‘When the concert came to an end, and the knight finally walked away from the square, he found himself suffering a particularly uncontrollable emotion; avarice. He could grant the jewel to his king, as he was bound to do, but as for the harp: that he would retain for himself – and the harp, of course, was a far greater prize than the glittering gem!
‘You see, in the emptiness of his own heart, he saw only the importance of the earthly, the material. He could only ever perceive the body, never the soul. And so he failed to see that, within our earthly existence, one without the other will forever be nothing.
‘After each concert, the harp was taken back to the mayor’s house, where – the knight soon learned, from a people who failed to detect the avarice in his heart – it was kept locked safely away in a cellar, well below the waterline, and guarded by a number of armed men.
‘Of course, not even the strongest locks can resist the turning of a key taken from a dead man’s belt. The knight swept through the armed men as if they were nothing but corn awaiting harvest. He was well practised in killing, inured to the agony he caused, going about his business as calmly and efficiently as any farmer will carve up his pigs for sale.
‘The harp sensed that agony, however. She played a tune so full of horror and remorse that, had the knight heard it, he would have – for the first time in his life – empathised with the terror of his victims, the pain he was inflicting on them.
‘Yet he had prepared for this very eventuality: he had thickly padded the inside of his helm with rags of every size, blocking out any sound, even the clash of swords, the screams of dying men.
‘The harp also felt the deep coldness in the knight’s heart: and this confused her far more than the wails of men being forced to leave this life too early.
‘As the knight drew nearer, she could have resorted to a refrain calling for help. And yet she chose not to.
‘She chose instead an intensely sad, mournful melody. She played it with an intensity that had never been heard, even in her own unimaginably wonderful repertoire. For this was a symphony of sorrow, of suffering: and this was how she herself felt.
‘For what many saw as her gift, her blessing, had always been nothing more than a curse.
‘She had endured unrequited love, the loss of loved ones, the humiliation of defeat. She had experienced hate, jealousy, greed, envy, fear, pain, all in great measure.
‘Happiness, on the other hand, had always been so short lived, so fragmentary and brief.
‘It was a great shame that her abductor was incapable of hearing her music. For it was the most sublime piece of music anyone had ever heard or would ever hear again.
‘It was so beautiful, even the sky began to tremble with sympathy, to cry out in thunderous horror at the suffering it now witnessed and shared.
‘The sea rose up in protest, unable to bear any longer this sense of the most torturous agony, the injustice of such punishment being inflicted on someone so inherently good and pure.
‘The stones themselves wept, their strength and steadfastness crumbling, dissolving.
‘When the knight elatedly grabbed at the harp, the walls could offer no resistance to a sea remorselessly beating at them. They gave way before the pummelling waves, waves urged into a frenzy by a shrieking wind.
‘Even though the waves flowed around the harp, they didn’t stop her playing: rather, they absorbed the tune, vibrated with it, making each note more hollow, adding to its emotion of a great emptying, a withdrawal of all that was known, a retreat into the unknown.
‘For the harp knew what it was like to die: oh yes, she surely knew. For hadn’t she died on so many innumerable occasions? She had sensed and shared the fears, the dread of the oncoming darkness, of so many people who had died around her, death brought about through every means known.
‘It was a song she had never dared play, however, fearing the effect such a mournful, dreaded harmony would have on those still living.
‘Now, of course, she saw no reason to hold back from playing this song she had secretly held within her own heart for so long. The only person nearby was already dying himself; he already knew this tune of death.
‘Moreover, she herself was dying: yes, she knew it’s feeling so well, she was perfectly capable of recognising the real thing from the mere experience.
‘Yet this was a whole new experience to her, this sense of an irresistibly oncoming, overcoming and overwhelming darkness, this sense of being fought over by two worlds, the soul being dragged one way, the body another. She had felt it all before, but now, she knew, it was filed with an unavoidable, crushing finality.
‘She would soon be all alone. Lost. Forsaken.
‘Unlike the knight, this didn’t fill her with any sense of dread. She welcomed it.
‘And as she let herself go in this way, to accept the inevitable, the worldly experience of tearing ceased: and though a simple soul such as I can’t possibly know what lies on the other side of that darkness, I know that there is another side that welcomed her, that didn’t forsake her.
‘Did the knight see this other world? Was he welcomed there?
‘Of course, he saw only what he expected to see. The emptiness that existed within his own heart.
‘For in his earthly naiveté, he could never see that in this other world, the body is forever nothing.’
And as the ass finished his tale, the moon became once more a blank, a sheet of nothing more than a glaring, blinding whiteness.
‘You could learn much if you stayed here with me,’ the ass assured me, glancing up at me as he wearily bowed his head under his great burdens. ‘Even for those incapable of achieving the true revelation, much can be revealed to those who seek it. In seeking the truth, you open yourself up to living forever.’
‘Truth, indeed, is what I seek,’ I answered, my eye still on that glittering pearl seemingly lying just a few short strides ahead of us.
I had found what I sought; found it forever lying just beyond my grasp.
And yet…that wasn’t true.
