by Robin Jarvis
His voice trailed off. The Ismus had taken off his jacket and T-shirt and turned his back to him.
The burn scars shimmered in the gloomy room.
“There’s your proof,” the Ismus said. “The contract upon the living page of my flesh.”
“Ismus!” the old man exclaimed. “Forgive an old fool for not recognising the true person of the Holy Enchanter.”
The man once known as Jezza grinned and pulled his T-shirt back on.
“You were doing your duty. That is why you are the Jangler. No one slips by you.”
Mr Hankinson slid down to one knee and bowed his balding head. “The wait has been so long,” he uttered, close to tears. “I feared there would be no one to pass the sacred knowledge on to. My son turned out to be a sore disappointment to me. There is only grey lawyer’s ink in his veins. He would never have embraced the candle faith of his forebears. I thought the sacred trust would end with me.”
“The time was not ripe; it took longer than we anticipated.”
“Yes, I realise that. I did begin to hope it might be soon. The signs were clear. The children of Cain are more lost and empty than ever. The Hebrew hypocrisies have finally been ousted and the Nazarene’s reign is over. The worship of straw idols is in full flood, as was prophesied. The way is prepared and the empty throne is waiting.”
“Get up, old man,” the Ismus instructed. “All has been set in motion. The Dancing Jacks are already at work. There must be no delay. You know what I have come for, what I must have.”
Mr Hankinson rose and hurried to a corner where an imposing green safe stood among the files.
“It is all in here,” he said, excitedly dialling the combination and heaving the thick metal door open. “Everything Mr Fellows gave to my grandfather – papers, deeds, account details – everything that will be needed in the glory days to come. There is, as you may know, a considerable amount in various accounts. That sort of money lying idle for almost eighty years can accrue a lot of interest.”
“I haven’t come for the money. That isn’t what I need right now.”
“Of course, of course – I know just what it is you’ll be needing first of all.”
He took out an iron ring, to which large keys were attached, and handed them over.
“Jangler indeed,” the Ismus observed with pleasure.
The old man bowed again. “That is the secret name each of us has borne since Mr Fellows ordered it to be so,” he said. “My grandfather passed it down to my father and he to me. We were only told certain things – who we waited for and how to identify him. We were never given one of the bound holy texts; we never knew the revelations and truths they contained. Even in our role as trustees of the house, we never dared venture into the cellar, nor strayed beyond the bounds of our instructions. I hope we did well. We tended to the conservatory and kept it flowering.”
“Better than well,” the Ismus said gratefully. “You shall sit with me in the Court, in a place of high honour.” He gave him the book and the old man received it as though it was the rarest and most precious artefact in the world.
“Thank you, my Lord,” he whispered, clasping it to his chest.
“Now, most dedicated Pharisee,” the Ismus said with his crooked smile. “Follow me and come with us. We have a very special door to unlock.”
Rattling the keys in his hand, he strode from the office. The bodyguards marched after him. Giving the dust jacket of Dancing Jacks a solemn kiss, the Jangler reached into the safe once more to take out a large black Gladstone bag and followed them.
Chapter 14
Magick and enchantery are as natural in the Kingdom of the Dawn Prince as the perfumed summer winds or the music of the streams. Yet there are some, who dwell within the circling hills, over whom the Old Ways have no power. These aberrants must be rooted out. They are a danger to his lovely land. Find them, report them, they are a sickness that must be cured. Yea, though they be your bosom friend or even your brother, you must inform upon them. Such is the decree of the Ismus.
MARTIN BAXTER DROVE out of the school gates and noticed that one of the broadcast vans had gone and others were preparing to leave. Obviously the Disaster was no longer headline news. It hadn’t taken long to shunt the deaths of forty-one young people off the front page; perhaps something even worse had happened elsewhere. He discovered later that an ex-member of a boy band had announced his engagement to a soap actress and the news crews had scrambled to capture footage of them together, with the ring. That’s what people were really interested in nowadays.
