The Jester and Other Stories, Page 2

  The pounding rain carried on with an unabated fury that would have flushed the soul out of any man foolhardy enough to try to stand against it, and then, in an instant, the wind ceased it’s howling. But, even as the sound of the wind faded, so a deeper and more threatening noise became audible in the distance. It rose in pitch rapidly as it approached and Leo looked about him and saw people looking up in alarm. The sound became a howl and finally a piercing wail, which was, in turn, echoed by the people about him, as they clambered to their feet in panic. Leo noticed that one man was standing with his back braced against the door, obviously fearful of the consequences of it blowing open. And then it arrived.

  The initial shock wave burst the front window of the restaurant and sent a shower of glass fragments flying horizontally through the room. Leo had already turned away and dived for the floor just seconds before it happened, having felt an overwhelming premonition as to the magnitude of the forces about to be unleashed. He crawled quickly away from the shattered window and didn’t stop until he had reached the relative safety of the back wall of the room. He had, by some miracle or another, escaped serious injury and he got shakily to his feet and surveyed the devastation surrounding him.

  Tables and chairs lay strewn about the place. Some people were on their feet wandering around in varying states of shock. Others were lying amongst the wreckage, some gently sobbing, others inspecting wounds or calling for help.

  Leo took this in, at a glance, before raising his head and gazing in astonishment out of the shattered window. He was looking at a lake, surrounded by shops, most, with broken windows. From the midst of the lake rose lampposts, telephone kiosks, signposts, metal railings and other recognisable features, but what held him absolutely transfixed, was the enormous shimmering area of water, which might have been an inch deep, or a mile. His head was swimming with sensory overload and he fancied that perhaps the latter was the case and that the lampposts and the telephone kiosks were just bobbing on the surface of the vividly imagined deeps.

  The sky had lightened considerably and was now the source of a gentle drizzle, which pattered softly into the receiving water, lending to the surface of the lake, the finest of shimmers.

  The suddenness of events had left Leo almost traumatised and he was quite content to remain slouched against the wall, waiting for his breath and his composure to return to him. He had already discerned that nobody in the room was seriously hurt; indeed, most people had escaped physical injury altogether, barring the odd bruise or minor cut. He therefore remained where he was and sank into an almost trance-like state.

  The illusion of the lake was already undergoing a radical transformation, for although the ground was approximately level immediately in front of the restaurant, thereafter, it sloped away quite rapidly, carrying the water away, brown and churning, like a mountain stream after a thunderstorm.

  As he gazed out of the window in a semi-stupor, his senses snapped back to attention as he remembered the old lady with the umbrella. The memory caused him to start forward involuntarily and this initial impetus was enough to carry him through to the front of the restaurant, where he stopped and peered out of the shattered window at a scene which was rapidly returning to normal. There was nothing to be seen of the old lady, indeed Leo was even beginning to doubt his own recollection of events; had he merely been dreaming, or had the shock of the broken window caused him to hallucinate?

  Over a period of a few minutes the lake all but disappeared, leaving behind it a rubbish-strewn area, over which crowds were once again beginning to bustle. Leo stepped outside and stopped dead as he realised that it was actually still raining quite hard. He was just about to continue on his way, reasoning that, after all he had been through in the last half an hour or so, getting soaked to the skin would be no great extra trauma, when he was arrested by a voice. ‘You appear to be heading in the same direction as me, would you care to join me?’

  The voice was young, aristocratic and female. Leo half turned and started to stutter, for he had been taken completely off-guard by the unexpected approach and was unsure how to respond. The voice continued, ‘After all, you'll get drenched like that. Here, quickly, come under my umbrella.’

  He couldn't remember having seen her in the restaurant and yet it appeared that she had just stepped out behind him. She was by no means unattractive and he continued to stare at her whilst his brain remained in free-fall. Finally, she stepped forward with a smile and moved alongside him, gesturing for him to join her.

  It seemed then, that he had no choice and so he dipped his head beneath the rim of her umbrella and they started off across the erstwhile lake together like two long lost friends.

  The Harpsichord

  I am attending an exhibition of antiquities. It is being held in a large room, which is absolutely heaving with people. Tables have been set at random throughout the room and upon each table, objects have been arranged for viewing. A small group of people gathers nearby and I hear one of the experts announcing that something of great interest has come up, but apparently, it is quite some way from the exhibition.

  He advises us that it would be well worth our while to go and take a look. I am bored with the exhibition, so I decide to tag along with him and a number of others, who have also decided to take the trip. We travel by coach and a couple of hours later, we arrive at our destination. We step down from the coach into bright sunlight and find ourselves standing in an open space, something like a very large empty car park or perhaps even a disused airfield. Weathered slabs of concrete recede into the distance and some areas have been reclaimed entirely by grass and meadow flowers.

