Dancing Jax Page 18

  And there he was, leering at them down the lens, seemingly greeting each one – and they drank in his words.

  “Do forgive me for interrupting your funny old dreams here,” he said, now inside the tower’s revolving restaurant where members of his Court were gathered in their finest robes and gowns, for they too were on tenterhooks to hear his news.

  “I have the tastiest revelation I must share with you all,” he continued. “One that will feed and nourish your hungry souls forever more. But, before we get to that juicy feast, have a gander at this.”

  The picture cut away to previously filmed footage of sickly brown smog hanging over a heavily industrialised town, where tall chimneys pumped out plumes of filthy smoke and gases.

  “What you’re seeing here,” the Ismus’s voice-over informed his audience, “is just one of the many manufacturing plants where they make components for hand-held gadgets like tablets and smartphones. I think this charming spot is in China somewhere, but there are lots of them just like this. Look at it: they make touchscreens for your fun little gizmos in there and it’s working full steam ahead at the moment, isn’t it? Although that isn’t steam; it’s a wonderfully noxious fume that Haxxentrot herself would be proud of. Now, because health-and-safety regulations are a tiny bit mythological out there, about fifty workers a year drop dead in those places, and many more collapse with long-term illnesses. Just lately they’ve been keeling over like skittles, but that’s OK, as they’re churning out more devices than ever before. The old sixteen-hour days are luxuries of the past for them. Those gorgeous employees are eschewing their rest periods and producing more gimcrack toys for you than ever before. No more mass, stress-induced suicides now – they don’t have time. They’re slaving till they drop, bless their poisoned ickle hearts, corroded lungs and blood so full of lead the Limner could sketch with it.”

  The factories disappeared and were replaced by another filmed insert. This time it was the interior of a vast warehouse, the size of an aircraft hangar, crammed from floor to lofty ceiling with crates and boxes. Forklift trucks were gliding down the aisles between them, to the strains of ‘The Blue Danube’, and filling lorries at the loading bay. One of the forklifts came zooming towards the camera. It turned sharply and there was the Ismus behind the wheel, a hard hat perched rakishly upon his head.

  “And here are some of those very gadgets,” he said, waving grandly at the packed warehouse. “All parcelled up and ready to go forth into the world. Normally they’d be played and posed with, but every single device here and every other device being made elsewhere have a far more important destiny ahead. These aren’t going to sit in shops to await purchase by cool kids and people who won’t shift out of Starbucks three hours after they’ve swigged back their one measly mocha, oh, no – because I am giving them away!”

  The picture switched back to the 360 Restaurant where the Ismus was now reclining on an overstuffed sofa of crimson velvet, arms outstretched and laughing.

  “Yes!” he declared. “You heard right. I am giving those tablets away for free. Not hundreds, not thousands, not even hundreds of thousands – but millions of them! Special shipments are already on their way to the most extremely poor, shabby and squalid areas of the globe. Those impoverished people might have to walk six hours to the nearest clean water supply and wear flies as face fashion, but, within the next few days, they’ll have their very own Kindle or Nexus or Samsung to amuse themselves with and take their minds off famine or disease or whatever ‘want’ is trending with them at the moment.

  “Generous, you say? Foolishly extravagant? Well, perhaps just a smidgen, but even here in this turgid dreamscape I am not free of the compassion I feel for my subjects. It is my ambition to provide the underprivileged masses, in their slums and shanties, mud huts and tin shacks, with their own personal link to the Internet. I know they’re watching me right now on big screens, but that isn’t good enough – and it simply won’t do for what I have planned. Every communication satellite is going to be dedicated to providing free Internet access. There won’t be a cranny on this planet that won’t have coverage.”

  Assuming a righteous pose, he brandished a forefinger in the air and declared, “I have a dream that one day every valley shall be connected and every hill and mountain shall be emailable.”

