A Tale Without a Name Page 8

  “What is his name?”

  “Illstar the master builder, to distinguish him from myself, whom they call Illstar the schoolmaster.”

  “I would very much like to meet him,” said the Prince.

  “And why not? Instead of going all the way to the School of the State, come tomorrow to his house to have your lesson. If you come early, you will find me there.”

  “Very well, then, I will come.”

  In front of the door of the master builder’s house, the schoolmaster bid them goodbye, and the Prince went up the mountain slope with Little Irene.

  It was late by the time they reached the palace. Everyone was asleep.

  Polycarpus alone had anxiously stayed up for them, venturing outside to see if they were approaching, then again going inside, back to the bench where Polydorus lay asleep, to tell him about his worries, which the sleeping man never heard at all.

  “I have saved up some food for you, my lady, and also for His Highness, your brother,” he said happily to Little Irene when he saw her. “Go into the dining hall, your young Highness, I have the table all laid out properly.”

  Polydorus, however, had been awakened by the voices and was already lighting a torch so they could see their way to the dining hall. He could not light a lantern, for there were no wax tapers or even a tallow candle in the palace any more. So they stuck the torch into a clay pitcher, and by its light brother and sister sat down to eat.

  The next day, first thing in the morning, they went once more to the woods, where the Prince killed wildfowl and rabbits, while Little Irene collected eggs from birds’ nests, and picked fruit, and gathered wild greens.

  When they returned, still no one was awake. Only Polycarpus was up, getting the back kitchen ready once more for Little Irene.

  The Prince took from the pile the schoolmaster’s share, and bid Little Irene farewell.

  “I shan’t be long,” he said. “The master builder’s house is very near the foot of the mountain, and I will be back as soon as I have finished my lesson.”

  He found the schoolmaster and his brother sitting inside the glassed-in porch of the house, eating bread and olives.

  “Welcome, my good lad,” said the schoolmaster, and introduced his brother to the Prince.

  The Prince immediately entered into a deep discussion with the master builder, asking him a myriad questions about the way he used to build ships in the past, and the master builder remembered with sadness and with longing the earlier years of his life, relating with tears in his eyes how deeply stirred he had been every time that he would see on the river some new ship, built by his own hands.

  “Do you still have the urge to build ships?” asked the Prince. The master builder smiled cynically.

  “You must not jest about such things,” he said. “Such pleasantries leave a bitter aftertaste.”

  “Yet… and yet, if there might be someone… the King, let us say… and he were to commission new ships, would you build them?”

  “The King will not commission them, rest assured,” said the master builder scornfully. “His entire life the King never thought of anything but his own comfort and peace of mind. Now it is too late for him to wake up. Thanks to his High Chancellors, his Supreme Commanders of the Army, his Commanders of the Fleet and their fine company, he does not even have food to eat any more.”

  “What did the Supreme Commander of the Army do, exactly, do you know?” asked the Prince.

  “You ask about Master Rogue? As though there were a man alive who did not know! He did the same as every other palace courtier. He had absolute control over the army warehouses, and he emptied them all. Once he had sold the armaments, the tents and the uniforms, he had amassed a considerable fortune and he went with it abroad, whilst his royal master never even suspected his absence. Even the stones know what I am telling you. It is a secret well known to everyone in the land! The King is the only one who never seems to hear of any of these things,” added the master builder.

  “Is it really fair to put the blame on the King,” said the Prince, turning his face away, pretending to be looking at the street, but in truth trying to conceal the bright scarlet flush on his face. “How could it be the King’s fault, if he has only thieves and scoundrels in his entourage?”

  “He ought to have taken care to know the members of his staff before entrusting them with the best interests of the State,” said the master builder, angry and indignant. “And when they turned out to be scoundrels, he ought to have punished them. But when did he ever care about anything? We are always plagued by so-called feelings of good charity! How could you punish a thief, or a traitor, or any other irresponsible and unscrupulous man? ‘The poor wretch,’ they tell you. ‘Why should his life be ruined? Many others do far, far worse!’ And so on and so forth. And it is only the honest men who cannot earn their bread in this land!”

  The Prince interrupted him—so as not to hear more against his father.

  “Why are there people running in the street?” he asked, pointing to two or three peasants, who were running hurriedly with their wives towards the mountain.

  The two Illstars peered out of the window.

  “It must be some brawl again,” said the master builder quietly. “We here are used to such goings-on; they no longer make an impression on us.”

  “Do you frequently have brawls?” asked the Prince.

  “Of course we do; ever since state justice became lax and then was done away with altogether, everyone seeks to defend his right on his own, and seeks to take vengeance on the man who wronged him, or whom he only believes to have wronged him. And so every day there is violent brawling in the capital and in the villages. Quite often there are murders too. Yet the Law will take no notice! There is not a single policeman to be found anywhere any more!”

  The Prince listened, and his soul became more and more distraught on account of the miseries plaguing his land. Whatever he might have to say, the conversation always evolved into a long, grievous complaint.

