The Concarnadine Chronicles #028 -- "Children"
Title: Children
'Fandom': The Concarnadine Chronicles
Claim: General; Characters
Prompt: #028 :: "Children"
Word Count: c. 1720
Rating: PG (ish)
Summary: Concarnadine plays a stately home
Author's Notes: Perhaps a darker side to C. Not necessarily part of the Jovimort strand.
“Children”
“This might be a problem.”
What ought to have been the neatly-manicured lawns of the great house were a maelstromic sea of activity. And, with an almost foredoomed inevitability about it, the man who (perhaps) could have done something was nowhere about.
Sir Theo Trigenick was famously eccentric. Which was one reason why he came to know Concarnadine - the two had shared digs the summer that Sir Theo had elected to work as a seaside pleasure beach barker. So, when he decided to throw his estate open for the day, for the benefit of disadvantaged children (especially those who were normally hospital-bound), it was natural for him to approach the magician as part of the entertainment he was going to put on, to amuse his guests.
“Might be ?” Borin looked gloomier than usual, which was going some to achieve.
The picnic lunches had been a qualified disaster - qualified, in that some of the children had elected to eat their meals rather then use it as ammunition in an all-out food-fight. The repair kits on the bouncy castle had run out - someone should have made sure that none of the “adorable little moppets” was wearing spike-soled sports shoes. And the entertainers who’d been engaged to dress in giant-headed costumes of supposedly-favourite cartoon characters had provided a classic lesson that, to stay upright, being able to see your feet (and what might be in front of them) was a Good Idea.
But through all of this, Sir Theo had remained remarkably sanguine: mostly because, two days before, he had jetted off to Mauritius, leaving his personal secretary in charge of the event, with a ticket dated four days after his master’s, to enable him to continue his duties in the sunnier clime of the Indian Ocean. And to say that Lionel Meronin had limited experience with children was about like saying that a Trappist monk had limited experience with public speaking.
“We’re going to get torn to shreds.” Borin continued.
“Not necessarily. We are only engaged to do thirty minutes, and I am confident that for at least ten of those we can rely on the crush barriers holding. But we will need to rearrange our programme. And ask the Head of Security to step in for a word, would you ?”
The stage had been set up on the upper terrace (perhaps with someone brighter than Sir Theo having foreseen the danger of a head-long charge. So there was ten feet of vertical stone and brick between artist and audience and, for someone under four feet in height, a need to stand back a distance to see their target clearly. The crush barriers blocked the two stone stairways up from the lawn to the terrace, and each had a couple of muscular men looking after them. Concarnadine had been scheduled to take the stage at about tea-time, as a means of drawing the kiddies together so that their late-afternoon snack could be distributed, and the younger ones prepared for going home.
However, even to Concarnadine’s eye, it became increasingly clear that the “kiddies” (i.e. the ones causing the greater havoc) were not going to be minded to sit and watch a magic show, when there were more exciting (that is, chaotic) things for them to do.
“Borin, we’re going to use the Lamp - I’ll go and get it, if you will then set it up and prime it, and make the other necessary arrangements.”
Using the Lamp was always a palaver. For one thing the …creature, for want of a better word … which lived inside it was relatively powerful and averse to manifesting itself without a good reason. Another thing was that, theoretically, anyone could use the Lamp, and could command the creature, so the exact means of activating it had to be kept secret. And for a third thing, it drew part of its energy from its user, which added to the risk in using it, and meant that, in practice, its power could be invoked once or twice a year and only for an hour or so.
“You’re sure about this ?”
“Unless you’ve a better idea ?”
Borin shook his head and went out, crossing over with Mike Bonallack, who was in charge of the event’s security.
“I heard you wanted to speak,” he said, as a crescendo of noise from outside made him wince to wonder what he would find had happened when he returned.
“Yes - How many St. John’s Ambulance do you have on hand ? Only I was going to recommend that have them ready, just in case my act … has an effect on some of the audience.”
“What have you in mind ?”
”Oh, nothing you need worry about - but I have a soft spot for well-behaved children, and I can’t see why the noisy ones should be allowed to spoil the day for the quieter ones.”
