FUNGO THE UNRIGHTEOUS

It was the great good fortune of the people of the Triple Kingdom of Upper, Middle, and Lower Vuthland that they never experienced the political uncertainty besetting their neighbors, for from the day their sovereign ascended the throne to the day of his (or her) death, the course of the reign was as fixed and determined as the procession of the suns. It was a splendidly simple system. When it came time for the incumbent to die in battle, or (far more commonly) to perish of a surfeit of lampreys, or to be sleeping slain (as was of course right and proper), the royal astrologer would convene the entire membership of the three Royal Vuthlandian Colleges of Astrologers, Diviners, and Soothsayers, and they would solemnly attend a beasting, where they would consult the entrails of a virgin male cwisamp (of the footed variety). Then they would proclaim the name the heir to the throne would bear, the character he would assume, the number of years he would reign, and the date and manner of his death.

It worked wonderfully. For centuries, the kingdom had been ruled by such memorable figures as Grundius the Ungodly (802-847), Throd Tanglewit (870-879), Hargust the Torturer (1055-1102), Scrandeg the Conqueror (1147-1152), the infamous Waltzing Matilda (1205-1233, about whom a song was written hundreds of years later), Aproprong the Profligate (1256-1286), and Herf the Merciful (August 1314).

Now it so happened that in the fall of 1388, when Yarskald Throatbiter was all set to die in the third year of his reign, next in line for the crown was a handsome young prince named Fungo. He had every virtue. He was always merry and openhanded, kindly and courteous. He loved to go off for days, dancing and singing with the Gypsies, with whom he was a great favorite. (Their queen, an ancient crone called Mama Gabor, had formally adopted him into her tribe.) He was a great horseman, and a great hunter and swordsman as well. Indeed, if he can be said to have had any fault whatsoever, it was in his extreme naiveté. This deeply distressed the lovely Lady Clysomel, with whom he was madly in love and who loved him dearly, for she was the step-niece of Kostra Karbunkel, the royal astrologer now for more than one reign—a bitter, lecherous, treacherous old man who was also, by a royal edict he had connived for, her legal guardian.

So, when it became known that Yarskald was on his deathbed, she pleaded with Fungo to take her away, to flee far from the three Vuthlands. “Let’s take swift horses, my love,” she begged. “There are those in your stables none other can catch. We’ll take gold and jewels enough, and our most faithful servants. Even if we cannot be king and queen, we shall be happy.” And she began to weep softly.

Gently, Fungo smoothed her glistening black tresses, and gently he tried to dissuade her. “Beautiful Clysomel, you shall indeed be a queen. Before the week’s out, you shall be my queen. I cannot believe that your step-uncle, unpleasant as he undoubtedly is, can wish anyone as sweet and charming as you any real harm.”

“Harm?” she cried, “Fungo, he not only wishes me harm—he wants me, that vile old man! He wants me for himself. And the Gods only know what he’ll read in that poor cwisamp’s entrails at the beasting.”

But Fungo was much too innocent to believe her, for it was not in him to think that anyone could be as cruel and as despicable as she had painted her uncle. So, when the old man had departed, she betook herself, escorted only by one trusted groom, to the camp of the Gypsies in a birch forest near Farvath, the capital city, and there she bared her heart to old Mama Gabor.

Gravely, shaking her head once in a while, the ancient Gypsy listened to her. She read the lines in her right hand and the lines in her left. For perhaps fifteen minutes, she peered intently into a crystal ball that gleamed on the table between them. She consulted a curious and frightening tarot deck known only to the Gypsies of Vuthland. Finally, she clapped her wrinkled hands, and a pretty young Gypsy came in with a smoking samovar on a tray, and teacups, and Mama Gabor showed the Lady Clysomel how to swirl the leaves around after she’d finished her third cup.

