by Robin Jarvis
The report cut to the exterior of the Savoy Hotel and Kate was wearing her most serious face.
“At the centre of these strange new phenomena is the man responsible for bringing Dancing Jax to the attention of a twenty-first-century audience. He too has assumed the identity of a character from those very pages, that of the Ismus, the Holy Enchanter. He’s the charismatic main figure in these fairy tales and I have been granted an audience with him. So let’s see if he can explain just what is going on here…”
The scene changed to the plush interior of a hotel suite where a lean man with a clever face and perfectly groomed, shoulder-length dark hair listened to her first question with wry amusement. He was dressed in black velvet, which made the paleness of his skin zing out on camera.
“No, no,” he corrected, “Dancing Jax is not a cult. Cults, by definition, are small, hidden societies of marginal interest.”
“Then can you explain to the millions of Americans, and the rest of the people around the world, just what is going on with this book?” Kate asked. “And why you Brits are so hooked on it?”
The man stared straight down the lens.
“Dancing Jax is a collection of fabulous tales set in a far-off Kingdom,” he said. “It was written many years ago by an amazing, gifted visionary, but was only discovered late last year…”
“Austerly Fellows,” Kate interjected. “He was some kind of occultist in the early part of the twentieth century. There is evidence that suggests he was, in fact, a Satanist, a founder and leader of unpleasant secret sects, and controlled a number of covens.”
“Malicious rumours spread by his enemies,” the Ismus countered. “Austerly Fellows was without equal, a man far ahead of his time, an intellectual colossus, bestowed of many gifts. Jealousy and spite are such unproductive, restraining forces, aren’t they?”
“What I don’t understand is why such a man, Satanist or not, would even write a children’s book.”
“It is merely the format he chose in which to impart his great wisdom. The truths Dancing Jax contains have enriched our country beyond all expectations. It speaks to you on a very basic, fundamental level.”
“So you’re saying it’s a new religion.”
“No,” he laughed. “It is not a religion. It is a doorway to a better understanding of life, a bridge to a far more colourful and exciting existence than this one.”
“But don’t you have two priests dressed as harlequins in your entourage and isn’t there a woman, called Labella, who is a High Priestess?”
“There are many characters in my retinue.”
“But surely these mass readings that are scheduled to take place… might they not be viewed as a form of organised worship?”
“Only if you consider breakfast the organised worship of cornflakes.”
“I’m a black coffee and donut person myself. Can you explain the significance behind the playing cards that readers of the book wear?”
The Ismus smiled indulgently. “If you’d read it yourself, you’d know,” he said. “But it isn’t giving anything away to say that Dancing Jax is set in a Kingdom where there are four Royal Houses which have, as their badges, Diamonds, Clubs, Hearts and Spades. The numbers indicate what type of character the reader identifies with, so a ten of clubs would be a knight or noble of that house, whilst a two or three would be further down the social scale – a maid or groom. Perfectly simple.”
“But the harlequins I mentioned earlier, and the priestess, as well as certain other characters in your entourage, I notice they don’t wear a card. Why is that?”
“They are the aces; they are special. They don’t need to.”
“I don’t see a card on you either. Does that mean you’re an ace?”
He laughed softly. “No,” he told her. “I suppose you could say I’m the dealer.”
“Yeah!” Harlon Webber quipped in the studio. “You look like one, pal!”
Kate continued. “But could you ease the growing fears and genuine concerns that we in America have about this book and its inexplicable power over the people of Britain? Can you understand why it would be viewed as strange, even menacing and sinister, from the outside?”
“Of course it must appear odd to any outsider, but let me allay your fears and concerns. There is nothing to be afraid of. The benefits it has brought our society are endless.”
“And yet, just under two months ago, there was civil unrest in all your major cities. People were protesting against this very book, in scenes reminiscent of the clashes in the Middle East. We all saw the CNN footage of those battles in the streets and the Internet was disconnected throughout the UK for almost three whole weeks. How do you account for that? Were there not also several deaths?”
“There are no riots now,” the Ismus assured her. “Those misguided crowds were agitators who had not read the book and did not understand why it was important they should do so. The deaths were regrettable accidents, no more. Such violence could never occur again.”
“Because the anti-Jax groups have now read the book and are under its, and therefore your, control?”
“Like I said, there are no riots now. In fact, across the board, crime isn’t just down – it’s non-existent.”
“I can’t believe that.”
“It’s true. The last reported crime was over a month ago, that’s all types of crime. Just doesn’t happen now.”
“That’s incredible.”
The Ismus grinned at her.
“Isn’t it?” he said. “Then there’s the sale of prescription drugs such as Prozac and Valium – down to nil. People don’t need that junk any more. They don’t need any type of drug, legal or otherwise. Drug and alcohol rehab are things of the past; every former user and addict is now completely clean.”
“I’m finding this very hard to accept, Mr Ismus.”
“Just Ismus.”