To look at, the Lamp was nothing special. However, the fact that it was transported in a sealed, metal-bound box (those seals of lead, and impressed with … interesting … sigils), and that it was never left unattended away from Chelsea, might have hinted that it was slightly out of the ordinary.
In the sanctity of the van which was carrying their sets and gear, Concarnadine opened the dimensions and retrieved the box from where it lay, behind a false wall in the cellar of the Chelsea house. He checked the seals, and also checked the silver scissors which were attached to the side of the box. Satisfied that all was in order, he carefully carried it back into the house, and down the stairs to the lower floor, from which he and Borin were due to emerge.
Once there, he carefully snipped the seals off, using the scissors, opened the box and removed the carefully wrapped bundle within and, intoning all the time a verse from a book most libraries denied existed, removed the wraps and handed the lamp to Borin.
“Five minutes and it’ll all be ready,” Borin said, dourly.
“I’d best finish my other preparations, then.”
“So what you’re saying -- ?”
“I don’t know what I’m saying, Mr. Meronin - only, how sure are you about him ?”
“Well, I’ve never heard of - Oh, my God !! That was a tree !!”
Bonallack looked out of the window, then shrugged.
“It’s gone now - and some of my men are going over there to restore order … ”
“Where were we - oh, yes; Concarnadine. Sir Theo invited him personally; he’s been on television - I don’t know any reason not to trust him.”
“All right - but if anything happens, I won’t be in a position to take action until I can get there.”
“If it will make you feel better, I’ll come out onto the Terrace at the right time.”
“Then you want to be moving now, Mr. Meronin: he’s on in five minutes.”
Meronin swallowed and went to get his top coat. On the way he had to pass the pained and slightly incensed face of the estate’s chief gardener, who had also, quite obviously, seen the damage being done to his trees and lawns.
The crash of thunder came from what had been a mostly clear sky. It drew quite a lot of attention - adults couldn’t understand where it had come from, smaller or more timid children wondered what the bang was; older and more cynical ones wondered whether the bang came with appropriate bucks.
Then the crash came again, more subdued, and from a direction - then suddenly the music started: a high trumpeting call, one that stirred the blood and definitely drew even more attention.
Had they but known it, it was merely the theme music from a 1960s television series, with the original thunder enhanced. Then, as it faded, a bass voice announced: “My lords, ladies, and gentlemen, and children of all ages - may I present, from the theatres of Paris, Venice, Rome, Vienna and fair London, the master of mystery, the cloaked conjurer, the one, the only, Concarnadine.”
Light blossomed into a second sun, right above the terrace, and then faded, to reveal, dressed in opera cloak and top hat, the man himself.
He held up a smart silver-topped walking stick and, even as some of the more jaded among his audience were starting to make critical comments, about all mouth and no … other things (and their parents were being suitable horrified), the sweets began to rain down. Except that, had there been anyone watching, seeing patterns in the apparent chaos, he or she might have noticed that the sweets tended to concentrate in the areas of the quieter children, and those who believed.
Most of what he did was, in fact, the sort of thing that ought to have been invisible, because it was close-up rather than large-scale. But, somehow, all the children that wanted to could see what he was doing. Mainly he used cards, balls, and doves, making them appear and vanish, or change into one another.
Little by little, however, parts of the audience became restive. A degree of boredom settled in on some of the older boys and there was talk of rebellion and a mass attack on the ice-cream vans. Which was when Concarnadine called for the Lamp.
“You’ve all, I imagine, heard tales of magic lamps - well, this is one of them.” He held the lamp up. “You rub it, and … well, shall we try it ?” He produced a bright-yellow duster from thin air and used it to rub the lamp’s surface. “Generally,” he went on, “the stories say you get a genie, which can grant your wishes.” A purplish vapour seemed to pour from the Lamp and to coalesce into a vaguely human-shaped figure, floating above the terrace.
If there had been anyone not watching Concarnadine, this development seemed to catch them, but as the figure seemed strangely immobile, the turmoil began to manifest itself again on the outskirts of the crowd. And then, on a whispered word from Concarnadine, the vaporous figure stretched out immensely long arms and insubstantial hands, and scooped up the troublemakers, and they and it disappeared.
In the stunned silence, Concarnadine produced a rabbit from a hat for a little girl whose birthday it was, then made a hutch, food, and water appear from out of an empty carrier bag.
