THE THREE GIFTS OF THE PEASANT KING
A Scim Legend
A great while ago, when the world was full of wonders, there lived a wealthy king. He ate from golden plates upon a golden table. The floor of his throne room was polished silver, and his throne was studded with rare jewels. He often threw lavish banquets for his friends. Entire feasts’ worth of food would go to the dogs, for the guests could not eat it all. He was called King Franklin, and he was deeply unhappy, for although he was rich, his subjects looked on him with disdain.
It came to pass that King Franklin began to hear tales of a strange king in a far country, a man beloved by all his subjects. This Peasant King, as he was called, had neither gold nor crown. But King Franklin decided he must see this strange man who was praised by so many tongues. So Franklin disguised himself as a servant and traveled through the deep forest, over the snowy mountains, and across the wide sea. And he brought with him three gifts for the Peasant King: a fine silk cape, a diamond the size of a man’s fist, and a great disk of gold to fashion a royal table.
When at last King Franklin found the Peasant King, he was surprised to find him in a humble barn, where he sat upon a throne made of hay. Upon his brow he wore a circlet of holly, and his scepter was a piece of polished oak.
Franklin, in his disguise as a royal servant, presented the gifts he had brought to the Peasant King, explaining they were from his master, good King Franklin. Then he said, “I have traveled far to ask the secret of your great glory. But I stand before you now and see that a farmer in my master’s land is wealthier than you.”
The Peasant King stroked his beard and thought for some time. At last he said, “Tell me, O servant, did you see many of my subjects in your travels? Did they seem more fortunate than those in your own land?”
King Franklin replied, “No more fortunate than those of other lands, though happier in their misfortune. I saw a woman who sang as she slopped the pigs, though she had no apron to cover her dress. A scribe laughed to see his papers blown by the wind. A man whistled a tune when he saw his wagon wheel had broken.”
The Peasant King laughed to hear this fine report and called for the woman, the scribe, and the wagoner. When they arrived, he greeted them each with a kiss upon the cheek. To the woman he said, “Good King Franklin has sent you this apron from across the wide sea,” and he gave her the fine silk cape. Then he gave the scribe the diamond the size of a man’s fist and said, “Good King Franklin has sent you this paperweight from over the snowy mountains.” Lastly he rolled the golden tabletop to the wagoner and said, “Through the deep forest, good King Franklin has sent you this sturdy wagon wheel.”
All three went away glad, thanking the Peasant King and praising the kindness and foresight of good King Franklin.
The Peasant King said, “The glory of a king comes from neither wealth nor finery but from the well-being of his people. Now I shall send you away with three gifts: a flask of local wine, a loaf of thick brown bread, and a letter for King Franklin which holds the secret to the great glory of the Peasant King.”
Then the Peasant King sent King Franklin on his way. So King Franklin traveled across the wide sea, over the snowy mountains, and through the deep forest. When he had bathed and dressed again in his royal robes and returned to his grand throne room, King Franklin set out the wine and bread and opened the letter from the Peasant King. It contained only these words: “A true king must not pretend to be a servant, but rather become one.”
So, too, this story bears three gifts: one for the storyteller, one for the hearer, and one for the heart which understands.
THE ORDERING OF THE WORLD
An Elenil Story
When the world was young and foolish, the people burned the cities. The oceans, enraged with violence, flooded villages and carried away children. The ground shook, and the sky wept blood. The people cried out day and night for help. And so it came to pass that a magician —the most powerful of his age or any other —set out to repair the world. He had many names, but the Elenil call him the Majestic One.
The Majestic One spoke, and his word was law.
“Order!” he called, and all the world stopped to listen. “Stop this foolish violence. Cease this chaos and come to me, for I shall remake the world.”
But of all the people, only two came to him. The rest fought and tore at one another and screamed their defiance. The names of the two who came to him were Ele and Nala. He blessed them and said, in the ancient speech of wizards and knights:
I declare ye, Ele and Nala, lords of light
and guardians of the wide world.