Paul was in Martin’s passenger seat, twiddling his fingers, practising for his imminent piano lesson.
“So how was your day?” Martin asked. “Get through it OK?”
The boy nodded. “Seemed just normal by the afternoon,” he said. “It’s like the fort was ages ago now, like a dream somehow.”
“I thought it was unreal at the time,” Martin agreed. “Things like that just don’t happen here, except that it did.”
“Did you hear about the smilies?”
“Yes. There’s another one for the cranks and conspiracy theorists.”
“Pretty amazing though.”
“Coincidences are, but they’re just random patterns that occur in probable outcomes. If there had been one less smiley, no one would have noticed anything.”
“And if anyone else dies, it’ll blow it out of the water too.”
“Let’s hope that doesn’t happen! You’re a bit gruesome today.”
The boy laughed. “It’s because of Anthony Maskel and Graeme Parker at break this afternoon,” he said. “They were being dead wet and drippy and saying stuff that so isn’t like them. I couldn’t make out what they were playing at.”
“Your pals weren’t excluding you, were they?”
“Yes, but not the way you mean. They weren’t being horrible, just the opposite. It was loopy. As if they’d had their brains rewired – or been bodysnatched by those pods from outer space.”
“Fantastic movie!” Martin enthused. “In fact, both the first two versions are excellent. That dog with the man’s head gave me nightmares for weeks after.”
“Ha ha – I thought it was funny! I wanted one.”
“You thought The Thing was funny too! That head spider was the worst scare ever when I first saw it. There was no CGI back then. We weren’t used to creatures like that.”
“It was cute!”
“I despair, I really do.”
They had driven along Undercliff Road East, which ran along the coast. The expanse of sky over the North Sea was muddied with cloud and the waves that dragged at the shingle were white and foaming. In an effort to stem the erosion of the shore, hundreds upon hundreds of great angular concrete shapes, like alien sculptures, had been embedded in the beach, to confound the power of the sea. If you looked at Felixstowe via Google Maps, even on the highest resolution, the satellite photographs showed those concrete tetrahedra as ugly dark splodges. It was as if the images had been censored – or spores of black mould were gathering to invade the town.
Martin pulled up outside a large house. The hedges were impeccably clipped and the lawn was like a bowling green, framed by a beautifully maintained flower border. It was a quietly grand place, with no outward sign betraying what it was – one of the most select places to stay in Felixstowe – and it was where Paul had his free piano lessons.
The boy ran up the drive and rang the bell. Martin followed him. A spry, lean gentleman, there really was no other word but gentleman, answered. There was a welcoming smile on his fresh, pink face, which crinkled the skin around his pale blue eyes in the most genial and friendly way.
“Hello, hello!” he greeted them with genuine warmth. “Wasn’t it an absolutely terrible weekend?”
“Hi, Gerald!” Paul yelled. “Go get yourself a juice,” the man suggested. “You know where it is.”
Paul grinned and hurried past, heading towards the gleaming designer kitchen.
�
�Time for a tea, Martin?” Gerald asked.
The maths teacher was tempted, but had to decline. “Shouldn’t really,” he said. “I’ve got a lot of marking to get through this evening.”
“You teachers work too hard.”
“Oh, please, tell the government that.”
“And so does Carol. A nurse and a teacher, what a combination. You two hardly ever get any decent time together.”
“We don’t even manage any indecent time together,” Martin joked. Gerald Benning laughed. He was approaching seventy, but could easily be mistaken to be in his fifties. He was a picture of health and was always immaculately dressed, with no creases ever marring his clothes except the crisp lines he had ironed into them himself. His fine white hair was perfectly groomed and resembled a piped swirl of Dream Topping.
He ran the Duntinkling guesthouse more as a hobby than a business. He enjoyed cooking and meeting new people, but was very selective about who came to stay. If he really wanted, he could be fully booked throughout the seasons, but he could afford to take a more laid-back approach and didn’t want the pleasure of being a convivial host to ever become a chore, so he only took sporadic bookings.
