I am Enuncio, and I am a fool, for that is what my Master has called me for many a year. Do not think my Master harsh. For it was he who took me from my father when I was but up to a man’s waist. I remember standing, squinting into the sun as this youthful figure of a man strode up to my father. My father had taken no notice, as he was wont to when beating me for some failure to clean the stalls, draw the water, or the last, and I had learned most dangerous failure, to sharpen and put carefully away the huge iron implements my father used - for he was, as you can guess, a smithy. A smithy of no great accomplishment, but a smith for which enough work was found to keep a small boy toiling throughout the day, fearing those large iron tools and what they could do to tender flesh when swung or heated.
"If you touch that boy again I will cut your head from your body and feed it to my pigs," was the line I remember hearing from the then just man-child.
My father, momentarily startled, focused as he was on using a set of great metal tongs to twist my arm into unnatural positions, never saw the blow coming. I did. I could have perhaps called out, but even then, unbeknownst to me, I was but a fool.
Then loudly, so as all who cared in the village could hear, "This boy is mine; I so declare as my right as Duke Apteros liege of King Gadros and provider for this fief. Any who would so challenge this claim can post notice and meet me on the field of Kay." No notices were so posted. The essential fact that my Master was the fallen Duke’s fiefful heir, and even then at so young an age a veteran knight of many a military campaign, certainly restrained any who might have cared to challenge him on this point of honour. And who would stand for my father? As I said, my father was a smith of no great accomplishment.
So, I went from beaten waif to ducal houseboy, and though the Duke absented himself often from the castle’s company, he often found time to sit with me and tell me stories of life in the Great Outside: of wars and legends, tales of love and loss. Does this surprise you? For though my Master was an expert of all things martial, remember, he had been the son of a Duke and had taken his studies in the capital at Khmer taught by the sagest of men: taught of history, and heroism, betrayal and greed. And as a boy the storyteller was the part of my Master I loved the most. And could it not have been the same for him? As I sit here writing this, a testimony to the hours he spent teaching me my letters, bringing me precious books to read and always talking, talking, of the tomes and their stories.
As I grew to young manhood, so did my master’s fame. He was wont to defeat nearly all that came against him in the great games and jousts taking place in this time of peace in the land. Favoured by many for his quick blade and quicker tongue, he dismissed those who did battle with him. As my Master’s renown continued to grow, so did his vision and perhaps his conceit. He grew tired of jousts and games with sword and pike. For many years he had heard tell of a small Keep hidden in OkenFen, a swamp, of a considerable size and off a considerable distance . In the Keep, a sorcerer was said to live. If a knight could win through the swamp and the tower’s defenses, for they were said to be many and terrible, he could ask of the sorcerer one question. With proper payment, the question would be answered, though tales told the payment was always more than any knight cared to give for any question asked.
Well my Master decided he would take up this Quest, and with me in tow: for I had long since schooled myself in the arts of squireship, gamecatcher, cook, and assistant of all things useful. Why I did this I must figure was to be closer to him, for I loved him and still do.
The story of our journey across the OkenFen is long and parlous and completely off the track I set for myself when I took quill to paper. Let me just say we found this Keep after much danger. My Master left me to guard our horses, saying, "This is not your quest, Enuncio, and though, like any man I carry fear deep inside me and feel the need to enter this Keep with another set of eyes at my back, I will not risk your life for my own ends." (As I have said my Master was fond of giving speeches and, I guess, I was fond of listening.)
So, he left me alone in this bog to wait. And I did: waited until the food had run perilously low, waited until we had but a few bladders of fresh water, waited until he returned. Which he did, striding strongly through the muck, stronger in bearing then before, but also angry, too, I thought. After greeting me, he began to tell me of the travails he had surmounted both in and surprisingly atop the Keep. But again, that is another story. Or perhaps more of the other. What he finally said was that, yes, there was a wizard encamped in the Keep and, yes, he had asked the sorcerer a question. I strained forward to hear: my love of a story and my master’s love of telling, even while irascible, heightening the drama.
"What was the question you asked Master?" For throughout our entire trek, he had not mentioned it.
Smiling, he said, "I asked the old fool if I had a soul." Struck as I was with the wondering of the response, battle it did with my fears for my Master.