All shall be under your dominion: water and wood,
stone and fire, desert and ocean, light and darkness.
And your descendants shall be called the Elenil.
And he placed a tower in the center of the Sunlit Lands and called it Far Seeing.
Together with Ele and Nala and their children, the Elenil, the Majestic One tamed the peoples who warred with one another. The conflict turned bitter more than once, but none could stand for long against the might of the Majestic One or his servants, the Elenil.
When the war was ended and all had pledged fealty to the Majestic One, he gathered the people, and divided them into seven groups to receive their rewards and punishments and to give each people their own lands and homes so there would be no more war forever. When he spoke, each person heard his voice in their own mind, as if he spoke to them and them alone. First he spoke to the raiders who had harassed and harried the Elenil camps:
Kakri, desert dweller, eyes touched by the moon!
Thou shalt be silenced by sand in thy throat.
Thou shalt flee to the east, and walk dunes alone
in sunshine and shadow, eater of carrion.
Thy sister shall be the crow, thy brother the hyena.
And so the Majestic One sent away the Kakri, and they live in the desert to the east, beyond the Tolmin Pass. They build no houses and plant no crops.
To the children of Grom, the Majestic One said:
How often hast thou dug beneath the walls of my fortress?
Short of stature, surly and clever, O child of Grom.
Thy home shall be beneath the ground.
Thou shalt hoard silver and gold, jewels and precious metals.
None shall be as skilled with hammer and tong,
and none more obstinate than the Maegrom.
So the children of Grom went away to the world beneath the world, and there they remain until this very day. The Majestic One watched them leave, and when they had gone, he turned to those who had fought him in the great southern forests, who had attacked from the trees as archers and bandits. To them he said:
In Aluvorea grow the mighty trees
so tall they touch the sun!
In their shadow thou shalt dwell
and breathe the breath of leaves.
Be thou quiet and harmless.
Thus the Aluvoreans left in peace to populate the woods of the world. They are a gentle race, though some say they have come to love their trees more than people, a great misfortune.
To those who had been pirates upon the sea, the Majestic One declared:
Live, thou Zhanin, among waves and currents,
wind and weather and the deep!
Forever a wanderer, without a home,
thou shalt be melancholy,
Changeable, strange, and lonely as the sea.
So the Zhanin were swept away like driftwood. They cannot live long when separated from the water. It is a great marvel to see one at the market of Far Seeing. But occasionally such traders do appear, with strange stories and stranger wares.
Those who had used magic in their battle against the Majestic One he called human, to remind them they were neither gods nor beings of power but only mortals.
Humans! Ye shall live upon another earth,
a people of science and dust.
Bereft of magic, short lived and passionate,
there shall still be beauty and wonder among you.
In great need may ye return to the Sunlit Lands,
for ye are our cousins and neighbors.
At last all who remained before the Majestic One were the Elenil, his servants of old, and the most rebellious of the people, who would come to be called the Scim. They were evil things, their hearts filled with wickedness and foul deeds. They trembled before the Majestic One, for his face shone like glowing metal. Indeed, his face shone with a righteous anger, and they feared he would destroy them completely.
Thou Scim I banish to outer darkness,
a land as black as thy heart.
Thou shalt live by eating thy brethren’s scraps.
Servant of darkness and night, in blackness
shalt thou dwell, and in that eternal midnight
may thine outer appearance match thy corrupted nature!
The Scim wailed and begged for mercy, but the Majestic One stood unmoved. He commanded his Elenil to remove the Scim from his presence, and they drove the creatures south and east to the Wasted Lands, where shadows cling and sunlight dares not go.
So it is that we say:
Zhanin on the western waters,
Aluvoreans in forests dispersed.
To the east, the Kakri wanders,
the Scim in deep darkness accursed.
Humans from magic are fleeing,
Maegrom in dark earth beneath.
Elenil rule from Far Seeing,
in lands by our master bequeathed.
