The Jester's Election
Fiction: An eight year old boy learns a truth about the world that most adults choose not to see, from an unlikely, and not entirely benign, source.
This short story was written for the Soaring Twenties Social Club (STSC) Symposium with the timely theme of “E_ection” (Election, Erection, Ejection, etc). If you are a writer interested in the STSC, see more details at the end of the post.
Alvar stopped and watched the colorful puppets dancing on the little stage, beguiled, as he had never been before in all his eight years. He began walking toward the stage, inexorably drawn toward the festive little characters. His father grabbed his hand and pulled him back, urging him to hurry along, but Alvar ignored him: He wished to stay and watch the mesmerizing marionettes!
“I’m so beautiful! Everyone loves me!” cried the first little puppet in a flowing red dress. She held her tiny paper mâché hands against her chest and batted her eyes at the laughing crowd.
“Oh, Pu-leese, Narcissus,” said the other puppet, a blue chameleon, “the only person who loves you is you. These fine folk can clearly see that I, The Blue Chameleon, am the most logical candidate for best puppet! I’ve been in puppetry far longer than you have. Folks, I'm asking for your vote for best puppet at the end of this show. In return, I promise you all a magical day, a wonderful life, and that the odds will ever be in your favor.”
Alvar turned to his father excitedly and asked, “Da! Can I stay here and watch? Please?”
“Very well, Alvar, I’ll go across the street and procure some street food for a mid-day nunch. How do goldenroot fritters sound?”
“Fritters would be goodly, Da! Thank ye!” Alvar responded gratefully.
“Aye, son, be right back. But don’t move from this spot, d’ya hear?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good boy,” said Da. He tousled Alvar’s hair and then meandered through the crowd to cross the street to the line of street vendor carts where proprietors hawked their aromatic delicacies.
Alvar turned back toward the puppet show.
The two marionettes danced on a small stage which was an opening cut out of a much larger box. The stage was positioned at about eye level for Alvar. The strings tied to their tiny limbs ran upwards and disappeared behind a large partition above the stage. And, on the front of that partition was painted the face of a smiling jester along with the name of the show – The Jester’s Election.
Alvar worked his way up to the front row. Wiggling one’s way to the front row of a puppet show is a skill every eight year old knows innately, though it didn’t hurt to be a tad small for one’s age, as Alvar was.
The little red puppet, Narcissus, finished her dance and turned toward Chameleon, “Folks, Chameleon here can’t promise you a magical day, he can’t promise you anything. He wouldn’t know how to piss in a chamberpot even if I penned the instructions on a scroll for him!”
The crowd roared with laughter and Narcissus danced a little jig that made her little red gown flow around her. Then she threw her little arms in the air accepting the laughter of the adoring crowd.
Narcissus continued, “And that’s why, Chameleon, these fine people, will vote for me as the best puppet!”
“Well, Narcissist,” said Chameleon, “let me tell you a thing or two! See here now: This is an extremely important election. People should vote for me because I understand that people in the crowd are rightly concerned about, well, the issues. And boy do I have issues…”
The Chameleon started cackling madly.
“Oh, I’ll say you certainly do have issues, Chameleon,” said Narcissus.
The crowd laughed again.
The Chameleon ignored the laughter and continued, “I…I..mean Narcissus that I understand that people are concerned about the issues. After all, I, myself, grew up in a working class family. And I, just like many hard working people today, had to walk to work every day, uphill, in the snow, both ways! Just like you fine folk!”
The Chameleon turned to face the crowd, “You sir, in the front row, where are you from?”
“Me?” asked a bald, middle-aged man standing next to Alvar.
“Yes sir, you, but because I am also from a working class upbringing, I can tell from where you hail by your accent; You sir are from The Havens, are you not?” replied Chameleon in an obviously studied Haven accent, “I also hail from The Havens! But don’t you fine folk worry! I will, as best puppet, take care of everyone!”
“You're a liar!” shouted Narcissus, pointing at The Chameleon, “See folks, he claims to be from The Havens. But he lies! Why in the show ere this one, he claimed to be from Brookfield and spoke in a Brookfieldian accent!”
“No!” The Blue Chameleon shouted, “That was you who said that. You're the liar and a traitor to puppets! Folks, vote for me to save puppetry!”
“Puppetry! What would you, Chameleon, know of puppetry? You’re only standing on this stage because of who you know – you must have friends in high places.”
Narcissus looked at the crowd and then pointed at The Chameleon’s strings and finally looked pointedly toward the top of the stage where, above the stage, the face of a friendly jester was painted on the front of the pavilion.
The crowd chuckled.
The little puppets faced the small audience and bowed.
