by Robin Jarvis
He grinned. The Royal House of Hearts had many jewels he would dearly like to steal. But tonight he would have to make do with just one.
Climbing the final stair, he pushed open the door to the Under King’s bedchamber.
“I won’t!” Paul screamed.
He drove his fingers into his ears and charged at the classroom door, shouldering the girls out of the way.
Mrs Early gestured at the five children who had seen the counsellor. They pounced on Paul and tore his hands down.
“Come to us, Jack,” they said. “Join us at Court!”
“Jack Jack Jack…” little Molly Barnes and her friends sang. Paul twisted around as they wrenched his arms behind his back and forced him to look at the English teacher. There were too many of them to fight against.
Mrs Early continued.
Paul Thornbury resisted the power of Austerly Fellows for longer than many of the others who came afterwards.
The Jack of Diamonds crept into the King of Hearts’ bedchamber. The great four-poster bed was hung with sumptuous crimson curtains. A large wolfhound lay curled up at its foot, but the magick of the silent shoes ensured Jack could creep by without disturbing it. But he was not the only intruder there that night.
Within the draped confines of the royal bed, the Under King and Queen were deep in sleep. The Queen snored like a ferret, with shrill squeaks and snorts, but the King of Hearts was as still as an effigy couched upon a tomb. Yet they were not alone in there…
Creeping down the oak tester, against which their swan-feather-filled pillows rested, a small creature came crawling. It was a Bogey Boy, one of Haxxentrot’s servants. He was only two hands high, with a round, shiny face – as white and wobbly as a boiled egg. An adder circled his brow and two more twined about his wrists and up his spindly arms. He wore a rough hessian smock, belted at the waist, and a quiver was strapped to his back.
Stepping gently on to the cloth of gold pillows, the Bogey Boy peered down at the bald King’s face. Reaching out, he gave the fat nose a testing prod and chuckled to himself. The King of Hearts was in a deep slumber – so much the better. The Bogey Boy removed the quiver from his back and sat astride the bald head to begin his night’s work.
The quiver did not contain arrows, but was full of Haxxentrot’s malignant nightmare needles. They were long wooden splinters, each topped with a different little carving. There was a spider, a claw, a grinning skull, a lightning bolt, a fierce black cat, a serpent and several more with flat paddles, upon which evil marks had been drawn.
The Bogey Boy grinned and selected the one with the spider. He placed its sharp point upon the King’s forehead and, with a grunt, pushed it in as deep as he could. Then he unhooked a small mallet from his belt and hammered the magickal splinter even further home.
The Under King groaned in his sleep. The Bogey Boy rubbed his pale hands and took a light from the candle that burned in the bedside lantern and set it to the carved spider. The nightmare needle fizzed and crackled and a brilliant green flame burned steadily for a moment, before sinking down into the King’s head, leaving no mark on his skin.
The Bogey Boy snickered. Haxxentrot would be pleased. The old witch had decided to torment the King of Hearts with a month of nightmares and so far the plan was going splendidly.
Suddenly one of the bed curtains moved. The Bogey Boy started. There was someone in the bedchamber! They had crept silently up to the bed! The Bogey Boy snatched up his quiver. In an instant he scrambled up the tester and hid in the corner shadows by the curtain rail. He stared down just as the Jack of Diamonds parted the curtains and peered inside.
Gingerly, expertly, Jack slid his hand under the golden pillow. The King whimpered in his sleep as eight-legged horrors rampaged inside his head. Jack hesitated. Still sleeping, the King put his thumb in his mouth and made a face like an unhappy baby. Jack waited a moment then explored deeper with his fingers. There!
Slowly, carefully, he withdrew. He had it – he had it! He lifted his hand and held it up against the lantern light.
His face – indeed the entire room – was instantly bathed in a rich, red glow – as deep and heady as any goblet of wine. The ruby in his hand was as large as an apple. It flashed and sparked and was the most gorgeous thing Jack had ever beheld.