The Majestic One keeps all in his sight,
Elenil first in the warmth of his light.
RENALDO THE WISE
A Scim Legend
A great while ago, when the summers of this land could still be counted by those with long memories, a man named Renaldo walked the paths of the world. Hated and despised by all he met, Renaldo returned the hatred of his neighbors with vigor.
Now in those days, the Peasant King ruled. The Peasant King sent out a decree into all the land, telling his subjects that he wished to increase the happiness of all his people, and so he would give each subject a boon of their choosing. Magic or money, fortune or fame, long life or lilies, no request either small or large would be turned away, so long as it be not evil.
Renaldo thought for eight days and seven nights of what might bring him happiness, but the only boons he imagined would give him pleasure were misfortunes for his neighbors. He knew the Peasant King would not grant him his wish if he said, “Make old Mrs. Gaither’s goats give sour milk” or “Tear the thatch off Mr. Havill’s hut” or even “Take away the tongue of that calamitous child down the lane.”
The day came for his audience with the Peasant King, and Renaldo dressed in his finest clothes and walked to the woods, where the king sat upon a stone, a sprig of holly wrapped about his forehead. He was playing a merry tune on a simple flute. “This,” said the Peasant King, “is the Flute of Joy. Blow into it and such joy shall fill your heart that you will be at peace with all people and with the world. I have made it, dear Renaldo, for you. For often I have passed by your home and seen you scowling in your chair.” The Peasant King held out the lovely gift, but Renaldo would have none of it.
“Such a gift is too fine for me,” said Renaldo. “Now, Highness, you said you would grant any boon so long as it is not evil. Have I heard it right? For I would not speak and have you deny me.”
“I will not curse a person or animal, nor take away their free will, to please you.”
“Not even to make a goat’s milk sour?” Renaldo asked hopefully, for the bleating and stench of Mrs. Gaither’s goats truly vexed him.
The Peasant King laughed and said, “Truly not!” and played upon his Flute of Joy. The whole wood filled with dancing and laughter. The birds sang, the rabbits danced, the foxes stopped their hunting and smiled. Renaldo only frowned.
“My wish, then,” said Renaldo, “is to see the coming death of every person in the land.” For he thought to himself, To know the death of a person is to have great power over them. Besides, it might please him to see his neighbors and enemies and be able to say to himself, But six months more and that one shall be gone. But a few years for that one. Ha! She shall be no bother after next Thursday.
The Peasant King stopped his playing, and the whole wood fell silent. “It is not an evil gift,” said the king, “though it is requested with evil intent.”
“You have given your word,” Renaldo reminded him.
“Indeed,” said the Peasant King. “I shall grant your wish and something more: not only the time of death shall you see but also the cause.”
Elated, Renaldo bowed low to the king and walked backward from his presence. The joyful playing did not start again until Renaldo set foot upon the road, which was a great relief. He hurried home to try his new skill.
He came first to Mrs. Gaither’s thatched hut. The stench of her goats grew ever greater. Just last week he had convinced her to move her flock to the east side of her property, for on the west side their stench lived always in his nostrils. She complained that the east side was craggy and dangerous, but every day he wheedled and complained until she at last relented.
The old woman came out of her hut, and the moment he saw her, Renaldo knew her death. In two years’ time she would take her goats out in the rain and slip upon the craggy rocks of her eastern property and break her hip. She would die within six weeks, weakened and alone.
“Serves her right,” Renaldo said to himself, “for keeping such filthy animals.”
He continued on to Mr. Havill’s hut and knocked upon his door. For many years he and Mr. Havill had feuded about their property line. The great stones separating their property would move in the night, sometimes because Mr. Havill moved them and sometimes because Renaldo moved them. Neither could remember the true property lines any longer. Renaldo saw his end too: just one year hence he would catch a sickness during a storm. His poorly thatched roof (which Renaldo often called an eyesore) would not keep out the rain, and he would die feverish and alone.
