by Robin Jarvis
Had enuf. Gonna tell cops wot hapnd.
She could whine or yell or slate him as much as she liked, but he couldn’t live with it any longer. The message’s envelope icon went flying away on the mobile’s screen. He imagined it zooming down the corridor under the pier, trying to find Emma Taylor’s phone.
It was almost dark out there now. The lights of container ships twinkled in the remote distance and Conor rested his chin on his knees as he stared at them, wishing he was on board. What sort of life was there for him here? He had always wanted to be a professional footballer. The fame, the money, the cars, the attention, the WAGs – that incredible world was a life he craved so much. He ached to be a part of it. To wear the sharp suits and endorse endless products, be invited to the most exclusive parties and rub shoulders with A-list movie stars, have lads just like him filled with adoration and envy. To have tens of thousands of fans chant his name at matches and worship his skill. To be someone unique and special, to have what the media tantalised and promised could be his. Yes, he thirsted for that. Ever since he could remember he had wanted that diamond existence. He had built every dream and hope on it.
Conor covered his eyes. At the age of fifteen he had finally realised he simply wasn’t good enough to play in the Premiership. He wasn’t even talented enough for the lesser clubs. What was left? Nothing. No other dream could ever replace that one and the certainty of that crushed him. Those glittering hopes had washed down the drain and that universe was totally unattainable. He would stay stuck here, in this grey and empty corner of nowhere, forever. What was the point?
He sat hunched over for some time. When the inevitable reply buzzed in, like a furious wasp in his pocket, he glanced at it without a flicker of surprise. Then he switched off the phone.
“She’ll wear out that ‘F’ key,” he said to himself.
A movement in the corner of his eye caused him to turn his head. Someone was on the beach nearby.
It was a girl, perhaps about his age, wearing a long and summery dress, printed with delicate pink and yellow flowers. There was a pale pink sash tied around her waist. The cotton was surely far too thin for this brisker, off-season weather. She was tall and willowy and her long, dark hair was pinned up on to her head. She had left her shoes on the beach and was twirling about in the shallow waves, arms raised, with her face upturned to the darkened sky.
Conor stared at her, fascinated. Hidden as he was in the deep shadow beneath the arcade, she was totally unaware she was being watched.
He smiled. She looked like she didn’t have a care in the world. Simply being there, capering and splashing in the sea with the wet sand beneath her feet, was enough to make her glad. It was innocent and childlike – she had to be freezing though. The girl was humming and singing snatches of a song he didn’t recognise, but, with a start, he realised he did know that voice.
“Sandra Dixon!” he called out in surprise.
The girl faltered in her gambolling and whirled around, unable to see who had spoken. Conor emerged from his hiding place and she moved a little further into the water.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked.
The girl stared at him dumbly. There was something about her eyes that made him wonder if she was sleepwalking.
“Aren’t you cold?”
She shook her head and moved deeper into the sea so that the waves rolled over the hem of the bridesmaid’s dress she had worn the previous July. It was the only long dress she owned.
Conor looked at her bare arms. They were stippled with gooseflesh and she was shivering.
“You are cold!” he said. “You’ll catch your death in there.”
“I am dancing for the Lord Ismus!” she said suddenly. “I have no minchet with which to anoint myself. But if I sing and dance prettily enough, he might notice and bear me away through the starlight – to the Great Revel.”
“The only place you’ll be going is to the hospital with pneumonia,” he warned.
She gazed upwards, her face expectant and yearning. “I must dance,” she called out. “The Jill of Hearts must dance the most daintily of all the ladies at Court.”
“Come out of there!” Conor told her.
Sandra did not answer, but backed even further into the water until it reached her thighs.
“I’m not going in after you!” the boy said firmly.
She swayed and bent, this way and that, in the water. Then she turned round and round, gesturing with her arms, like an intoxicated ballerina.
“I must hold every man’s fluttering heart captive,” she called out. “I must catch them like scarlet butterflies in my cupped palms. I must entrance. The courtiers must adore me.”