“Most heavenly jool!” he exclaimed under his breath.
The wolfhound’s ears jerked.
Jack kissed the gem in his hand and thrust it into the leather pouch hanging at his belt. The blood-red glow vanished and Jack crept away from the bed.
“Murder!” a croaking voice screeched outside the tower. “Foul murder! Assassins!”
The Punchinello’s body had been discovered. The Guards were roused. Jack could hear them running up the steps to check on the Under King. The wolfhound shook itself from sleep. It smelled Jack before it saw him. Then it bared its teeth and began to bark. Jack backed away from it. The Punchinellos were rampaging through the tower; he could hear them storming closer.
No way out! Jack thought frantically. I’m cornered! Think, Jack! Think!
Suddenly the King of Hearts let out a yowl. He dreamed he was being eaten alive by thousands of ravenous spiders. His hands slapped and swept at the bedclothes.
“Get them off! Get them off!” he squealed shrilly. “Get them off me!”
He reached under the pillows for the peace the Healing Ruby would bring.
“It’s gone!” he yelled. “I’ve been robbed!”
Startled from sleep, the Queen began to scream. Thundering with outrage, the King flung the bed curtains wide open.
When the bell rang for lunch, all the children in Mrs Early’s class were back in their seats. The English teacher stopped reading and viewed them with satisfaction.
“You must return to this drab place now,” she instructed. The children uttered gasps of grief.
“This is the shadow life,” she told them. “The Realm of the Dawn Prince is the true world. Don’t cry. This is only a grey, featureless dream. Your real existence is waiting in Mooncaster. That is where our hearts beat faster, where we are safe and coddled. Go now. Endure this temporary emptiness. You will go back to our proper place very soon. The Ismus will care for us. Blessed be, all of you.”
“Blessed be,” the class answered as one.
The children rose. Paul Thornbury pulled his rucksack off the desk and followed the others out.
“I am the Jack of Diamonds,” he muttered in a far-off voice. “I am the Jack of Diamonds.”
Chapter 23
BEEEEP: “HELLO, MARTIN, Gerald here. I don’t want to worry you, but… is Paul with you? He didn’t show up here like he said he would.”
Martin had supervised a detention that afternoon, so had only been in the house a few minutes, just long enough to remove his tie and reach for the biscuits. He listened to the message Gerald had left on his voicemail and cursed under his breath.
“What’s that lad up to?” he muttered.
He hadn’t seen the boy since morning break. Paul hadn’t come to the staffroom at lunchtime as he had promised and Martin hadn’t been able to find him.
Perhaps there would be a clue in his bedroom. Martin hurried up the stairs. To his astonishment he found Paul sitting on the bed, staring into space.
“What’s this?” Martin asked severely. “What are you doing? Why didn’t you go round to Gerald’s?”
The boy stirred slowly, but did not look at him.
“I don’t need to now,” he answered.
“Well, why didn’t you call or text him? That’s damn rude!”
“Is it? I forgot.”
“Has something happened?” Martin asked with concern. He crouched down and looked at the boy’s face. It was vacant and his pupils were unnaturally large. Only a thin ring of the hazel iris was showing. “Paul? Paul?”
The boy focused on him reluctantly.
“I have no book!” he said in a mournful voice. “I am shut out. I’m in the shadows.”
&n
bsp; Martin’s scalp crawled. “What book, Paul?” he asked, dreading the inevitable answer.
“The blessed word – the Dancing Jacks.”
The man sagged. “Oh, no…” he breathed. “Not you, Paul, not you.”
“I should not have fought it,” the boy said regretfully. “I should have gone there days ago. I was very wrong.”
“Gone where?”
“To Mooncaster.”
Martin didn’t understand. “The castle in the story?” he asked.
“It is the most beautiful castle ever built,” Paul answered and the longing in his voice was awful to hear. “It shines bright white in the day, then like gold at sunset and milky silver at night. I want to go back.”
“But it isn’t real. You can’t actually go there.”