“Serves him right,” Renaldo said to himself, “for taking such poor care of his home.”
He continued on to find the loudmouthed child who shouted and screamed day and night, sometimes in joy, sometimes in anger. The boy shouted whether happy or sad and could neither keep his opinions to himself nor his voice low.
Renaldo gasped.
The boy, a child of only seven summers, would die in one week’s time.
And he would die trying to save Renaldo from drowning in the pond.
Renaldo liked to swim on crisp summer mornings, and next week he would sink from a leg cramp. The boy would charge into the water to save him and would succeed, but at the cost of his own life.
No more would Renaldo hear the boy’s booming voice as he chased the geese. No more his disappointed cries when his mother called him to dinner. Never again the echoing crow of the boy emulating the morning rooster. All this because the boy would try to save his melancholy neighbor, the one who barely said hello and often complained that the boy was too loud.
Renaldo’s heart broke as if struck by a great hammer.
Renaldo hurried to the pond and stared at the cool, placid water, and it was there that he saw his own death —sitting in a chair upon his porch many years hence, bitter, angry, and alone.
He hurried back to the Peasant King and begged for another audience. He fell on his knees in the great king’s presence and cried, “O Majesty, take away this curse! Give me instead a new boon!”
“What boon is that?” the king asked.
“Majesty, I ask only this: let the boy live a long and happy life. He does not deserve to end his life in such a way.”
The king gave him a look of great pity and said, in the archaic way of knights and kings, “Stay thou out of the water, Renaldo.”
Renaldo thanked the king and hurried home, determined not to swim in the pond that week. But was this enough to change the boy’s future? He saw the boy and was relieved to see him living until the age of twenty-three, when he would die in battle. There was time to work on that, but for now he hurried to Mr. Havill’s house and, in a flurry of activity and without a single complaint, rethatched his roof.
Then he was off to Mrs. Gaither’s house, where he told her to live a long life and move her goats back between their houses, which she did.
That night he sat upon his porch, smoking his pipe, when the Peasant King came along, playing his flute softly in the moonlight. The Peasant King sat on the porch with crossed legs and did not use a chair, for the Peasant King would not sit on a chair fashioned by the hands of a living being.
“Has your boon brought you happiness?” the Peasant King asked.
Renaldo thought on this for a time, puffing upon his pipe. “We have more in common than we have differences,” Renaldo said at last. “In the face of death these grievances with my neighbors seem petty.”
“A wise observation,” the Peasant King said. “You and your neighbors shall all be better for it. Now, I think, this flute is yours . . . for it requires a loving heart to play it.”
Renaldo accepted it gladly, and in the years to come he became known as Renaldo the Wise, for he seemed to know the greatest needs of his neighbors, and all who knew him lived long and healthy lives. Many were the nights when Renaldo sat upon his porch and played his flute, and the people of the village shed their cares and kicked up their heels.
When he was very old, the whole village came to his bedside. His final words, we are told, were these: “To see another is the birth of Compassion. Compassion is a seed of Love. Love comes hand in hand with Joy. So, little children, love one another, that your joy may be complete.”
So, too, this story brings three boons: one for the storyteller, one for the hearer, and one for the heart which understands.
AN EXCERPT FROM “THE GALLANT LIFE AND GLORIOUS DEATH OF SIR SAMUEL GRYPHONHEART”
An Elenil Poem
O’er silent tower no banner flies,
Shouted laments from soldiers rise.
Upon the battlefield he lies —
Sir Samuel Gryphonheart!
The dragon slain, the battle won.
Alone he stood, the rest had run.
Strong armed he fought, the deed was done,
And now he must depart.
Behold! Now gentle hands take hold
The corpse of our defender bold.
To save our lives, his own he sold —
Sir Samuel Gryphonheart!
’Twas he who fought the minotaur,
’Twas he who slayed the Bolgomor,
’Twas he who saved Vald’s sycamores.
Now dead upon yon cart!
His broken blade, his bloodied shirt,
Our lord is dead and we unhurt.
We cannot e’er proclaim his worth —
Sir Samuel Gryphonheart.
O minstrels, sing a glorious ode
To the chief knight who ever strode
This earth. He made the sun shine gold —
Sir Samuel Gryphonheart.
’Tis true he’s left these shadowed lands,
All toil and trouble and demands.
Walks he now on gold-flecked sands,
To range sans map or chart.
And now upon that rival shore
All woes be gone, and sob no more.
No death, no tears, no pain, no war
For Samuel Gryphonheart!
Now draws near the Majestic One
To celebrate a life well done.
Homecoming his adopted son —
Sir Samuel Gryphonheart!
His bowl is spilt, his thread unspun.
His life is past and just begun.
He treads now in a clime of sun
In the land of the Majestic One.
Majestic One, all wounds he heals,
All righteous traits in hearts anneals.
Samuel’s life like a bell it peals
To greet the Majestic One.
Watch them walking arm in arm
In golden fields beyond all harm.
Their laughter rings with friendship warm —
The joy of the Majestic One!
The knight at last his sword lays down,
His grimace gone, no more a frown,
His helm replaced with glorious crown,
A gift from the Majestic One!
The squire has let his horse run free.
The Sunlit Lands now mourn and weep.
Our friend is gone, no more we’ll see
Till we see the Majestic One.
He stands before a riotous throng,
Those who’ve left all woe and wrong,
They greet him with a welcome song,
“You’ll nevermore depart!”
With cries of joy they welcome him.
The night is past, the day begins.
He smiles, then laughs —they dance, they spin!
Deep joy has filled his heart.
Our greatest knight, our dearest friend,
Our defender bold has met his end.
With him our love and thanks we send,
Sir Samuel Gryphonheart!
THE DESERTED CITY
A Kakri Lament (to be sung to the tune of “The Water Bearer’s Daughter,” on the night of the third and fourth spheres’ meeting, with a divided choir)
MOONSIDE CHOIR: Where is the fountain which brought joy to the city, clean and clear at its heart?
STARSIDE CHOIR: It has been carried away, the water spilled to the sand, the water given to the sun.
MOONSIDE CHOIR: Where is the young man who played his bitarr beneath the lady’s window when the hot wind blew from the east?
STARSIDE CHOIR: His eyes are open, unseeing, his bitarr shattered in his hands, his lady . . . But we do not know where his lady has gone!
MOONSIDE CHOIR: Has she not gone to the west, to the city of the shortsighted?
STARSIDE CHOIR: She weeps into the fountain. She lingers at her window and sobs to hear the silent streets.
MOONSIDE CHOIR: Look at the walls, so bright and fair, each stone placed by a master builder.
STARSIDE CHOIR: They are drunken stones . . . They cannot stand, they cannot support one another.
MOONSIDE CHOIR: What has become of the wide avenues, the shaded alleys beneath the golden trees?
STARSIDE CHOIR: Weeds grow upon the streets, dead thorns and fruitless stunted trees line them.
MOONSIDE CHOIR: What of the birds? The wrens and sparrows? The magpies and swallows?
STARSIDE CHOIR: There are only empty nests. Even the birds, yes the birds, have fallen.
MOONSIDE CHOIR: We must rebuild these walls.
STARSIDE CHOIR: No, Sisters, set your face toward the wasteland.
MOONSIDE CHOIR: We must repair these towers.
STARSIDE CHOIR: No, Brothers, entrust yourself to the sands.
There is no one path through the desert,
the way is made by walking.
Let us turn our faces from this place,
let us seek solace in the desert.
The sheep pens are empty,
the gates broken, the king dead.
What use the sheep pen in the desert?
What need for gates in the waste?
He who sleeps upon the roof dies upon the roof,
she who sleeps in the house receives no burial.
The desert claims the land, and so we,
we must claim the desert.