  The vast blue-domed sky descends on all sides to meet an almost uninterrupted horizon, broken by only the occasional distant shrub or solitary tree. A small low-rise building stands, a little way from us and it is towards this building that the antique expert leads us. We enter into a faintly shabby and unadorned vestibule. There are very few people in evidence and I find myself wondering what the nature of the attraction of such a place could possibly be. The expert leads us past an unattended reception desk and we find ourselves standing at the top of a broad flight of stone steps, which descend steeply down into the bowels of the building. We make our way down the steps and as we do so, we become aware of what it is that we have come to see. Finally, we reach the bottom of the steps and step out onto a cobbled stone floor. The room is like some vast cellar, or dungeon, with rough stone walls heading way up above our heads.

  In front of us and taking centre stage is what can only be described as an extraordinary musical instrument.

  Its sheer size is imposing and its construction quite unworldly. My attention is initially drawn to the outer framework of widely spaced vertical oak columns, rather in the manner of a Tudor house. They are silvered and weathered, indicating extreme age and they appear insubstantial; even ethereal. The deeply fissured and heavily ribbed surfaces hint at impending decay and it seems that, at any moment, their internal structure might pass some threshold of no return, causing the entire, surreal edifice, to collapse in a cloud of dank smelling dust and float slowly and noiselessly to the floor.

  My attention turns to the object nestling within the enclosing structure of beams. It is a delicate and exquisitely shaped instrument in the form of a narrow and very elongated grand piano. It appears to have been painted in primrose yellow and covered with intricate floral designs in darker shades of yellow and subtle greens. From the centre of the instrument a jet of water flows upwards, in a continuous vertical torrent, which vaporises and floats down in a fine umbrella of mist. Cylindrical bars of intense yellow light criss-cross through the mist, creating solid and constantly changing surfaces.

  An oriental lady sits at the keyboard. She is wearing a vivid red silk dress and her left hand is resting casually on her lap. The slender fingers of her right hand skip up and down the keyboard in small runs and trills. A number of onlookers stand around her and it is clear that she is demonstrating the funct
ionality of the instrument, as nobody else is allowed to touch it.

  The sound is glorious. The notes are all in perfect tune and each one rings out with a bell-like clarity, which belies the apparent age of the instrument.

  The ceiling of the room hangs high overhead in a steep arch. One end wall curves in, to meet the sides in a half-dome. The remaining wall is vertical, with small windows, high up at the top. These allow light to come cascading down, immersing the entire room in a dreamlike, golden glow.

  Our expert guide explains that the instrument will be sold to the first person to agree to pay eleven thousand five hundred pounds. I desire it with all my heart. It is unique and astonishing to look at. I could offer the money, but where would I put such an object. It is vast in size and sitting here in what is its ideal setting, it is hard to imagine how else it could be accommodated. It seems incredible that it is still for sale as nobody has yet offered the asking price.

  Perhaps a lower offer might be accepted, maybe seven thousand five hundred pounds would be enough? I still have to think what I would do with it, though; where would I place it? But, surely, it must be worth half a million, or even a million pounds. I had never seen such an object before. Where has it come from and how could it still be standing there, unsold?

  The auction seems to be drawing towards a close and people are beginning to drift away.

  The antique expert beckons to me. He is sitting close to the instrument and has apparently secured a bottle of expensive port. He has permission to use a very small quantity for tasting purposes and is prepared to share the experience with a select few others, including me. He pours out the smallest possible amount into a small thimble sized receptacle. He holds it up to his lips and lets a single drop fall onto his tongue. He offers the tiny container to me and I do likewise. A single drop hits my tongue and my taste buds are instantly overwhelmed by the mellow, dark and honeyed glow of the vintage port. It is beyond description, beyond ecstasy; like one magical raindrop falling onto an arid desert and transforming it in the blink of an eye, into a lush and verdant forest.

  I am still holding the thimble and the rest of the group seems preoccupied in idle chatter, so I hold the thimble once more to my lips and take a second drop. There seems to be such a tiny amount left, that I feel I might as well finish it off and so I drain the last few drops onto my tongue. Where the initial drop had filled me with such sublime pleasure that the flavours still lingered beguilingly around my mouth and throat, the second drop and the remaining drops, do nothing. They hit my tongue and there is no response. My mouth might just as well have been anaesthetised and I am deeply disappointed.

  The group turns to me and our guide indicates that I should pass the thimble to one of the others and I do so. It is immediately apparent to them that the thimble is empty and their reproachful eyes turn to me, piling great swathes of guilt onto my already extreme disappointment. They say nothing; but I know and they know that, by my selfish greed, I have denied each of them the chance to experience something quite extraordinary.

  I leave the group and wander over to an official who is just on his way out. I enquire as to whether, or not, the instrument has been sold.

  I am amazed to find that the answer is, no; it has not been sold.

  A price of five thousand five hundred pounds was offered and declined. It seems incredible for such an instrument. Surely they might have accepted seven thousand five hundred pounds? I should have offered that much at the very least. Maybe, it would have been enough. But it is too late now. The event has ended and everybody is leaving. I walk slowly back up the stone steps. A dark shadow of guilt and disappointment hangs over me and I cannot shake it off.

  Somehow, I have managed to let slip through my fingers, the most magical musical instrument the world has ever seen.

