Saturday Night Storytime - For Abram
Death And The Prince: A Serial Fairy Tale
Part I:
Once upon a time, there was a prince who lived in a castle in the middle of a dark forest. The castle was ancient, and no one could remember how long it had been there. Not that there were very many people around to remember such things at all; the prince was the last member of his family, and the castle was run by a very small staff of servants. The woods around the castle were inhabited by scattered household of rustics who paid scanty tribute to the prince. In many ways, the prince was poorer than his subjects. There were nights that his dinner table was graced by little more than a few worm-eaten apples and a mug of thin, watery beer. But he knew of no other way of life; of no home other than the castle, with its eroding stone walls and its unmanned turrets, its courtyard overgrown with birch and with blackthorn, its bookshelves rotting with mould, and its wine cellar left unstocked for generations. He knew nothing else, and so had no notion to be disappointed.
One day, the prince was wandering around one of the unused areas of the castle, an area that had collapsed decades or centuries ago and was now little more than a pile of rubble. It was a fine summer day, and the filtered sunlight was coming softly through the overhanging branches, illuminating the tiny creepers and vines which climbed the decayed stonework. He was swinging his stick jauntily and whistling when, all of a sudden, he stopped, and a thoughtful look came over his face. A few dozen feet in front of him, sitting on a rubble pile and slowly gnawing on a piece of bread, was an old man. The man was bald and gaunt, with thin, pale skin drawn tight across his bones. The prince had never seen him before, which was strange, for he knew everyone who lived in the castle and the forest by sight. He approached the stranger, and greeted him with a smile. After all, he was a prince, and it was his duty to be as hospitable and welcoming as possible.
The old man turned his head and responded to the prince. The two soon fell into discussion of the castle and its surrounding forest. The stranger was full of nothing but praise for them - for the patterns in the ivy on the castle walls and for the settling of the winter snows on the broken crenellations and battlements. The prince was glad to hear such effusive praise of his lands, especially from a stranger, and he said so. The old man smiled, and said "It is never a trouble to say good things that are true. Ah, but I can hear in your voice curiosity, as well as thanks. You long to know where I come from, who I am, and what brings me to such an out-of-the-way place as this. But you are too polite to ask. It is touching, for an old man like me, to hear such reverence and duty exercised towards the old forms and customs, now so replaced elsewhere with hot-headed brashness and impetuosity." He shook his head sadly and continued, the prince meanwhile taken aback at the stranger's own sudden brashness. "My name, kind sir prince, is Death, and I have come here from the land of the grey waste where the dead souls abide. I have come here to take my rest; rest from my weary rounds of marshaling the newly dead Gehenna-wards."
Had the prince been shocked by the stranger's brashness before, he was now speechless. He had felt some kinship with the man in their earlier conversation, as if here at last were some soul who understood his own life and could be trusted as confidante and friend. But to find out that the old man was merely some wandering lunatic - it made the prince sudden sad, sad with the loss of a dream still fresh and exciting in his mind. Nevertheless, by training and temperament both the prince was not the sort to let these emotions show for long, and he was soon master of his feelings. At some point in his youth, he had been instructed that the kindest, the noblest path to take with lunatics of the harmless sort is to humor them as much as possible, and let them live their imaginary lives unmolested.
He took this advice now, and so bowed low to the old man, saying "It is an honor to have you in our estate, noble sir. We do not often receive visitors of any sort, let alone ones as illustrious as yourself. I am afraid that we have not the resources to honor your arrival properly, but we will do what we can." In response, the old man said that none of that would be at all necessary, he was here to rest, and that pomp and lavish ceremony would only aggravate him. No, he would make his own arrangements, which response relieved the prince greatly, for despite his silver words, there were limits to his magnanimity.
Death, meanwhile, smiled to himself. He was not in the least fooled by the prince's offers. He knew that the prince believed him to be deluded, a madman. What else could the prince believe?
