New Albion by Dwayne Brenna

time. The other actors looked about them in disbelief. Pratty sat, beaming at us with red-faced pride.
    “A good beginning,” Mr. Wilton allowed in measured tones. He was still staring at the pages in front of him. “But where is the harlequinade?”
    Mr. Farquhar Pratt chuckled to himself softly, as if he were enjoying a joke which none else present could fathom. “There is no harlequinade,” he said, at last. “There is only the Kingdom of Needles and Pins.”
    “No harlequinade?” responded Mrs. Wilton with a look of disbelief. “But my public is expecting me to perform the role of Columbine. I always perform the role of Columbine. And is there no dance for the Parisian Phenomenon?” The Parisian Phenomenon was, at that moment, primping her hair and staring samurai swords at Mr. West.
    “No dancing, madam,” replied Mr. Farquhar Pratt. “The new British pantomime will not tolerate anything so frivolous.”
    “What exactly is the Kingdom of Needles and Pins?” The question belonged to Mr. Wilton, who asked it soberly.
    “’Tis a Kingdom of the Imagination,” responded Pratty, “where life is everlasting and the good Luddite workers ply their trade in textile factories across the nation. There are only two enemies to the natural growth of such a state – the power loom and corrosion. The first of these is a man-made obstacle and can be dealt with easily by the workers, who threaten with muskets to tear down the local factory. The second is a natural enemy against whom the Needles and Pins wage a constant battle. Rust!” Pratty said the word emphatically, grinding a stubby finger into the table for effect. “Rust! Destroyer of all things. In the end, the New British Pantomime shall be a darker vehicle than its predecessor. It shall be the dark chariot of the four horsemen, the gondola which takes dead souls across the river Styx.” His oration done, Pratty looked expectantly from face to face.
    The good Mr. Simpson, who is nothing if not the soul of politeness, was the first to react. “Is this quite serious?” he asked mildly, his face as inquisitive as a blind mole’s in the summer sunlight. “Or is this a jest of some sort?”
    His eyes narrowing, Mr. Farquhar Pratt paused and then said, “Oh yes, it is serious, sir. More than serious.”
    Our costume mistress, Charlotte Hayes, was next to speak. The diminutive woman was shaking with her habitual shyness, but apprehension had forced her to find a voice. “May I ask,” she quavered, “what kinds of costumes they wear in the Kingdom of Needles and Pins?”
    “Why, costumes of steel, of course,” replied Pratty. “The characters are themselves needles and pins.”
    Like a frightened bird, Mrs. Hayes commenced to quiver; her eyes darted to and fro. “We still have chain mail left over from last year’s Shakespearean Festival. Would that suffice?”
    “Use what you will,” Pratty responded. “The writing will be forceful, as usual, and so will be the act of imagination behind it. The costumes will hardly be noticed.”
    It was the Chief Stagehand Mr. Sharpe who spoke next. He had been sitting as if he was unused to a chair. He tapped his sharp knuckles against the table. “Here then,” he said, his jaw thrust forward like a man who is permanently suspicious of actor-laddies and their stock playwright friends, “and what am I to make of the decor?”
    Pratty waved his hand vaguely again. “Why, the inside of a lady’s sewing box would be apt. All padded satin with needles stuck into it. The actors could sit on thimbles and spools of thread.”
    A silence descended upon the assembled company, broken only when Mr. Wilton said doubtfully, “Well then. I think we have to give Mr. Farquhar Pratt credit for creating something which is highly original and no doubt meritorious. And I think we have to trust his judgment in the matter when he tells us that it will be both entertaining and morally wholesome.” He looked around the table at the