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  “Until tomorrow, then,” said the prince.

  The two waved goodbye.

  “What’ll you get to eat, tadpole?” Renka shouted after him.

  “Fish!” the prince called back, running towards the palace.

  He had never run before. You realize that he was seven years old and this was the first time he’d ever run? But within sight of the palace he slowed down, and walking as the princes of the Hehvrontes walked, he entered the dining room where the nobles, the knights, the servants were waiting for him, the whole jigsaw puzzle all ready to be put together. The prince sat down, looked at his empty plate, and said, “I want fish.”

  It was like an earthquake. The Protocol in no way prevented an hereditary prince from ordering whatever he wanted for lunch, but nobody had ever heard this hereditary prince open his mouth to express any wish, and certainly not a wish for some particular food, since he’d never had any appetite. It cannot be determined whether a cook actually had a nervous breakdown and two footmen fainted, but the story is, and it seems to be true, that when informed, the empress raised an eyebrow—some say it was the left eyebrow, others say the right—and lost the thread of what she’d been saying to one of her ladies of honor. The young prince ate two servings of fish.

  Next day—no. I’m not going to tell you everything that happened next day, since it was just the same as the day before. Except for one of those things the Hehvrontes couldn’t prescribe in the Imperial Protocol: it was sunny. How do I know that? Ah, my little man, that’s my privilege, you know. And I have a further privilege, which is that you don’t know what I know nor how I know it. So it was sunny, and the lanky fellow was lying in the grass, half hidden by some shrubbery, and big Renka was standing watching the overgrown path that led from the palace. It led to the palace, too, but Renka was watching for somebody coming.

  “Think he’ll come?” he asked.

  Loo’Loö was watching a lazy lizard, maybe, or the weeds over his head. “I’d like to say he will,” he said.

  Now even you people, with all the sensitivity of paving-stones, have figured out that the two adventurers, we’ll call them that for now although only one of them really was one, had been drawn toward the young prince by more than mere chance. We may ask ourselves—ask yourselves, because I’ve done it already and come up with the answer—whether chance rules humankind or if all our acts are foreseen, as if by the demented Protocol of the Hehvrontes. And it’s no use asking this curious question of the wise, because some will insist that everything is chance, others will say it plays no part, and maybe all of them are right, since they all suspect, behind chance or non-chance, the workings of a secret order. The lizard scarcely moved, enjoying the sunlight, elegant and silvery as a new coin.

  “He’ll come,” said the lanky man. I don’t know—this I don’t know—whether he believed in chance.

  “He’ll come,” he said again, and put his hand on the old leather bag that hung from his belt.

  And he came. He said, “Hello!” and stood there.

  He just stood there because he didn’t know what else to say to them. To escape from the Protocol was thrilling, and he’d had a wonderful time the day before, but today our young prince realized that it might be dangerous, too. Yes, dangerous: think a little, if you’re capable of thought, and you’ll see that it’s safer to obey a law however stupid it may be than to act freely; because to act freely, unless you’re as wicked as certain emperors, is to seek a just law; and if you make a mistake, you’ve taken the first step towards power, which is what destroys men.

  And so that you can understand me once for all, I’ll tell you that the little boy said nothing but hello because the Protocol didn’t tell him how to behave towards these two men who were humble laborers, and adventurers and philosophers, according to Renka, but who were also something else, something indefinable, mysterious, great, attractive, and frightening.

  “Hello, kid,” said Renka.

  The other man said nothing.

  “I’ll tell you something,” said the big man. “I didn’t call you tadpole because I’ve decided that maybe you aren’t a tadpole.” He smiled. “Maybe you’re a ferret. Do you like ferrets?”

  “I don’t know,” the prince said. “I’ve never seen a ferret.”

  He sat down near Loo’Loö, and Renka sat down too.

  “I’ve got a present for you, Prince,” said the lanky man.

  “Silence!” Renka thundered. “I’m about to give a lecture on ferrets!”