'Fandom': The Concarnadine Chronicles
Claim: General; Characters
Prompt: #028 :: "Children"
Word Count: c. 1720
Rating: PG (ish)
Summary: Concarnadine plays a stately home
Author's Notes: Perhaps a darker side to C. Not necessarily part of the Jovimort strand.
“Children”
“This might be a problem.”
What ought to have been the neatly-manicured lawns of the great house were a maelstromic sea of activity. And, with an almost foredoomed inevitability about it, the man who (perhaps) could have done something was nowhere about.
Sir Theo Trigenick was famously eccentric. Which was one reason why he came to know Concarnadine - the two had shared digs the summer that Sir Theo had elected to work as a seaside pleasure beach barker. So, when he decided to throw his estate open for the day, for the benefit of disadvantaged children (especially those who were normally hospital-bound), it was natural for him to approach the magician as part of the entertainment he was going to put on, to amuse his guests.
“Might be ?” Borin looked gloomier than usual, which was going some to achieve.
The picnic lunches had been a qualified disaster - qualified, in that some of the children had elected to eat their meals rather then use it as ammunition in an all-out food-fight. The repair kits on the bouncy castle had run out - someone should have made sure that none of the “adorable little moppets” was wearing spike-soled sports shoes. And the entertainers who’d been engaged to dress in giant-headed costumes of supposedly-favourite cartoon characters had provided a classic lesson that, to stay upright, being able to see your feet (and what might be in front of them) was a Good Idea.
But through all of this, Sir Theo had remained remarkably sanguine: mostly because, two days before, he had jetted off to Mauritius, leaving his personal secretary in charge of the event, with a ticket dated four days after his master’s, to enable him to continue his duties in the sunnier clime of the Indian Ocean. And to say that Lionel Meronin had limited experience with children was about like saying that a Trappist monk had limited experience with public speaking.
“We’re going to get torn to shreds.” Borin continued.
“Not necessarily. We are only engaged to do thirty minutes, and I am confident that for at least ten of those we can rely on the crush barriers holding. But we will need to rearrange our programme. And ask the Head of Security to step in for a word, would you ?”
The stage had been set up on the upper terrace (perhaps with someone brighter than Sir Theo having foreseen the danger of a head-long charge. So there was ten feet of vertical stone and brick between artist and audience and, for someone under four feet in height, a need to stand back a distance to see their target clearly. The crush barriers blocked the two stone stairways up from the lawn to the terrace, and each had a couple of muscular men looking after them. Concarnadine had been scheduled to take the stage at about tea-time, as a means of drawing the kiddies together so that their late-afternoon snack could be distributed, and the younger ones prepared for going home.
However, even to Concarnadine’s eye, it became increasingly clear that the “kiddies” (i.e. the ones causing the greater havoc) were not going to be minded to sit and watch a magic show, when there were more exciting (that is, chaotic) things for them to do.
“Borin, we’re going to use the Lamp - I’ll go and get it, if you will then set it up and prime it, and make the other necessary arrangements.”
Using the Lamp was always a palaver. For one thing the …creature, for want of a better word … which lived inside it was relatively powerful and averse to manifesting itself without a good reason. Another thing was that, theoretically, anyone could use the Lamp, and could command the creature, so the exact means of activating it had to be kept secret. And for a third thing, it drew part of its energy from its user, which added to the risk in using it, and meant that, in practice, its power could be invoked once or twice a year and only for an hour or so.
“You’re sure about this ?”
“Unless you’ve a better idea ?”
Borin shook his head and went out, crossing over with Mike Bonallack, who was in charge of the event’s security.
“I heard you wanted to speak,” he said, as a crescendo of noise from outside made him wince to wonder what he would find had happened when he returned.
“Yes - How many St. John’s Ambulance do you have on hand ? Only I was going to recommend that have them ready, just in case my act … has an effect on some of the audience.”
“What have you in mind ?”
”Oh, nothing you need worry about - but I have a soft spot for well-behaved children, and I can’t see why the noisy ones should be allowed to spoil the day for the quieter ones.”
To look at, the Lamp was nothing special. However, the fact that it was transported in a sealed, metal-bound box (those seals of lead, and impressed with … interesting … sigils), and that it was never left unattended away from Chelsea, might have hinted that it was slightly out of the ordinary.