"The payment," I asked, my voice quavering.
"The payment, hah, the payment. The old magic hedgegrower said we would see after he gave his answer"
"Yes, and what did he say?"
"Yes."
"Yes?" I repeated.
"Yes," he said.
"Well, this is wonderful is it not?" I said, questioningly, for I had noticed despite such joyous news my Master’s manner remained irritable.
"Just yes. Phah!" dismissively tossing his hands in the air as if to cleanse them of the whole affair. (He did say phah, and if you do not believe me remember my Master was still a knight, a learned knight, yes, but still a knight, and I presume phah was something that was said among the knightly.)
He continued, "No explanation, no proof, just yes. I told the old man the answer wasn’t complete. I demanded to know the truth in his answer, like the way one can feel the heft of a fine blade, the tiredness of your mount between your thighs, or the feeling of a good woman as you’re between hers." At the last my Master smiled, for he had been...energetic in the pursuit of the female form. I smiled back; my knowledge of women puny, my sense of male camaraderie great.
"And after," I said hurriedly, "the payment?"
"A question of his own. At his own time of choosing." My Master shrugged. For what fear is there in a question? It cannot rip like a blade or puncture like a pike. My Master though was clever and wary and went about discussing how a question could be dangerous. Riding back out of the swamp, we spent most of our time this way . As he grew tired of figuring and failing to understand what any harm could come of a question, he began to regale me with the dangers of the Keep and the appearance of the Sorcerer. He said the last word in mock fear as he had grown amused and accustomed to consigning the whole affair to a colossal waste of time -- except for the new stories the adventure could provide.
The Sorcerer he described in detail: robes of ochred antiquity, ancient withered hands, a beard of great solemnity, and a strange opaled ouroborous ring encircling the mage’s thumb. Through this I had kept quiet, but upon hearing the description of the sorcerer something I had strangely forgotten rose to my consciousness. A night not long before my Master had returned. A night when I had been visited by a strange old man who had crept upon me and the horses with nary a sound. Startled as I was, I quickly offered the stranger some of my rapidly dwindling food. Don’t think me too charitable for I feared this soundless creature some daemon or faerie, and I had heard magical folk could not eat of mortal offerings. This was not the case with the wrinkled old man, who quickly sat with a creak in his joints and began to merrily chew a piece of jerky.
After a period of uncomfortableness, I found myself telling this little old man the tales of my life and my Master’s; he seemed to listen avidly, while he chewed the jerky, though I remember offering him no more. Surprisingly, wary as I was, even after my friendly tale telling, I fell asleep. Waking with a start in the morrow, I found the fire put out, and the horses tended. Now, as I sat in the saddle, I wondered how I had forgotten that singularly odd night. Feeling foolish, and not wanting to steal glory from my Master by telling him he was not the only one who had seen the Wizard of the Keep, I decided to tell no one. Though now by my writing that is undone, but I feel my Master has matters that hold his mind other than the forthcomingness of a fool like me. This is at the point when our story truly begins. As for those who have read this far and now toss their hands saying, "Why not get to the tale in a moment? Enuncio you fool! ." I say what I must, "You are right of course. I am a fool. But since you have come with me this far come a bit farther."
Once having finally returned to my Master’s land, the excitement of the telling of our adventures soon waned, and my Master took up his previous pursuits of gaming with stick and blade. For which he was that much more successful as other knights could not have been unaffected by the reputation of, my Master, the knight who had survived the Sorcerer and his Keep.
My Master, also resumed his affection for females. Several did he meet and court and those same did he cast off, not bitterly, but with much trouble to himself. This went on for some time. I grew accustomed to my master’s dalliances (the word he used), as well as his discourses on the essential need for female companionship in the most physical way and the inessential need for much else. As winters passed, he rhapsodized on this subject, often. Perhaps because it was one subject that seemed to vex him even through the certainties of his opinions. Now, do not think my Master cruel or heartless, for in manners of courting he was most respectful. Honourable, to a fault, considerate of the woman and her feelings. Yet, I would say never there for the woman or himself like an object that moves at the corner of your eye and flees before your glance. Thus, I thought, my Master was with the affairs of the heart. Missing those feelings, himself, he sought to deny them as real. Good naturedly, he chided other knights for their reliance on their wives and the demands placed upon their chivalry due to this obligation born from the weakness to be loved.