“Thank you all for watching," said The Chameleon to the crowd, “That concludes our little play on politics. Donations are welcome. Don’t forget to vote for me as the best puppet on your way out! May the sky shine upon you today here in Val’Mora.”
“And thank you all for loving me so much!” yelled Narcissus, “And, of course, all you lovely people will be voting for me, Narcissus as best puppet! I, after all, am what makes puppetry great! And furthermore, who would want to vote for a chameleon? At least I look like a person!”
The crowd chuckled and clapped politely as they started to disperse back into the market square.
Alvar lingered, staring at the puppets, who were still waving at the retreating backs of the audience.
The partition above the stage opened and Alvar gasped as he saw the man inside the box, staring directly at him.
The man wore a hooded cloak of deep black, and his face was painted gray and black depicting a skull. His bright purple eyes locked upon Alvar from the painted ‘eye sockets.’
“You scared me!” Alvar blurted.
“You scared me too!” cried a little girl who had, like Alvar, had dawdled after the show.
“Children, listen to me carefully,” said The Jester in a deep, powerful voice, “We should all be scared from time to time. Instinctive fear, if we heed it, often tells us how we should protect ourselves and those we love. Ho! Ho! Ho! Fortunately, for me, most people have learned to suppress and ignore their instincts! Ha! Ha! Ha!”
“You don’t look like a friendly Jester,” said Alvar.
The Jester responded, “I deal in truth and lies, boy, not friendliness.”
“Still,” Alvar responded, “You didn’t have to scare me.”
“Or me!” said the little girl with a pout.
The Jester’s motions were fluid, smooth and calculated, signaling an edge of danger, as if he were a she-lion stalking her prey. His cloak shimmered and Alvin now realized that, as it rippled, it seemed more deep purple than black, but occasionally, when the light reflected in just the right way, Alvin saw that its intricate pattern of woven threads, seemed to scintillate with other colors, and it confused the eye and confounded the mind.
“Your cloak changes colors!” Alvar cried.
“You boy,” said The Jester to Alvar, “you are perceptive. What’s your name?”
“Alvar.”
“Alvar. Alvar.” The Jester whispered the name over and over, softly, as if tasting it, as if contemplating a deep mystery.
“I believe your name, Alvar, is short for the name Alvarüirial in high elvish. It means something like one who dives deep for truth?, does it not?”
“Um. I don’t know, Jester, sir, my father did tell me my name had something to do with truth. How do you make your cloak change colors?”
“You are a seeker of knowledge! My cloak doesn’t change colors. That is your mind. To most, my cloak appears black or dark purple. But that is an illusion. Most people don’t notice the true colors because most people do not pay attention. Most people live, Alvar, in a comfortable illusion. They don’t want to know the truth, though they lie to themselves and pretend otherwise. And men who don’t want to know the truth, men who follow only ideology, are as easily misled for the purposes of the powerful as goblins are misled to serve the designs of dark necromancers.
“The cloak is woven of very fine threads of red, blue and black, and other threads I don’t wish to divulge, which your eye mixes, when you don’t pay attention, into purple. You must always remember Alvar, if you wish to seek truth, to pay close attention to everything. As The Jester, I sell illusion and profit from truth. It is quite fitting for an illusionist with purple eyes to wear a robe of purple that isn’t purple, don’t you think?”
“Yes, sir.” Alvar said, just like his Da had taught him to say when he wasn’t sure what a grown up was talking about.
“Alvar. Truth.” The Jester continued, “Yes, Alvar, the truth seeker I name thee! And true names are powerful incantations, although most people have forgotten that as well. No matter. Most people never seek their true name and one rarely discovers truth without seeking! Ho! Ho! Ho! He! He! He! Fiddly Fiddly Figee! Look at me!”
The Jester laughed a moment and then became serious again, “So, Alvar, since you are a truth seeker, even if you don’t know it yet, I’ll tell you a truth, a big one – but it’s a secret. Can you keep a secret, Alvar?”
Alver nodded solemnly.
“Very well, Alvar, here’s the secret…”
The Jester looked left and right, as if making sure nobody was watching or listening, and then he lifted up his hands so that Alvar could see them. He wore gloves with strings tied to each finger. The strings connected the gloves and the puppets. The Jester laughed, wiggled his fingers and the two dolls danced on the stage.
Alvar and the little girl giggled. The Jester joined them, throwing his head back and cackling.
“You see, Alvar, most people will spend their whole life paying attention to one puppet or the other. They think if everyone would just follow their puppet’s ideas, all ills would be cured. But puppets deal only in lies, while I, The Jester, deal in truths unseen. And, here’s the truth: I am in total control of both puppets, and the people at all times.”
“How?” Alvar asked.