  “And the lesson, then?” asked the schoolmaster, interrupting their talk. “What, you bring me such a scrumptious little rabbit, and you would not learn anything further?”

  The Prince took his chips of wood out of his pocket and the lesson began.

  “If you can learn as fast every day,” the schoolmaster said, pleased, “I shall soon give you the books I promised, for you to read them on your own.”

  Without warning, the door was suddenly thrown open, and the equerry Polydorus entered, panting and covered in dust.

  “My lord,” he said, and his voice was trembling, “the King asks you to come at once. Bad tidings have come. His Majesty is at a loss, he weeps and calls for you—the Princess has sent me to ask you to come immediately.”

  “My lord?!” cried the schoolmaster in a daze.

  The master builder started.

  “My lord?!” he repeated in turn.

  The Prince had risen from his seat. His face was deathly pale.

  “The King our Royal Uncle…” he muttered.

  “Who are you?! Who are you?!” shouted the master builder, who remembered petrified the words he had uttered earlier.

  “I am the King’s son,” said the Prince, stretching out his hand to him. “And now it is I who command you to stop whatever you are doing, and build a new fleet. And if I have no florins to give you, even if many years must pass before I can pay you, again do not stop, only work hard, until the river is swarming again with ships. The time has come for us all to make sacrifices. Forget your own little self and your personal interest, work only for the common good of the land. Our homeland asks this, and I shall myself set the example for all of you.”

  The master builder fell upon his knees, seized the boy’s hand and kissed it.

  “I shall rebuild the fleet,” he said fervently, “and I shall work until all my strength is gone.”

  The Prince then went out, his soul in turmoil. Polydorus followed him. Those last words had electrified
him and his heart was swelling with love and admiration for his new lord, for the young man who had uttered them.

  VIII

  The King’s Crown

  THE KING was pacing up and down with nervous, uneven strides, while fat tears trickled down his fleshy, rosy cheeks.

  When he saw his son, he let out a cry:

  “My boy! The storm is upon us!”

  At that, he collapsed on a chair, hiding his face in his hands and crying with heavy sobs.

  By his side, placid and indifferent, stood Master Cartwheeler, his arms resting crossed upon his belly, awaiting the orders of his lord with his usual impassivity.

  The Prince approached the King.

  “Father,” he said, trying to conceal the emotional whirlwind in his heart, “father, weep not. We have need of all our courage and all our strength. Tell me, what is the matter? I know nothing yet!”

  The King beckoned to the Lord Chamberlain to relate the news.

  “A few hours ago terrified peasants came to the palace,” Master Cartwheeler began, “and they told us that the enemy had crossed the borders and was invading our kingdom—”

  “What enemy is that?” interrupted the Prince.

  “The King your Royal Uncle,” replied Master Cartwheeler.

  “I expected this to happen sooner or later. Speak further.”

  “…and the enemies have now halted their advance, as though afraid to proceed. With them is also Faintheart the Judge, who is leading them, and is trying to convince them that the road is clear, that they can go as far as the river. They are frightened, however, and for the time being they have set up camp instead. They have sent some scouts ahead towards the river, to make sure that the area is truly free, so that they may then immediately move in and occupy the entire valley. These are the tidings,” added Master Cartwheeler, resuming his usual impassivity.

  The King raised himself up a little.

  “Now do you understand, my son? You have heard it all?” he said, weary and spent.

  “I have heard. And now, father, the time has come to act. What do you advise?”

  “It is I who must ask you that question, my son. What advice do you have? I have already told you that in the future you and I shall rule together.”

  “Well, then, father, and my king, my advice is that I should leave immediately and go from one end of the kingdom to the other, to rouse every youth or old man, or boy even, who may bear a lance or hold a sword, and bring them here, so we may give them any piece of iron which may be found in our towns and villages; then send them at once across the river, where I will lead them against the enemy. I also advise one other thing. Your crown, father: you must give it now to be sold abroad.”

  Aghast, the King seized his crown with his two hands.

  “No, my son, do not take it away from me,” he cried out, genuinely distressed. “Do not sell it! I want it!”

  “It is most necessary, father,” insisted the Prince. “Our first need is for florins, and your crown is the only thing of value left in the palace. The time has come when all of us must make sacrifices. Let this one be yours. Give me the crown, father, I ask it in the name of our homeland.”

  The King was now sobbing heavily.

  “But I, how can I be left without my crown?” he said. “You deprive me of my power and authority by taking away the insignia of my office!”

  “On the contrary, I give them and restore them back to you,” replied the Prince. “By giving away your crown so that arms may be bought, you acquire the right to ask for sacrifices from those who shall use these arms to liberate our land. Hand me your crown, father, I beg you on my knees, give it to me!”

  The King removed his golden crown; and, turning his face away in order to hide the tears that ran fast down his cheeks, he delivered it into the hands of his kneeling son.

  The Prince sprang briskly to his feet.

  “And now,” he cried out, “now I seek a valiant man—someone who will make every sacrifice of himself, will cross our country’s border as fast as lightning, sell it, and bring me back its worth in florins.”

