CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
An Audience with the Queen

The children stepped through the archway into a wintry courtyard. The trees that twisted from the cobbled ground winked with lights, and vines wound their way around ornate lampposts. Table-sized toadstools had been decorated with satin bows and set with silver tea services, dishes holding pyramids of berries and platters of rainbow cake that glowed with real slivers of rainbow. Earthenware mugs were filled with a creamy froth that the children could not identify but which certainly smelled enticing. A string quartet made up of white hamsters in tuxedos was tuning their tiny instruments. An upturned flowerpot served as a stage and the faces of red poppies opened to reveal built-in amplifiers. Clearly, some kind of ceremony was about to take place.

The children took a few steps forward but stopped when they felt something crunch softly underfoot. They looked down to see they were walking on what appeared to be a carpet of snow, but, unlike snow, it did not leave their teeth chattering or their boots wet. The mystery powder lapped at their ankles like waves, and it fell from the sky in curvy flakes to settle on their hair and clothes. Milli ventured a taste, which left a tingling sensation on her tongue.

All around them, fluttering like moths, Fada dancers appeared. They seemed to materialise out of thin air, appearing from behind lampposts or swinging gracefully down from a leafy bough. Their movements were so graceful that they reminded Milli of seaweed under water. To put it simply, the Fada did not look real. Besides their transparent skin, through which a delicate network of veins was visible, each ethereal creature had eyes a startling shade of blue: robin egg, rock-pool or vivid cornflower blue. The young men with their braided hair and slender shoulders were barely discernible from the women, although they wore silver bands on their forearms and pleated tunics instead of gossamer gowns.

Having gathered in a circle, the Fada moved slowly towards each other in an elaborate dance. Their eyes gazed straight ahead as if looking into some other world the children could not help but feel barred from. Although the Fada dipped and swooped with the poise of water birds, their movements were lacklustre. Something was clearly amiss; uneasiness hung in the air like a shroud. The music playing sounded like a dirge and the whirling dancers looked forlorn. As the children watched, some of the Fada actually began to fade, their bodies dissolving, leaving only a hankering sensation that spread like a vapour.

If you are a child who fraternises on a regular basis with the fairy kingdom, you may have come across a broken-hearted fairy and would agree with me in thinking that it is the most heart-wrenching of sights. They cry no tears but the doleful sound they make is like no other uttered by a living creature. Listening to it, you feel certain that the world is coming to an end. Finn and Fennel put their hands over their ears to shut out the noise. Tears snaked their way silently down Fennel’s cheeks, for no child can be happy when the Fada are not. Milli and Ernest resisted the urge to weep, knowing it would do no good other than to contribute to the general melancholy. They wondered if the Fada already knew of Lord Aldor’s plan to conquer their province or if their sadness was derived from another cause known only to them. One thing the children did understand was that whatever troubled the Fada must be identified and then driven away. A subliminal knowledge told them there would be no harmony in the world of children until this sadness was dispelled.

The dance ended and the Fada parted as if in slow motion to reveal a silver throne. Bracken grew from midair to form a protective canopy around it and overhead the sparkling dust gently fell. A ring of toadstools surrounded the throne—a barrier no one could infiltrate without special dispensation. On the throne was seated the most singular and entrancing figure of all the Fada: Queen Fidelis. Her silver hair tumbled over her shoulders like a waterfall. On her head was a coronet of daisies, and her wide eyes, the colour of periwinkles, gazed at the children with unblinking kindness. Her face was as honest and full of virtue as that of a small child. Her willowy limbs were clad in lacy garments so insubstantial they appeared almost shredded. Her skin was the colour of marble and the nails on her bare feet (for fairies seldom trouble themselves with shoes) were so delicate as to be easily mistaken for pearls. Everything about her denoted fragility yet there was a steadiness in her gaze that hinted at an inner strength. She was not so much beautiful as removed, with an expression not dissimilar to those Milli and Ernest had seen on the faces of classical deities in art books.

Fidelis stood and her coral lips parted briefly in the suggestion of a smile. When she stepped down to greet the children, they noticed that she left no imprints in the snow-like powder. It was as if she had no physical substance.

Each child took her extended hand in turn; it felt as cool to touch as moss on stone. Power seemed to emanate from her slender fingers. Language was superfluous as they felt she knew their thoughts. The Queen escorted her four visitors into the protected circle of toadstools and bade them sit.

They sank into the soft ground and allowed themselves to finally relax a little. Milli let the white powder trickle between her fingers.

‘Fairy dust,’ Fidelis said, seeing Milli’s fascination. Her speech had the lilting quality of song and a mesmerizing effect.

‘What does it do?’ Milli asked.

‘Many things,’ answered the Queen. ‘One of which is to soften the ground for sitting.’

The children looked at her carefully, trying to determine whether or not to laugh at what might be a fairy’s attempt at humour. But Fidelis looked so grave that they simply smiled and nodded thoughtfully.

‘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.’