MOONSIDE CHOIR: But one day the King of Stories will return —
TOGETHER:
The Story King will tell a new tale,
the vineyards shall bear grapes.
The orchards heavy with fruit,
the high plain will bear the mašgurum tree.
Another turning shall come,
the city rebuilt, the gates rehung.
The people will again be many.
O Keeper of Stories!
O your house!
O your city!
O your people!
A FRAGMENT OF “THE TRIUMPH OF THE PEASANT KING”
A Scim Legend
. . . saw the Peasant King going against the tide of those who would evacuate the city. The Shadow had fallen, and destruction followed behind. The walls were breached, and the enemy swarmed down the tree-lined avenues.
One of the Peasant King’s followers, a knight in his service, said to him, “My lord, where are you going?”
The Peasant King replied, “Why, to meet Death. Would you go with me, Sir Knight?” But the knight had promised to protect a caravan headed south, so he begged his leave. The king said, “Go in peace.”
Another of his followers, a wealthy merchant, saw the Peasant King walking toward the city. Leaning down from his horse, he said, “Where are you going, my lord?”
The Peasant King replied, “Why, to meet Death. Would you go with me, sir?” But the merchant had a household to protect, and he begged his leave. The king said, “Go in peace.”
Finally, in the rubble of the walls outside the city, the king’s gardener saw him. She was an old woman, and her whole life she had been cared for by the Peasant King. The king’s gardener spoke the secret language of all growing things. She knew the songs of the morning flowers and spoke the poems of the weeds. She spent long afternoons in conversation with the trees.
“Where are you going, my lord?” she asked.
“To meet Death,” he replied, and she fell at his feet, weeping.
“Not so, my lord!” she cried. “But let me go in your place, for I am a simple gardener and you a majestic king. Let me go to my rest, and you go in peace.”
The king raised her to her feet. “The knight offered me no sword, the merchant no steed. You have offered your life for mine.” He kissed her upon both cheeks and again upon her forehead. He said, “Winter and summer, sunshine and darkness, planting and harvest. So long as these fill the Sunlit Lands, you will live. The story of what you have done will be told wherever my name is honored, and you shall ever walk among the people. To those who are pure of heart you may grant three boons with the magic I bestow you.”
“But my lord, if you refuse the offer, ’tis but a small thing,” she protested.
“It is the small things of the world which are most important,” the Peasant King said. He continued on his way, but the gardener would not leave his side. She stayed with him through the Enemy’s lines, past the looters, past the rioters, past the soldiers. They came at last to the great Enemy, who stood taller than a hill. He had no flesh but was only darkness in the shape of a giant. He wore a pale crown set with seven shining stars and carried an iron sword which wept blood. The Peasant King told the gardener she must now say farewell, for he must battle his foe.
“You have no sword,” she said.
“Our great Enemy will give me a sword, and I shall give him my heart for a sheath.”
“You have no steed,” she said.
“I will ride Death’s chariot ere morning,” the king said.
“Your people have all deserted you,” she said. “Throw down your holly crown. Toss away your oaken rod. If you are not king, you need not fight this evil.”
The Peasant King laughed, and it was a clear bell in the clamor of war and darkness. “They have deserted me, but I have not deserted them.”
She took his hands in hers and, weeping, bid him farewell. The Peasant King blessed her again and turned to face the great darkness. The sun shone upon his face as he stepped forward . . . [Here the fragment ends.]
THE PARTING
A Traditional Zhanin Song of Farewell for Honored Visitors
Your arrival —how like the sunrise!
When the cool eastern light shimmers
upon the morning waves.
In the midday the birds sang,
fish jumped, their scales aflame,
water sparkled in our cupped hands!
We have paddled alongside you,
but here our journeys part.
We are an island, you an ocean stream.
When the sun departs,
she is most beautiful.
O western waters, shine!
Peace to you, come again,
our blessed guest, beloved friend,
charming one, farewell.
Until once more
the cool eastern light shimmers
upon the morning waves.