Then, staring at the pattern of the leaves, she spoke. “Soon, soon,” she said, “you, dear child, you and your good Prince will suffer distress which you will think you cannot survive. The old man whom you fear will part you. He is determined on a terrible destiny for Prince Fungo, and one even more terrible for you. What he is even now reading in the entrails is what his own twisted mind dictates, and he will proclaim it tomorrow at the enthronement. … Hush, hush, my dear!” She soothed as Clysomel burst into tears. “Though you are facing something unspeakable, you must not lose heart. No, no! You must hasten back to the Palace with this message from Mama Gabor for Prince Fungo. Listen well! Tell him I say that when he is ordered to do evil, as he will be, he must not follow his true nature and refuse. Instead, he must wait till we Gypsies come up to kneel at the throne, for that is when he must ask me one question, which I have written on this piece of paper. Tell him, and tell him again, my Lady—for all will then depend upon him. But he must not unfold the paper until that very moment!”

So the Lady Clysomel, somewhat heartened, hastened back to the Palace, sought out the Prince, and told him all that had occurred. He, of course, took little notice of it, but simply to set her mind at ease he took Mama Gabor’s message and promised faithfully that he would ask the question written in it when the time came.

Yarskald Throatbiter died at seven of the evening, exactly on schedule, and at once bells began tolling and trumpets and conchs started braying all through the land, informing the folk that the king was duly dead and they would have a new king on the morrow.

Naturally, they had already assembled by tens of thousands: rough, surly Lower Vuthlanders in their hairy goatskin breeks; sleek Mid-Vuthian silk and spice merchants and subtle artisans; gangling, boastful mountaineers from Upper Vuthland all swaggering in cwisamp-hide capes and bragging in coarse nasal voices. Everyone who could possibly get away was there, for the enthronement of the new king was the most exciting event of many a year, and till it was accomplished no plans could be made, no courses of action decided upon either in business or agriculture or even in matters of romance. But the crowds were in excellent spirits, for they all knew that Fungo was heir to the throne, and all wished him well.

Immediately after the death of the king, Prince Fungo was ceremonially taken in charge by, among others, the Lord Chamberlain, and solemnly invested with the regalia and raiment of Majesty: the Great Necklace heavy with beautifully polished cwisamp gizzard-stones, the mace, the sword of power (which had, incidentally, been used to end four previous reigns), the three crowns symbolizing each of the realms, and the enormously heavy robes of the sovereign.

Encumbered with these, Fungo presided at the ritual banquet, at which any number of dignitaries devoured the late king’s funereal meats. He would much rather have been with his Clysomel, but he did what he knew was his duty, telling himself that next day, right after his enthronement, he and she would be united in marriage.

He slept well that night, breakfasted cheerfully, and shortly afterwards suffered himself to be escorted to the great square facing the palace, where it seems the entire population of the country had assembled, cheering themselves hoarse. The throne stood on a dais which had three levels, surrounded by a squadron of Royal Guard cavalry and a battalion of Royal Guard infantry. On its lowest level stood the Lord Mayor of Farvuth, many members of the petty nobility, and the more worshipful sort of civil servants. On the next level up, the great nobles were proudly arrayed, all in their picturesque regional costume and gaudy with decorations and gems. But on the highest level of all, besides the generals of the Royal Guard (of whom there were several), there was only Kostra Karbunkel and a score of his most important fellow astrologers, diviners, and soothsayers.

Fungo ascended the steps to the throne, pausing occasionally to acknowledge a bow or a curtsey, or allow his hand to be kissed, but doing so very abstractedly, for his mind was on Clysomel, who was nowhere in sight.

“Pray seat yourself, Majesty,” said the royal astrologer, his voice like a crow’s caw, and his dry, narrow face a mask of unconcealed triumph. Fungo, looking at him, saw that on an ivory table at his side was a silver salver bearing the cwisamp entrails that had decided his fate. They smelled dreadful, and he wrinkled his nose. “Where is Clysomel?” he demanded.

Karbunkel leered. “She’s been told to stay home, Sire, for she has no part in these ceremonies—no, nor in your royal future.” His thin tongue darted out, licked his lips. “But I have other nice little plans for her, never fear!”

We’ll see about that! Fungo thought grimly, but he forced himself to say nothing.

Then Karbunkel blew a single shrill note on an ancient horn he drew from his robes. “Let the rites proceed!” he proclaimed; and he was instantly echoed by eighty stentorial heralds stationed in every part of the square.