Conor’s concern had turned to fear. The sea was now up to the girl’s waist. What had got into her? She was supposed to be clever, wasn’t she? Perhaps the beating Emma had given her had done more damage than anyone had realised.
“Damn,” he swore under his breath. He scrambled out of his coat and kicked off his trainers. “We’re both going to get pneumonia.”
The boy stepped into the sea, gasping at the icy bitterness of the water. How could she bear it?
When Sandra saw him, she thrust her hands in front of her and retreated even further.
“Stop!” he yelled.
“I must dance!” she cried. “I must be noticed by the Ismus!”
“Sod him!” Conor said through chattering teeth.
Sandra shrieked and moved backwards. The waves were breaking over her back now. Soon they would be over her shoulders.
Conor halted. Every step he took drove her deeper into the sea.
“All right!” he called. “I won’t come any closer.”
In the black expanse of the North Sea, her chalk-white face stood out starkly. Those dreaming, glassy eyes scanned the night sky, searching and hoping.
Conor looked around helplessly. The promenade was empty. The string of coloured lights that festooned the length of it showed that no one else was about. What could he do? How could he reach her? Then his eyes rested on the shoes she had left behind. There was a book beside them.
“Dancing Jacks!” he said. The girl’s face turned to him at once. “You know the holy text?”
“I bought one of those as well.”
She gave a joyful cry. “Is it not the most glorious enchantery?” she asked.
“I dunno, I haven’t read it.”
“You must!”
“Why the hell should I? You won’t come out of there.”
“But it will save you!”
“I’m not the one who needs saving here!”
“You are in the dark oubliette of ignorance. Read it and enter the Light – be as one with the courtiers of the Dawn Prince. This is only the empty grey place of sleep. You must wake up to your real life.”
“You come here and I’ll think about it.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Sandra took a step forward, but her foot slipped on a loose stone and she vanished below the waves.
Conor watched her white face disappear under the water. Could she swim? He had no idea. Some moments later her head came bobbing back up – even further from the shore and her arms were thrashing wildly. She was too far out and could no longer feel the bottom beneath her feet.
“Bloody knew it!” he swore.
With a fierce yell, full of annoyance and irritation, he charged into the waves and leaped into the freezing sea.
When he reached Sandra, she was kicking and crashing about in the water frantically. The back of her hand smacked him wildly across the face as he swam close and he shouted at her to stay calm.
“I am the Jill of Hearts, I am the Jill of Hearts,” she cried shrilly. Conor grabbed her and began towing her back to the shore. Presently they came staggering up the beach, stuttering with the wet, wintry cold, their clothes stuck to their shuddering bodies.
“So… so… fro… frozen…” she said in gulping, shallow breaths as i
f aware of it for the first time.
Conor threw his coat over her shoulders.
“M… My thanks, Sirrah,” she gasped, pulling the garment tightly around.
“Let’s get you home,” he told her, passing her shoes as he pushed his feet into his trainers. He was the coldest he had ever been, but she was blue with it. “If we run, it might warm us up a bit.”
Sandra looked into the sky once more. “My Lord is not there,” she observed with disappointment. “He is gone to the revel without me.”
“Come on!” Conor urged.
Sandra picked up her book. “Such peace and joy you will find in these blessed pages,” she said.
“I never read books,” he answered impatiently. “Don’t even colour them in nowadays.”
Her own words were lost on her.
“You made a promise to read it,” she reminded him.
“No, I didn’t.”
“As the cloak of night is my witness, I heard you.”
“I said I’d think about it, you dopey nutcase! Now can we get going before my voice gets any higher? I want to play like Beckham, not sound like him. I’m a bloody brass monkey stood here.”
To his annoyance she laughed and pointed at him. “I know you now,” she said. “He who braves fire and water to rescue maidens, he whom the beasts and birds adore. You are the Jack of Clubs.”
“I’ll be SpongeBob SquarePants if it means we can get going!” Conor retorted, jumping from one foot to the other and rubbing his arms.