  From the door where he stood, Polydorus had watched the entire scene, his heart bursting with emotion. His earlier excitement had now turned into unbridled fervour.

  He took a step forward and fell on his knees before the Prince.

  “As an inestimable favour, I ask you, my lord, to entrust the crown to me,” he said, “and allow me to go abroad, sell it, and bring back its value in florins, or lose my life in the attempt.”

  “Go, then,” said the Prince, “fly away and come back swiftly! And may God be with you!”

  Polydorus took the crown, kissed the hand that handed it to him, and left the palace running.

  Straight to the river he headed, the precious crown hidden away in the folds of his surcoat; he ran without halting to the place where the two shabby old feluccas were moored, still joined by the plank nailed across their middle.

  “Fellow countryman!” he cried out. “Ahoy!… Fellow countryman!…”

  The one-armed man, who was enjoying the morning sunshine flat on his back, his one arm under his head, stood up.

  “Present and correct!” he cried out.

  “What do you ask to ferry me across?” asked Polydorus. “Only do not ask me for florins, for I have none.”

  “What do you want to go across for?” asked the one-armed man.

  “Secret mission of the State,” replied the equerry.

  Unhurriedly, the one-armed man took his long punt pole and, thrusting it all the way to the riverbed, he pushed his feluccas to the bank.

  “Get in,” he said, and the equerry jumped into the boat. “Where to?”

  “The opposite bank. Put me ashore wherever you want, or wherever you can, only get me across the river fast.”

  The one-armed man untied the rope, took again his punt pole and dug it into the riverbed; walking slowly from stern to starboard and pushing on his punt pole, he manoeuvred his boats away from the bank.

  “And you go far?” he asked.

  “Yes, very far!”

  The one-armed man reached the end of the felucca he stood in, and came back to the stern, trailing his punt pole behind him. He thrust it into the water again, and resumed his stroll to starboard.

  “You are here to serve the whim of the State, then, so to speak, which is to say the whimsy of Sire Witless? Just so you can test how well they prick those lances of the King our Royal Uncle? Or don’t you know, mayhap, that our Very Royal Uncle has disembarked himself on our land, without even asking our leave?”

  “I do know it,” replied Polydorus calmly.

  “And knowing that, you do not turn to go back?” asked the one-armed man in a lilting, sing-song voice, always continuing his stroll. “You are quite something, aren’t you, my good lad?”

  For some time neither of them spoke.

  The one-armed man dragged his punt pole once again from the water, and returned to the stern.

  “And what might he be paying you, his lordship, to make you willing to go and catch your death over yonder?” he asked.

  “I did not ask for payment.”

  “Is that so, now? You have certainly fallen from a strange star, my lad. And you go just like that, you say? For the sake of those black eyes of Sire Witless?”

  “No, rather for the brown ones of his son.”

  “Is that so? Is that so, indeed?” said the one-armed man, and his broad smile split his face from ear to ear.

  It was some time before they spoke again. The one-armed man continued to push his feluccas onwards.

  “And so then, how did he kindle such a fire in you, this fine son of his?” he asked after a while.

  “Just so! With what he said. I heard him… I saw him…” replied the equerry. “And he shook me all over, he seized my whole being, and made me his. And were he to say to me, ‘Throw yourself into the fire,’ I should throw myself into the fire.”

  “And now he has told you, ‘Th
row yourself at the lances’, and you are throwing yourself at the lances,” said the one-armed man in his customary imperturbable manner.

  “Yes,” Polydorus replied simply.

  They did not speak again until they had reached the opposite side, and had drawn the boats nearer to the shore.

  The equerry leapt out and onto the dry land. “So what do you ask, then, for your trouble?” he asked.

  “Your good love,” replied the one-armed man, pulling his punt pole back up again.

  “At least tell me your name. I do not want to forget you.”

  “Onearm.”

  “Thank you.”

  The equerry turned to go.

  “Ahoy, there, countryman, and what’s yours?” cried the one-armed man.

  “What’s mine what?”

  “Your name!”

  “Polydorus.”

  “All right, then. Listen to one more thing. When you return… for you shall return, of course…”

  “Yes!”

  “You will find me, in that case, standing before you if you go to the right place; otherwise”—and with his hand he made the gesture of a dive—“splosh, into the river.”

  The equerry, who had moved away, approached again.

  “Which is the right place?”

  “Not here, of course!” said the one-armed man. “For by that time, our guests will have arrived as well, and your body would have as many holes as a colander before you ever reached Fright and Turmoil. You will find me, however”—and with his hand he pointed up the river—“there, where the Fool’s Eddy meets the river.”

  “But that’s a terrible, nasty spot, how will you go there? The currents of the eddy are far too strong,” said Polydorus.

  “And that’s just why our guests will never think of coming there to greet us,” replied the one-armed man quietly, and with one thrust he pushed his boats away. “Godspeed to you, countryman!”

  “Godspeed to you too!”

  Shifting his punt pole with slow, steady steps, the one-armed man once again headed for the opposite bank, singing softly: