April Queen, May Fool Page 8

  ‘Yet she told you about the necklace, I believe?’

  Crystine could only presume that the man was in some way indicating the necklace she was wearing. It was too dark to be entirely sure.

  ‘You seem to know a great deal of what passed between myself and the queen!’

  Crystine managed to sound suitably affronted, the implication being that she regarded the KingFisher’s knowledge as an intrusion into a supposedly private conversation.

  The man shrugged nonchalantly once more.

  ‘I did say I took my own responsibilities seriously.’ His own tone had now switched to an accusatory one. ‘You know, the last time I saw your necklace, it was adorning the April Queen’s throat!’

  ‘Oh er, yes,’ Crystine stammered nervously, taken aback by the KingFisher’s sudden change of attitude. ‘It seems she lost it…’

  ‘Lost it? But fortunately, you found it? So you’ll be wanting to return it immediately, yes?’

  ‘Why yes; I mean no, I can’t–’

  ‘Can’t?’ The man chuckled grimly. ‘Please, don’t be upset by my attitude; I just wanted to present your unfortunate position as an example of how we ourselves can end up being painted in a bad light. There are tales, don’t you know, that insist I stole it from her!’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘I’m not the one wearing it, am I now?’

  ‘That didn’t really answer my question,’ Crystine persisted.

  ‘She lost it in a locked room: even the fairytales of my supposed theft agree on that point. I’m assumed to have transformed myself into a beetle! Enabling me to get in through the smallest gaps! How ridiculous is that now? Even if such a thing were possible, how would a beetle carry the necklace back through those small gaps?’

  Crystine almost nodded in agreement, until it suddenly occurred to her that there was a flaw in his argument.

  ‘You could have briefly become a man again, throwing the necklace out of a window you opened.’

  The man hummed, as if fleetingly considering this.

  ‘All very complicated, don’t you think?’ he said. ‘I’d prefer something much simpler! You see, I’m not like the Hag Queen, who prefers to tell such ridiculous tales with such unnecessary detail, such relish, delighting in the fall of others.’

  The door to the room burst open with a loud crack. A dark shadow rushed into the room, throwing itself at the seated KingFisher.

  Before the hurtling shadow had a chance to strike him, however, the KingFisher dissolved, rising up from the chair as if he were nothing but a dark dye within a fluid. In that same easy curling of movement, he transformed into some huge and many tentacled sea creature – a cross between an octopus, Kraken and squid.

  It spat out a thickly enveloping white fluid at the attacker.

  Now the dark attacker moved slowly, as if also deep underwater. And as the streams of white fluid rapidly whirled about him, he took on an increasingly recognisable shape.

  It was the fool; the fool attempting to take on the KingFisher.

  *

  Chapter 20

  As the swirling streams of white fluid curled everywhere about the fool, they became thicker, more material-like, and sticky. They could have been made up of quickly hardening glue.

  The many tentacles now whirled with an equivalent speed, taking the ends, the rising curves of the strands, and swiftly weaving them about the fool – transfixing him into a ridiculous pose of a man caught in mid leap.

  There was another, sudden flow of materials, of the physical abruptly becoming fluid once more: and the KingFisher was once again calmly seated upon his chair. He ensured, however, that this time he was almost comically positioned, the poor fool forever frozen in his fruitless attempt to strike out at his foe.

  A horrified Crystine clasped the thin bedsheet about her. She leapt up from the bed and rushed towards the petrified fool.

  ‘What have you done?’ she wailed, reaching out with a free hand to touch the entrapped fool. ‘Is he all right? He isn’t…dead…?’

  The KingFisher waved her fears away with a dismissive flip of a hand.

  ‘Oh, he’s fine,’ he said coolly. ‘He’s just briefly disabled: you see, despite all the tales unfairly blackening my name, I’m not an unreasonable man.’

  ‘Then please; you must let him go!’ Crystine pleaded.

  ‘Must?’

  Despite the scarcity of light, Crystine was now so close to the KingFisher that she could see him pout thoughtfully; then grimace, as if doubting the truth of her statement.

  ‘I think must is too strong a word, regarding our present situation.’

  ‘I don’t understand; what do you mean by our present situation?’

  ‘As I’ve already explained; I’m here to help you. I just don’t like unnecessary intrusions.’

  ‘So: once you’ve helped me – you’ll release him?’

  The KingFisher nodded.

  ‘Of course! In any game I play, it adds to my amusement to give the less fortunate an otherwise unwarranted advantage!’

  ‘Game? What game?’

  ‘Life, of course! All of life’s a game, isn’t it? In which we’re all trying to gain a better position? In which we hope that everybody’s fair and plays by the rules?’

  ‘I suppose so; yes,’ Crystine replied only a little doubtfully.

  ‘Then, let me tell you of another player in this game of life: for I sincerely hope it helps explain a few things that might otherwise puzzle you.’

  *

  Chapter 21

  The Knave of Devils

  Our player was a gambler, one down on his luck.

  The cards never, ever seemed to go well for him.

  His palming of cards, his clever shuffling of packs: it all counted for nothing. It never does when Lady Fortune is completely against you.

  He cursed her, cursed his increasingly long run of bad luck.

  The more he lost, the more he gambled on the next turn of the cards. Hoping he’d make up for all that he’d already so uselessly thrown away.

  The more he gambled, the more he uselessly threw his money away.

  He felt ill, feverish: hot. He was sweating uncontrollably, no longer able to hide the anguish in his eyes as he was dealt yet another totally useless hand.

  The man seated across from him grinned, gaining amusement from the player’s misfortune, his growing frustration.

  That was all the player could see of the man; his grin.

  For the rest of him was hidden by the lantern that hung so low over the table, illuminating nothing but the clear green playing surface.

  ‘You’ve palmed the Queen of Hearts,’ the man declared coolly. ‘And you brought up an Ace in the last shuffling of the pack.’

  Now the player sweated all the more.

  ‘You’re mistaken,’ he insisted, hoping he was hiding the tremor of guilt in his voice. ‘I always play by the rules!’

  ‘More fool you then,’ the man chuckled.

  He threw a card down into the centre of the table.

  It was a card the player didn’t recognise.

  It was the Knave of Devils.

  *

  ‘What sort of card is that?’ the player asked, bewildered.

  Even so, he was glad that the conversation had veered away from his cheating.

  ‘It’s any card you want it to be.’

  ‘It’s a Knave: but of no suit I recognise.’

  The symbol representing the suit was like a mingling of all the other suits – the diamond, the heart, the club, the spade – for it could have been the bloodied black tail end of the devil.

  ‘The Suit of Devils,’ the man explained. ‘Hence, it can be any of the other four: and being a knave, of course, he’s not interested in playing by any rules.’

  ‘And it’s backing, it’s size?’ the player demanded sceptically. ‘Even if what you said were possible, any difference in the pack itself would reveal that I was cheating.’

  Rather than
answering, the man reached out and deftly flipped the card a number of times.

  And each time the card changed.

  The Queen of Hearts.

  The Ace of Clubs.

  But the pattern on its backing also changed. As did the size of the card.

  As did the quality and state of the card, going from pristine to handmade and well-worn in the blink of any eye.

  ‘But what of the older cards,’ the player persisted, determined now to have this remarkable card, yet determined also to carp about its quality in the hope of bringing down its price. ‘The suits of Wands, Cups, Swords and Pentang–’

  He gawped as the now constantly flipped card went through every suit he mentioned.

  ‘Of cherries, of May blossom…of princes…’ the player continued, determined to test this card to the fullest.

  On every call he made, on every flip of the card, it became the suit he demanded, no matter how outrageous its definition.

  ‘How much?’ he asked at last in the intolerable heat of desperation.

  He feared what the price might be; for being no fool, he believed he had already figured out the identity of his opponent.

  It had to be the Devil himself!

  *

  The constant flipping of the card had come to an end.

  It was the Knave of Devils once more.

  In many ways, it was so similar to a regular court card, with its graphic representation of the wryly grinning knave: his two heads – one inverted, of course – set against what could be a bundle of tangled, redlined linen.

  And yet on second glance, the player noticed that what he’d taken to be the standard representation of an upturned head was, in fact, a large Knave of Devils card, one being played by the original knave.

  He smiled in admiration at the originality of it all.

  How was such a card made?

  He’d pay a king’s ransom to have it.

  But what if the price was his soul? Wasn’t that the usual fee in such transactions?

  ‘How much?’ he had asked, like the world’s greatest fool; and now he almost instantly regretted asking such a stupidly dangerous question.

  ‘Oh, the card’s manufacture costs me hardly anything,’ the man seated opposite coolly informed the startled player, ‘and therefore will cost you hardly anything too.’

  The player was still torn: ‘hardly anything’ means so many different things to so many different people.

  ‘I’m not sure I can afford–’

  With a raised hand, and a smile, the man stopped the player’s embarrassed protestations from continuing any further

  ‘I’m thinking only in terms of, say…well, I believe it’s worth at least an egg-sized diamond, don’t you?’ the man declared jovially.

  The player almost burst out laughing in surprise, in disbelief.

  A diamond?

  With a card like this, he could make an equivalent sum in one night alone!

  Wait!

  There had to be a reason why it would be so relatively cheap.

  Of course!

  ‘What happens if I play a card already held by another player?’ he asked suspiciously.

  The other man was unfazed by this.

  ‘I believe you have the Queen of Spades in your hand?’ he said.

  He calmly flipped the Knave of Devils, transforming it into the Queen of Spades.

  The player picked up his own hand.

  He no longer held the Queen of Spades.

  It was the Queen of Clubs.

  Had he made a mistake earlier?

  Had he–

  ‘You’re confused; wondering if you made a mistake earlier?’ the man observed accurately with a mischievous chuckle.

  ‘And with such a remarkable card,’ the player said more suspiciously than ever, ‘how can I be sure you won’t switch it on me once we’ve made our deal?’

  Despite the accusation, the man remained nonchalant.

  He picked up the Knave of Devils, flicked it across the table. The card spun through the air, such that the player had to catch it in his hand before it struck him in the face.

  ‘Take it,’ the man said assuredly, what could be seen of his face turning slightly as he looked out across the room to other groups of players, ‘try it out at another table, even another club.’

