by Jon Jacks
‘We’ll build a large fire; that should keep any animals away,’ Grudo reassured Carey.
‘No, not too big,’ Carey insisted, realising that Grudo and the others were putting her safety above theirs. Any fire, even the caravan’s furnace, had to be treated with absolute care by the wooden puppets. ‘And we’ll collect any large stones we can find to surround it.’
‘A rehearsal; we must have a rehearsal for tomorrow’s show,’ Neris declared brightly, hoping she could cheer up her disheartened friends by implying that there would be a show tomorrow.
‘Yes, yes,’ Ferena agreed excitedly. ‘And it must be everybody’s favourite; The Porcelain Kingdom!’
*
Chapter 12
The Porcelain Kingdom
Our tale begins, of course, before the arrival of the Princess in the kingdom.
It was an unhappy kingdom.
A dark kingdom.
A dark kingdom in as much as that, although the sun shone here as much as anywhere else, the people sensed only the darkness in their lives.
They noticed the rain storms, or when the sky seemed endlessly dull and dispiriting, but not the bright and breezy days, which they saw as fleeting and few and far between.
They were aware of the months when their crops were flattened, yet took for granted the years when the fields produced all they could want.
They complained of the market sellers who cheated them, the customers who expected too much. They couldn’t tolerate the rudeness of others, which drove them to distraction, such that they had little time for the problems of others. They raged at selfishness, at ignorance, at stupidity, at arrogance, wondering why everyone couldn’t be more like them.
They walked through the streets of their town keeping to the shadows, their heads hanging low, their voices stilled or nothing more than a whisper, forever nervous of the edgy, unfriendly people that crossed their paths.
And over everything there loomed the high tower, its vast shadow moving steadily across the town like a cloak of watchful darkness, its steady progression like a clock ticking away at and devouring the hours of their lives.
Then, at night, when everything else was dark, the tower’s windows blazed with light, a hellish inferno of illicit, demonic activity.
No one with any sense would be around at this time of night. No one would draw attention to their homes by lighting a candle, or curiously drawing aside their curtains.
When the town’s darkness was at its most complete, the gates within the high walls surrounding the tower would briefly open. From directly inside the walls, there would come a clatter of iron wheels on cobbles, the snorts or neighing of hellish horses readying for the off.
They were the last warnings for any fool still abroad to run for home.
As the great gates closed behind it, the black carriage would career through the streets, the hooves of its equally black horses thundering as they pumped against the hard stone, the wheels roaring like great windmills spinning in the most terrifying hurricane.
Some said that, as they cowered in their beds, they could hear the crack of the driver’s whip. But if that were true, then the driver was invisible. Others swore that they had seen the horses snorting flames, but most people who had been unfortunate enough to have encountered them simply refused to relive their experience.
The carriage carried no passenger, everyone knew. Unless you counted the souls who were about to be given over to the Fading.
On the seats and floor, there lay only stacked strongboxes containing books. The most beautiful books money could buy, with the most wonderful illustrations imaginable. But these were the works of the Illuminator, and so they were illustrations that you hoped, you prayed, didn’t feature you in any shape, or form, or way.
For that simple portrayal would suck the very life out of you. And you would become just one more victim of the Fading.
As the carriage finally headed out of town on one of the many roads leading to other lands, where the books would be published and sold, another carriage would enter the town on one of the other roads, its strongboxes empty and light. Even so, this empty carriage thundered through the streets, aiming to reach the gates while the town was still at its darkest.
Even the arrival of the morning wouldn’t bring any relief from the townspeople’s fear. For most frightening of all was news that copies of the illustrations had appeared on their side of the tower’s wall. Then, no matter what other tasks they had set themselves to accomplish that morning, they would fearfully make their way towards the wall. Here they would even more fearfully view the illustrations, carefully checking them for any sign of themselves or anyone they cared for.
Every now and again, their fear of the tower and its demonic works became so great (or perhaps it was that they actually overcame their fear; no one was quite sure) that a courageous man or woman would rise up from amongst them, calling on everyone to attack it. Brandishing old swords, pitchforks, scythes and flaming torches, they would storm the walls. They would break down the tower’s great doors, they would rush through its marbled rooms, its mirrored halls, expecting at any moment to be faced by the cohorts of demons and devils they believed helped the Illuminator complete his evil tasks.
But the tower was always empty. There weren’t any demons. There weren’t any soldiers, any staff either. And there was nothing to say the Illuminator had ever lived here. There wasn’t even any sign of the dark horses that drew the carriages.
It was as if everyone in the tower had been magically spirited away. Which only added to the people’s awe and fear.
‘Burn it! Burn this evil place down to the ground!’ the cry would go up.
They would torch the velvet curtains, set fire to chairs they had deliberately piled up, rush through the rooms once more with blazing blankets and sheets trailing behind them, such that they would set everything they touched ablaze.