“You may lead me, Knave,” she said with a flirtatious smile.
At that moment Conor was too chilled and angry with her to notice, let alone care. This was the second time he’d saved someone in the past few days. At least barmy Sandra had thanked him. Emma hadn’t even mentioned it.
Their paths home ran together for a distance and they hurried as fast as they could to keep the gelid blood moving in their veins. When it was time to split up and go different ways, Sandra returned his coat and curtseyed in her wet dress.
Conor thought she looked ridiculous and he hoped none of his mates would ever hear about this.
“You’ll go straight home, yeah?” he asked. “No running back to the beach or anywhere else?”
She looked at him as though shocked by the very idea. “I am daughter to one of the Under Kings,” she said in a superior tone. “Do you think I am unaware of the proprieties?”
“Oh, get over yourself,” he said, totally fed up of her mad games. “Good night, gallant Knave. See you on the morrow.”
The boy shook his head and jogged away.
When he returned home, he ran past the open living room door, from where the TV was blaring, went straight upstairs and had a hot shower. The horrendous cold had seeped deep into his bones and it took some time before he felt normal again.
Afterwards, cocooned in a fleece and joggers, he flopped on to his bed and stared at the ceiling. That Dixon girl was totally off her head. He would never have thought it of her. She had always seemed so stuck-up and dull. Why did she keep going on about that cheap book?
Sitting up, he wondered where he had thrown his copy when he returned from the boot fair on Sunday. A few minutes’ searching revealed it beneath a heap of discarded clothes. He looked at it curiously. Sitting back on the bed, he turned to the first page and began to read…
The warm, climbing sun beat down on his neck. It was a perfect summer’s morning. The sky had never been bluer and the sweet, sherbet-like scent of roses was borne on the lazy, shimmering air. All memory of cold melted from his mind and he was glad of the felt hunting hat, pinked with gold lace, that shielded his eyes from the glare. The Dancing Jacks had been out hawking. They had ridden leisurely through the countryside, flying their well-trained birds and catching rabbits and pigeons.
The young nobles and their retinue were a sumptuous sight. They were arrayed in rich, velvet clothes, with the hanging sleeves that were so fashionable in the Court, and the gold of their diadems and neck chains flashed and blazed in the sunshine. Their horses too were decked in colourfully embroidered cloths, displaying the badges of their Royal Houses and their hooves were painted with the same designs. It was a glorious pageant and the peasants who saw them process by were proud to dwell in a land that boasted such lordly folk.
Behind the nobles, the eager grooms took charge of the fresh kills and hung the limp bodies on the saddle hooks of the burden beasts. The pantries would be fully stocked that evening. Mistress Cook would be very pleased.
A plump rabbit darted across the path and, in an instant, the Jill of Spades lifted her gauntleted hand and removed the plumed hood from her hawk’s head. The bird’s apricot eyes burned fiercely and its mistress threw it into the air, releasing the jesses.
The hawk raced away and swiftly swooped upon the startled rabbit. The bird sank its talons into the soft fur and flesh and the animal wriggled piteously beneath.
“To me!” the Jill of Spades called, cantering her horse forward and holding out her fist. “To me, Accipiter!”
The bird spread its wings and tried to fly back to her, with the creature in its claws. But the rabbit was so heavy that it barely lifted off the ground and continued to squirm and wriggle. It kicked and struggled and the ensuing scene of it bouncing over the ground with the hawk clamped to its neck was extremely undignified for the outraged bird.
“A new sport!” the Jill of Hearts wept with laughter. “Let us have rabbit races in future tournaments. We can sew mice to their backs and fashion little outfits for them to wear!”
“Accipiter!” the Jill of Spades commanded.
“The prey is too large for it!” the Jack of Clubs told her crossly. “You expect too much of it. Both creatures are distressed.”
“My hawk is the best!” she answered. “It will succeed.”
