The Lampo Circus Read online

  Piece by piece, and with numerous interjections from the others, Milli told what had happened from the time she and Ernest had coerced a reluctant Mrs Klompet to allow them to attend the free matinee to all the abducted children ending up as trainees of a barely coherent and failed gladiator. She described how they had been befriended by an almost bald but very demonstrative Italian grandmother who had fed them hearty food and assisted in their escape; how they had passed through a strange wood by outwitting clowns masquerading as dentists; and finally how a display of courtesy had won them a game of Monopoly, thus allowing them admittance into Mirth.

  By the time the story was finished, the Queen’s calm had disappeared. She paced back and forth, a crease of agitation on her porcelain brow.

  ‘Why use an army of children when you have four provinces to fight for you?’ Milli pondered.

  ‘Ah, dear child, that is the ingenious part,’ Fidelis said. ‘Lord Aldor knows we are not a warring people; our magic is our only armour. Do you think he has not tried to conquer us before? We have managed to stay his armies or we would have been finished long ago.’

  ‘So what makes him think we can help?’ Ernest asked.

  ‘The answer to that is simple,’ Fidelis replied. ‘It has taken him time and endless study but Lord Aldor, it seems, has finally unlocked the secret of our magic.’

  ‘What secret?’ Fennel whispered, her face so pale with fear her freckles had become dark shadows on her cheeks. She reached for Finn’s hand as she spoke.

  ‘The magic of Mirth can never work against children,’ the Queen explained. ‘Our magic prevents enemies from entering our domain, but should an army of children invade Mirth, the Fada would be powerless to stop them. Children and fairies have been allies since the beginning of time. The rules of the Old Magic are very strong and cannot be broken.’

  She bowed her head and murmured almost to herself, ‘Your poor friends. Something must be done to help them.’

  ‘We have to fight back; organise an army here in Mirth,’ said Finn with some impatience.

  The Queen shook her head. ‘I’m afraid that is impossible. We Fada exist only to be carefree. We only frolic; we cannot fight.’

  The children could not hide their disappointment. They had overcome various obstacles and travelled so far driven by the expectation that Fidelis would be able to gather an impregnable army to charge Battalion Minor and escort all the children home to safety. Now the Queen they had hoped would save them was talking about frolicking. It was all a little confusing.

  ‘Aren’t you going to do anything?’ Finn asked.

  ‘Yes,’ the Queen mused. ‘I was thinking we might play for a while until we gather our thoughts.’

  ‘Why does everyone around here think only of playing? You have to act when you see something bad happening around you,’ Milli said.

  ‘Just because humans live in a world full of conflict does not mean children should forget how to play,’ the Queen replied. ‘That would be even more dangerous.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked Fennel.

  ‘I mean that after the fighting there would be nothing to go back to. Let me give you an example. Ernest, do you happen to remember how you finally came to give up your pacifier as a stubborn three year old?’

  ‘Yes…’ Ernest said hesitantly, wondering how Fidelis could possibly know about this.

  ‘Could you tell us?’ the Queen continued.

  ‘Well, I traded it with the fairies in exchange for some magic acorns,’ Ernest replied. Seeing Milli’s derisive look, he added huffily, ‘They needed it.’

  ‘We certainly did,’ Fidelis smiled. ‘And if you look carefully enough, you will find it in one of our toddler playgrounds being used as a first-rate slide. Don’t panic, Ernest, we made sure to sterilise it first. You see, that is what we Fada do: make potions out of moonbeams, ensure the flowers are sufficiently dewy in the mornings, and leave gifts for small children to help them forget their worries.’

  ‘Why were the Fada dancers so sad just now?’ a concerned Fennel wanted to know.

  ‘They worry about their future. If children no longer call on them, there is no need for them to exist.’

  ‘Why are they no longer needed?’ Finn asked.

  ‘Because more and more children are forgetting how to play.’

  ‘I know someone a bit like that,’ said Milli, casting Ernest an accusatory glance that she hoped might remind him of all the times he had made a priority of studying when he could have been building fairy gardens with her under the camellia bushes.

