Far Off Unhappy Things
Chapter 24: The King and the Maxwellianist, or, The Princess and the Ghost, or, The King, The Princess and the Boy.
By Tintenzunge By Maxwell By Tintenzunge
Once upon a time in the distant land where it was always fall, the poet-king was visited by a stranger.
“What?” The poet-king asked his guards. “A visitor?”
“Yes, my liege. He says he has come from a distant land to pay homage to you.”
“I see,” the poet-king said. “Let him through.”
A young man dressed in the robes of a monk or sage entered the throne room of the palace. He wore a brown cloak and hood, which he removed as he kneeled before the poet-king. The king watched curiously as the boy folded up his cloak and presented it to the king in a neat bundle.
“What good is a peasant’s cloak to me?” He asked.
“It is a magical cloak,” the boy promised. “It can hide the wearer from sight and guard him from falsehoods. And it comes with mighty handy pockets. This cloak is my gift to you, in the hopes you will hear my one request.”
“I see,” the king said as he gestured for his guards to take the boy’s gift. “Send this to the court wizard. Now then, boy. Let’s hear that request.”
“My king, I am from a far away land. But even there we have heard your tales, which has motivated me to travel here and seek you out.”
“Ah,” the king said. “Then you are here to pay your respects to me. I gracefully accept.”
“I am glad,” the boy said. “That warms my heart and stills my troubled soul.”
“It should never be said that I am not a kind and generous king,” the poet-king said. “In return for your gift and your respects I will grant you any one request. Ask me, and it will be yours.”
“I am honored,” the boy said. “In that case, I challenge you to a game.”
“Excuse me?” The king said, indignant.
“I challenge you to a game,” the boy repeated. “A game of storytelling.”
“A- you tricked me,” the king spat. “What nonsense is this? A game of stories?”
“Oh,” the boy said, fiddling his thumbs. “I am sorry. I must have misunderstood. This would be considered a great honour in my land, for both of us. If you wish it so, I will gracefully accept you backing out of our contest.”
“A great honour?” The king spat. “Who might you even be that I would be honoured to engage in games with you?”
“I am called the Maxwellianist,” the boy said. “I am a traveling peddler of tales and songs. To collect such is my quest, and it has been said I am the very best.”
“Bold words to spin against the poet-king of the Autumn lands,” the king said. “I will accept your game then. Tell me the rules of this game, so that I can put you back in your place through it.”
“Ah,” the boy said. “I am glad. The rules are simple- we take turns to tell each other stories.”
“And then what?” The king yelled. “We tell each other stories and then what?”
“Well,” the boy said, shrugging. “This is a duel to the death.”
“How do you- what?” The poet-king said, stumbling over his words. “If you want to die, so be it. Having foolishly challenged his betters to a game of words, the Maxwellianist heard the poet-king say only ‘die’, and fell to the ground.”
“That’s it?” The boy asked. “That’s your story? You tell me to die and I die? I can tell a better one. How’s this: Once upon a time a foolish king was challenged to a game by a fool. Feeling like he was too great a king to waste his time playing games with fools, the king simply told the fool to die. He had been a king with many servants who obeyed his every whims, and this had been the case for so long that he had forgotten that words are only words.”
“What?” The king spat. His guards looked around, uneasy. “Should we apprehend this brigand?” One asked. The king’s eyes narrowed. “How did you do that, Maxwellianist? Why do my words have no effect on you?”
The boy shrugged. “Words are words. I’ll leave you to your kingly duties. Tomorrow I will return, and you will regale me with a tale. See you soon, king.” With that the boy turned around and walked out.
“Should we throw him the stocks?” The king’s guards asked.
“No,” the king angrily replied. “I will not lose this game to him. If he wants a story, he can get one.”
The next day the Maxwellianist came before the poet-king again. “Have you composed a tale for me?” He asked.
“I have,” the poet-king said. “Sit down and hear the tale of the princess and the ghost.”