Then quietly a woman came upon him. I should say myself as well. For I had become use to the natural comings and going of my Master’s affection; I say affection, never love. I say quietly as well for there was no heavy thunderbolt as the bard’s sing, but a seemingly effortless moving together. I watched as this woman enchanted my Master. Slowly at first, for their assignations were brief, as my Master’s duties and his love of the joust carried him across the countryside. Always he returned to her; always he made time to see her, and as I eyed the two walking hand and hand through the square one night: her hand in his, her body leaning -- fitting his, their laughter punctuating the night I saw what I had not seen before. Eldritch fire, I know not, but the two seemmed to glow in soft hues. The insects stopped their buzzing; the animals in their pens stopped their snorting of food and stomping of foot, even the lights in the sky seemed to stop their twinkling, shining on these lovers and their moment.
I wept. I know I am a man and this confession is unseemly, but, I felt true love for anyone was an occasion of wonder, having seem my own home and so many others twisted with things best said to be not love and left at that. And of course, this was not anyone; this was my Master steeped in joy! And so the tears rolled down my cheeks in quiet little ranks.
What joy it is to cry over happiness! But upon my Master’s return, he seemed unchanged. I asked myself had he not seen the wonderment he and the Lady created? He talked of her often, telling me pieces of their conversation, their feasts, and the goodness and rightness he felt with her. I nodded through these stories, but I despaired. For now I saw how my Master had hardened his heart. He had so enchained his love he failed to see the very thing standing in front of him: that he loved this woman first, last, and always.
Now, many may think me a coward for not speaking to enlighten my Master on his folly: the folly of his pride, his belief in his own strength, his belief that reliance on others was in some way a devious weakness. But, remember, I am fool, and I believed my master’s words, "Self contained," he would often say. "A man should be self contained." Where this had come from was easy to say. For through the years I learned from serving maids and scullery workers, and my Master, too, that his family life had been far from serene. The relationship with his father had been difficult and cruel, which later explained his kindness to a smithy’s son. Later the accidental death of the original Duke left any attempts at reconciliation impossible. I learned, the boy, that was my Master, had, himself, learned to be tough. Not just physically mind you, but tough in the mind, resistant of the opinion of others -- for then one cannot be hurt -- and resistant to the need, and yes, the love of others. For what is love, unrequited, but pain. Better to shut those feelings up and pursue other interests. But Providence is not to be denied. At least I hope for my Master’s sake it is not.
Now I should tell you something of this Lady. For what is a love story without a lady. A love story I hear many of you say. A love story he tells me now! I have no need for sentimental patterings on love by a fool. This may be true, but pause for a moment and ask yourself if you have ever felt like my master, loved one like my master. If so read on for there’s much truth to this tale.
Now this lady was a lovely creature with wisdom that comes from many tough lessons learned. Her father was lost to her early and by proxy of a sort she became lord of her manor. Through hardships, she managed to steer herself through difficult and reckless times. Unfortunately, she came into the company of a particularly odious and vile man, but that story is not mine to tell. Finally, freeing herself of this human incubus, she spent days in quiet meditation, tending the garden that grew from the balcony, overlooking the clear pools of her estate.
The flowers she grew there twined deliciously up the trellises and casements and balustrades of her home, and many people came from near, and a few from afar, to see these lovely flowers, shining in pinks and blues, and soft reds - growing as they did amongst the boxes and nurseries. -- the flowers she tended and they her. They burgeoning and her healing. To name all the buds, I could not do. For while my Master held interest in all things built, he had little use for things grown. Not for their beauty mind you, for he appreciated as much as most, but for the naming of them he remained singularly unskilled. Singularly unskilled, lest you consider his singing, which also lay even farther afield than his knowledge of greenery. So, thusly, I became ignorant, as well.