  Fidelis’s words struck a chord with each of the children. If they thought about it, they were forced to accept the truth of her words. Milli and Ernest’s own circle of friends were so busy with various activities to extend their skills and enhance their CVs that they had forgotten how to climb trees or how to spot the house in the street that was so unkempt it had to be haunted. Their lives were neatly divided into blocks of time, and time itself had become a commodity so precious it could not be wasted. As for Finn and Fennel, their young lives had been so focused on self-preservation they had all but forgotten the pleasure of play. But was it too late to address this predicament before catastrophe struck and more and more of the Fada disappeared? Milli for one was disinclined to accept defeat.

  ‘Can nothing be done about it?’ she asked.

  ‘Something can always be done,’ replied the Queen. ‘I will convene an emergency meeting.’

  ‘A meeting?’ the children quizzed.

  ‘The Fairy Parliament must be consulted.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A Fairy Parliament

  The meeting was not scheduled until the following morning, so the children managed a much-needed night’s rest. They were so exhausted that not even their concern about the future could keep them awake. They slept soundly on silk mattresses stuffed with fragrant rose petals, hastily assembled by the Queen’s courtiers in order to accommodate these giant visitors who were much more robust than the slight Fada. On waking, the children breakfasted on buttermilk pancakes with cream before preparing for their journey to the Hollow of Justice: a secret burrow where the emergency summit was to take place. After sprinkling a little fairy dust over their heads the children were able to slide down the banisters hands-free and without wobbling a bit. It surprised them when Fidelis also chose to travel this way.

  As honoured guests they travelled in the Queen’s own carriage, which was drawn by white horses garlanded with ribbons and flowers. They looked out to see a crowd following the carriage in solemn procession. Some of the faces they recognised as the more harmless characters from nursery rhymes and fairy tales who had obviously taken refuge in Mirth during these troubled times. There was the old woman who lived in a shoe with a barefoot raggle-taggle of children in tow. There was a boy carrying a goose under one arm whose eyes darted furtively as if he had committed a crime. A prince in a velvet doublet was giving chase to a gang of dwarves who were absconding with his future bride asleep in a glass coffin. There were a couple of friendly giants who had defected from Thumpalot and had to be constantly reminded to watch where they put their lumpy feet. There were three fairy godmothers banned from working as nannies ever again, and masses of fairy folk whose feet barely touched the ground. All carried tiny silver wands shaped like stars or crescent moons.

  A sombre mood pervaded the Hollow of Justice. The assembly rose upon the arrival of the royal party and remained standing until Fidelis had been escorted to her seat. Inside the Hollow, broken columns of stone made comfortable with thistledown cushioning served as benches for the citizens of Mirth who had gathered to hear and contribute to what promised to be the debate of the eon. At the centre of a raised platform and presiding over the proceedings sat Judge Fudge, an ancient white-whiskered gnome who had come out of retirement and cut short a fishing trip at the Queen’s request. There were two semicircles in front of the platform. On one sat the Queen, flanked by the children; on the other were three minis
ters wearing black gowns and triangular hats made entirely of pine cones.

  Due to the absence of actual portfolios, the ministers—Mario, Fabio and Julio—had been forced to fill in their time with hairdressing, haberdashery and haute couture respectively (all of which the Fada are extremely fond). Having been called upon for their input as ministers, they were slightly at a loss as to what to say or do but were trying hard not to show it. In order to achieve this Mario busied himself with buffing his nails; Fabio squirted cologne from an atomiser at everyone in his vicinity; and Julio picked invisible fluff from his gown. All the while they bowed and smiled obsequiously at Fidelis, whilst the Queen avoided their gaze and seemed a little embarrassed by their antics. But one thing was for certain, the minsters vied fiercely to outdo each other when it came to winning the Queen’s approval.

  All around the Hollow people spoke in undertones about what was in store for them and made predictions regarding the outcome of the day’s deliberations. At the sound of Judge Fudge pounding his gavel and calling for order, a silence descended.