The rabbit jerked and dodged, trying to shake the predator free. But Accipiter held fast. The pair of them rolled into the ditch at the side of the track. Then the rabbit squeezed through a gap in a hawthorn hedge. The bird screeched as thorns ripped through its feathers and its powerful wings became entangled in the twigs. With that, the rabbit was free. It hopped into the adjoining field and disappeared in the ripening barley where, out of sight, it collapsed and bled to death from its wounds.
Accipiter was still caught in the hedge, its wings ragged and torn. Aethelheard the groom ran swiftly to its rescue, but the tormented bird would not let him touch her. The hooked beak lunged at him and there was nothing he could do.
“’Tis hopeless!” he cried. “She will not let me aid her!”
The Jack of Clubs dismounted and came to kneel before the terrified hawk.
“Hush now,” he said soothingly. “Hush now. I am here. Fear no more.”
The panic-filled cries ceased and Accipiter’s bright, apricot eyes stared beseechingly up at him.
The youth pulled off his leather gauntlet and held out his hand.
“Ware, my Lord!” Aethelheard cautioned. “She can rip through your palm as easy as if it were curd.”
“She will not harm me,” he replied. “Be still, Accipiter, be still.”
The hawk ceased its fearful thrashing and allowed the Jack of Clubs to stroke her head with his forefinger.
“There now,” he said softly. “Let me liberate you from your thorns.”
Aethelheard watched with wide-eyed wonder as the noble gently freed the hawk from the hedge and carried it out on his bare wrist. There was perfect trust between them.
“I never saw the like!” the groom breathed. “’Tis a marvel, my Lord.”
The Jack of Clubs stepped up to the Jill of Spades and nudged the bird on to her gauntleted hand.
“Your faithful hunter returned to you, Lady,” he said. “Be more careful upon what you set your sights in future. Your ambitions are oft too high.”
With a playful grin, he remounted Urlwin, his horse. The Jill of Spades regarded the hawk on her hand. Its primary feathers were straggled and ragged and it
would be some time before it would be the best in the stables again. It was a very sorry sight. She lifted the plumed hood to cover its eyes once more. Then she changed her mind and casually wrung the bird’s neck instead.
“My Lady!” Aethelheard cried in dismay. “Accipiter would have been good as new in time!”
The girl shot a severe glance at the boy. “You dare raise your voice to me?” she snapped.
Aethelheard hung his head. “Nay, my Lady!” he muttered, abashed.
With a look of disdain, she slung the dead hawk into the ditch. “Come, Jack!” she called, turning her horse away. “I am weary of this sport. Let us return to the White Castle and find diversions more to my liking.”
The Jack of Clubs stared at her in anger and disbelief. She rejoined the other nobles and the pitiless girl was presently laughing at the Jill of Hearts’ stories once more.
Aethelheard stepped into the ditch and retrieved Accipiter’s body. He cradled it in his hands, holding back his tears.
“I am sorry,” the Jack of Clubs said to him. “I would not have had that happen.”
The young groom nodded and drew the sleeve of his jerkin across his nose.
“Make haste, Jack!” the Jill of Spades called impatiently. “We are eager to be gone!”
The Jack of Clubs glared at her. He was not ready to return to Mooncaster just yet, and most especially not with her. Reining his horse about, he spurred it on and galloped off along the track.
“Jack!” the Jill of Spades called. “Whither are you going?”
He did not hear her. He wanted to put as much distance between her and himself as possible and his horse was racing swiftly. The hat flew from his head, but he did not care. Trees and hedgerows streaked by. Peasant cottages were a blur and the flowing crystal streams were leaped across with ease. Over path and field Urlwin thundered, through the Guarded Gate and then out into the valley between the encircling hills. They were outside the Dawn Prince’s Realm.
The land was rougher here and the poor soil was clogged with great stones that notched and dented ploughs. The grass was coarse and the shrubs were disfigured by the gales that raged behind the thirteen hills. The woods here were dangerous, inhabited by footpads and highwaymen. Wild men and cut-throats dwelt outside the magickal Kingdom and there were other creatures. It was said that the talking fox came from this place and the herd of untameable horses roamed the plains here.