  Snickering, he gazed lovingly down the camera again. “And why do I do this?” he asked. “Because those whispers you may have heard are right: your Holy Enchanter has been a very busy boy lately – very busy indeed.”

  He reached out a hand and one of the two Harlequin Priests who stood behind him passed over a sleek black laptop. The Ismus received it with great solemnity and turned it towards the camera.

  “This is no ordinary computer,” he said gravely. “It is now the single most valuable object in this existence.”

  He paused to let the drama of his words sink in. The courtiers around him held their breath and every eye was fixed upon the laptop.

  “These many months now,” he resumed, “I have been toiling ceaselessly to deliver unto you all a most wondrous gift. Our true lives in Mooncaster are spoiled only by the monotonous interludes of these lustreless dreams, where we are compelled to partake in drab charades. But not for much longer, you dear, darling, rosy-red apples of my eye. The secret work contained herein shall make an end of that. No more will you goodly swains nod at your hearths after tilling the fertile loam, only to find yourselves drudging in a dead-end job here, unfulfilled, with a carping spouse and grasping, ungrateful offspring. No longer will you carefree youngsters curl up on your cots after playing in the woods and fields or splashing in the millpond, only to discover your dream self has exams, can’t afford the latest must-have, overhyped piece of crap, or is being victimised by bullies or worse.

  “No, my dearest loves, these colourless, arduous night-times will be no more. I have engineered a final solution – an ultimate escape. Just as the sacred text of Dancing Jax first showed you the way to your true, waking selves, this new book will enrich it a hundredfold and dispense with the need to inhabit this banal abstract whilst you sleep. Think of it: your dreams will be as joyous as your days. These fresh words will guide you and make your bliss complete. It is the furtherance we have waited and ached for. My adoring, patient assemblage, I give you the one and only, the unparalleled and supreme – Fighting Pax.”

  In the restaurant, the members of the Court applauded and the privileged, invited press joined them. Toronto echoed with cheers and car horns blared. Around the world there was a roar of ecstasy.

  Presently the Ismus held up his hand for silence and the planet obeyed.

  “Indulge me a few moments more,” he asked. “I must elaborate. There shall be no printed copies of Fighting Pax, no hardbacks, no paperbacks, no serialisations in newspapers, no audiobooks. It will be available solely as an e-book, for download only. That is why I am giving away so many e-readers. Distribution has already commenced, on a scale hitherto… ahem, ‘undreamed’ of. A veritable army of volunteers has been, and still is, working round the clock to deliver them to each village and every isolated outpost of humanity. And yes – Amazon does deliver to the Amazon. This will take several more days, but I am confident it will be accomplished in due time. When the file goes live on the Mooncaster website, my wish is for everyone to read it simultaneously.”

  His face assumed a wounded sincerity and his eyebrows lifted in the middle. “There is only one circumstance that could possibly ruin my glorious plan…” Suddenly the picture cut away to a specially prepared featurette that had taken a team of stop-motion animators three months to create.

  There was a model of the Ismus, executed in the cartoon gothic style of Edward Gorey, with exaggerated long limbs and large eyes. It was foam latex over an articulated armature, clothed in a detailed, miniature version of the same costume he had just been wearing.

  The setting was the fireside in a Victorian mansion, with panelled walls and a stone fireplace carved with humorous, gar
goyle-like faces. A comical stuffed owl, under a glass dome, blinked its oversized eyes.

  The head of a lion, mounted as a trophy on the wall, twitched its nose haughtily, while a Punchinello Guard, which was even uglier than its real-life counterpart, came scampering in, dressed as a butler, carrying a letter upon a silver salver.

  The colour palette of the scene was rich browns and reds, highlighted by the flickering golden glow of cellophane flames crackling in the hearth.

  The Ismus puppet was seated cross-legged in an ornate, high-backed chair, topped by two wooden finials shaped like goofy bats.