  ‘The Fairy Parliament is now in session,’ the judge announced in a world-weary voice. ‘Our Queen, in her infinite wisdom, has convened this meeting to field all opinions and viewpoints before making her final decision. The first—and, I might add, only—item on today’s agenda is what has already come to be dubbed the Retribution Bill. To strike back or not to strike back, that is the question you are being asked to consider today. After hearing various informed viewpoints you will be asked to cast your vote in the traditional manner—via a twinkling of wands. Who will be first to address this assembly?’ Immediately all three ministers began waving frantically like schoolchildren eager to give the correct answer. The behaviour of Fidelis’s chief ministers struck the children as a touch juvenile given their esteemed positions. They ignored all formalities, quibbled ungraciously about who was to go first and even jostled one another off their stools. They had to be reprimanded severely on several occasions by Judge Fudge. Thinking of the salmon he could be catching, the judge gave a heavy sigh.

  ‘We will first hear from the honourable Minster for Haute Couture,’ Fudge ordered, assuming control of the situation.

  A jubilant Julio almost leapt from his seat to face the audience, ‘In my humble opinion…’ he began, scratching his chin pensively in an effort to look terribly learned. Then he paused. ‘What exactly is the issue we are deliberating here today? It appears to have temporarily slipped my mind.’

  ‘What is the honourable minister’s view on the most appropriate course of action given the imminence of a war?’ Judge Fudge repeated patiently.

  ‘Ah, yes, war. Terrible thing and to be avoided at all costs,’ Julio chirped.

  Some audience members erupted into cheers and applause. Encouraged by the display of support, the minister continued with increased conviction.

  ‘Just think of those awful helmets we might have to wear! Guaranteed to destroy a good blow wave, of that you may be certain. And I have it on good authority that chainmail is very passé this season.’

  While Julio was outlining his position, his fellow ministers smirked behind their hands, raised their eyebrows and even hummed a kind of sing-song so that he might not be properly heard. Speeches from ministers Fabio and Mario followed, which were equally nonsensical and focused on similar irrelevancies. In his most scientific voice Mario alerted the audience to the detrimental effects of over-exposure to sunlight on delicate fairy skin. He was rudely interrupted by Julio.

  ‘I think we can conclude that you are safe there. No amount of sunlight could penetrate that layer of make-up! Do you apply it with a trowel?’

  ‘OBJECTION!’ called Mario, who was not so much offended as keen to show off his best legal voice. ‘Your Honour, I take extreme umbrage at that last comment!’

  ‘Sustained,’ Judge Fudge said in his gravelly voice. ‘Ministers of the province are reminded of the importance of this sitting and asked to refrain from making personal remarks.’

  Fabio didn’t seem to be listening, as his speech referred to battles as a ‘messy business’ and he reminded the audience how difficult bloodstains were to remove from garments. All the while, a woodpecker, appointed to keep a record of the proceedings (including interjections from the audience), kept dipping his pointy beak into a walnut-shell ink pot and scribbling on sheets of bark.

  At one point the discussion became so animated that he had difficulty keeping up and fainted from the exertion. He had to be carried out and doused with spring water in order to be revived.

  When the judge invited comments from members of the audience, an opinionated pixie (president of the Mythical Creatures Debating Society) jumped up.

  ‘Fighting is far too dangerous,’ she declared. ‘Loss of life can never be justified. It goes against everything we hold dear.’

  In response, a humble giant with pockmarks as large as craters lumbered to the podium. He cleared his throat nervously.

  ‘If we does nuffin’ and let the kiddies suffer, how can we ever walk wif our heads held high? What will become of us if the little-uns stop playin’ altogether? Dat would be a very bad fing.’

  The audience buzzed as they considered this new perspective. The giant was no orator but they had to agree he made good sense.

  ‘It would be useful,’ declared Judge Fudge (whose eyesight was known to be failing), ‘if we could hear from some children before we consider our verdict.’

  Fidelis coughed, and in a tone approximating exasperation said, ‘There are four sitting right beside me.’

  ‘Capital!’ said the judge. ‘Let us hear from them forthwith.’

  Finn and Fennel looked positively alarmed at the idea of addressing such a large and obstreperous audience. Ernest gave Milli a gentle nudge, knowing how fond she was of public speaking. Milli stood up slowly and surveyed the crowd whose eyes were now focused exclusively on her.

  Judge Fudge squinted down at her. ‘What is your view on the matter, young lad? You are one of the few here who can speak directly from experience. Have children forgotten how to play?’

  Milli considered her words carefully before responding.

  ‘Well, Your Honour, that is difficult to say. As a little girl I can tell you that children are awfully busy these days. I don’t think they’ve forgotten, but some could use a gentle reminder.’