Hardly any clues in that tastefully furnished guesthouse betrayed that he had once been famous. There were a few photographs on his piano, but that was in the private part of the house where paying guests weren’t permitted, unless he really warmed to them and they somehow recognised him.
“I spent most of my weekend refusing requests from journalists,” he said. “I wanted to get on with digging a pond out the back, but the number of calls I had from them, trying to book rooms, I hardly got anything done. I’d forgotten just how pushy and unpleasant those people can be. Well, they got short shrift! I’m not having that sleazy riff-raff in my Egyptian cotton.”
“They were outside the school today,” Martin told him.
“I saw on the news. Some poor little girl and her mother were as good as attacked by them. It’s worse than it ever was in my day.”
“That was Molly!” Paul said, returning with a half drunk glass of juice and a matching orange smile. “She was in my class. What a racket she made!”
“God love her,” Gerald said. “Now, if we can’t persuade Martin to have a cup of tea, we’d best begin. I’ll drop Paul round later once we’re done. You go attend to your marking.”
He waved goodbye to Martin and was about to follow Paul into the house when he paused and called out, “Next Saturday, are you all free for supper?”
“Yes, I think so,” Martin answered readily. Gerald was an excellent cook and always tried new recipes out on them before serving the dishes to his guests. A night at Gerald’s table was a treat the three guinea pigs greatly looked forward to. “Carol’s on earlies so she’ll be all right for the evening, thanks!”
Gerald rubbed his hands together and looked apologetic. “I won’t be here though,” he said with mock regret. “Evelyn is coming for the day and you know we can’t be under the same roof.”
Martin’s eyes lit up. “Really?” he asked. “Oh, amazing! I’m honoured – I can’t wait!”
A playful smile flickered over Gerald’s face. “It’s about time you met her,” he said with a wink. “Just don’t let her drone on too much. She never knows when to shut up.” And with that, he closed the door.
Martin chuckled as he returned to the car and drove off.
Before his retirement thirteen years ago, Gerald Benning had been one half of an extremely popular comedy musical duo. It was stunningly original for the time and was hailed as one of the best acts of its type ever. For thirty years, Hole and Corner, as they were known professionally, packed the theatres, entertained royalty, and had a long-running series on Radio 2. Then, after the untimely death of his partner, Gerald decided the act was finished and did not want to continue as a solo performer. So he left the showbiz world completely and retired to the seaside town he grew up in, shunning interviews and living a quiet life.
Martin was now greatly looking forward to the weekend. He had first been introduced to Gerald by Carol. She had nursed Gerald’s partner in his final months some years ago and had become firm friends with both of them. The rest of the world appeared to have forgotten Hole and Corner, or confused them with later, inferior imitations who didn’t possess a hundredth of their talent. Saturday was going to be excellent.
When Martin arrived home, Carol was upstairs, soaking in the bath. He went up to tell her the news and she too was delighted.
“You’re so privileged!” she told him. “It took me four years to be allowed to meet Evelyn. Now don’t you forget the rules and spoil it!”
“I won’t!” he promised. “I’ve been hoping for this for ages.”
“I knew you had an ulterior motive for getting involved with me,” she teased, flicking a berg of bubbles at him. “Fetch me a glass of wine, my good slave. I want to be decadent in my suds.”
With a mischievous grin, Martin quickly scooped up a handful of foam, pushed it in her face then ran from the bathroom as she spluttered and splashed.
Downstairs he removed the books he had to mark from his briefcase and put them on the dining table. His attention was immediately drawn to the copy of Dancing Jacks that Paul had left there yesterday. Shiela Doyle’s bizarre and unsettling visit that lunchtime flashed into his mind.
Martin drew the book towards him and had a close look at the period green and cream cover. “What was she so panicked about?” he murmured to himself.