One night the Lady found herself at a local hostelry, where there was much singing and dancing and gaming. I tell you this, obviously, because this is where they met. Remember, no great light from the sky touched down upon them to show these lovers and the world they were meant for one another. Nothing but a shy smile, a discussion of books, (for my Master always loved books), and after that night a formal expression of interest on both their parts. The next months filled with activity and love. But both seemed mute to one another. Yes, they spent time in only each other’s company. Yes, they loved, and yes, I saw the universe begin to hum with their transcendence like a tuning fork struck ever so right. But they did not or would not discuss this new sound, and as things went my Master had jousts to attend, and time was taken away from the Lady, though she complained naught. Simply, she laid out the idea that perhaps they should see others. Perhaps, she already had. Stung by this turn, but remember still unrecognized of his true feelings, my Master agreed to see the Lady less. If the two had simply done what they said I am sure things would not have gone so badly. For the Lady, being as she was a lady, and being hurt as she was, stopped altogether my Master’s visits to her; his letters she returned unopened. But the Lady was not alone in this folly. Remember, my Master had a chain about his heart, a chain that had broken and fallen free, unbeknownst to him. He continued on, jousting and gaming, convincing himself less and less he had drunk the draught of love so deeply.
Now, you may think these two fools. For have we not all wished for a love that reads like a poet’s sonnet or a bard’s song: throaty protestations of enchantment and endurance of nurture and commitment. Yet, before you judge, remember, how many fell away from God and raised the graven bull, and this after seeing God’s hand part the waters.
My Master’s attempts to see the Lady became more insistent, and for a time, she forestalled their meeting. But nature has its ways, or my Master has his persistence, and the two found themselves together again on a sandy beach, riding horses and laughing, stopping on some great rocks and talking, talking about what they had and talking like they never had. Enough you say, Enuncio! What is holding you up, and happily they lived ever after, riding into the sunset as the waves broke on the beach.
It is true the day was filled with wonder. Now, hold a moment, you say, how is it you know so much. For certainly you were not along on this day. I say, aye, you are right, and, aye, my Master, though as you know, was given to talking a great bit, would not have divulged such personal fare as I have delivered to you. But, he was a man, and on occasion was given to drinking a bit too much mead; a tendency that grew, not more pronounced, but whose effects grew more saddening on him. And remember, I am but a fool and many a time on our way from a tavern my Master would talk to me as anyone will talk to their horse or talk aloud to themselves. Wait, do not be offended for me. For I know I am not a horse, as I think my Master knows, when he’s not saddened and mead ridden.
Oh, the day of their.
Seamlessy, they moved into the familiar patterns of their earlier time spent together: riding along the beach, stopping at an inn, playing table games. Something she delighted in beating him at and something he delighted in her delighting. Certainly, there was excitement between them. An excitement at least my Master had come to recognize as the love in poem and song. His heart beat for her, and he longed to touch her. However, sadly, though she still wore my master’s favor, she had become enamored of another. Who this man was she left vague. Telling my master a name, which only later did he grow to believe a falsehood.
Not that the man himself was unreal, but just his name. Possibly, she feared my Master’s wrath upon the fellow, or that he would tell the man of what happened on their meeting on this day. For yes, there was much to tell. But I knew my Master would do no such thing. For to him honor held everything and to hurt the woman he loved in this way he knew to be wrong.
Well, to the tavern, the table games and the hinted at much to tell. Deciding to dance, who decided is unknown as spontaneously and unspokenly both seemed to jump from their chairs, their spirits empathic and in concord, while their minds still trudged two steps behind. What is to say? They kissed, as you knew they would, as their spirits knew, as any and all who watched them dance about the floor that night knew.
All who saw them went home remembering the image of my Master and his Lady holding each other tight, as one - remembering, not for the boorish reason that kissing so madly in public was improper. For this still was the Duke and his Lady, and in her way the lord of her Manor, and lest you forget my Master’s ability with the sword. So who would make notice? No, each remembered, for true love calls to all of us; some just refuse to listen.
Here is where Enuncio the fool must step aside. For my Master’s voice can tell the next of it with much more beauty than I. This does not mean he knows of this manuscript or my growing intentions. This is what he told me on a night one turn of the moon removed from their night of renascence. See, already his words slip between mine.