“Good question, Alvar! Listen carefully.”
The Jester threw his head back and sang:
All have strings; they connect to me;
But not all strings can you see, you see!
Kings and nobles laugh at me;
But I’m the unseen king of kings!
He chuckled and continued, “You’d do well to remember that, Alvar. He! He! He! I can make puppets do and say whatever I want. Peasants, nobles, kings and merchants all pay homage and tribute to me, The Jester, and most don’t even know it!”
“But you only control the puppets here! It’s just a show!” Alvar cried.
“Do I? Is it? It certainly seems that way. The biggest secret of all is that the king is yet another pawn controlled by The Jester, who is the only one in court who is truly free and can rule from the unseen shadows; for only The Jester can tell the truth without being killed. Purple is the color of true royalty, you know. It is the color worn by true kings and The Jester is the unseen king of kings. Allow me to demonstrate, Alvar. Watch.”
“I can make the red puppet on the right dance,” Narcissus performed a little dance.
“I can make the blue puppet on the left dance,” The Chameleon did a little jig.
“I can make them fight,” the Jester wiggled his eyebrows and fingers and the two puppets started ‘boxing.’
And, then the Jester looked right into Alvar’s eyes and said, “And, Alvar, when puppets no longer serve me; when I have no further use for them; I simply destroy them!”
The Jester slammed both of his hands down as hard as he could.
Alvar jumped. The little girl screamed.
The Jester, chuckling, slowly lifted his hands and the little girl next to Alvar started crying.
Both paper mâché puppets had been flattened onto the stage. Ruined.
“You killed them!” the little girl yelled. Tears welled up in her large blue eyes.
“Yes,” The Jester laughed, “but no matter, no matter. Pitter Patter! Pitter Patter! It’s all in good fun, they were never really in control of anything after all, I was. It’s not like they matter.”
“Furthermore, Alvar,” The Jester continued while he threw the destroyed puppets behind him, “I can replace them with two more exactly like them any time I want! There are plenty of puppets to be found in this world and puppets are easy to control! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho! Ho! I control them all! I rule the show!”
He pulled two new puppets out from behind his back somewhere. They looked exactly like the first two.
He dropped the two new red and blue puppets onto the stage and sang a little song while they danced.
Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
Ensnare them with strings
and they’ll dance for you!
Violets are blue.
Roses are red.
pluck them from soil
and they’ll both be dead!
He! He! He! He!
Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!
Come one come all
In thrall to my show!
The blue and the red,
Circus and bread.
The Ringmaster’s deeds.
Who feeds and who bleeds?
I’ll make them fight,
dance and dance faster.
But nobody knows
that I’m the real Master!
The little girl started giggling nervously and The Jester cackled with her.
Alvar watched the puppets for a moment as they danced and then he looked up at The Jester, who was no longer laughing but was staring intently…directly at Alvar.
Alvar’s bright green and gold eyes locked with The Jester’s dark purple ones.
“Alvar, come along! I have your fritter! It’s almost midday,” yelled Da from somewhere behind Alvar, “The candidates for aldermen speak soon in the city square, and I want to go thither ere they do!”
Yes, Alvar,” the Jester said, “run along now. Pay close attention to what the aldermen candidates say or, more specifically, what they don’t say. I suspect, after the truth that I have revealed to you today, that you will find their promises of bread and the circus of their pomp and circumstance quite… illuminating.”
The Jester grinned wide showing his bright white teeth and Alvar shuddered.
This piece was written for the Soaring Twenties Social Club (STSC) Symposium. The STSC is a small, exclusive online speakeasy where a dauntless band of raconteurs, writers, artists, philosophers, flaneurs, musicians, idlers, and bohemians share ideas and companionship. Occasionally, STSC members create something around a set theme. This time the theme was “E_ection.” If you are a writer, I encourage you to consider joining us, I’ve included details at the bottom of this post. Lastly, you can find all my past symposium pieces by clicking here.
If you’d like to support independent writing online, you can subscribe to the STSC publication here. If you are a writer yourself, I encourage you to join us. You’d be joining a group of like minded compatriots. We have nearly 300 incredible writers & artists in our private Discord group (which will be capped at 300). As an author member, you’d have the opportunity to have your own writing appear on the STSC publication. To become a writing member, simply sign up as a premium subscriber on our founder’s, Thomas J. Bevan, personal Substack by clicking here. Once you do, Tom will send you an invite for our Discord group. Tell him “Clintavo” sent you!
Conosco solamente un bambino di nove anni , tramite una strabiliante " MEME ", chiede papà perché " NON SIAMO A TESTA IN GIU' " ..................
Ermanno Ricci e non RICCI ERMANNO