  In that moment, Livna’lams thought that he didn’t like being a prince, and that instead of commanding and deciding and giving orders he’d rather obey Renka, even if that meant he had to wait for his present.

  “Ferrets,” said the black-eyed giant, “are small, tawny animals with four paws and a snout. They use their front paws to dig their underground cities, to hunt rats, and to hold food and baby ferrets. They use their hind paws to stand up, to mount females, and to jump. They use all four paws to run, walk, and dance. They use their snout for sniffing and to grow whiskers on, for eating, and to show their kind and benevolent feelings. They also have a furry tail, which is a source of pride to them. Justified pride, moreover, for what would become of a ferret who wasn’t proud of being a ferret? Their congenital trait is prudence, but with time they acquire wisdom as well. For them, everything in the world is red, because their eyes are red, that being the appropriate eye-color for ferrets. They are deeply interested in engineering and music. They have certain gifts of prescience, and would like to be able to fly, but so far have not done so, prevented by their prudence. They are loyal and brave. And they generally carry out their intentions.”

  Renka looked at his companion and the little boy, smoothed his beard and mustache, and said: “I have done. We may apply ourselves to other tasks.”

  Livna’lams clapped his hands. “Good, Renka, very good! I like ferrets! I agree to being a ferret! And now, can I see the present Loo brought me?”

  “Why not?” said Renka.

  The lanky man opened his pouch and took out a folded, yellowish piece of paper. The prince put out his hand for it.

  “Not yet,” said Loo’Loö.

  “You’re a very young ferret,” Renka said, “proud, prudent, but not yet wise enough.”

  The prince was taken aback, perhaps embarrassed, certainly confused. But you know what? He wasn’t sorrowful. Of course since Renka was right and he was a very young ferret, he didn’t know he wasn’t sad any more, just as he hadn’t known that the deep-hidden core of his imperial body had been a core of sorrow. Loo’Loö unfolded the yellow paper once, twice, three times, seven times, and when it was entirely unfolded it was circular. From the center dangled a long, fine, strong thread. Loo’Loö unwound it. Then he pulled on it, and the circle became a sphere of yellow paper, delicate, translucent, captive. Livna’lams held his breath. “Now what?”

  “Now you blow into it,” said Loo’Loö.

  “Where?”

  “Here, where the string goes in.”

  The prince blew. The yellow sphere bounced up. Loo’Loö put the end of the string into the little ferret’s paw, and the balloon rose up into the air.

  You have memories, you people listening to me—try to remember and spare me the labor of describing what the prince felt when he saw the yellow sphere rise up so high, and ferret-pride filled his heart. Do you feel anything, can you recapture some faint memory of those days? The prince returned to the palace with a stiff neck, and with a little folded yellow paper hidden in his fist. And with an appetite.

  No, nobody knew anything, not yet. The days went by all alike, all settled beforehand, perfect, dry, and hard, as they had been since the first of the Hehvrontes. The ceremony of contempt took place every day at the ruined statue in the wood among the trees in which sometimes a bird sang; but it didn’t matter to the prince. He no longer hated his nameless father, if ever he had hated him as they had told him he should do, because he loved Renka and Loo. Every m
isfortune has its lucky side, say the wise. And I’d add that every good thing has its disadvantages, and the disadvantage of love is precisely that it leaves room for nothing else, not even the prudence of ferrets.

  On the day after the day of the yellow balloon, Renka taught the ferret-prince a poem which told about the night wind, forgetfulness, and a man who was sitting at the door of his house, waiting. Next day they told fortunes. Next day they got down on all fours on the dirt and crawled around looking for ferrets, but couldn’t find any.

  “Too bad,” said Renka. “I’ve wanted for a long time to go down into their subterranean cities.”