"Enuncio, I can’t shake her. The love in my heart grows stronger, every day. It comes upon me like some great tide. Every time I think I can move on another wave washes over me, and my spirit is left to drift to catch at nothing. And, this feeling, it frightens me. It frightens me, Enuncio. It frightens me that it will never go away; it frightens me it that it will go away; It frightens me that it will never return. He slumped down in his saddle, holding the reins loosely, almost gingerly as if fearing anything he touched would snap and break.
"So, she will not see you?" I asked demurely, not having seen this side of my Master and carrying a great load of fright over this new turn.
"She saw me that night, she did," he responded, not answering my question. "Or, maybe, I saw her for the first time...and her me. As we danced and kissed that night, it was as if the moon came down from the sky and stood mere feet above us, spinning and twinkling like some great star. And that moment was the happiest of my life. I can see that now," he said, peering off into the darkness. Mournfully, he continued, "Oh, the simple beauty. We walked outside, along the quay, stopping to kiss again. Phah! I hate that word kiss. Children kiss. One kisses one’s family., the old, and the dying. We moved together. We were radiant, a baleful red ember; our love raged across the firmament held not by mundane constraints of time or distance, twinkling the eyes of children it did, causing mussitation amongst the heavenly host, causing Death to hold and slip back a pace, and even the Lord, our God, must have noticed as he sat in his empyrean. Our passion exploded the darkness. Our numinous flared, retiring the sun as a paltry candle to the light of our joy." With that, he grew silent. Again his head hung low, and he gripped the reins as if they might break, or maybe, as if they might break him. He seemed very old.
"Have I ever told you what it was like to make love to my Lady?" He said the last with such great sorrow for something lost that I only shook my head, both in mourning for his loss and in fear he would embarrass us both with the privacy of his speech.
He did -- but only a little.
"I remember so many times, so many." Again he lapsed into silence. For a moment I thought I might escape, but he revived and continued on.
"She would be above me, a glow cast from supernal light, and she would be in her time, and I would feel her grip me and cry out, and my heart would sing with gladness for this thing heaven let us do. Do you remember her skin? Do you remember its color? The tinge of brown like the sun had gently kissed her body, washing its corona onto her.
How I wish I could be the sun. Oh, how I wish it. And her smile, the smile she wore as she held me inside her; that beautiful, sly little one sided smile. The smile that would erupt from her as she rocked to her crescendo, smiling down at me, coming closer, chest to chest, heart to heart, and then laughing, joyously; and kissing, yes now kissing, foolishly and lovingly, great smacks upon my lips, my cheeks, my forehead, my chest, tossing her hair back as she rose for air and another exaltation. Oh, her hair, remember how black it was -- like the night. And the wetness of it. I can see her head coming up and her hair wet from the roots out. Wet at the stems, still luxurious at the ends, and so black, contrasting with the tawny brown of her skin and the light, the damn light, always seeming to trace her body’s outlines. Outlines my calloused hands never tired of searching, and outlines she never tired of feeling. Or maybe she has," he finished downcast.
"I would slay a dragon for her, bring the beasts head on a platter. If only I could find one of those infernal beasts," he chuckled then like what he last said passed for humor in his forlorn state. But then again, maybe he had been searching. He was an exceptional knight.
"Did I tell you, she still has my favor?"
He had, several times. I merely nodded.
"Everything is of her: the music in the taverns, the stories I read, the great gallops I take from border to border of my royal fief, even the great tournaments can only hold her presence at bay. I find myself looking to the stands, wishing to see her throw me a kiss, wave a pennon, or simply smile at me -- for only me."
"You never wanted her to come," I said. My truthfulness getting the better of my forbearance for once.
Still staring low on his reins, he paused, then bobbed his head, "Right. You are absolutely right."
