An Incomparable Pearl
Unfortunately, there was something about him that he had to recognise he would never be able to improve; his lack of height.
It could be quite embarrassing when visiting dignitaries towered over him, giving him all the appearance of a naive child when they attended his court.
Naturally, King Matheia came up with a solution to his problem; he asked his Royal Shoemakers to create a pair with elevated soles, immediately granting him the extra height he otherwise lacked.
Of course, when the courtiers saw this wonderful new style that the king had created, they too put their own shoemakers to work, creating ever higher shoes until everyone in court towered over anyone visiting from either the countryside or other kingdoms.
When leather heels could no longer safely sustain the increased heights fashion demanded, the shoemakers transformed into carpenters, working wood into a reasonably light latticework. When even the heels of wood had reached such heights that they began to crack or bend, the woodworkers became ironsmiths, assembling elaborate latticeworks of metal.
The king himself, of course, also had to keep up with this new fashion for ever higher heels, until one day he found himself precariously balancing on what could have been stilts – and he recognised, with a regretful sigh, that this couldn’t go on.
Naturally, King Matheia came up with a solution to his problem; he asked his Royal Wigmakers to construct for him a spectacularly tall wig, immediately granting him the height he otherwise lacked.
Naturally, too, when the courtiers saw this wonderful new style that the king had created, they too put their own wigmakers to work, creating ever higher wigs until the court’s many doorways had to be specially raised, while carriages had to have their rooves entirely removed.
As the height of the wigs soared, demand for hair soared too, until everyone in the land but the courtiers had all been left completely shorn. Not that it was difficult for the people to recognise any lord or lady who’d briefly departed the court; they stumbled as they tried to enter taverns, cursed as shop doorways took off their wigs, tumbled frequently when taking a simple stroll down a country lane.
It was a thoroughly inconvenient and, at times, even painful existence; but it was all worth the trouble, for how else could they ensure they all looked so absolutely wonderful?
Indeed, it was confidently proclaimed around the court, the very actions of maintaining balance required such a restriction of excessive gestures that it granted everyone a refinement so obviously lacking in the general public.
And it was while he was ever so elegantly adjusting his toppling wig that the king plummeted from heels now as high as a small tree.
The Court Doctors rushed to his side as quickly as they could – which wasn’t very quickly at all, of course.
The local pharmacy had cures of every kind for even the most terrible of falls – but no Royal Physician could pass through the ridiculously small doorway, let alone safely manage the rickety stairs leading down into the cellar where the potions were made.
The Ladies in Waiting appointed to nurse the ailing king did so as diligently as they were able – which naturally wasn’t really very thorough, as they remained unable to reach down to him as he lay suffering in his bed.
Naturally, King Matheia was incapable of coming up with a solution to his problem; and so the Royal Morticians were set to fashioning an immense coffin that could take both his heels and his wig.
On ascending the throne, King Matheia the Second came up with a solution to the problem that he was no taller than his late father.
He immediately announced that, henceforth, the Height of Fashion would be exactly five feet two inches.
And so now his courtiers walk around with hunched backs and agonisingly bowed legs.
It was a thoroughly inconvenient and, at times, even painful existence; but it was all worth the trouble, for how else could they ensure they all looked so absolutely wonderful?
*
Yes, Princess Doxa recalled the story of the Height of Fashion: but, as always, she refused to recognise its message.
‘Can’t you see just how important it is for me to attend Prince Atele’s wonderful ball, Ginoskein?’ she complained. ‘It’s days and days before it’s taking place: surely that gives me plenty of time to learn this kingdom’s customs and etiquette, enough at least to get me through an evening’s dancing?’
‘And who sits next to a Duke, and how do you extend courtesy to an Earl? How is the cutlery set, and when are courses delivered? Don’t they dance the Herakleotic here – when was the last time you practised any of its moves?’
The princess sighed.
‘Oh, you’re right Ginoskein: it is too much to learn in just a few days! I’m lost! What can I do?’
She glanced up hopefully at her maid: faithful, wise Ginoskein had come to her rescue so many, many times before.
Ginoskein sighed.
‘A dress,’ she said curiously, causing the princes to frown in puzzlement, ‘I’ll fashion you a dress of many colours: each one containing codes and symbols that will remind you how to behave in whatever situation you’re presented with!’
*
In between arranging the appointments that led to meetings that produced the passes that gained documentation allowing an appointment, Ginoskein assiduously toured the city’s innumerable dance and dining halls, its many kitchens and its even greater number of libraries; all stacked with heavy tomes detailing correct modes of behaviour.
On a night, she sat down at last to her sewing, including within the dress’s many folds clues to the most apt forms of conduct that the princess could refer to at any moment, flipping aside the flaps as if the whole dress itself were an informative book.
As the day of the grand ball drew closer, however, Ginoskein began to realise that she had taken on more than she could hope to accomplish within the time.
Here, in this strange city, it was the dance and dining halls that were treated as if they were great cathedrals – the vast stained glass windows portraying not routes to enlightenment, but reminding everyone that it was so easy to make a faulty move, to insult someone even though no insult was intended, to say the wrong word at the wrong time, even though the difference might only be a matter of seconds.
For once in her life, poor Ginoskein despaired.
Worst of all, she could find no real cathedral, not even a church, in which she could seek the peace of mind that might grant her some form of remedy to her problem.
Eventually, she did find the scant remains of a once proud abbey, now reduced to nothing more than a rain-soaked font and an ivy-ridden corner wall.
Here she knelt, clasping her hands together, her fingers bleeding at the tips from all her sewing, begging forgiveness for making such a rash promise to her poor lady.
She jumped a little in surprise as a large clump of ivy – as if heavy from and also weakened earlier by the rain – fell away from the wall.
Beneath its veiling of dark green, it revealed the glimmers of a rich purple glow, the air itself stained by the coloured glass the falling vine had uncovered.
It surprised her, too, that any glass had been left here, as it seemed to her that this once glorious abbey had been entirely cannibalised, its stone and windows used to create the magnificent dance and dining halls given such importance in this city.
What didn’t surprise her (for she had noticed this strange effect on many occasions) was that this glorious glow of an emperor’s mauve was spirited up by glass that, although so opulently coated in so many colours, contained no hint of purple itself.
Rising to her feet, and despite the pain of her bleeding fingers, Ginoskein began to pull more of the clinging ivy aside, revealing more and more of the stained glass window.
It was a wonderful rendition of the crucifixion and one, moreover, that featured to either side the similarly crucified thieves, one who would ascend to heaven, one who would fall down into hell.
Gestas, whose name means g
estation, the rising sun, looking up towards the sun rising above him like a fiery torch.
Dismas, meaning sunset, looking down, away from the setting sun, a torch about to be doused.
Strangely, there were more planets represented here too.
Their hearts were those of winged Mercury for Gestas, of bloody Mars for Dismas.
The blood at their feet was the rich copper of Venus: the Morning Star of love for Gestas, the Evening Star of war for Dismas.
And above their heads, above even the two aspects of a rising and setting sun – and as if clasped within the very hands of the crucified Saviour – there was the almost moon-like tin of wise and merciful Jupiter, the dull grey of the leaden, sickle-wielding Saturn, the Night Sun and God of Death.
At the Lord’s feet there was, naturally, the Earth.
Near his heart, a third aspect of the sun, its full glory.
Above his head, a blazing crown of a horned moon and seven stars, the Tree of Death transformed into the Tree of Life – for the dark veil concealing the rest of the moon was about to be rent asunder, revealing the full illuminating radiance of the Queen of Heaven.
And he suffered all this, of course, because the mortal Jesus Barabbas (whose name means Son of the Father) had been freed in his stead.
The cruel lance has pierced his side, his heart like an upturned cup from which an entwined stream of fiery blood and water, of spirit and love, appeared to freely pour into a waiting and invisibly held grail.
But Ginoskein knew that the grail was the Cup of the Heart: that the water of love ascended, to be rewarded with the descending of the spirit, enflaming the heart.
‘Just as love for Selene’s horned moon brings on the sunset of ageless slumber,’ she whispered, her lips quivering, ‘so Eros awakens us from envy of the gods to full brightness.’
She cupped her own hands together, letting the blood run down from her fingertips, watching it mingle with the tears she freely let fall there. The blood and water swirled together, serpentine in their entwining, becoming neither one nor the other; becoming, rather, the mauve of emperor’s, of the king of kings.
It quickened, then congealed, then set: and Ginoskein looked in amazement at the energetically glowing amethyst she now held within her hands.
*
No one had seen a more fabulous ball gown than the one Princess Doxa wore to the prince’s dance.
It was of the most glorious mauve, it seemed: and then, at a turn of an elegant neck, a finely sculptured shoulder, it became any number of rich colours.
The princess, everyone agreed, seemed born to wear such a fine garment, her mannerisms excellent, her poise remarkable, her conversion scintillating.
Her dancing was the most elegant they had ever witnessed, as if she were powered by the most intricate clockwork ever devised by man.
And yet the princess had no hidden layers to access, had had no special codes to learn. By merely wearing this wonderful, most remarkable dress, she was quite naturally the belle of the ball!
For Ginoskein, too, everything had happened for her so ridiculously easy, she could only put her incredible good fortune down to a miracle.
As if the amethyst had observed every facet, every element of knowledge, it had spun out its contents as the finest of threads, weaving magically within the air, seemingly spiriting out of nothing this most improbable of dresses.
The dress was in fact one of many gossamer thin layers, each a colour of the rainbow, a dress of many colours that merged and became as one, a shade of spiritualised fire.
And now Prince Atele himself, the man who had declared himself the most perfect man, was approaching her princess, asking her to dance.
And the princess, naturally, agrees, offering him her hand, allowing him to take her out onto the dance floor, to the wonder and amazement and joy of most of the people gathered there. (For other princesses, and their parents, were not enthralled at all!)
