Dancing Jax

by Robin Jarvis

  At the mill, there had been some swift scene-shifting. Fake palm trees had been put in place around the pond and a real donkey had been led out on to the newly sand-scattered road.

  Esther cracked her knuckles. She was balanced uncomfortably on the animal’s back. Standing beside her, Nicholas held the reins.

  The din of the immense audience, the dazzling lights and the impending unknown terrified her. She was shaking. The Punchinello that had brought them here had said that all they had to do was make the short journey through the village and enter the castle across the drawbridge. After that, they could return to the cells. But he had said it with a wicked grin on his foul face.

  They’d been instructed to wait for the camera to come flying overhead. That would be their cue to set off.

  “It’s there,” Nicholas hissed as witchcam came racing into view above the village. “You ready?”

  “Hurry up and move,” Esther whispered unhappily. “Just get it over with.”

  Nicholas pulled on the reins and the compliant donkey began plodding along, flicking its long ears.

  “There they go,” the Ismus intoned. “The blessed couple. They have trudged eighty miles from Nazareth, because Augustus Caesar has decreed that everyone must return to their ancestral home, to take part in the tax census.”

  A large X appeared across the screen, together with a sound like an electric raspberry and the stop-motion puppet of the Ismus that had made the appeal for spare e-readers earlier in the week hopped in from the side. It was the first of several specially filmed segments. The character was wearing an old-fashioned schoolmaster’s gown, mortar board, pince-nez and was pointing at a caricature of a Roman patrician drawn on a blackboard.

  “The only census in that area around that time,” the puppet proclaimed, tapping the board with a baton and poking the snooty nose with it, “was undertaken by Quirinius, the governor of Syria in the year six AD. Roman censuses only recorded Roman citizens, not Jews, and nobody was required to go anywhere.”

  The scene with the puppet spun round and was replaced by the shot of Esther and Nicholas moving slowly up the street of Mooncot.

  The girl looked warily at the cottages they passed. Beneath the eaves, where the strings of coloured bulbs shone brightly, shutters covered the windows and no chink of light showed through them. She didn’t realise they were just empty shells and not real dwellings. The crowd beyond the barriers had grown still and quiet and her anxiety mounted. They weren’t even halfway yet.

  “Make it go faster,” she muttered to Nicholas.

  The boy tugged on the reins, but the donkey refused to be hurried.

  “I can’t stand this,” Esther said. “It’s not right; something is going to happen, I know it – something terrible.”

  “It’ll be fine,” Nicholas assured her. “The Punchinello said we’d be OK if we reached the castle. Don’t panic, it’s going to be sweet.”

  “You don’t trust anything they say, do you?” she asked. “Are you a moron or what?”

  “It’ll be fine,” he repeated, but it was really himself he was trying to reassure.

  “What an arduous journey on such a dark December night,” the Ismus’s voice-over said.

  Another X covered the screen and the puppet jumped in again. This time a calendar was pinned to the blackboard.

  “Hooey!” he cried, tearing the months away with abandon. “Nobody knows the season this baby was born in, never mind the month or day – or even the year! The twenty-fifth of December was chosen to usurp the old pagan festival of Saturnalia – now that was a whole lot of fun! Good times, fellas!”

  A pair of stop-motion, nubile nymphs with ivy and mistletoe in their long woollen hair skipped into shot and dragged the puppet Ismus off screen as he let loose a roistering laugh and kicked one leg in the air.

  “Ooh, ladies!” he cried. “You might’ve warmed your hands!”

  The live coverage of Esther and Nicholas returned. The donkey had not appreciated the efforts to speed it up and had stalled.

  “Make it move!” Esther insisted. “Shift it!”

  Nicholas tried patting the animal’s head and leading it from the front, but it refused to budge. Esther dug her heels in its side, but it made no difference.

  “I’m going to get off and walk,” she muttered. “Not sitting here all night.”

  “You’re supposed to stay on the donkey,” the boy told her. “That’s what the guard said.”

  “But it’s not going anywhere! Four-legged dog meat, that’s what this is.”