  At Milli’s words, Queen Fidelis drew a dramatic intake of breath. ‘Out of the mouths of babes,’ she murmured, wearing a far-away look.

  ‘Did Your Majesty wish to say a few words?’ Judge Fudge asked.

  ‘Yes,’ the Queen announced as she stood. ‘I have heard quite enough and have reached a verdict. This Parliament is dismissed. Millipop Klompet, we thank you for your enlightening comment.’

  The perplexed Judge Fudge opened his mouth to ask if Fidelis might share her verdict when the Queen waved her wand absently and the Hollow of Justice and all those gathered there disappeared. They were sent back to whatever tasks had been occupying them before the summit had been called. The children were left standing in an empty burrow made of nothing but damp earth and twigs.

  Back at the toadstool palace, over a tea of baked aniseed biscuits and hot pine-chocolate (which is just hot chocolate infused ever so subtly with a few pine needles so that you think of forests when you drink it), the children sat contemplating what exactly Milli had said that was so enlightening. Whilst they could see the value of her suggestion, a bigger and more daunting question remained: how? How could hundreds of children be persuaded to believe once again in the power of laughter and games after all they had experienced since their arrival in the Conjurors’ Realm? Milli rested her chin on her knees and sighed. Was it possible they had reached a dead end? Where could they go from here? It did not seem as if a simple solution was about to present itself, and the Queen still looked lost in thought.

  Queen Fidelis sat and listened to what the others could hear only faintly—the mourning cry of her people which boomed like an
orchestra in her ears. The sound tore at Fidelis’s heart a hundred times deeper than it did at anyone else’s. She could hardly bring herself to think what might become of the Fada if Lord Aldor ruled over Mirth. She had sometimes dreamed of her white city burning to the ground, its people captured and their magic exploited by merciless oppressors who had no inkling of their ways. This was her deepest fear. The Fada were the last little piece of goodness left in the Conjurors’ Realm; without them, the world of make-believe would cease to exist.

  Her eyes strayed to the young children seated before her. With worry printed on their small faces, they did not look as children ought to. The eyes of the red-headed girl had been swimming with tears since her arrival, and her brother was so toughened by hardship his expression was permanently steely even when he was pleased. The wistful boy, Ernest, was twisting a button on his jacket so anxiously it was a wonder he did not wrench it off. Things were clearly not as they should be. These children belonged at home with their parents, not racking their brains trying to devise a battle strategy to counter an evil onslaught. But now the girl with the tumbling curls had given her the glimmer of an idea that just might pay off.

  Fidelis was gripped by a feeling she had not experienced before. It caused her stomach to lurch, her fingers to curl and her breath to grow short. It took her quite by surprise. Although she could not know it yet, what Fidelis felt was rage. Neither the Fada nor the children had ever caused harm to anybody. They had no concept of iniquity or revenge. But now they were all miserable because one rapacious magician could not be content with what he had. Fidelis felt a flutter of determination. These children had managed to find their way to her for a reason and she suddenly knew what that reason was. If Lord Aldor wanted Mirth, he would have a fight on his hands, but not in the conventional sense of the word. Mirth’s response would not involve artillery. The Fada were neither liars, cheats nor bullies and could hardly be expected to transform into such for the sake of expedience. No, if the Fada were to defeat Lord Aldor they would need to do it their own way. An idea began to take root at the back of Fidelis’ mind, an idea which as yet was too embryonic to even be articulated let alone shared. Ideas can be tricky things—they spend a lot of time fluttering around in our heads rather like fireflies. You have to be quick to catch them. Hesitate and they dart away to be lost forever. That is why I have developed the habit (which I highly recommend, even if you run the risk of looking antisocial) of always having a tiny notebook and pencil on hand. Sometimes it is the very act of writing something down that assists its taking shape. Fidelis being a fairy, this hadn’t occurred to her so she was forced to let the idea bubble and foment in its own good time. It was a little like watching dough rise: you know it’s growing but you don’t know what it will become—margarita pizza or a loaf of raisin bread. To help her idea take shape, Fidelis cleared her mind and summoned all the strength bestowed upon fairy rulers since the beginning of time. A resolution grew within her as indissoluble as rock.