‘Oh, but look,’ the princess declares unconsciously, picking at something she has spotted upon the prince’s jacket even as the dance begins, ‘you have a loose thread, my lord.’
Naturally, the prince is horrified to display such an unforgivable imperfection, particularly as it has been pointed out to him by the most perfect lady he has ever encountered.
Fortunately for Prince Atele, he himself notices that a nearby princess also has a loose thread in the waist of her dress, pulling at this as the Princess Doxa pulls at his, even as he ever so politely apologises to the unfortunate princess.
This princess is mortified too, until she espies the loose thread in her partner’s garment.
And so it goes on, everyone made suddenly aware of the imperfections in the manner of their dress, everyone and everything but the Princess Doxa’s dress found to be wanting and in possession of a horribly, embarrassingly loose thread.
And the dance continues, the garments unravelling as the threads are pulled, the strands winding around dancing couples, like whirling bobbins picking up ever more threads of spinning wool.
Eventually, yes, even the supposedly perfect dress of Princess Doxa, that apparent font of all knowledge, is found to have a flaw: the very tiniest one, yet a loose thread nonetheless, one that is urgently grabbed at until it, too, begins to rapidly unravel.
And the dance is getting ever, ever faster.
Uncontrollably faster.
There are endless streams of thread, it seems, and all of the most varied and vibrant colours.
Until the whole scene is like a rainbow rapidly unravelling.
*
Ginoskein found herself standing in an empty yet nevertheless beautiful field.
Holding only the most brilliant gem, an amethyst that glowed a most remarkable mix of blood and water.
Reminding her that she hadn’t simply imagined it all.
For the prince, the princesses, the courtiers; all had gone.
The dancing hall, too.
Along with the entire building.
The entire city.
They had all been so shallow, after all, with nothing of true substance lying beneath their most elaborate of gowns.
Yes, even her beloved Princess Doxa, truth be told.
*
Chapter 45
‘Some are more dead than others,’ the girl declared serenely as she prepared to walk off into the whirling mass of crows that, apparently aware of her intentions, had descended towards her once more. ‘As for the rest, they are both dead and alive at the very same time; although I know of tales that tell how those who are immortal may share their days or nights with those who aren’t.’
The prince thought the King’s Daughter might become as one with the swirling darkness; yet, rather, the fierce beating of a thousand wings caused her veil to rise and billow about her head, glittering like an earthshine moon in the glow of a naked body now burning as brightly as any torch.
I have become the tomb of light, the Tower of Silence seemed to whisper morosely.
As she calmly walked amongst them, the concealing mist of crows began to ascend towards the very summit of the tower once again, their darkness left behind them in the air, about the advancing girl.
Amongst that unnatural darkness, her glow seemed all the brighter, more wonderful than could be imagined, her flowing veil now the wings of an ethereal butterfly. As she stepped amongst the energetically swarming bees, that light was diffused, spread upwards.
She approached the base of the tower; and was gone, as if abruptly devoured by the massing bees.
*
A moment later, the girl appeared again, but this time on what could be called the first step.
Her glow appeared slightly muted, the prince thought, yet thought also that he could be imagining this.
He thought, too, that she must be clinging precariously to the incredibly narrow step, her bared feet agonisingly held straight to prevent her toppling back and down towards the waiting ground.
As abruptly as before
, she vanished again.
When she appeared on the second ledge, her glow was duller still.
Hadn’t she informed him that she had originally shed her veils as she had descended the tower?
Obviously, the prince realised, she was now taking them on once again one by one, her once gloriously shining body gradually being encased in the beginnings of a cocoon of what could have been bright lace, or silken threads.
And so it went on as she slowly rose up the looming stone, the veils shrouding her, curbing her glow, until she could have been nothing more than an indefinable pupa within that silken purse.
Now the endlessly upward flowing stream of violet, fiery water curled and coiled, arching off towards the copper bowl of flames surmounting its twin pillar.
The fire responded in kind, rising up and curling about the waters, entwining as if enjoining; but no, it wasn’t a merging, but a separating, the spiritual fire of the waters being given up back to the flames. When the entwining at last came to an end, the fire settling back into its own cup, the waters into theirs, the stream was perfectly clear, pure, and foolishly spilling earthwards.
The girl had reached the very crown of the stone, where the crows still gathered, still concealed the landing in their dark, writhing mist, as if called up by some fearsome incantation.
The King’s Daughter now glowed relatively dully, her form also softened. Yet seen amongst and relative to this streaming darkness, she shone curiously brightly, such that she could have been a moon come down to earth, reflected imperfectly in darkly flowing waters.
The crows crowed at their good fortune, the ravens rived at her flesh, the rooks raked at her innards.
It seemed to the prince to be a murder, a conspiracy, an unkindness.
But no, it wasn’t a murder.
The carrion weren’t shredding flesh but bringing it, the light being given up, settling back within its tomb.
I am the tomb of light the Tower of Silence breathed mournfully.
And when the prince recognised what he truly was, he shivered.