“Yes, I can. The book takes me. The blessed words spiral out and make this emptiness disappear and I am there again. I am my true self. I am the Jack of Diamonds.”
“You’re Paul Thornbury! You live here. Look – that’s your computer where you spend hours playing World of Warcraft – there’s your Manga collection – that’s your favourite T-shirt, the one you won’t let your mum wash!”
The boy shook his head sadly. “This is the dream of nothing,” he said. “This poor hovel is not real.”
“Of course it’s real!”
“No, this is the place in between. The blankness of unhappy sleep.”
“Then who am I?”
“You are the man Martin. We live in this emptiness with the woman Carol.”
“She’s your mother!”
“Only here. The Queen of Diamonds is my real mother. I want my real mother – I want my father – the King! But I cannot go back to see them. I burned my book. I burned it. I cannot go back there without it!”
He began to sob. Martin reached out and hugged him, but the man’s mind was reeling.
“What happened today?” he asked. “What happened to you?”
“I was wakened,” the boy wept. “I realised who I am. I want the book! I must get back. I don’t want to be trapped here. Please help me, Martin Baxter.”
Tears streaked down his face. He cried into Martin’s shoulder for over half an hour until the uncontrollable weeping subsided and he fell asleep, exhausted.
Martin laid him down and tucked the edges of the duvet over him. “Jools,” the boy mumbled in his impoverished dreams. “Magpie Jack shall steal your jools clean away…”
Martin didn’t know what to do. Then he caught sight of the blazer lying on the floor. A Jack of Diamonds was pinned to the lapel.
“Hell!” he whispered.
Leaving the room quickly, he returned downstairs. Carol was at the hospital. Her mobile would be off. He called Gerald.
“Hello, Martin,” the sprightly old gentleman answered. “Have you heard anything yet…?”
“Paul’s here,” the maths teacher told him. He could hear a CD of classical music playing in the background of Duntinkling. “Sorry, Gerald, I don’t know what’s the matter with him. Right now he’s lying spark out on his bed. There’s something going on, some strange stuff happening to all the kids. They’re catching it like the flu.”
The old man listened attentively as Martin struggled to explain.
“And this phenomenon is spreading through the whole school?” Gerald asked.
“Through every year.”
“Listen, I don’t wish to cause you undue alarm, but it’s not illegal substances, is it?”
“That’s what I thought at first, but no, Paul wouldn’t touch anything like that. He’s too sensible.”
“Has he been bullied at all? Peer pressure is a common way for those habits to start.”
“He says it’s an old kids’ book.”
“A what?”
“A kids’ book!”
“I don’t understand. Is that modern slang for something else?”
“If only it was. Then I might be able to get my head round it and do something positive. No, it’s just an old-fashioned children’s book that everyone seems to be hooked on – even the kids who don’t normally read. It’s like they think the story is real and any time away from it isn’t.”
“Pardon? Wait a moment. Let me turn Beethoven down – he’s about to go into a stormy third movement. There, carry on.”
“Did you ever see Avatar – the movie about the blue people in the forest?”
“Smurfs?”
Martin remembered that Gerald’s world did not revolve around cinema or sci-fi. “Not quite,” he said. “Anyway, when that first came out, many who went to see it suffered from depression afterwards.”
“Oh, dear, was it that bad?”
“The opposite – it was too good! They made the alien planet look so beautiful and colourful that people came out of the cinema hating how dull their real surroundings were. I think it’s a bit like that with this book. The kids are addicted to it and they don’t want to be here with the rest of us.”
“It’s only a book though, Martin,” Gerald commented airily. “It’s splendid they’re reading something other than emails, isn’t it?”
Martin pressed his hand against his temple in frustration. There was no way Gerald could understand how unsettling and disturbing the behaviour of those affected by Dancing Jacks really was. He suddenly realised how Paul must have felt when he had been trying to make him and Carol listen.