“You’re saying clinical depression has been cured by this book? That violent and petty felonies have been wiped out by this book? That dependence on hard, Class A drugs such as heroin has been totally eradicated by this book?”
“You should take a look inside one of our maximum-security prisons. Now they’ve each got four teams of Morris Men and their own internal league.”
“That really is astonishing.”
“It’s just one of the joys of Dancing Jax,” the Ismus told her. “It has united this broken country. Made it into a better place.”
“So can you explain just how that has happened? What exactly are the readers of this book getting from it? What is the power it has over them?”
The Ismus looked into Kate’s eyes until she found it disconcerting and uncomfortable, but she wasn’t going to let him intimidate her. She’d interviewed more powerful people before – or so she thought.
“It gives them order,” he said. “That’s what people want, but are too conditioned to admit. They want to believe in a simpler world where the burden of choice doesn’t exist, where they know who they are and how their jigsaw life fits into the larger pattern. To know and to belong…”
“The burden of choice?” Kate interrupted. “Excuse me, but freedom of choice, free will, freedom of speech are what define us, especially we Americans; our constitution is founded upon that. How can you call it a burden?”
He waved a hand in airy dismissal, which she felt insulted and antagonised by. “What a pretty illusion that is,” he said. “The choices you think are yours are just smoke and mirrors. What choice is there in this world where all the shops and food outlets are the same? Take the Internet, for example; where is the choice there?”
“I don’t see what you’re driving at. There are an infinite number of choices on the Internet.”
His face assumed a pitying, patient expression. “Millions of people online,” he said. “You’d think there should be unlimited choices, unlimited options open to them. But that isn’t what they want.”
“It isn’t?”
“Too much choice is confusi
ng. As I said, they want order; they want to be told what to buy and from whom. People need herding. That’s why the chaos of the Internet is being tamed and moulded, by every one of their sheeplike clicks of the mouse. They’re building boundary walls within infinity because they’re terrified at the prospect of something so limitless and arbitrary.”
“I can’t say that I agree with…”
“It’s a waste of your spearmint-scented breath to deny it. There is only one place to download music, one auction site, one social network site, one search engine, one place to share your videos, one place to buy books, one encyclopaedia and one way to pay for it all… and you say you believe in the illusion of choice? Come now, are attractive women still pretending to be less intelligent than they are to get by in what they see as a man’s world?”
Kate refused to let herself get nettled by him any further and switched back to the book.
“And what about the people here who haven’t been seduced by Dancing Jax?” she asked.
“Interesting word choice. Yes, there are a very few sad individuals. Less than a fraction of a per cent of the population who just can’t appreciate the power and beauty of Dancing Jax.”
“Is it not true that those very people are now facing discrimination, persecution and violent oppression?”
“That’s profoundly untrue; they deserve our pity and understanding, and get plenty of both.”
“Not according to my sources.”
His eyes locked on her and Kate, despite being a veteran of war reporting in some of the most dangerous hot spots of the world, felt a stab of fear unlike anything she had ever experienced.
“Now I wonder what those sources can be?” he asked.
“I can’t disclose that.”
“You don’t have to. I can guess. Tell me, do you always give credence to paranoid conspiracy theorists with personal grudges? Martin Baxter is just a jealous, embittered maths teacher from Suffolk. His grievance isn’t with Dancing Jax. It’s with me. His ex left him to become my consort. Her son is also with me; the boy is one of our four prime Jacks – the Jack of Diamonds. Martin Baxter just doesn’t know when to let go. I feel sorry for the man, I really do. He should move on.”
“Is that why he’s in hiding?” she pressed. “Is that why he’s too afraid to even meet with me and communicates via email only? He is very outspoken and critical of what you and your book have done here.”
“The guy is delusional and a militant agitator. He’s wanted by the authorities here for stoking the very unrest you were talking about earlier. His accusations against me and Dancing Jax have been totally discredited and condemned and the papers uncovered some very unpleasant, shameful details about his personal life. Why would you even listen to someone like that?”
“Sir, what I’m more interested in is the treatment of the people who haven’t embraced your book. What is happening to them?”
The Ismus looked down the lens again and continued. “I intend only to help those people, to try and enable them to come join the rest of us and reap the same incredible rewards from this amazing work. Just as I hope to share it with other countries, yours included.”
“Sir,” she repeated without any respect in her tone. “The rest of the world is watching what is occurring here, watching extremely closely. Washington will not permit this controversial book to be published in the US if it provokes such heated demonstrations and turns citizens into brainwashed zombies who think this life is not their real existence. I really don’t think you can expect the book to be published anywhere else but here.”
The Ismus grinned at her. “And yet,” he said, “earlier this month, at the Bologna International Book Fair, Dancing Jax was sold to many different countries. At this very moment it’s being translated into nine languages. I can’t wait to see those foreign editions, I really can’t. The words of Austerly Fellows are going global.”
The interview ended on his crooked smile and the picture cut once again to Kate Kryzewski outside the Savoy.