First the generals of the Guard came up, knelt before Fungo, and swore absolute obedience to his every word and whim. Then the greater nobility did likewise, followed by the lesser nobles, the Lord Mayor, and the civil servants.

There was a moment of breathless silence while Karbunkel stood there, both arms held up to heaven. “And now,” he declared, “Now you shall learn what the history of our King Fungo’s reign shall be, as revealed by these infallible significators!” And he pointed at the entrails, over which a great many flies were now buzzing.

“You, Noble King, from this moment on shall be known to all men as FUNGO THE UNRIGHTEOUS! You shall exact the cruelest taxes in our long history! You shall ravish maidens, and have innocent men put to death! Your name will be a stench in the nostrils, and will be reviled throughout the length and breadth of the Three Kingdoms! You will savagely persecute all those of whom the royal astrologers disapprove, especially the Gypsies! You shall be cursed by rich and poor alike, for your every act from this moment on—from this most auspicious moment on—shall damn you as enemy of all righteous men and all righteousness! You shall marry the Princess Savaka of Utt, and with her you will sleep every night of your life—”

Here a great groan rose from the crowd, for not only were they all deeply shocked at the prognostication, but they knew that the Princess Savaka was renowned for her promiscuity and foul temper.

“—and—” cried out Clysomel’s step-uncle, raising his voice, “you shall rule for the term of 12 years, 9 months, and 8 days, and shall perish finally of fish-spears thrust severally through you! I have spoken!”

Fungo was thoroughly stricken. He sat on his throne, trying manfully to hold back his tears and to keep his hands from trembling too visibly, and conscious that he was pale as a ghost. He had almost cried out that the last thing he wanted was to be the Unrighteous, but fortunately he had remembered the message. The astrologer bowed to him mockingly, then stepped aside so that the traditional approach of the King’s subjects to the foot of the throne could begin.

Usually, at this point in the ceremony, there was a mighty shouting from the multitude, a blaring of horns and a ruffle of drums, an eager pealing of bells, as people surged forward to pledge their loyalty. Now there was a dead silence. No one moved.

Then suddenly, out of the crowd, the new king beheld two figures approaching. The first, wearing bright silken robes and garlands of precious gold coins, was Mama Gabor, tall and erect in spite of her age. Her companion, obviously younger, was similarly garbed but had her face veiled demurely.

“Let the old witch approach, Majesty,” hissed Kostra Karbunkel in King Fungo’s ear, “then tell her what persecutions you have in mind for her, ha-ha-ha!”

Fungo had been fumbling nervously in his purse, fearful that he might have misplaced the message, but finally he’d found it. Now, surreptitiously, he unfolded and read it.

“Your Majesty,” he read, “you must ask me this question: Mother Gabor, must I obey the cruel prophesy about my behavior, which is so much against my real nature? Then you must not be surprised at my answer. Fear not.”

As Mama Gabor knelt at his feet, he reached his hand out to her. In a loud, strong, clear voice, he asked her the question, and throughout the square the eighty heralds repeated it.

“Lord,” answered the Gypsy. “No man has ever dared to dispute the auguries, so you must obey. You must obey literally and without reservation. You must become the enemy of all righteous men, and the more righteous they are, the more cruel must you be to them.” Her black eyes glittered, and she winked at him. Then she stared directly at Kostra Karbunkel. “The most righteous first!”

King Fungo, naive though he was, was by no means stupid. He stood. He looked at Clysomel’s step-uncle. “Mother Gabor,” he said to the Gypsy, “you can read the future, and you can delve into the natures of men. Who is the most righteous man in my kingdom?”

“Who but your esteemed royal astrologer?” replied Mama Gabor.

King Fungo thereupon drew the glistening sword of power. “She speaks truth!” he declared. “I, Fungo the Unrighteous, shall commence my reign with the most unrighteous deed anyone can imagine. Ho! To me, generals of the Guard!”

They came to him at the double.