Sitting down, he opened it curiously.
The room around him became dim.
The end papers were a map: ‘The Magickal Kingdom of the Dancing Jacks’ – a beautifully detailed drawing of a rural landscape with a moated, medieval castle called Mooncaster in the centre, surrounded by the huddled cottages of the small, picturesque village of Mooncot. A set of stocks was on the green by a pond that was labelled ‘cursed’, there were streams and woods, enchanted paths marked out by dotted lines, woodland huts and haunted caves, entrances to underground tunnels, the edge of a dark forest, a witch’s tower, meadows and pastures and tracks leading to seven of the thirteen encircling hills which were off the edge of the map.
“Is that a gibbet?” Martin asked, peering closer at one part of it. “There’s even a skeleton in it – charming…”
He turned the page. The frontispiece was a delicate picture, by the same hand, of an elaborate, wrought-iron chair. Underneath, upon a curling scroll, were the words, “Until the Dawn Prince returns unto us, his throne awaits.”
The blood began to pulse in his temples. Martin rubbed his forehead. A low humming echoed faintly in his ears.
Martin found the publishing information.
“Cloven Press, 1936,” he said. “Must have been a very small publisher. I’ve never heard of them.”
Then he raised his eyebrows at the strange preface from the author. “OK… ‘so mote it be’? Is Austerly Fellows an alias for Dennis Wheatley? Did he ever write for kids? That would be so very wrong.”
He frowned when he remembered what Shiela had said about the ferrety-looking man she was with at the boot fair. Didn’t she claim him to be some sort of High Priest?
Martin continued, and began reading.
The world of the Dancing Jacks was set firmly in a distant kingdom in the mythical time of chivalry, courtly romance, intrigue and magic. Martin’s mouth twitched to one side. The prose was occasionally difficult to follow, there were odd repetitions, and sometimes it broke into rhyme for no apparent reason and then became so dense and obscure he had no idea what it was describing, while at other times it was almost babyish. How could children be expected to wade through this? There didn’t appear to be a single continuous narrative running through it either.
The book was divided into sections. The first described the White Castle and the idyllic landscape around it, exploring the varied features – almost as though it was a holiday brochure. Then each character was introduced in their own devote
d chapter, describing who they were and telling simple stories about them and their adventures. There were clear illustrations of what they looked like, with great care taken over their costume.
They seemed to have been inspired from a jumble of sources: suits of playing cards was the most obvious one, early pantomime another, as well as traditional folklore and the English morris. There were also archetypal figures, such as the witch, the werewolf woodsman, the constable, the fairy godmother, the cunning fox with the gift of human speech, the minstrel, the mistletoe king, the beggar maid, the roaming soldier, the crafty blacksmith and the gallant knight. There was something for every taste. Some of the characters even had their own tunes and catchphrases.
Other personages made brief appearances in each of these introductory chapters, but only one was a constant presence in them all – the Holy Enchanter, the Ismus. Everyone revered him and his word was law. Only the Jockey seemed to have any right, or was audacious enough, to taunt or trick him…
Martin looked up. So that man with Shiela is parading about as this Ismus? Was that really so unnatural? He thought about the science-fiction conventions he had attended where fans thought nothing of spending the day – and the evening – dressed in lovingly crafted recreations of their favourite characters’ outfits. He had once enjoyed a hilarious night in the hotel bar of one such event, having a whale of a time with two brilliantly attired and very convincing Klingons and an Asian Superman.
His concentration faltered. He looked about the room. Were the lights flickering? It suddenly seemed brighter and his ears felt as though they’d popped. For some inexplicable reason he experienced the strange sensation that something, somewhere, had failed.
Martin clicked his jaw from side to side and started thinking about his DVD collection and what he would watch that night. Something he had seen dozens of times before, something familiar to have on in the background as he marked his students’ work – perhaps a few Deep Space Nines.
