The Dance of the Jester

 

The Dance of the Jester

 

Two hours is all I have to write this, according to the cheap plastic clock ticking away in the silence of this concrete room. I’ve been staring at it for the last fifteen minutes, just trying to get it all straight in my head. I suppose in a sense I have all the time in the world. Twenty-five years, anyway. Might as well be forever. Time doesn’t really move the same way in prison. But I want to get this out today, so I know I’ve said it all and someone somewhere has read it. I need to know that or I’ll go crazy in here.

I’ve lost everything, I’ll say that to start with. I suppose you guessed that already. The words ‘prison’ and ‘twenty-five years’ are something of a giveaway. But it’s not just my freedom. Out there I have no family. No girlfriend. No house. No money. I have literally nothing left. It was all taken from me. I stared too hard at the Jester, you see, and – to borrow a philosophical metaphor – he stared back.

You won’t know of the Jester, I’m sure. I don’t even know if I should tell you, but that’s the fun of it I guess. Would the same have happened to me if I hadn’t stumbled on that awful knowledge? Will I condemn you by telling you this? I don’t know. Only the Jester can say for sure.

I first learned of the Jester in a small shop off an unremarkable side street in Camden. It was the usual thing, a trendy shop in a trendy area for trendy people, selling rubbish at inflated prices. I was with a girl, who said her name was Flower. I guess I was trying to impress her by faking an eclectic appreciation for weird arty things, like the ornaments made of matchsticks or the hand painted pebbles with oh-so-deep messages written on them.

The things we do to impress.

So I found a little wooden model. It was about six inches tall, a little case enclosed on five sides with a gap in the front. In the gap stood a wooden figure, suspended on strings that disappeared into the box. Like a soldier in his box at Buckingham Palace, except he looked like a court jester. A harlequin in a three-cornered hat with tiny bells on the end, a motley tunic and green-and-red diamond patchwork tights. Very flashy, hand-carved, and decidedly unsettling. Its mouth was far too wide, stretched into a broad smile that reached from one side of his face to the other, in a deep V shape. Tiny teeth glittered in that mouth, and I remember thinking it looked a little like a shark’s grin. The eyes were closed, as though the little puppet were in the throes of ecstasy. Around it, little balls of various colours were suspended on their own strings. I counted ten, but as I looked at it I felt as though there were more. Many more. The illusion was unsettling.

‘He is the Jester,’ a voice said near my ear, making me jump and flush with embarrassment. No one wants to jump like that when trying to impress a girl. The old man who’d spoken was strange looking, shifty in a way, with twitchy little eyes. He was nervously tugging at the shawl spread across his shoulders.

‘He dances,’ the old man said gravely, staring at me. I stared back, not knowing what to say. To break the tension, I assume, Flower reached over and picked up the little toy and started twisting the base. It clicked, and I realised it was wind-up. Grateful for the distraction, I watched as she set it down and, sure enough, the little harlequin started dancing in jerky, odd movements. I couldn’t believe how intricate it was. The little balls would drop, and just when you thought one would touch the base the little man’s foot or hand would touch it, and up it would go again. Somehow, the puppet’s inhuman contortions managed to keep all the balls from touching the floor; I was astounded at the masterful clockwork that must have been going on inside it. When it slowed and stopped, I decided I had to have it.

The old man seemed pleased, but insisted on telling me the thing’s story. I arranged my face into what I hoped looked like intelligent interest for the benefit of Flower, and endured the lesson I now obsess about in my cell.

The old man told me it was a representation of the Dance of the Jester. Essentially, a symbol of fate. The Jester juggles everything for all of us, constantly in motion, an eternal and unfathomable dance of possibility. The balls represent aspects of life, our happiness, our family, our finances, everything. He flings them up and catches others, spinning his oddly elongated body in fantastical, impossible arrangements so you can never know for sure which ball will be caught, which will fall, which will rise. And which will smash to pieces at his feet.

‘The point,’ the man continued, with a glance at Flower that I did not care for, ‘is that we must be humble before the nightmare of endless possibility. Should we petition the great unknown for a rise in fortune in one area, there is no telling the effect on another.’ I nodded sagely, surreptitiously glancing at Flower.

‘Does he answer?’ she asked.

‘The Jester may hear you,’ the old man nodded, ‘and carelessly fling a ball high without another thought, dancing on as though you had not interrupted. He might, however, despise you for asking. For having the temerity to presume a favour. For failing to accept the beauty of his dance at face value. A wise man is simply grateful when things go his way, and asks nothing of the universe for himself. To do anything otherwise is to tempt the Jester.’

When this waffle was over I handed him my credit card and more or less told him to get on with it. That was a mistake, I now realise. The shifty fellow disappeared into his back room for far too long. But I had the creepy little jester figure and I took it home.

Later that night I decided to give it a wind, just because I was bored. I was thinking about Flower, and wondering where things might lead with her, and I saw that one of the tiny balls was pink. I figured pink was for love, so I wound up the base and asked for an improvement in my love life. I thought no harm could come of it, after all it was just a toy bought for no reason other than to share an experience with a pretty girl.

But the damn thing danced and jerked, and the pink ball, weirdly enough, actually ended up rising. The grotesque little man ended up with one arm outstretched and one leg bent backwards, having appeared to fling the pink ball up. I didn’t pay any attention to the others, one of which was green, and which was hovering by the red-painted toes.

My date with Flower the next day seemed to go well, though she confessed that she hadn’t liked that I’d bought the little toy. I was surprised, but I figured it was more the creepy shopkeeper she hadn’t liked. But then I handed my card over to the waiter. The card was declined. My heart froze, as I tried again and again. Declined. Flower was not impressed; and I went into a panic. I guess I wasn’t good company just then, but I was scared.

I had to wait until the next day to get a response from my bank, and they confirmed all my money had been withdrawn overseas. Someone had gotten hold of my card details, and I immediately remembered the old man and how long he’d spent in the back room with my card. By the time evening came my nerves were thoroughly frazzled. I sat drinking alone in my house, and glanced at the Jester toy. It occurred to me that perhaps that little green ball had been for money, and I laughed bitterly. By this point the police had confirmed they were dealing with it, but I admit I was only half-joking when I wound the thing again and asked, belligerently, for the money-ball to be raised. Weirdly, again, the green was scooped up by the first movement of that little red toe and flung upwards. This time the pink ball stopped near its knees, and two or three others actually touched the base. It was then that I had a horrible feeling that the grin was wider, and that although closed those eyes were somehow looking at me. I put it down to the drink.

The next morning Flower called me, said she wanted to be friends. It was too soon after her last relationship, and last night had been ‘too intense’. On the plus side, the bank said my money might be refunded if the police confirmed I’d been the victim of identify fraud. It all seemed perfectly logical, but I couldn’t help staring at the nasty little harlequin in his box. My love life had fallen, like the pink ball, and my money crisis was recovering, like the green ball. The thought chilled me a little, as though I was playing with something best left well alone.

I was still staring at it when I received the text from my brother. My mother had just had another heart attack. I flew into a mad panic, grabbing my wallet and keys and heading for the door, when my eyes came to rest again on the Jester. I felt it staring back, daring me, and behind it a dark ball I hadn’t noticed before was hovering just by its feet. I took a step toward the door, trying to tell myself not to be so stupid. None of what had happened was connected to that damn toy; I’d acted weird on the date, I’d let some creep clone my card and my mother already had a bad heart. But then the old man’s words came back to me. The toy was only a representation of something people believe in all around the world. Tempting fate.

I found myself standing by the Jester, hesitating, all my thoughts directed at fate and consequence. My fingers brushed the base absently. The painted grin seemed even wider. Then I was winding it, hoping, begging, crying for my mother’s life as guilt wracked me and I gave in to selfish hope. The Jester danced, its contortions rapid and grotesque to watch. The knee jerked up, the hands swept down, the neck spun and the eyes flew open. I jumped back, horrified at the sight of those red-painted eyes, as the strings snapped and the balls fell from their cords, rolling and bouncing off the mantelpiece. The puppet collapsed to its knees, the disjointed arms hanging loose by its side. The eyes gleamed and the grin seemed to contort, as though with a mocking scream of laughter I could almost hear.

Well. I ran, I screamed and I cried. I railed against the cruelty of fate. My mother died. Over the next few weeks my life collapsed. I didn’t get the money back. Flower vanished. I spiralled down into the dark. I did things I didn’t think I could do. Would never have done before. And now here I am, in a cell.

I can’t really blame anyone but myself. The Jester is a metaphor, a stupid superstition. What happened to me was my own doing. But sometimes, in the dark after lights out, I see those red-painted eyes and that vicious shark-like grin. The balls crashing around his knees. I see him out there in the great beyond, spinning and dancing, laughing his cruel laugh.

I see the Jester. The Jester sees me.

And he sees you.

Copyright (c) 2023 Steven Jackson