+++++++++
Believing him to be deluded, a madman, since 1986,
--mark
Part I:
Once upon a time, there was a prince who lived in a castle in the middle of a dark forest. The castle was ancient, and no one could remember how long it had been there. Not that there were very many people around to remember such things at all; the prince was the last member of his family, and the castle was run by a very small staff of servants. The woods around the castle were inhabited by scattered household of rustics who paid scanty tribute to the prince. In many ways, the prince was poorer than his subjects. There were nights that his dinner table was graced by little more than a few worm-eaten apples and a mug of thin, watery beer. But he knew of no other way of life; of no home other than the castle, with its eroding stone walls and its unmanned turrets, its courtyard overgrown with birch and with blackthorn, its bookshelves rotting with mould, and its wine cellar left unstocked for generations. He knew nothing else, and so had no notion to be disappointed.
One day, the prince was wandering around one of the unused areas of the castle, an area that had collapsed decades or centuries ago and was now little more than a pile of rubble. It was a fine summer day, and the filtered sunlight was coming softly through the overhanging branches, illuminating the tiny creepers and vines which climbed the decayed stonework. He was swinging his stick jauntily and whistling when, all of a sudden, he stopped, and a thoughtful look came over his face. A few dozen feet in front of him, sitting on a rubble pile and slowly gnawing on a piece of bread, was an old man. The man was bald and gaunt, with thin, pale skin drawn tight across his bones. The prince had never seen him before, which was strange, for he knew everyone who lived in the castle and the forest by sight. He approached the stranger, and greeted him with a smile. After all, he was a prince, and it was his duty to be as hospitable and welcoming as possible.
The old man turned his head and responded to the prince. The two soon fell into discussion of the castle and its surrounding forest. The stranger was full of nothing but praise for them - for the patterns in the ivy on the castle walls and for the settling of the winter snows on the broken crenellations and battlements. The prince was glad to hear such effusive praise of his lands, especially from a stranger, and he said so. The old man smiled, and said "It is never a trouble to say good things that are true. Ah, but I can hear in your voice curiosity, as well as thanks. You long to know where I come from, who I am, and what brings me to such an out-of-the-way place as this. But you are too polite to ask. It is touching, for an old man like me, to hear such reverence and duty exercised towards the old forms and customs, now so replaced elsewhere with hot-headed brashness and impetuosity." He shook his head sadly and continued, the prince meanwhile taken aback at the stranger's own sudden brashness. "My name, kind sir prince, is Death, and I have come here from the land of the grey waste where the dead souls abide. I have come here to take my rest; rest from my weary rounds of marshaling the newly dead Gehenna-wards."
Had the prince been shocked by the stranger's brashness before, he was now speechless. He had felt some kinship with the man in their earlier conversation, as if here at last were some soul who understood his own life and could be trusted as confidante and friend. But to find out that the old man was merely some wandering lunatic - it made the prince sudden sad, sad with the loss of a dream still fresh and exciting in his mind. Nevertheless, by training and temperament both the prince was not the sort to let these emotions show for long, and he was soon master of his feelings. At some point in his youth, he had been instructed that the kindest, the noblest path to take with lunatics of the harmless sort is to humor them as much as possible, and let them live their imaginary lives unmolested.
He took this advice now, and so bowed low to the old man, saying "It is an honor to have you in our estate, noble sir. We do not often receive visitors of any sort, let alone ones as illustrious as yourself. I am afraid that we have not the resources to honor your arrival properly, but we will do what we can." In response, the old man said that none of that would be at all necessary, he was here to rest, and that pomp and lavish ceremony would only aggravate him. No, he would make his own arrangements, which response relieved the prince greatly, for despite his silver words, there were limits to his magnanimity.
Death, meanwhile, smiled to himself. He was not in the least fooled by the prince's offers. He knew that the prince believed him to be deluded, a madman. What else could the prince believe?
+++++++++
Believing him to be deluded, a madman, since 1986,
--mark