“And so there you have it, the current situation in the United Kingdom. I still can’t begin to understand it, but I will say this and once again echo the words of Brandon from Wisconsin: ‘Wake up, America’.”
The camera did a slow zoom on her face.
“Do not permit this book to get a foothold in our country,” she warned. “Do not let it take root; do not let Dancing Jax brainwash our citizens, our precious children, as it has here. Never let the Land of the Free become subject to the tyranny of this insidious book. If you receive a copy from a relative or friend over here, destroy it immediately. Don’t even leaf through the pages. Don’t give it a chance to hook you in. America, I love you. Be vigilant. This is Kate Kryzewski for NBC Nightly News, reporting from London, England.”
The familiar environment of the studio snapped back on air. With eyebrows slightly raised, Harlon Webber appeared as calm and professional as ever and ready to introduce the next item.
Suddenly a voice yelled out in the studio and Jimmy the cameraman ran in front of Camera Two. He raised his right arm, brandishing a copy of Dancing Jax for millions of Americans to see.
“Hail the Ismus!” he roared, flecks of spittle flying from his mouth and dotting the lens. His eyes were wide and the pupils dilated so much that hardly any iris could be seen. “Hail the Ismus!” he continued to bawl until Security dragged him away. “Hail the Ismus! He is amongst us!”
EARLY MORNING AND it was overcast, almost chilly. Not quite the glorious sunshine they were hoping for in the first Friday of May. Perhaps later on it would brighten up a little, in time for the special arrivals. Still, everything else was perfectly in order.
The man now known as Jangler, or the Lockpick, after the gaoler character in Dancing Jax, ran through his checklist one last time and twirled his fingers through the neat little grey beard that sprouted from his chin. Meticulous and methodical in habit and training, he made a bluff mumbling sound under his breath as he satisfied himself he had missed nothing. Everything was organised, nice and tidy. Turning, he glanced up from his clipboard and peered over his spectacles at the holiday compound behind him.
Up until three months ago, this idyllic retreat in the heart of the New Forest had been a favourite place for hostellers and school parties on outward bound trips. The main block housed the kitchen, refectory and lecture room, while seven lesser buildings were dormitories. They were designed to resemble log cabins, with various degrees of success, but the cumulative effect was not unattractive. They looked sufficiently picturesque and rural, surrounded as they were by trees and bedecked with spring flowers in a myriad of pots and window boxes and fluttering heraldic banners and bunting. It looked good on camera and that was the important thing today.
Jangler drew a tick on his list. He enjoyed drawing ticks. They signified something had been completed. It was a leftover habit from his previous existence as a solicitor in a drab, file-filled office in Ipswich. Before the power of Dancing Jax had taken control, his former name had been Hankinson, but he hardly ever remembered that now. He had spent that entire former life waiting for this. Through the generations, his family had been disciples of Austerly Fellows and were entrusted with keeping the documents and secrets of that incredible personage safe down the decades.
He continued to twiddle with his beard and checked the list once more.
The news crews were assembled inside the main block for the press conference that the Ismus had convened. With two exceptions, everyone there was in the thrall of Dancing Jax. Reporters were dressed in medieval-type clothing, with a playing card pinned somewhere on their outfit. They showed a nauseating deference to the personage of the Holy Enchanter when he came striding in. The lecture hall popped and flared with white light as camera flashes went wild. The Ismus paraded up and down, so that everyone could get a great photo, and the tails of his velvet jacket whipped about him as he strutted before them.
Five chairs were lined up at the front, facing the press. Occupying fou
r were the Jacks and Jills, the teenagers from Felixstowe who had become the embodiment of the lead characters in the book. They were now the most famous teens in Britain. Their faces appeared everywhere, endorsing products that suited their royal personalities. No magazine or newspaper was complete without photographs of them and there were endless articles about the minutiae of their lives in this drab world. Each had their own reality TV show.
Currently, the one featuring the Jill of Spades had the highest ratings. The girl had been responsible for the Felixstowe Disaster the previous autumn, in which forty-one young people had died, and the consequences of her confession were most entertaining to watch. At the moment, she was out on bail and her trial was due to commence in two months’ time. It promised to be a total circus. The Audience Appreciation Index figures for her programme were unprecedented. Her sly, devious ways made it unmissable viewing. The British public were hooked, not only on Dancing Jax, but also on her outrageously amusing antics in this world.
Kate Kryzewski and Sam, her unshaven cameraman, waited for the applause to die down as the Ismus took the vacant seat in the middle. His bodyguards, three burly men with blackened faces, stood behind him and two Harlequin Priests assumed their positions at either end.
“Blessed be to you,” the Ismus addressed everyone.
Again Kate and Sam were silent while those around them responded.
The Ismus smiled.
“My loyal subjects,” he began, “I crave pardon for summoning you, but I wished to explain the events taking place here this weekend. It has come to my attention that in this Kingdom of ours there are certain children who have not yet found their way to the Realm of the Dawn Prince. The words of the sacred text have as yet been unable to reach them.”