In the sanctity of the van which was carrying their sets and gear, Concarnadine opened the dimensions and retrieved the box from where it lay, behind a false wall in the cellar of the Chelsea house. He checked the seals, and also checked the silver scissors which were attached to the side of the box. Satisfied that all was in order, he carefully carried it back into the house, and down the stairs to the lower floor, from which he and Borin were due to emerge.
Once there, he carefully snipped the seals off, using the scissors, opened the box and removed the carefully wrapped bundle within and, intoning all the time a verse from a book most libraries denied existed, removed the wraps and handed the lamp to Borin.
“Five minutes and it’ll all be ready,” Borin said, dourly.
“I’d best finish my other preparations, then.”
“So what you’re saying -- ?”
“I don’t know what I’m saying, Mr. Meronin - only, how sure are you about him ?”
“Well, I’ve never heard of - Oh, my God !! That was a tree !!”
Bonallack looked out of the window, then shrugged.
“It’s gone now - and some of my men are going over there to restore order … ”
“Where were we - oh, yes; Concarnadine. Sir Theo invited him personally; he’s been on television - I don’t know any reason not to trust him.”
“All right - but if anything happens, I won’t be in a position to take action until I can get there.”
“If it will make you feel better, I’ll come out onto the Terrace at the right time.”
“Then you want to be moving now, Mr. Meronin: he’s on in five minutes.”
Meronin swallowed and went to get his top coat. On the way he had to pass the pained and slightly incensed face of the estate’s chief gardener, who had also, quite obviously, seen the damage being done to his trees and lawns.
The crash of thunder came from what had been a mostly clear sky. It drew quite a lot of attention - adults couldn’t understand where it had come from, smaller or more timid children wondered what the bang was; older and more cynical ones wondered whether the bang came with appropriate bucks.
Then the crash came again, more subdued, and from a direction - then suddenly the music started: a high trumpeting call, one that stirred the blood and definitely drew even more attention.
Had they but known it, it was merely the theme music from a 1960s television series, with the original thunder enhanced. Then, as it faded, a bass voice announced: “My lords, ladies, and gentlemen, and children of all ages - may I present, from the theatres of Paris, Venice, Rome, Vienna and fair London, the master of mystery, the cloaked conjurer, the one, the only, Concarnadine.”
Light blossomed into a second sun, right above the terrace, and then faded, to reveal, dressed in opera cloak and top hat, the man himself.
He held up a smart silver-topped walking stick and, even as some of the more jaded among his audience were starting to make critical comments, about all mouth and no … other things (and their parents were being suitable horrified), the sweets began to rain down. Except that, had there been anyone watching, seeing patterns in the apparent chaos, he or she might have noticed that the sweets tended to concentrate in the areas of the quieter children, and those who believed.
Most of what he did was, in fact, the sort of thing that ought to have been invisible, because it was close-up rather than large-scale. But, somehow, all the children that wanted to could see what he was doing. Mainly he used cards, balls, and doves, making them appear and vanish, or change into one another.
Little by little, however, parts of the audience became restive. A degree of boredom settled in on some of the older boys and there was talk of rebellion and a mass attack on the ice-cream vans. Which was when Concarnadine called for the Lamp.
“You’ve all, I imagine, heard tales of magic lamps - well, this is one of them.” He held the lamp up. “You rub it, and … well, shall we try it ?” He produced a bright-yellow duster from thin air and used it to rub the lamp’s surface. “Generally,” he went on, “the stories say you get a genie, which can grant your wishes.” A purplish vapour seemed to pour from the Lamp and to coalesce into a vaguely human-shaped figure, floating above the terrace.
If there had been anyone not watching Concarnadine, this development seemed to catch them, but as the figure seemed strangely immobile, the turmoil began to manifest itself again on the outskirts of the crowd. And then, on a whispered word from Concarnadine, the vaporous figure stretched out immensely long arms and insubstantial hands, and scooped up the troublemakers, and they and it disappeared.
In the stunned silence, Concarnadine produced a rabbit from a hat for a little girl whose birthday it was, then made a hutch, food, and water appear from out of an empty carrier bag.