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.
She reached out a finger and lifted away a curl that had flopped over Ernest’s face so they were looking eye to eye.
‘I think two can play Lord Aldor’s game,’ she said, and winked.
Four expectant faces turned towards the fairy queen, but crinkled again in disappointment when she did not enlighten them. Fidelis wanted to be absolutely certain of her plan before raising
the children’s spirits, which had already suffered enough knocks and blows. The children, who could not divine her thoughts, felt only frustration as they struggled to make sense of cryptic remarks such as:
‘If Lord Aldor thinks children are nothing more than blank canvasses upon which his duplicity can unfurl, then let’s show him what children are really capable of!’; or ‘Sometimes the strongest defence is to
play
into the enemy’s hands.’ They wondered if Fidelis, in her stressed condition, had temporarily taken leave of her senses.
‘Your Majesty, please explain to us what’s going on,’ Milli finally implored.
‘All in good time,’ the Queen said, recalling their presence. ‘I have come to the decision that the only course of action open to us is to remain true to ourselves.’
‘Yes, but what does that mean?’ asked Ernest.
‘You must wait and see.’
Fidelis would elaborate no further despite the children pressing her. She had decided that
ignorance was the safest state for them, for if by some misfortune Lord Aldor got wind of what she had in mind, their end would be all but assured. The Queen’s plan was ingenious in its simplicity. When the children eventually learned of it they wondered why it had not occurred to them before. But as they were not privy to the details of the plan at this stage, you too shall have to wait to find out what Fidelis had in mind.
The Fairy Queen made two requests of the children: first, that they show faith in her judgement; and second, that they return immediately to Battalion Minor and their friends. There they must comfort the others, and offer them greetings from the Queen as well as an assurance of Mirth’s assistance. Most importantly, they must follow without question all instructions given by Oslo.
Fidelis herself could not leave Mirth, much as she would have liked to accompany the children, for her powers weakened the further she journeyed from her people. She would be unable to protect them or herself in the event of an ambush. Instead, she summoned Mr Banker
and his trusty motorcar, which regrew its egg-beater wings on command.
The children found it difficult leaving Mirth, more difficult than they had expected. It was like being reunited with a childhood chum only to have the visit cut short by impatient parents. Instinctively, all four reached up to put their arms around the Queen’s neck, even though this was not the most appropriate way to take leave of royalty. Fidelis did not seem to mind; she returned their embraces with heartfelt emotion. The children felt they knew Fidelis well despite the brevity of their encounter. She was their only hope in the dark and arbitrary world known as the Conjurors’ Realm.
Having become better judges of character in recent times, Milli and Ernest knew that Fidelis would not abandon them.
T
he journey through the chilly night sky in Mr Banker’s silver motor vehicle would have been very different had the children not been wrapped in enchanted cloaks that prevented them feeling either cold or fear. The motorcar delivered them inside the walls of Battalion Minor. Regretfully, they watched it hover silently in midair for an instant before speeding away. They could hardly believe they were back at the camp they had worked so hard to escape from. But Fidelis had been adamant that the success of her plan depended on the children working as a team. They could still hear her words echoing in their ears: ‘Look after
each other and fear nothing. I shall be awaiting your return.’
Battalion Minor seemed unchanged as the party of four crept stealthily towards the barracks. The ablutions block was as squalid as ever, perhaps boasting an even thicker layer of grime. Despite the menacing silhouettes of combat stations all around, there was a disconcerting sense of tranquillity. It seemed to the children that each person asleep in his or her bed (or straw sack) was blissfully unaware of the battle they knew could only be hours away if the conversation they had overhead at the Drunken Admiral was to be trusted. They could hear Oslo and Fiend snoring in sync in the quarters they shared.
As they passed the mess hall, they came across Muffy-Boo, Contessa Bombasta’s miniature poodle, dressed in a knitted vest and pink booties. His watery eyes stared reproachfully at the children as they passed. It seemed the Contessa and Federico Lampo were spending the night of Black Harvest in the jade citadel and had forgotten to take the pooch along. He looked so woeful that Milli, momentarily forgetting his
poor training, scooped him into her arms. He growled and nipped her ear lobe in protest.
‘Muffy-Boo, I will not tolerate that from you,’ she rhymed sternly, and to her surprise Muffy-Boo hung his head and looked mortified.
When she reached the entrance to the barracks, Milli hesitated. She felt a niggling reluctance to step back into a life of drills and regimentation. Despite the shortness of their stay in Mirth, the city had reignited in them all a love of freedom, which now proved difficult to relinquish. But they were the only ones who could lead the other children out of danger. Now was not the time to be pining after the pleasures of Mirth.
Milli turned to look at the glowing spires of Lord Aldor’s jade citadel. They stood out prominently against the velvet sky and overshadowed everything in the vicinity. It looked as if the citadel’s master sought to rule over the heavens as well as over the earth. Time had done nothing to mellow Lord Aldor’s greed. His hunger was fuelled by both victory and defeat. Furthermore, he was
cunning and wicked to the core. The foundations of Mirth were weak and he would use that to assist him as best he could. Lord Aldor was relentless; the sort of person who picks and scratches away at a scab until he succeeds in drawing blood.