‘Then welcome,’ the ass declared in reply to my assertion that I sought only the truth. ‘This can indeed be your home.’
I only half heard his welcome: for it had dawned on me that this glorious pearl was within my grasp after all.
For wasn’t it contained within this universe, a universe which was itself contained with the gem of lapis lazuli?
And so I stepped away from this foolish, over-burdened ass.
I grabbed the stone, wrenching it away from its useless surroundings; a stone fitting so easily into my hand.
As I blocked off the light reaching down to the stone, everything darkened.
The universe vanished.
For now I held it all in my hand!
*
Chapter 15
As the knight finished his tale recounting his retrieval of the lapis lazuli, he theatrically opened up his clenched hand to reveal it: and gasped in horror when he saw his palm was empty.
Everyone within the court, even those who tried to restrain themselves, laughed at his abrupt shock and discomfort.
The king stilled their laughter, drawing the poor knight’s attention to the stone of royal blue now adorning the breastplate.
‘Don’t fret, Sir Jafren,’ he said. ‘The stone is here, safe and well.’
‘And yet, I see no pearl!’ the queen observed sourly.
‘My lady, the pearl we sought is safely contained within the stone! I saw it there for myself!’
Once again, there was a burst of barely restrained, doubtful chuckles and guffaws from the assembled knights and ladies.
‘Are you saying I would lie?’ Sir Jafren snapped, turning on them all angrily.
‘And so where is this fabulous clock, that reveals so much?’ the queen scornfully demanded.
‘The clock was but this fabulous jewel’s setting, my lady!’ the knight insisted. ‘Just some unimportant device used to display it!’
&nbs
p; ‘And yet…’ the queen continued sceptically. ‘We see no universe. No pearl.’
‘And yet, Mother,’ the princess declared imperiously, ‘I clearly see the ass standing before us!’
*
The embroidery the princess was diligently working upon while she sat within the great hall was quite magnificent, everyone had to agree.
It was a vivid illustration of a section of the tale told by Sir Grandhan, when he recounted how his journey had been broken by a great, impregnable wall, with not a single gate along its vast length. A wall that been constructed by a stone-devouring Great Wyrm.
It was this remarkable event that the princess had decided to portray. As people witnessed its creation, however, they had murmured doubtfully at its depiction of the Great Wyrm as possessing the upper body of a naked, perfectly white-skinned woman.
‘It serves as an allusion to the Fall,’ the princess pointed out imperturbably whenever tentatively questioned about this. ‘For doesn’t this great, white wall have the most surprising connotations to our ejection and banishment from the Garden, when a naked Eve was tempted by the serpent?’
Naturally, it was an explanation that satisfied anyone who requested clues to the illustration’s meanings.
Only the prince, secretly, was dissatisfied by the princess’s answer.
For she had also portrayed nearby a gloriously white flower.
A lily.
Did his sister, the prince wondered, know of the tale of Lilith? Or was it all just an amazing coincidence?
His sister was still working on her embroidery. Still drawing the serpentine thread through the material, bringing the wall into being as surely and solidly as the Great Wyrm himself had done.
She was always at work on her embroidery, the prince thought as he inquisitively drew ever closer to her. She worked at it as if it were the most important thing in the entire world.
Since he had last looked at her embroidery, she had added Hiram the Great Architect himself. And, across his forehead, she had strewn a snaking swirl of red thread.
‘The Mark of Cain!’ the prince blurted out in surprise. ‘Why would you place such a thing upon Hiram’s forehead? The lineage of Cain failed to survive the Great Deluge; only Noah and his family came safely through the Flood!’
Giving the impression that she was suddenly surprised by his presence, the princess glanced up into her brother’s shocked face with a witheringly wry expression. Then, with equal nonchalance, she reached towards the stain of the red serpent and, with a flick of grasping fingers, pulled at the loose red thread.
She snapped the thread clear of the material, leaving Hiram’s forehead completely unmarked.
The prince blushed as red as the discarded thread.
‘I take it, brother,’ the princess sneered, going back to work on her embroidery, ‘you have never heard of Naamah, Noah’s wife?’
Still hugely embarrassed, still blushing a bright pink, the prince shook his head.
‘Naamah, consort of Samael, friend of Lilith, descendant of Cain–’
‘That’s not possible…’ the prince interrupted her unsurely.
The princess chuckled gleefully.
‘Unfortunately Brother, you missed the ridiculous tale told by a useless old crone who visited our realm: yet even she was wise enough to counsel against applying earthly reason to a time before such reasoning even existed.’
‘Why would you know all this of this Naamah?’
‘Because I made it my business to seek out more details of her life, of course, as it’s Naamah we must thank for showing us how to weave. Her brothers were also responsible for a civilising influence upon us all: Tubalcain introduced the working of metals, Jubal developed music, Jabal farmed cattle. Then again, wasn’t it Cain who first ploughed the land, who gave us the first great, walled cities – Ninevah, Erech, Akkad, Lagash – that protect us from the world?’