Once upon a time there was a blue princess who lived in Fair Luson. Her hair and dress were as blue as her blood. She had everything in the city that she wanted, but she was not happy. Most of her days she spent listening to the wizards in the great tower where they studied all kinds of magic, before returning to her own home.
Though she had everything and was adored by the people, the princess felt like she did not fit in. Her only friend was a ghost, a dead girl who haunted a room in the wizard’s tower.
“Hello princess,” the ghost greeted the princess.
“Hello ghost,” the princess responded.
“Why so blue?” The ghost asked.
“Ah, I miss my friend, the red demoness. I miss her greatly and I feel lost without her. Though I have everything here in this town, I feel like I do not fit in.”
“Ah well,” the ghost said. “You didn’t know her for that long. Life goes on.”
“I know,” the princess said, sad. “I suppose I’ll go look for something to distract my mind in town.”
She went into town to look for something to take her mind off things. Perhaps she should get a job, she thought. A princess who lived among the people. That might be nice, she thought.
As she wandered town, someone came up to her. “Hey knives,” someone said. A nickname she had heard before, making fun of her sharp and pointed ears.
“What do you want?” She asked.
“You’re looking for a job, aren’t you?” The mysterious strangers asked.
“Where are you?” She said, looking around to find nothing. The stranger was hard to see, hard to remember.
The boy removed his hood and became visible. “Sorry,” he said, grinning.
The poet-king sat on his throne, mouth agape. “How are you doing that?” He asked.
“How am I doing what?” The boy asked.
“Why are you in my story?”
“How should I know,” the boy said, shrugging. “You’re the one telling it.”
“You weren’t in there before,” the poet-king said.
“What are you talking about?” The boy said, trying to contain laughter. Some of the guards snickered along with him.
“If you think this is funny,” the poet-king said, angry.
“Well,” the boy interrupted him before he could continue. “If it isn’t supposed to be funny then maybe you’re telling the story wrong?”
“Shut up and cease your trickery! Let me tell my story without interfering.”
“But I’m not interfering!” The boy said. “I’m really not. How would I do that to begin with?”
The king squinted at the boy. “I am watching you,” he growled, before he continued his story.
“Sorry,” the boy said to the princess.
“Have I met you before?” The princess asked.
“I don’t think so,” the boy said. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Why is that?” The princes asked.
“My father has a job for you,” the boy said. “Here’s his card.”
“Fisher’s Lane 304,” the princess read out loud from the card. “That’s in Lusan, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” the boy said. “My father is a merchant.”
“Alright,” the princess said. “I’ll visit one of these days. Now I have to hurry, because I am late for ceremony.”
“Have fun,” the boy said as he waved the princess goodbye.
The poet-king groaned in frustration as the princess walked into the throne room. “What now,” he said. “What is going on?”
“Huh?” The princess stammered.
“Hello,” the boy said, waving to the princess.
“What are you doing,” the poet-king yelled.
“Me?” The princess asked. “I thought- I thought there was something I had to be here for.”
“No, not you, the- the boy, the Maxwellianist.”
“I’m not doing anything,” the boy said, holding up his hands. “Poet-king, could it be you don’t understand the difference between first and second order metareality?”
“Second- don’t play smart with me,” the poet-king swore. “Of course. I get it now. Very clever.”
“Again,” the boy said. “I’m not doing anything. You wanted to tell a story with me in it, and you wanted to tell a story where the princess visits the palace.”
“I didn’t-”
“But you did!”
“I didn’t realize,” the poet-king muttered.
“Do you want to start over?” The boy asked. “I’m sportsmanlike, I won’t argue if you want to try again.”
“Begone,” the poet-king yelled. “Get out, get out get out get out.”
“Okay,” the boy said. “I’ll be back tomorrow to tell my story. I’m looking forward to it. See you soon, king. Princess, wanna come along? I know a great spot under the willows near the river, just outside the town. We can hang out and kick rocks into the river and such.”
“Oh,” the princess said, a little flustered. “I suppose that’s okay. Yeah, I’ll come along.”
And with that they left.