  “Shh! They’re filming, don’t wreck it – and don’t look so angry. Remember who you’re supposed to be! Try smiling and looking holy or something.”

  The picture cut back to the real Ismus on the gatehouse. A mischievous glint was in his eyes.

  “So what have we got?” he asked, twinkling into the camera. “A story with no basis in historical fact. And, what’s worse, it’s a bit tedious, innit? Let’s shake it up. What this scene really needs is a bit of Mooncaster spin and a lot of oomph. Yes, dear viewers, it’s time to play the first round of Fleeeeeeee the Beeeeeeeeeeast!”

  The same titles as before flashed by, accompanied by a bombastic theme tune. Then sophisticated computer graphics came tumbling and spinning in. They whirled about busily, colliding and exploding until the screen was divided horizontally in two. In one half was an image of a Doggy-Long-Legs; on the other was the frightening face of the Growly Guardian of the Gateway – Mauger.

  “The choice is down to you!” the Ismus shouted enthusiastically. “At the bottom of the screen is the address of our website. Visit the ‘Beasts’ page and vote now for the creature you most want to see released into that street this very moment. There’s also a phone number: just text ‘Doggy’ or ‘Mauger’. Come on – what do you want to see chase Mary and Joseph down there? I know which one I want! Get texting and voting and let’s play Flee the Beast!”

  The theme tune came crashing in once more and the Ismus gyrated his hips to it. Superimposed on either side of him, the face of Mauger and the Doggy-Long-Legs began revolving and beneath each one was a blue bar that started filling up with sparkling red light as the votes came flooding in from around the world.

  The picture cut to the Jacks and Jills and the Ismus asked which beast they would vote for.

  “Mauger, my Lord,” the Jill of Hearts answered breathily. “He’s so strong and brutal.”

  “Look at these results,” the Ismus shouted like a race commentator. “Mauger’s in the lead. He’s going to be the clear winner. Wait! No! The Doggy-Long-Legs is catching up! It’s neck and neck! The Doggy-Long-Legs is nudging past. It’s going to… yes, it has! You’ve picked the Doggy-Long-Legs! The Gangle Hound, pet of Haxxentrot the witch, is the winner!”

  More fireworks exploded and, directly beneath the Ismus, in the kennel of the gatehouse, the Mauger demon let out a ferocious roar.

  “Poor Mauger,” the Ismus said consolingly. “You’ll get your turn next time, old lad.”

  The crooked smile slid across his face and he crept towards the camera.

  “Now,” he began, “I’m not going to release one Doggy-Long-Legs. I’m not going to release two or even three. I’m not going to release ten or twenty or even sixty. What do you say to five hundred of them?”

  The audience screamed their approval and the Ismus raised his arms.

  “Release the beasts!” he commanded.

  Inside the mill, two Punchinellos were watching on an eighty-four-inch HD TV. They waddled quickly to a control desk and flicked some switches. Then they dashed excitedly to the windows to witness the imminent sport for real.

  Esther was holding on to Nicholas’s arm. The donkey hadn’t liked those fireworks and was stamping and swaying in agitation. Then, suddenly, it stood stock still. The long ears twitched and its nostrils snorted the cold air. Esther felt it shudder.

  Along the street behind them, secret doors were opening. A stack of artificial logs outside the black
smith’s forge swung apart, revealing the entrance to a small, sloping tunnel. A concealed panel, built into the faux wattle and daub of Mistress Sarah’s cottage, slid open and a barrel outside the neighbouring Ditchy home split in half. The stone steps leading up to Aiken Woodside’s onion loft angled down into the ground and trapdoors in the meadow near the pond flipped up, casting off the camouflaging turves.

  “Did you hear that?” Nicholas hissed. “Back there…”

  Esther pulled the drape of her dark blue veil aside and listened. She couldn’t hear anything except the expectant murmuring buzz of the crowd.

  In those dark openings, many eyes glittered and long, stick-like legs came reaching. Furry bodies jostled and barged against each other and the Doggy-Long-Legs poured from the hutches they had been penned in for days. They were hungry and fierce and they charged out, yapping and snapping, biting anything in their path.

  The donkey tossed its head and bucked, throwing Esther to the ground. With a kick of its hind legs, it bolted.

