’s roof top that, although right above them, was inaccessible to anyone but a mythical race called maintenance men.) So the clothes never, ever seemed truly clean, no matter how many times they were washed. They became ingrained with cooking smells and grease.
Furniture was third hand, at best, with no careful owners involved. Carpets, threadbare; curtains, like threadbare carpets.
As if the lack of space wasn’t bad enough, Crystine’s mum hoarded newspapers, magazines, books. She stacked them everywhere, the piles in danger of toppling at any moment.
They were full of articles promising a better life. Setting out, they claimed, the means of improving who you are, advancing your place in the world.
Obviously, none of them lived up to their promise.
Crystine was hardly any better. Like mother, like daughter.
Only her books, her magazines, were a means of escape from this world.
Stories: the more fantastical, the better.
Crystine could become entirely absorbed in them, soaking up the atmosphere more than identifying with the characters. She wished she could be there, in these other, more wonderful worlds.
Even if a world described in a book disappointed her, it served as a jumping off point for her own imagination. It was a springboard into landscapes of her own imagining.
Here she could be whomsoever she wanted to be.
Strong.
Resourceful.
Brave.
Everything her
mother wasn’t.
*
As she always did whenever her mum was out, Crystine was reading.
As she did, in fact, whenever mum was home.
She had made a chair of sorts from out of the piles of books and magazines. It was far more comfortable than the armchair made of broken springs and torn stuffing; besides, that chair was hidden somewhere beneath the mountain of hoarded books.
The book wasn’t bad; but her own world, the one she’d slipped into, briefly fooling herself into believing she actually lived there, was better. A world of brightly coloured blooms and exotic creatures, of impenetrable jungles hiding doorways into supposedly ancient kingdoms.
A world that was free of boys who had promised to call, who told you they liked you, but…well, they were just a little busy at the moment, with other things to do. (To make things worse, she’d fallen asleep while in class; not the best thing to do if you’re hoping to impress a certain boy you’ve had your eye on for quite a while now.)
Crystine was finding it difficult to concentrate on her wonderful, imaginary world however: there was a great deal of noise coming from the roof above her. It was as if a vast team of maintenance men had at last descend upon the building, having decided to undertake ten years of missed work and complete it all within the hour.
Suddenly, as if one of the men had committed a major blunder, cutting through more than he’d intended to, a leg slipped through the ceiling. It was dangling down into Crystine’s room, just above her head.
It was a surprisingly short and stubby leg, however: more like a child’s that that of a workman.
As perhaps further evidence that the source of the raucous noise was a group of children, the unexpected appearance of the leg was accompanied by mischievous chuckling and giggling. The friends of the leg’s owner obviously found it incredibly funny that he’d just suffered what could be a painful accident.
He’d also, of course, just made a huge hole in the apartment’s ceiling.
Crystine was furious.
She leapt up, jumping out of her world of a revived Atlantis, yelling at the children that they were in trouble now, that they shouldn’t be up there, that it was dangerous.
The giggling came to an abrupt halt, as did the waggling of the leg.