  *

  This man wasn’t the devil!

  He was a fool!

  The player chuckled inwardly: he would make more than enough to pay for the card.

  How could he possibly lose?

  He moved over to another table, one were a large group had gathered, the stakes being played foolishly high. He put on display what was actually the last of his wealth, giving the impression that it meant little to him, that he was more than willing to lose it all.

  He was invited to take a seat.

  Even to shuffle the cards.

  It was a clean, honest shuffle.

  They were watching him; it was a test.

  He didn’t mind: he didn’t need to shuffle the cards to his advantage anymore.

  *

  To have any card you wish for, at any moment in the game.

  It was the dream of any player.

  The Knave of Devils lived up to its name, such that the player could have won hand after hand.

  But he wasn’t a fool; he made sure he lost a few hands every now and again.

  He won only the ones where the pot had grown. Even so, he was accumulating so much money now that it was impossible to leave it all stacked up before him on the table.

  The banknotes he began to gather up, to slip into his inner pocket with a barely concealed smirk, declaring with apparent modesty that it must all be down to Lady Fortune, that obviously she was smiling down upon him tonight.

  ‘I think it’s less to do with Lady Fortune,’ a man snarled ominously, rising so angrily from his chair that it was sent flying backwards, ‘and more to do with you cheating!’

  In the small circle of dim light thrown out by the table’s overhead lantern, the player could only see grimly set mouths.

  ‘Look, look, I can understand your dismay at your misfortune,’ he admitted, hoping to diffuse what was obviously a dangerous situation, ‘so to make amends, I’m willing to return a small part of my winnings!’

  Drawing out the loosely bundled banknotes he’d placed within his jacket’s inner pocket, he casually tossed the money out across the tabletop.

  From all about him, there were abrupt gasps of fury.

  He glanced down at the table, his eyes widening in horror; it wasn’t scattered with banknotes, as he’d expected, but an uncountable number of cards – every one of which was the Knave of Devils.

  ‘Wait, please, please: I’ve been tricked!’ he pleadingly insisted, attempting to draw their attention to the many faces of the mischievously grinning knave. ‘See, he’s the Devil; he made me use them!’

  The man who had stood up, who still loomed over him threateningly, frowned in bemusement.

  ‘Devil cards?’ he sneered, reaching for a handful, throwing them back over the player as perfectly regular cards. ‘It’s just a normal deck: one you’ve been slipping in amongst our own!’

  ‘I can prove it’s the Devil work,’ the player swore, resigned now to handing over the Knave of Devils, reaching into the sleeve where he’d temporarily stored it. ‘See,’ he said, flicking it through the air towards the looming man, ‘it’s magic; it becomes whatever you need it to be!’

  And in a dangerous situation like this, what else could the player need other than a glittering dagger?

  It struck the man in his heart.

  *

  With his spade slung nonchalantly over his shoulder, the gravedigger watched the execution of the player with an habitual indifference.

  The blade took the murder’s head off cleanly, he was glad to see.

  The head dropped into a basket of tangled redlined linen, there for the gravedigger to wrap up and take away.

  An
d as the gravedigger twirled the bundle in his hand, it became a card, a card featuring a wryly grinning knave.

  And the knave was holding another card, a similar card; one of a knave holding another card,a similar card; one of a knave…

  Forever and ever.

  *

  Chapter 22

  ‘So now you’ll release him?’

  Crystine was far more concerned by the fool’s plight than she was with interpreting any tale.

  ‘Off course!’ the KingFisher replied gaily.‘For the smallest of fees, naturally!’

  ‘You wrapped him up like this!’ Crystine gasped exasperatedly.

  ‘Oh, only to show willing on your part, I main: to recompense me for the exhaustion of my powers–’

  ‘How did wrapping him up exhaust your powers?’

  ‘Surely, it’s only fair…’ the KingFisher answered in a knowingly wheedling manner, holding out a raised and upturned palm.

  ‘I…I don’t have anything to give you!’ Crystine admitted miserably.

  ‘That’s a very nice bracelet,’ the KingFisher observed, reaching out and delicately fingering the charm. ‘I like birds!’

  ‘No, not the bracelet…’

  Crystine’s rebuff faded away; she had nothing else of any worth that she could give him.

  She slipped the bracelet off her wrist, handing it to him with obvious regret.

  ‘Why, thank you,’ the KingFisher said, immediately throwing it up into the air.

  *

  The bracelet twirled within the air: became once more the magical cloak, the magical Golden Apple.

  The KingFisher expertly caught both. He slipped the apple into an inner pocket, even as he slipped the feather cloak over his own, remarkably similar feather cloak.

  The cloaks blended, until they could have been one and the same garment.

  Crystine was thoroughly bewildered.

  Why would he want a cloak just the same as the one he already had?

  How could she be so foolish that she’d handed it over to him so easily?

  She was furious with herself, with him.

  ‘You knew?’ she snapped.

  ‘Oh, the Hag Queen always gives her daughters the most fabulous gifts,’ he answered casually. ‘It’s such a pity that her children never appreciate either her of her gifts!’