  “It almost kicked my head in!” the girl cried crossly. “I never knew they could run like that! Bloody dangerous, could’ve killed me!”

  She raised a hand for Nicholas to help her up, but the boy was backing away, his face white with terror. Then Esther heard them. She turned and saw a dark mass galloping on to the street, issuing eagerly from the sudden holes. Their bulging eyes were glaring at her and their fangs were dripping.

  Shrieking, Esther jumped up, hitched her linen skirts and ran after Nicholas who had raced off. The Doggy-Long-Legs came surging in pursuit.

  “You left me!” Esther yelled, slapping the boy about the head when she caught up with him. “You left me! Coward!”

  “Shut your face and run!” he bawled.

  Dashing to the door of the next cottage, he wrenched at it, but it was screwed into the frame. Esther tried the one across the way. That wouldn’t budge either. They had to get off the street, into shelter. Glancing back, she saw that the vicious terrors were gaining swiftly and she knew they weren’t going to make it to the drawbridge.

  In a moment, the decision was made and she ran at Nicholas, shoving her shoulder into him violently. The boy gave a startled yell and went crashing sideways. He blundered over a low wicker fence and fell headlong into mud.

  Esther closed her ears to his screams as the pursuing Doggy-Long-Legs swarmed over the fence and the boy was buried beneath them. But there wasn’t enough of him to feed five hundred. The rest swerved back on to the street and their famished yammerings drowned out Nicholas’s failing cries.

  Esther ran for her life. The castle was tantalisingly close. She could see the flaming braziers either side of the drawbridge and saw the donkey trotting across to safety. But the Doggy-Long-Legs were almost upon her. She howled when the foremost did a flying leap and hooked its clawed legs in her gown. She felt its weight swinging from side to side at the back as it clambered higher towards her neck. When it reached her veil, she tore it from her head and threw it down. The creature screeched and fell in a tangle and the others flowed over it.

  Another came biting at her heels. Esther felt a sharp fang lacerate her ankle. Another clamped its jaws round the hem of her gown and started shredding the cloth in a snarling frenzy.

  The girl knew she was finished. Very soon they would overwhelm her.

  And then, even as she despaired, she saw, to her amazement and monumental relief, the illuminated windows of The Silver Penny tavern at the end of the village. The top half of the main door was open.

  “YES!” she yelled.

  Exhilarated by this incredible chance, she sprinted faster than ever and threw herself at the door, swinging her legs over.

  “Oh, nay nay nay!” Captain Swazzle’s voice squawked suddenly as he jumped up behind it like a jack-in-the-box and shoved her back out.

  “Let me in!” she shrieked in terror and panic. “Please!”

  A vile cackle came from the Punchinello’s lips as he looked past her shoulder, to where witchcam was suspended above the street. Clearing his throat, in an affected, actorish voice, he delivered the line he had learned for this cameo role.

  “No room at the inn!” he pronounced with hammy relish. And he slammed the top half of the door in her face. Hammering frantically on it, Esther heard the bolts being dragged across on the other side.

  Trembling, the girl turned and pressed her back against the entrance. Hundreds of Doggy-Long-Legs were in a great semicircle around her. Tensing, they bobbed and swayed, and in those protruding eyes she saw the reflection of her own terror.

  Burying her face in her hands, she slid helplessly down the door and the savage Doggy-Long-Legs rushed forward.

  A fanfare blared over the battlements and trumpeters announced the end of the first round. The audience applauded, sounding like a ferocious sea tempest, and the choir began singing ‘Ding Dong Merrily on High’.

  Witchcam came whizzing back up the cables to focus on the Ismus who was gazing down at the dispersing Doggy-Long-Legs. The drawbridge had been raised so they couldn’t enter the castle and they went hunting other prey. Some of them chewed their way into the enclosure for the orchestra and there were more than a few bum notes in the carol for a while until they were dealt with. Others scaled the crane masts and started spinning dirty webs between the steel struts, while the majority turned back down the village street and went prowling towards the barriers that kept out the crowds.

  The Ismus was revelling in it. He twirled about and stared down the lens.