“Seize that man!” he ordered, pointing at Kostra. “Bind him hand and foot. Throw him into a dung-cart, and take him forthwith to the stinking bogs and fens of our Lower Vuthland. There let him be thrown to the cwisamps (those of the footless variety) who now are in rut!”

Kostra Karbunkel struggled to prostrate himself at the King’s feet, but the generals restrained him. “Merciful Lord!” he shrieked. “How can you do so evil a deed? Don’t you know that footless cwisamps in rut are so mad and mindless that they have no idea of species at all? Think what will become of me!”

“I am,” King Fungo replied levelly, and the generals bound the weeping man hand and foot and bore him away. “And I think all my loyal subjects, gathered here together, will agree that it’s about as beautifully unrighteous as anything you could imagine. And now, Mother Gabor, who is the second most righteous man in the kingdom?”

She did not answer, but both she and the King turned to look at the first assistant royal astrologer, a very fat man named Whelpstone.

The King nodded. “Yes, I think so,” he said with a very cold smile. “Yes, indeed.”

At that, poor Whelpstone came forward, quivering and shaking. “Majestic King!” he exclaimed. “I—I—we—that is—we’ve been considering those entrails. Yes, we have. We have reached a conclusion. Kostra Karbunkel misread those entrails. Oh yes, completely. His prognostication was full of gross errors. May we have your royal permission to examine them one more time?”

“If you hurry!” King Fungo replied. “You may consider them while the crowd sings our royal anthem. After that, I want them thrown away. Those flies are unbearable.”

It was later remarked that never had the 28 verses of the anthem been sung so enthusiastically, and when the last mighty chords had died away, the whole square seemed to be waiting.

“Well?” King Fungo said to Whelpstone.

“Your Heroic Majesty, yes, yes, we have reexamined the entrails—and they’ve been thrown away, as you ordered, though I must say they were as fine a set of entrails as ever I’ve seen. I can’t understand how Karbunkel, poor old man, went so far wrong with them. They were clear as crystal, Noble Sire—”

“Come to the point,” ordered the King.

“Ha-ha! I shall, I shall. The point is that, first and foremost, it should not have been Unrighteous. No, never. The entrails were explicit. Sir, you should have been Fungo the Uprighteous, a horse of a very different color_”

“Very,” the King agreed.

“And he wasn’t only wrong about that, no indeed! He also was wrong about what you would do, for it was indisputable that under your benign, wise rule crops will improve, there’ll be no crime to speak of, we’ll have excellent foreign relations and a most favorable balance of trade, and you’ll lower taxes and imposts dramatically. And not only that, my Lord, not only that—he was also wrong about the length of your reign, which will last 55 years 11 months, and at least 19 days, after which you and your Queen will succumb very peacefully of old age—”

“My Queen?” said King Fungo, with an edge to his voice.

“Oh, yes, Majesty, he was wrong about that, too. You aren’t going to marry Princess Savaka. I can’t imagine how he could’ve missed it—you’re going to marry Lady Clysomel, his very own step-niece, and you’re going to marry her this very day, right after supper!”

At that point, Mama Gabor’s companion dropped her veil, and King Fungo saw that she was indeed Clysomel. Instantly, he stepped down from the throne, put his arm around her, and brought her to sit there beside him. (It was a very wide throne.)

Of course, the heralds had dutifully echoed everything that was said, and now the assembled Vuthlanders became almost hysterical, shouting LONG LIVE GOOD KING FUNGO! LONG LIVE FUNGO THE UPRIGHTEOUS! and singing verses of the royal anthem.

In the midst of it, Whelpstone approached the royal couple. “Would Your Majesties, er, that is—would you consider me staying on as—as astrologer general?” he asked timidly.

“As long as you mind your Ps and Qs,” answered good King Fungo.

That night there was revelry in all three Vuthlands, singing and carousing and good humor and dancing in the streets.

King Fungo and Queen Clysomel had been duly married and put to bed, destined to reign for at least 55 years, 11 months, and 19 days, to have several beautiful and intelligent children, and to leave behind them a country happier and more prosperous than it every had been.

And as to what befell Kostra Karbunkel in the stinking bogs and fens of Lower Vuthland, the less said the better.