The Lampo Circus (19 page)

‘I still don’t understand how we passed the test,’ she said. Mr Banker averted his eyes from the path ahead and then, to Ernest’s growing discomfort, turned his whole body to reply.

‘The mean-spirited would never think to use the magic word,’ he replied as if it were the simplest matter in the world. ‘Manners are becoming as rare as babies’ beards these days as consumers demand more for less.’

‘Are you saying the entire game was to prove we have manners? We only needed to say “please”?’

‘Not at all. There were various tests along the way.’

Milli’s confusion remained unabated. ‘But we didn’t just lose, we were thrashed.’

‘Ah, but that would only be relevant if the objective was to win,’ he answered with an enigmatic smile. ‘The objective, as it happens, was to
overcome
—a much worthier trait.’

When this last remark was met with blank faces, Mr Banker elaborated.

‘A true friend of Mirth, you see, would never compromise his or her principles for a wad of cash. After all, it isn’t even real money.’ He nodded sagely. ‘A wicked person is always thinking about themselves no matter what the cost.’ He looked directly at Ernest. ‘You showed admirable restraint back at Notables’ Nest.’

Ernest flushed with a mixture of pride and embarrassment.

‘And you were right about Pawpaw: she would never have returned the favour—which is why she is hurtling back to Rune at this very moment.’

At the thick base of the giant toadstool, the motorcar landed with a soft thud and the children climbed out.

‘The only way now is up,’ said Mr Banker. With a grin and a rev of the engine he was gone.

They saw what he meant when they found a flight of steps notched into the side of the toadstool that curved right up to its roof. Just inside the doors, the horned bull-sentinel waited to escort them.

‘Well done,’ he said, and bowed so deeply they had to step back for fear ofbeing accidentally disembowelled. ‘We may now proceed.’

The steps wound upwards as tightly as a corkscrew. Although Milli craned her neck at various angles, she could not see an end in sight. Such a prospect would surely have daunted the most intrepid of travellers, but the children (despite being tired and hungry by now) had seen too much and overcome too many impediments to be put off by a little physical exertion. In the face of their journey so far, this climb seemed almost insignificant. Even the normally plaintive Ernest had been silenced.

The stair railings were dusted with a sparkling white powder that rubbed off on the children’s hands as they made their slow ascent. They did not need a psychic to tell them that Queen Fidelis’s quarters would be at the very top of the toadstool. Through the little windows in the trunk they caught glimpses of glittering sea, chunks of sky and craggy hills with cottages jammed into them like sweets in a hedgehog
cake. Fennel inhaled deeply and closed her eyes. The air in Mirth tingled with the crispness of apples.

On and on the children went and still their journey showed no sign of coming to an end. By now they expected to feel their muscles cramping and their chests heaving, but the climb was surprisingly effortless. It was as if their limbs weighed nothing at all. Milli suspected the white powder had something to do with the floating feeling that seemed to carry them upwards.

Every now and then they passed a chamber and could not resist stopping to look in. One in particular that captivated them appeared to be a nursery. Cribs carved from acorn shells sat in neat rows, painted vines crept along the ceiling and images of the sun and moon rotated from wall to wall. Dimmed fairy lights twinkled around the window frames. Musicians played lullabies on heart-shaped harps whilst soberly dressed nannies rocked the cribs silently. The infants themselves were cocooned in white silk and looked like glow-worms. Only their minute faces were visible; faces so pure that gazing at
them for too long was almost painful. Even the usually hard-edged Finn allowed himself a smile.

‘Dream babies,’ the sentinel whispered, seeing their looks of wonder. ‘They are the guardians of imagination; it is because of them that children in your world can imagine and dream. They must never wake. Every time one of them does, a child somewhere abandons his or her book in favour of an electronic game.’

The four children held their breath when one of the infants stirred and gurgled, but exhaled when it settled back into repose.

A little further on, they came upon a very different sight that made them giggle. It was a classroom filled with school-aged Fada children learning their lessons—or at least that was what they were meant to be doing. The young fairies seemed to be causing havoc as they danced across crooked desks, splashed one another with their watercolour paints and laughed in delight as they took turns spinning on the overhead fan. Although they had lost their wings, the children were so light on their feet they seemed to defy the laws of gravity.