Then, from the safety of the town, they would gleefully watch as the whole tower blazed, cheering as whole sections broke off to tumble to the ground in vast showers of sparks.
‘That’s it, go ahead and enjoy yourselves while you can,’ older men and women who refused to join the attack would grumble knowingly. ‘You’ll see, you’ll see,’ they would add ominously.
And in the morning, they did see; they saw the tower completely restored, as if the attack had been nothing more than an exhilarating dream.
‘It’s…it’s not possible!’ the previous night’s attackers would groan in disbelief. ‘I saw it burning! It lit up the whole town! I felt the heat of the flames, even standing here, in the town square!’
Eventually, the attacks ceased. What was the point, when the tower appeared indestructible? It never even suffered the Fading, even though it had appeared in far more illustrations than any other building, any person.
The mysterious, black carriages continued to hurtle dangerously through the town’s darkened streets. Copies of the illustrations would still appear outside the tower’s high walls.
People and buildings still succumbed to the Fading.
It was just something they had to live with, the townspeople had realised. Even moving to another town wouldn’t save them; the illustrations had as much effect beyond the surrounding forests as they did in their own lands. The Illuminator could see and picture, it seemed, anyone he chose, even if they lived on the edges of the world.
It was said that the Illuminator had, long ago, tried to explain his actions.
His illustrations – or illuminations, as he preferred to call them, hence his name – were mere devices to bring the characters of his stories to life in his readers’ imaginations, he had insisted.
But no one was prepared to believe such a simplistic explanation. Everyone knew that his ‘illuminations’ were responsible for the Fading.
The Illuminator never again showed himself
(if, indeed, he had ever revealed himself in the first place) to offer any further explanation. The tower included a large balcony that overlooked the town, where he was said to have appeared on the day he had spoken to them. But if any townspeople still looked up to the balcony with any expectation that he might appear there again, they did so in vain. If he did ever appear there, some said, it would only be to announce that he had decide to bring the world to an end.
One day, however, someone did appear on the balcony; but it wasn’t anyone they were expecting.
No matter where you were in the town on that day, you couldn’t fail to hear the unexpectedly joyful fanfare of trumpets that had abruptly erupted from the tower. Blacksmiths stilled the ringing of their anvils, tavern keepers halted the rolling of their heavy barrels down in the cellars, maids stopped the whirl of their spinning wheels or looms, the squishing of their milking, and children brought their play to an end in the middle of an excited yell.
‘Who’s playing the music?’ they anxiously asked each other as they all wormed their way through the streets towards the beckoning tower. ‘Why?’ asked others. ‘What on earth can it mean?’
‘The end of the Earth!’ answered some as they nervously grasped the hands of their children.
Even as they all gathered beneath the balcony, the curtains behind the immense French windows were seen to move, to be disturbed. Then they opened, flowing smoothly to either side.
As the doors themselves opened, everyone gasped. Some fell to their knees, weeping.
The fanfare of trumpets came to an abrupt halt, letting an awed silence quickly ripple across the crowd.
In the darkness of the tower’s interior, there was a flash of purest white, growing, increasing in size as it drew nearer to the doors leading onto the balcony.
The most beautiful girl anyone had ever seen stepped out into the sun.
Her dress, the dress of a princess, glistened as if decorated with the finest pearls, the most expensive lace. Her hair shone as if made of the richest silk. Her face was flawless, her skin as pure as the world’s most painstakingly made porcelain.
She gave off an angelic light (as everyone would later agree in awed tones).
She continued walking until she was standing on the very edge of the balcony. She looked down on them all, her head moving slightly as she took in (as they each believed) each and every one of the assembled crowd.
She smiled.
Even though they were all too far away to see clearly, each and every one of them knew that she had smiled. They knew this because they suddenly felt flooded with her happiness, her benevolence, her own remarkable wonder of the world and everything that was in it.
She waved.
She waved at him, at her, each and every one of them knowing that he or she was the one in particular that she had spotted amongst the crowd, singling them out for her friendly wave.
Each and every one of them waved back.
The Princess didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. She simply turned and walked back through the balcony doors back into the palace. (Suddenly, no one thought of it as being a tower anymore. The tower had at last disappeared; it was now a palace.)
It was over! The terror was over!
Their Princess didn’t need to tell them this for them to know.
They cheered. They threw their hats into the air. They danced ridiculously excitable jigs. They made their own joyful music, with hastily produced flutes, with barrels transformed into drums.
They reached out to hold hands with whoever was nearest to them, groups forming into circles or lines that wheeled amid or snaked around everyone else. They hugged complete strangers, inviting them for a drink at the tavern, even dinner at their home at the next available opportunity.
Clothes that only a moment ago had seemed dull and poor now blazed with colour as everyone happily mingled. Children who had been nothing but noisy pests, forever getting under their feet, spread laughter and gay tom-foolery wherever they went. Market stalls dismissed as uninteresting and full of ill formed goods were, on a second look, revealed to be selling the most unique, handmade wares.