* * *
Another month and another tourney, I am there as always, faithfully tending to the armoring and the sharpening. I watch with the air of an aficionado. For, of course, I’ve watched a few hundred of these affairs. My Master moves smartly, stabbing smartly, his opponents end the day unhorsed or in the care of the chirurgeon. He is victorious, and wreathes, and sweetmeats, and ladies favors are cast before him He partakes of all but the last, moving through the crowd to receive some benediction for deeds well done. I do not think he cares. His eyes trace the faces of the crowd. Women try to catch his eye, but as soon as his glance lands upon them he moves on. I am near him now. Lately, he insists I take a bow; something I’m embarrassed to do, but the crowd seems to like my calling out, and, if any recent evidence attests, the ladies as well. So, I am standing near him when a hand juts from the crowd. A hand with a ring I know in an instance -- the opal ouroborous, two snakes eternally consuming one another. A hand, I see, my Master knows as well. The mage stands before us unchanged save for the gaiety of his clothes (I assume donned to match the revelers all around). The mage speaks softly across the few hand spans separating my Master and him. His words, though soft, carry to all like a lightning rod or when one wakes from a bad dream. All in the pavilion are alert, watchful, waiting to see if the dream is real.
"Well, knight, time has come for payment. Are you ready?" Somehow, to us all, the mage’s clipped words speak of doom and despair, even though I alone know their true import. My Master shows no hint of fear. I dare say his eyes seem to go dull and a grim expectancy seems to fill him.
"My question is...Do you have a soul?"
My Master pauses and he looks to the pavilions, and she is not there. And he thinks of his pain; he thinks of what was them both, but now is left in him. Love, unable to grow without her and unable to die, like the liver of pagan worshipped Prometheus, burning in the sun, picked on by the carrion eaters, eternally renewed in the waking morrow. For the briefest moment his pain washes through us all: some gasp, others gape, several young ladies faint.
"Yes, yes, I have a soul," he says softly, the sound carrying through the multitudes. He falls then to one knee wracked by great sobs. Sobs that break the sunlight and shiver us all. And the people, the people who have seen many carried from the field bloodied; their champion’s hands left on the grass, gripping swords, hearing the screams of the dead and the long dying. These people draw back in fright and pity. And not a sound falls but for my Master’s sobbing.
And then the mage’s voice like the clangor of a bell. "Is it real enough for you, knight? Enough like the feel of a sword blade?"
* * *
Time passes, but my Master’s wound never heals. Yes, he still wacks away at the games; and yes, he takes some happiness from the contests. But I watch, and I see it is a weak thing now. For I watch his eyes as they squint happily after some great turn of stick and blade, and I watch his glance travel to find her, but she is not there, and his eyes settle down and grow dull and the muscles of his cheeks go slack, and the corners of his mouth fall. But, he soldiers on. Older now, he’s begun teaching the promising youngsters how to prepare both physically for the sword and mentally for the tomes of the great School in Kmer. He has told me it is the only thing that makes him truly forget. Work. But a man must sleep, and that he does with difficulty, and the food he picks at.
It saddens me, greatly.
There is one thing. One thing I spied by accident a fortnight ago. In his study stands a desk of the hardest wood and in it a small box. In the box sits a ring and jewel of the finest cut. And holding it, he simply stares into its light. A light, I now imagine, that reminds him of his Lady’s sheen of exertion as he held her on those endless nights; a light taking him back to their reunion, and the fabled moon’s scintillating glow as it dipped down to take a closer look at the two lovers so helplessly in each other’s thrall.
Here ends my story, my Master’s story. What! I can hear you say. What kind of ending is this? Are they ever reunited my Master and his Lady? Of this, I cannot know. But a plan is growing in me, and I feel I will be traveling to see the Lady and her Manor. For I have heard the lush garden atop her balcony does not grow as it once did; I have heard the plants there are fewer, and I have heard the soft petals of blue and red and pink have been replaced with earthen browns, and shoots that stick straight up, fighting the pull of nature.
I will go and see. I will see if the Lady still wears my Master’s golden favor about her ankle. I will bring this tale with me and leave it in a place she will find. And then, I will visit the sorcerer myself and ask him a question. A question that will put the lover’s right. I will do all of this. I will do all of this because I love my Master. Yes, you say, but will you succeed? I would like to think so, but what do I know? I am just a fool.
John Devlin has a great wife and is the father of a delightful two-year old. He spends his time writing, working as an educational tutor, and attempting to find a publisher for his fantasy novel.
E-mail: john.devlin@mindspring.com
Visit Aphelion's Lettercolumn and voice your opinion of this story.
Return to the Aphelion main page.