Ernest watched one girl spinning on the globe of the Conjurors’ Realm that stood in the corner before flopping to the ground from dizziness. She sat up and sneezed and a little cloud of gold mist erupted from her mouth. A more industrious group was engaged in sewing broken leaves back together, whilst others tested one other from a book of incantations. The schoolmaster was a flustered-looking gnome wearing a monocle. He was standing at a blackboard trying in vain to explain the meteorological conditions conducive to pots of gold appearing at the end of rainbows. He was distracted by a small male Fada with a mop of yellow curls who took him by the hand and drew him into a circle of children preparing to play Duck Duck Goose. After an unconvincing show of objection, the gnome joined in with as much enthusiasm as his pupils.

Tearing themselves from this spectacle, the four travellers continued their climb, only to be distracted by another room, this one containing a four-poster bed with a coverlet of red brocade. Asleep in the bed was the most ravishing
princess they had ever seen. Her gown was made of blue velvet, her flaxen hair flowed around her, and gilded roses were scattered around her head. Milli and Fennel could not resist ducking their heads further into the room to gaze at this real-life fairy-tale heroine.

‘Can’t you climb more quietly?’ said a flustered voice behind them. It belonged to a squirrel who was guarding the shutters of a cuckoo clock.

Milli was about to reply that he was making more noise than they were when the squirrel threw his entire weight against the clock which was beginning to open. He huffed and strained as he battled to keep it closed. Seeing his difficulty, Milli reached out and prodded the doors with a finger. They snapped closed and the wheezing squirrel was able to relax.

‘Thank you,’ he puffed. ‘The princess must not be woken before her prince arrives or the story will be ruined. It is my job to stop the cuckoo clock from heralding the hour. Doesn’t sound like hard work but you have to be on call twenty-four-seven.’

‘It isn’t healthy for a person to snooze all day long,’ Ernest commented.

‘Health isn’t the issue when you’re almost a hundred years old. Doesn’t look her age, does she?’

Again their climb was interrupted, this time by a fieldmouse in an apron insisting they join him for afternoon tea. They would have done so happily had they not been several sizes too large to fit through his front door. They had to be content with putting their eyes to the keyhole to view a dining table laid out with a sumptuous tea of shortbreads, jam sponges and vanilla tarts. There was also a knobbly bed and chest of drawers beside a little stove and dresser. The fieldmouse had laid out his best china and was quite upset to have no company to share it with. He cheered up considerably when Mrs Snail called and graciously accepted the offer to join him.

With so many distractions, the children were surprised to find they had reached the top of the toadstool. They emerged onto a balcony made out of wrought iron twisted in the shape of ivy tendrils and berries. Far below them lay the city of Mirth. They could just make out a dishevelled Goblin Grouse being ushered out of the city
gates by the jail wardens and looking like he was demanding legal representation.

At the end of the balcony stood an archway swathed in white. The sentinel who had escorted them came to a halt. He raised a golden hoof in farewell and indicated that they should proceed alone.

‘The Queen is expecting you,’ he said.

T
he children stepped through the archway into a wintry courtyard. The trees that twisted from the cobbled ground winked with lights, and vines wound their way around ornate lampposts. Table-sized toadstools had been decorated with satin bows and set with silver tea services, dishes holding pyramids of berries and platters of rainbow cake that glowed with real slivers of rainbow. Earthenware mugs were filled with a creamy froth that the children could not identify but which certainly smelled enticing. A string quartet made up of white hamsters in tuxedos was tuning their tiny instruments. An upturned
flowerpot served as a stage and the faces of red poppies opened to reveal built-in amplifiers. Clearly, some kind of ceremony was about to take place.

The children took a few steps forward but stopped when they felt something crunch softly underfoot. They looked down to see they were walking on what appeared to be a carpet of snow, but, unlike snow, it did not leave their teeth chattering or their boots wet. The mystery powder lapped at their ankles like waves, and it fell from the sky in curvy flakes to settle on their hair and clothes. Milli ventured a taste, which left a tingling sensation on her tongue.