Unlike the prince, the princess didn’t seem in any way perturbed by an abrupt yelling that, transforming into angry cries, and wailing screams, swiftly flowed through the royal buildings. Drawing ever closer, ever louder, the cries were abruptly magnified as the great hall’s double doors were thrown open with a dully echoing thud.
A band of men-at-arms rushed in, urged on by a fiercely shrieking queen.
‘Take him, take the prince! He’s murdered our king!’
*
Chapter 16
Although the prince was both surprised and horrified by his mother’s accusation that he had killed his father, the instinct instilled within him by what were now many years of training took over, alleviating his panic, telling him to arm and protect himself by whatever means.
He spun away from his sister, rushing toward and leaping across the four thrones. Reaching up toward the breastplate hanging above them, he lifted it up and off its supporting beams, bringing with it the sword slung amongst its straps. It was this sword he required most desperately, most urgently of all: taking it firmly in his hand, he swung around to face the oncoming men-at-arms.
The soldiers slewed to a nervous halt. Yes, they outnumbered the prince; they would undoubtedly bring him down. But the prince had been expertly trained in the use of the sword, in fighting – he would undoubtedly take many of them with him. And the most likely to die would be the first to approach him.
‘Take him, take him!’ the queen shrieked in frustration, angered by the men’s unwillingness to approach the prince.
‘I didn’t kill anyone mother!’
It would have been expected of the prince to withdraw his dagger from his belt, giving him a weapon in each hand. Instead, he began to carefully, skilfully, slip into the loose straps of the breastplate, roughly tightening them as soon as it was in place.
‘Why would I kill my father, the man I loved?’
‘To take his throne, of course!’ the queen spat.
She was pushing hard on the backs of the armed men nervously crowding before her. Now that the prince was protected by a breastplate, they were more reluctant than ever to approach him.
The prince was warily backing away, heading towards the small door lying in the hall’s farthest corner, the entrance used by attendants and kitchen staff.
The princess continued to calmly work on her embroidery as if she remained completely unaware of the drama taking place around her. She pulled on a handful of silver threads – and five of the men-at-arms began to unsurely, hesitantly, advance towards the retreating prince. Their expressions weren’t those of men set on completing an onerous task, but ones of shocked disbelief that they were acting so stupidly.
‘Strand back,’ the prince warned, noting their caution and fear. ‘I will kill you!’
‘There, you have it from his own mouth!’ the queen declared triumphantly. ‘He’s prepared to kill to achieve his aims!’
The prince wasn’t listening to his mother’s outrageous claims. He’d noticed the way his sister was pulling on the threads of her embroidery, noticed the bewildered reticence etched across the faces of the cautiously advancing men.
He rushed towards the men, only to suddenly throw himself aside, to roll across the floor – and rise to his feet with his sword hanging over his sister’s head. He deftly brought the blade down, severing the threads she was using to manipulate the men.
On the cutting of the controlling threads, the men almost sagged dazedly to the floor, suffering the stupor of bewilderment.
Taking advantage of their confusion, the prince whirled on his heels, sprinted towards the servant’s door – and vanished through it, resigned to killing anyone who attempted to block his flight.
*
The prince knew of every secret passageway running through the castle’s walls. Passageways deliberately constructed as part of the very fabric of the castle at the time of its creation, there to provide routes of flight for the king or his heir should the fortifications themselves ever fail to protect them.
The king, his father, had shown him every on
e. Lead him down them all.
‘It’s all just a precaution, of course,’ he had reassured the young prince. ‘Our fortress is well built, intricately designed; no army could take it by legitimate means.’
The castle had fallen, in its way. And through the most illegitimate means too.
The murder of the king.
The murder of his father.
He had no time to weep.
No time to wonder how it had been achieved. Who had killed him.
He had to escape.
The final part of the tunnel complex leading towards the outside of the castle’s great walls was little more than a sloping, narrow, low chimney, it’s exit blocked and hidden from view to anyone outside by a plug of hollowed wood painted to look like stone. The prince had to slowly and gradually push this long, thin plug out before him, hoping to avoid the attention of anyone passing outside.
The chimney’s minute exit opened up into an area of deep shadow far away from any roads. It was also hard to view from either the battlements high above or the ground far below. Even so, anyone could be out in the nearby fields, even at this late hour chosen by the prince to make his escape.
Using the rope that was securely attached at one end to the tunnel walls, and to the wooden plug at the other, the prince first slowly lowered this plug down to the ground, then clambered down the dangling cord himself.
The plug of hollowed wood had been deliberately designed to provide floatation across the moat, yet the prince was nervous as he silently pushed it out into the cold waters, fearing that it might not be able to take his weight.
He found himself lying dangerously low in the water, but the wood kept him afloat despite his heavy breastplate and his determination to keep a hold of the sword.
It was an undignified way to leave the castle that should, by rights, have been his on the death of his father – but at least he was alive.
And that meant he could return one day, and claim what was rightfully his.
*
Chapter 17
It only took a few days to wipe the prince’s mind clear of any thoughts of returning to reclaim his kingdom.