And just the appearance of their Princess had caused all this?
They were amazed!
How was it possible?
Where had she come from?
Who was she?
Why hadn’t she spoken?
How had she reassured them all despite not saying a word?
They asked these questions, of course. Asked themselves. Asked each other.
But they weren’t really bothered abut receiving any answers.
They were happy. That was the main thing. And they were sure that, at last, all their worries were over. Yes, there would be minor problems to deal with, as there always would be; but they would be dealt with!
Why, look at how their magnificent palace stretched towards the heavens themselves, showing that anything was possible! Look at how it glowed in the sun, like a vast beacon of hope!
As night fell, the palace continued to benevolently watch over them, the warm glow from its brightly lit rooms like gloriously large lanterns that spread and shared their light with the peacefully sleeping townspeople.
There were no dark carriages that night.
There were no copies of illustrations waiting to be viewed in the morning.
For the first time ever, it seemed, the town awoke as any other town awakes; full of hope and expectation, and wondering what challenges and triumphs the new day would bring.
*
When the sun was at its brightest, another fanfare of trumpets sounded out across the town.
Everyone glanced up towards the balcony. But there was no movement there.
Their Princess didn’t appear.
This time it was the gates that opened.
From inside the walls, there came the snort and whinnying of proud horses, the clatter of wheels on cob stone.
The driverless carriage unhurriedly pulled out through the gates. The prancing horses were of purest white. The carriage itself, even its wheels, could have been made of porcelain or mother of pearl, it gleamed so wondrously white, reflecting the tones and shades of everything it passed as fluid rainbows. (In fact, people would later say, the main body was so perfectly spherical that it could only have been formed from a gigantic pearl, skilfully hollowed out from within.)
It was their Princess, everyone was sure, even before anyone began to catch glimpses of her behind the brightly shimmering windows. She leaned forward in her seat, gaily waving at each and every person she passed. She smiled. She giggled with joy as children playfully ran alongside her carriage, easily keeping up with its languid progress towards the town square. The townspeople followed it too, waving at their Princess, waving at each other as more people joined their steady progression towards the square.
In the very centre of the square, the carriage pulled to a halt. A thin central band of the carriage began to wheel forward, while also sliding open at its rear, slowly elevating the Princess up through the roof until she was standing on its very top. A flaring safety rail formed around her, but it was invisible against the innumerable layers of lace of her resplendent dress, such that she appeared like a queen proudly standing astride the globe she ruled.
The whole crowd gasped in awe. She was even more beautiful than they had imagined. Her skin was as perfectly white, as indelibly flawless, as astonishingly smooth, as luminously glistening, as a pearl.
There was something about her, those closest to her realised, that wasn’t quite real. But who could quibble about that, who would care? That just made her more magical than ever, didn’t it?
Some of the people gathered around her even recognised her for who she really was; she was the Porcelain Child. The Porcelain Child come to life, as the stories had foretold. And what could be more magical, more amazing, than that?
The crowd stilled and quietened a
s it dawned on them that their Princess was about to speak.
‘You may think that I’m here to tell you that there will be no more Fading, no more illustrations.’
Her voice was clear, confident and, some people swore, almost musical. She wasn’t shouting, and yet her message carried surprisingly far, reaching even the edges of the large throng of people who had gathered to see and hear her.
She smiled warmly as she spoke, as if she were telling them good news rather than preparing them, it seemed, to accept the continuous existence of the Fading and the illustrations that caused it. And so the people around her smiled too, for they realised that this could not be the bad news they would once have taken it to be.
‘You shouldn’t fear these illustrations, or the Fading,’ their beautiful Princess continued.
And everyone wondered why she said this, because they no longer did fear them.
‘To explain, I need to tell you a story,’ their Princess said. ‘It’s partly a story you all know well; yet now there is another part of the tale that needs to be told. It’s the tale of the Porcelain Child.’
Those who had already guessed the truth nodded sagely, congratulating themselves on their wisdom. For others, the truth dawned on them at different points as she recounted her story, raising gasps of wonder, of joy, of even something that felt strangely close to a spiritually enlightening experience.
‘As we all know, the Porcelain Child was created through the most incredible outpouring of love. Every child, I would hope, is created through a shared love, such that that love is there for all to see. Yet the Porcelain Child had to be created with an even higher level of love, for every finger, every turn of a cheek, every curve of its mouth, had to be carefully considered and realised by her mother. The mother had to believe, too, that her own great love would suffuse and inhabit her child, giving the girl life. And the father, he had to believe too, in the mother and their child. And his love for them both would have to be yet another kind of love, a selfless love, a sacrificial love, dedicating his own life to bringing life to another, to their daughter.’
She paused, as if to ensure that everyone had time to fully grasp the meaning behind her words. Some of the people were already crying in wonder and happiness. More people fell to their knees, blessing the world, the whole of creation.