  “Urgent missive, Your Lordy Lordship!” the Punchinello announced, bowing so low his nose and chin bent sideways against the floor. A rascally-looking mouse darted from a doorway in the skirting to give the butler’s nose a tremendous kick, and was safely home before the Punchinello could catch it.

  The Ismus character looked up from the e-reader he was engrossed in and took the letter in his spindly fingers.

  “At this hour of night?” he asked in astonishment, glancing at the ormolu clock, which was snoring noisily on the mantle. “Whatever can it mean, Swazzle?”

  He scanned it quickly then gave a cry of woe that made the stuffed owl fall off its perch in the dome and the butler’s starched shirt front flip up and smack his chin.

  “Calamity!” the Ismus wailed. “What are we to do?”

  “My Lord?” the butler enquired, wrestling with his shirt front and glowering at the mouse hole.

  The Ismus waved the letter then wilted in the chair and began to sing.

  “The Chinese factories are telling me,

  a most horrid probability.

  ’Tis an outcome I did not foresee.

  Oh, what am I to do?”

  The Swazzle butler fanned him with the salver and, in a squawky voice, sang back:

  “What do they say that is so awful?

  Shall I sort them in ways unlawful?

  Chop some heads till we have a drawer full?

  Anything I can do?”

  The Ismus passed him the letter and answered:

  “Although they’re working day and nightly,

  here’s the news that does a-fright me

  and makes me clench my buttocks tightly.

  Oh, what am I to do?”

  The butler read the letter and threw it angrily into the fire as he replied.

  “They can’t fulfil your expectation!

  A very vexing situation!

  I understand your lamentation.

  I would flush them down the loo.”

  The Ismus rose from the chair and brandished his e-reader, twirling it around on his fingertip.

  “I wanted these for everybody.

  The factories have been quite shoddy.

  Far too few and way too tardy.

  Oh, what am I to do?”

  Around him, the owl, the lion’s head, the stone faces on the fireplace – even the wooden bat finials – joined in with the song. The mouse too popped its head out and squeaked in tune.

  “Oh, what is he to do?

  His plans have fallen through.

  For his book’s grand debut.

  It makes us want to spew.”

  The Ismus dragged his feet to a large, floor-standing globe and spun it sadly.

  “Were there ever such dismal facts?

  Half the world can’t read Fighting Pax.

  Not enough tablets – PCs or Macs.

  I’m feeling very blue.”

  He heaved a great sigh and hung his head while the surrounding faces continued in a glum chant.

  “He’s feeling very blue.

  There’ll be a massive queue.

  It’s a problem he can’t chew.

  He’s well and truly screwed.”

  With that, the Punchinello butler came bounding forward, a tablet in both hands, as he sang joyously.

  “Here’s an answer given gladly.

  All because you were treated badly,

  you can have my old iPad 3.

  That is what I can do.

  I really don’t need two!”

  The Ismus puppet gave a delighted shout, which woke up the ormolu clock. Then he clapped his hands and danced around.

  “That’s the solution neat and tidy.

  Thanks to you, my good Man Friday.

  Now the world will not deride me.

  This is what they can do!”

  He turned to face the camera and fell to his knees, wringing his hands imploringly.

  “All of you who love me dearly,

  hear me now and listen clearly.

  If you’ve some you don’t need really,

  you can be generous too!

  Give your spares, your old e-readers,

  to the poorest, direst needers.

  Time to be charity cheerleaders.

  Doesn’t matter they’re not new!

  Fighting Pax will be a sensation,

  thanks to your very kind donation,

  to all of those who know privation.

  Blessed be to you!

  Most blessed be to you!”

  The last verse was sung by every character. On the final sustained note, the fire roared up the chimney, the bats spun round, the owl’s dome shattered, the lion’s head fell from the wall and flattened the mouse, the butler’s braces snapped, his trousers dropped down and the clock’s face popped out on a spring. The Ismus puppet beamed and blew the audience a kiss.

  The picture faded to black and the real Ismus reappeared in the revolving restaurant, leaning against one of the large windows.

