The Lampo Circus (20 page)

‘You have had a long journey,’ the Queen said. ‘You must be tired and hungry.’ She nodded at a elf, who came forward and offered the children refreshments.

Milli took a piece of rainbow cake that left her fingers streaked with colour. ‘We have come all this way to tell you—’ she began.

Fidelis held up her hand. ‘I know why you have come. You are here to warn us. We are grateful but there is no need for you children to be troubled.’

‘But a war is coming and you have to be prepared,’ Finn said, concerned by the Queen’s composure.

‘It has been coming for quite some time,’ Fidelis replied. ‘But there will be plenty of opportunity for discussion later. Now you must rest.’ She smiled at them and it was just like the sun breaking through cloud on a wet and gloomy day. ‘Now tell me, what do you most like to eat in the entire world?’

The question brought a light-heartedness into the conversation and made Milli suddenly aware of her weariness and the emptiness of her stomach.

‘Toast with honey and cinnamon,’ she replied dreamily, and whilst this might seem a mundane reply to you or me when a fairy with limitless power is asking such a question, Milli’s answer reflected her longing for home.

Fidelis plucked a daisy growing beside her and sprinkled over it some of the substance she had called fairy dust. Instantly it transformed into a plate piled with thick slices of toast spread to all four corners with golden honey and sprinkled lightly with cinnamon. It was even crustless and cut into neat little fingers just as Milli liked it.

‘Crispy Clouds,’ Ernst piped up, so carried away by the display of magic that his usually impeccable manners were temporarily forgotten. He was rewarded with a Crispy Cloud as big as a grapefruit sitting delectably in a patty pan. If he wasn’t mistaken, its consistency when he eagerly bit into it was smoother and more velvety than even Mr Klompet could achieve.

An equally excited Finn asked for wild boar stew (something he vaguely remembered his mother making when they were still a family), whilst Fennel meekly requested strawberries and cream. It was something she had never tasted before, and she believed it to be the preferred dish of all fairy princesses.

When the children had eaten their fill and drunk several mugs of the amber froth (which
turned out to be marzipan ale, which is always served warm), Fidelis addressed them again.

‘On the last full moon news came to us from well-wishers in Runis; news that spoke of war and Mirth’s downfall at the hands of the self-serving tyrant Lord Aldor. But how have you children come to learn such things? How did you come to enter a place as dangerous as the Realm?’

‘You don’t know,’ Milli blurted incredulously, ‘about Battalion Minor and Oslo and Lord Aldor’s plans?’

Now it was Fidelis’s turn to look troubled.

‘We have never needed to know,’ she said. ‘Lord Aldor cannot touch us here.’

‘Perhaps not until now,’ Milli said. ‘But he has devised a new plan and
we
are his army, lots of us, in training back at the camp.’

‘A children’s army,’ the Queen repeated, realisation slowly dawning. ‘What a heartless idea. I think I had better hear this story from the beginning.’

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.’

T
he 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 ministers 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.