“Well, that doesn’t sound so serious,” Gerald carried on. “It’ll blow over and the kids will be into something else before you know it. Now are you three still coming round for dinner this weekend? I had a note from Evelyn, ordering me to remind you.”
Martin hesitated then forced a chuckle out. He had totally forgotten about the dinner invitation.
“Yes, we’ll be there – looking forward to it.”
“That’s because you haven’t sampled her catering.”
Martin’s fake laughter came into play again. The conversation ended and he gazed up the stairs. What could he do to help that lad up there?
“Nothing,” he said miserably. “I can’t do anything.” He sent Carol a text and waited.
When Paul awoke, it was late and the house was quiet. Martin had gone to bed. The boy’s eyes roved about his darkened room. Nothing there held any interest for him now. He closed his eyes again and tried to will himself back into the Kingdom of the Dawn Prince, back to what he believed was the real world, where excitement filled every moment and each day delivered its own new adventure. He concentrated hard, but only blurred rags of memory crowded in. It was no use; without the book, without reading or hearing the words, he was trapped here.
He sat up and looked at the computer. He switched it on and searched through some images on the Web. Then he replaced his main Facebook photo with a picture of the Jack of Diamonds he had found and sent messages to Bertolf and Aethelheard.
“I have to get another copy of the sacred text,” he told himself. “I itch for it. The Holy Enchanter said he would give it to me if I brought him something… but what? But what?”
He was still awake trying to figure it out when Carol finished her shift at the hospital. He heard her return home, dump her bag in the hall, then go into the kitchen and clatter a spoon as she made a final cup of tea. Then Martin’s slippered tread on the stairs testified that he hadn’t slept. The man went down to greet her and discuss what was happening with her son.
Paul heard their voices, indistinct but full of concern. He wondered why they were pretending to care so much. This place didn’t matter. They were nice, simple folk, but they were only ordinary peasants, nothing more. In fact, Martin showed all the signs of being an aberrant and should be reported.
A short while later his door opened a chink and Carol looked in on him. The boy let her believe he was fast asleep. Her worried conversation with Martin continued in their bedroom through most of the night.
In the morning Carol ensured she got up with the others. She looked ill with worry. Paul came downstairs in his scho
ol uniform. His mother tried not to stare and behaved normally, but she couldn’t help noticing the playing card on his blazer and exchanged glances with Martin.
“Good morning!” she greeted her son. “Proper breakfast today for a special treat. Bacon and scrambled eggs. How about that?”
The boy nodded indifferently.
“Sleep well?”
“I slept empty, how else could it be?”
“I was thinking,” Martin began, trying to sound cheerful and enthusiastic. “How about we have a good old family night tonight?”
“Family?” Paul murmured. “Yes, we can have a laugh on the Wii, order some pizzas and you get to choose what DVD you want to watch.”
“Will I still be here?”
“This is your home, Paul,” his mother said gently. “I am not Paul.”
Martin shot her a look and she turned away hastily and began griddling the bacon. Presently they were sitting at the table, eating. The two adults watched him with sadness in their eyes.
“Do you remember my friend Ian?” Carol asked, trying to sound casual. Paul chewed mechanically. The food here had no taste.
“Ian,” she repeated. “My friend at the hospital.”
“The physician?”
“He’s a doctor, yes. I was wondering if you’d like to come and see him this afternoon, after school?”
“But the day is Friday here, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“The boy Paul has musical lessons on Friday.”
“You’re Paul!” she said with agitation in her voice. “Besides… Gerald wouldn’t mind.”
Paul’s attention faded and a wistful smile drifted across his face.
“It is market day at home,” he sighed. “The merchants and tradesfolk will be stood by their carts and stalls, calling out joyous rhymes to tempt and tantalise. The Queen of Hearts will be haggling like any vulgar villager whilst her friend the Queen of Spades hatches schemes and flashes her eyes behind a crow-feathered fan.”
Carol didn’t know what to say. She raised her eyebrows at Martin. The man leaned forward.