All around them, fluttering like moths, Fada dancers appeared. They seemed to materialise out of thin air, appearing from behind lampposts or swinging gracefully down from a leafy bough. Their movements were so graceful that they reminded Milli of seaweed under water. To put it simply, the Fada did not look real. Besides their transparent skin, through which a delicate network of veins was visible, each ethereal creature had eyes a startling shade of blue: robin egg, rock-pool or vivid cornflower blue. The
young men with their braided hair and slender shoulders were barely discernible from the women, although they wore silver bands on their forearms and pleated tunics instead of gossamer gowns.

Having gathered in a circle, the Fada moved slowly towards each other in an elaborate dance. Their eyes gazed straight ahead as if looking into some other world the children could not help but feel barred from. Although the Fada dipped and swooped with the poise of water birds, their movements were lacklustre. Something was clearly amiss; uneasiness hung in the air like a shroud. The music playing sounded like a dirge and the whirling dancers looked forlorn. As the children watched, some of the Fada actually began to fade, their bodies dissolving, leaving only a hankering sensation that spread like a vapour.

If you are a child who fraternises on a regular basis with the fairy kingdom, you may have come across a broken-hearted fairy and would agree with me in thinking that it is the most heart-wrenching of sights. They cry no tears but the doleful sound they make is like no other
uttered by a living creature. Listening to it, you feel certain that the world is coming to an end. Finn and Fennel put their hands over their ears to shut out the noise. Tears snaked their way silently down Fennel’s cheeks, for no child can be happy when the Fada are not. Milli and Ernest resisted the urge to weep, knowing it would do no good other than to contribute to the general melancholy. They wondered if the Fada already knew of Lord Aldor’s plan to conquer their province or if their sadness was derived from another cause known only to them. One thing the children did understand was that whatever troubled the Fada must be identified and then driven away. A subliminal knowledge told them there would be no harmony in the world of children until this sadness was dispelled.

The dance ended and the Fada parted as if in slow motion to reveal a silver throne. Bracken grew from midair to form a protective canopy around it and overhead the sparkling dust gently fell. A ring of toadstools surrounded the throne—a barrier no one could infiltrate without special dispensation. On the throne
was seated the most singular and entrancing figure of all the Fada: Queen Fidelis. Her silver hair tumbled over her shoulders like a waterfall. On her head was a coronet of daisies, and her wide eyes, the colour of periwinkles, gazed at the children with unblinking kindness. Her face was as honest and full of virtue as that of a small child. Her willowy limbs were clad in lacy garments so insubstantial they appeared almost shredded. Her skin was the colour of marble and the nails on her bare feet (for fairies seldom trouble themselves with shoes) were so delicate as to be easily mistaken for pearls. Everything about her denoted fragility yet there was a steadiness in her gaze that hinted at an inner strength. She was not so much beautiful as
removed,
with an expression not dissimilar to those Milli and Ernest had seen on the faces of classical deities in art books.

Fidelis stood and her coral lips parted briefly in the suggestion of a smile. When she stepped down to greet the children, they noticed that she left no imprints in the snow-like powder. It was as if she had no physical substance.

Each child took her extended hand in turn; it felt as cool to touch as moss on stone. Power seemed to emanate from her slender fingers. Language was superfluous as they felt she knew their thoughts. The Queen escorted her four visitors into the protected circle of toadstools and bade them sit.

They sank into the soft ground and allowed themselves to finally relax a little. Milli let the white powder trickle between her fingers.

‘Fairy dust,’ Fidelis said, seeing Milli’s fascination. Her speech had the lilting quality of song and a mesmerizing effect.

‘What does it do?’ Milli asked.

‘Many things,’ answered the Queen. ‘One of which is to soften the ground for sitting.’

The children looked at her carefully, trying to determine whether or not to laugh at what might be a fairy’s attempt at humour. But Fidelis looked so grave that they simply smiled and nodded thoughtfully.