  “Whimsy always sells a message best,” he observed. “So there you have it. Even the frenzied activity of those factories in the Far East won’t quite manage to produce the amount of devices needed in time. This then is my appeal. There are countless of you out there who possess more than one of these gadgets. Either they’re ever so slightly out of date and you’ve upgraded, because you just have to own the very latest model, or you like to keep one in the lavatory, or the manufacturer’s built-in obsolescence has slightly impaired its functionality – whatever the reason, you’ll have a stash of disregarded hardware with nothing to display but dust. What a criminal waste, when there are so many in desperate need. I have set up donation centres in the major cities and special collection vans will be touring your country. Give generously so that we may all leave this gruelling greyness together and enjoy our lives in the Realm of the Dawn Prince as never before. Forget about humanitarian aid; what those poor people really need is gadget aid. That is all that matters now. Those people need your old stuff.”

  The risen sun formed a halo round his head, as he intended it to. He pressed his fingertips together as if in prayer, but his dark eyes continued to glint into the lens.

  “Some of you out there will be aware of a quaint festival soon to be celebrated,” he said. “We of Mooncaster have our Feast of the Deep Frost; certain places here have a muddled holiday called Christmas. I have decided to coincide the grand release of Fighting Pax with that. Together, we shall ‘e’ the world, let them know it’s Christmas time.”

  He turned to the panoramic views of Lake Ontario outside the window.

  “Beyond that gleaming water,” he said, “beyond the land behind it and the ocean beyond that is the country called Britain. That is where the replica of the White Castle is being built – exact to the last stone. From that place, just a few days hence, on the twenty-fourth of this month, at the stroke of midnight, Greenwich Mean Time, I shall unleash Fighting Pax unto you all. In the lead-up to that glorious event, there will be the most incredible entertainment. I have devised the most splendid night, replete with diversions: games, jollity, uproarious carousing, unrivalled even in the Realm of the Dawn Prince. We shall blow one final trumpet blast, loud enough to shake the stars from the sky. And finally we will play the newest and best party game of all: ‘Flee the Beast’.”

  He beckoned the camera closer. “As that will mark the end of our grey
penances here,” he said, “I’m determined to make it the wildest, most memorable dreaming you’ve ever had. So why not join me as my guests? I, the Holy Enchanter of Mooncaster, am inviting each and every one of you, wherever you are, to fly to Britain. Make your way to Kent, the garden of England. Don’t just watch it on your TVs, get on a plane; make it one hell of a Christmas Eve. All shall be welcome and the flights won’t cost you a penny. This year, Fighting Pax is going to ensure it will be the merriest Christmas ever. Blessed be.”

  Chuckling, he stepped out of shot and the wintry sun dazzled the picture. The broadcast was over. Across the planet the channels reverted to their usual programming schedules.

  The Ismus thanked the cameraman and bade him go enjoy the large breakfast buffet laid on in the restaurant. Then he strode into the midst of his courtiers and journalists and they swarmed about him like gnats.

  “A night of revels, my Lord?” asked the plump Queen of Hearts. “How shall I obtain a new gown in time? I should scold you for keeping that secret from us ladies, but tell me, Fighting Pax – is the bluest blood of the four houses not to have first taste of it?”

  “No sampling, no previews, no exceptions,” he replied sternly. “Everyone will read it together.”

  “But surely…”

  “That is my final word,” he said sharply.

  The Queen of Hearts curtsied and kept her head lowered until he and his black-faced bodyguards had passed. Then she looked about for the Queen of Spades, to cluck and debate with, but she was nowhere to be found. Instead she heard her daughter’s voice laughing and cooing somewhere, flirting with somebody new, as usual, and through the chattering throng saw it was the cameraman. The Queen of Hearts bristled. He was but a lowly Three of Clubs castle carpenter in the true world. She would have to stop that unsuitable dalliance immediately.