  “More of that later,” he promised. “Now let’s find out what our panel of Jacks made of our two performers.”

  The picture cut to the Jacks and Jills for their verdict. In front of each young royal was a small golden casket containing two playing cards. One had a large X painted across it, the other a smiling moon face.

  The Jill of Hearts held up the card bearing the X. “How shrewish and ill-favoured the wife was,” she commented. “’Tis my judgement ’twas best she died, ere her face became crabbed from so much scorn and anger.”

  The Jack of Clubs reached into his casket and took out a card bearing the same symbol. “The lad was no gallant,” he said. “He should have fought those Gangle Hounds and defended his lady to the death.”

  “I do not agree,” the Jill of Spades declared, brandishing the moon face. “I commend her guile. I would have done the same as she.”

  Magpie Jack tutted and showed the X. “She should have crept into the tavern round the back,” he said critically. “Or slipped in through a window, like a thief.”

  “Three to one against then,” the Ismus said. “Let us continue with our tale. Unlike our hapless holy couple, the one in the story found shelter in a stable and it was there that the blessed infant was born and laid in a manger.”

  The picture cut to the puppet Ismus once more. This time his clothes were unbuttoned and hanging off him, his hair was mussed and his face was covered in lipstick kisses.

  “Saturnalia,” he said, whistling through his teeth and swaying unsteadily. “Yowza! Oh, what have we been missing out on! You have got to try some of that at home! Bad, bad ladies – so naughty! I’ll never be able to look at a candy cane in the same way again.”

  The eyes rolled in his head and his lips quivered dreamily. The Captain Swazzle butler came trotting in with a scowl and nudged him to get on with it.

  The puppet Ismus pulled himself together and coughed. “There is no mention of a stable or cave, or even a Holiday Inn, anywhere,” he said. “Manger is all we get, not even any confused oxen wondering what’d happened to their dinner!”

  Another fanfare trumpeted and the live coverage was back.

  “Are you ready for round two?” the Ismus asked. The viewers roared. “Let’s see if our Jacks are ready.”

  The four royals confirmed that they were, but the Ismus tapped his earpiece and said he couldn’t hear them. They repeated themselves, but he still couldn’t hear them.

  “This will not do
,” he said playfully. “I think you should come join me here. There seems to be a fault with the sound. Come on, keep your Holy Enchanter company. It’s getting a bit lonely – and don’t forget to bring your voting caskets.”

  The Jacks and Jills rose, taking their golden boxes with them. A Punchinello warder stepped up to usher them along the castle walls.

  “Is quicker this way, Your Highnesses,” Bezuel said, bowing low. “Just a moment, m’Lord Magpie Jack, your mama likey a word with you.”

  “The Queen of Diamonds?” the boy asked in astonishment. “Why should she wish to see me? It will have to wait. The Ismus has requested my presence – he has precedence, as well you know.”

  “’Tis most vital you see her,” Bezuel insisted, blocking the wall walk with his squat bulk. “’Twould take but a sliver of thy time.”

  Jack frowned with impatience and put the casket back on the table. The guard grinned and led him down a flight of steps, through a colonnade, to the entrance of a drum tower. The bodies of the chorus girls had already been removed. It wouldn’t do for there to be any distractions in the entertainments.

  “Her Majesty awaits within,” he said, bowing again and opening the door.

  As Jack crossed the threshold, the guard pushed him through and pulled the thick oaken door shut again. He locked it with a great iron key and loosed a foul, gargling laugh.

  “What treachery is this?” Jack cried in the absolute darkness of the tower. “How dare you!”

  He despised and feared the Punchinello warders. They were always trying to sniff him out on moonless nights when he was on a spree to steal away a jewel or trinket. He had slain one of them once. Perhaps this was revenge for that?

  “The rogue shall swing or be drawn for this outrage!” he shouted indignantly. “I’ll have him thrown in irons! I’ll have the skin flayed off his crooked bones!”

  It was then he became aware of the appalling stink in the place and he covered his nose with his hand. Something was in here with him, some vile creature that reeked of the midden. He heard heavy chains clinking and he reached for the dagger at his side.