  Last Train

  I am lying in almost complete darkness. My belly rests on a remorseless, unforgiving, steel floor and if I lift my head up more than an inch or two, I feel the hardness of steel pressing against the top of my skull. I am not alone; far from alone. I feel others pressing close to me. In truth, they have no choice. Every inch of room is taken up; we are squeezed together like sardines. The air is stale and the smell of sweat and other odours, quite overpowering. I occasionally attempt to rearrange my position, but, there is not enough room for me to turn my shoulder over and move onto my side, or back. I am trapped in a space little more than twelve inches high and travelling at high speed, in the direction of my own, almost certain, death.

  Our planet is under siege and we are fighting for survival. Our regular army has been decimated and I, along with countless others, have been conscripted into the war effort. I know nothing of fighting and have no courage that I am aware of. I spent two days in training camp, where the emphasis was on testing for aptitude in the use of a variety of bizarre pieces of offensive and defensive weaponry. Apparently, weapons are in such short supply, that less than one in fifty of us is in possession of an actual weapon. Myself? Well, I have just my combat fatigues, my helmet and a standard-issue four-inch blade on my belt holster.

  Only about half an hour has passed since I stood in the gloomy half-light of dawn, waiting for the train, which would take me into the combat zone. We had been told that the train was a specialised low model, but, as it pulled into the station, I stared in disbelief. The gunmetal-grey carriages were long and wide, but so low that each carriage roof was not much above the level of my knees. The train had pulled to a halt in front of us and the doors had opened, like letter boxes, all the way along the sides of each carriage. I remember glancing sheepishly behind me and seeing, as I had expected, a number of guards, with hard lined jaws, holding rifles aimed at our backs. No rifles, for most of us going into battle, but surely, a single bullet, should we refuse to enter the train.

  I recall dropping to my knees and squirming into the carriage, using my knees and elbows for propulsion. I had crawled as far as I could into the claustrophobic space, until the press of other bodies around me, prevented any further progress and then I had just stopped and dropped my forehead onto my clenched fists and tried to calm my hammering heart. The doors had closed leaving no light at all and then the train had started to move.

  It clicked and clacked along, slowly at first, whilst swaying gently from side to side, but all the while it picked up speed until, a couple of minutes after setting off, the roar and vibration coming up through the floor plate was almost intolerable. I had soon identified that the only viable position was to lie on my stomach, with elbows on the floor and fingers pushed firmly into my ears.

  As I lie here, I am reviewing all the information that I have managed to pick up over the scant few days since my nightmare began. The train was built so squat for two reasons. Firstly: During the initial phase of our journey across the endless flat plains, which comprise the equatorial region of our planet, the train, being so low, will be hard to see and difficult for our enemy to hit. The tracks have been lowered, half a metre or so, into the featureless terrain, making the train even harder to spot from a distance. Secondly and much more fundamentally: The final phase of our journey takes us right underneath the Terschi-Dorsal mountains, which are, I believe, without parallel, anywhere in the galaxy. They rise majestically to a height of almost ten miles and circumnavigate our planet in the mid-northern latitudes. They are so precipitous and extend so far above the breathable atmosphere, that they are simply impassable by land.

  The tunnels, passing beneath them, were constructed centuries, or even millennia ago. These tunnels are almost precisely one metre in height and, to the best of my knowledge, nobody knows why. Perhaps it was for speed, or perhaps they were excavated by some different species for entirely different reasons. However, whatever their origins, the tunnels remain an enigma. The railway tracks were laid through them during some previous manifestation of this war, many cycles ago and have been used in much the same way ever since.

  Officially, we have been given very little informati
on about our enemy. Apparently they are entrenched on the far side of the mountains and the little that is known about them is classified information. All that we were told in training camp is that they resemble oversized wasps, shorter than us but of similar mass and that they are particularly vulnerable in face to face combat. Our task is to head through the tunnel and take out at least as many of them as they manage to take of us. Ours is a war of attrition. A life for a life and eventually they will retreat as they always have done over the many centuries. But, why do they always base themselves on the unpopulated northern side of the mountains? If they want to invade us, then why do they not confront us head on? If all they want is the desolate north, then why can’t we just let them have it? These questions endlessly circulate through my mind. Who decides on our strategy? What manner of species is our enemy, really? Why the cloak of secrecy?

  I have recently heard it said, that, much like the insect which our enemy is said to resemble, their favoured tactic is to impale us with their long, venomous barb. By this means, they deliver poison deep inside our bodies, causing death in seconds. Our counter-tactic, apparently, is to use our blade to slice through the barb, which will remain in position for several seconds, before being withdrawn. This will not save our life, but will serve to kill our enemy. This, apparently, is the only way a man, armed purely with a blade, can kill these creatures. They are otherwise too fast for us to react to. This is their only known vulnerability and our job is to sacrifice our own life in order to exploit this vulnerability.

  My body is cramped and I try to move. I remove my fingers from my ears and turn slightly onto one side. The cacophony of the fast moving train hits me painfully. The carriage lurches violently from side to side and a high pitched, tormented squeal cuts right through the general clatter and roar of the wind. Somebody close to me yells out, ‘God help us.’ His voice breaks and his half-heard sobs are stalled and subdued by the roar of wheels grinding on track.