  Another day Renka and Loo’Loö taught Livna’lams how to braid leather thongs, and he wanted to teach them how to play the rebec, but they laughed at him and told him they already knew how. Then he told them how he passed his days in the palace and they listened gravely. Another day it started raining while the three of them were discussing the several ways of rowing upstream in rough water, and the two men built a shelter with branches and covered the ferret-prince with their heavy smocks and the three of them sang at the top of their voices and completely out of tune with the ceaseless song of the rain. Another day the adventurers described the hunting and trapping of tigers, and Renka displayed a scar on his shoulder which he declared was from the claws of a tiger which he had strangled with his bare hands, and Loo’Loö laughed a lot but told Livna’lams that it was true: “Whereas I, Prince, have never hunted tigers. What for?” said he.

  That night before he went to sleep the little boy thought about hunting tigers. He thought that some day he’d challenge tigers, all the tigers in the world, and Renka and Loo would be there, backing him up.

  Another day they played sintu and Loo’Loö won every round.

  These days the prince got through the tasks his teachers set him so quickly that he often had to wait a long time for the two men in the deserted corner of the gardens, and when they came he’d say, “Why did you take so long?” or, “I thought you weren’t going to come,” or “How come I can always get here before you do?”

  Renka and Loo’Loö explained that they had to finish their work and it took a long time because there were a lot of latrines to clean in the servants’ quarters of the palace. It occurred to the ferret prince, of course, that two men as unusual as Renka and Loo shouldn’t be cleaning latrines, but should be doing important things while wearing clothes of silk and velvet. But they told him he was mistaken; because, in the first place, jobs considered despicable by the powerful are those which favor philosophical discussion; in the second place, keeping servants’ latrines clean is more important than it seems, since servants notice that somebody’s paying attention to them and their well-being, which puts them in a good humor, and so they wait diligently on their masters, who in turn are satisfied and so incline towards benevolence and justice; and finally, because coarse linen is much more comfortable than embroidered velvet, being warm in winter and cool in summer, while rich fabrics are chilly in winter and suffocating in summer. The ferret prince said that was true. And it is. It is, of course it is, and it’s why the wise say that gold is sweet in the purse but bitter in the blood. But who takes any notice of the wise, these days, except storytellers or poets?

  Renka and Loo’Loö agreed with what the wise say, being wise themselves, even if they didn’t know it. What happened in those days proves it. In those days that were all alike, yet different from the earlier days that had been all alike, there occurred two notable events. Notable is scarcely the right word, but I use it because I can’t find a word to signify total change in all respects, external, internal, political, cosmic. The first notable event was provided for in the Protocol and occurred annually; the second was not, and occurred once only. Now listen to me while I tell you the first event.

  One morning the ferret prince arrived later than usual at the abandoned corner of the garden, and this time it was the brown men in linen and leather who asked him why he’d taken so long. The little boy told them that he hadn’t had lessons that day because it was the anniversary of the death of his uncle, the younger brother of his mother the Empress Hallovâh, the Lord of the Shining Glance—for such was the name he had merited in death for what he had been in life, scion of the now very powerful Ja’lahdahlva family—the sixth anniversary: and so the prince had had to attend the ceremony of remembrance and homage.

  Renka spat on the dirt. “Bah,” he said. “All that wasted on unscrupulous scum.”

  “Don’t talk that way, Renka,” said Livna’lams.

  “Why shouldn’t I, little ferret?”

  “My uncle was a great man.”

  Renka spat again. “You’re sure about that?”

  The ferret prince thought hard about this uncle whom he hadn’t known, and about the memorial observance. He thought about the noblemen and lords and magistrates all dressed in black, the veiled ladies, his mother in white. He remembered that his mother the empress wept only this one time in the year, and remembered the words of the elegy which it was his duty to speak. He remembered the gold urn that held his uncle’s ashes, and the portraits of a fair man with eyes so clear they were almost transparent, wearing not linen, but brocade. He said, “No.”

  “Ha!” said Renka.

  “What was the ceremony like, Prince?” asked Loo’Loö.

  The prince told him, but don’t expect me to describe it all to you, because it isn’t worth it: it was nothing but the reverse of the ceremony of contempt for the nameless emperor, and it was a farce. As was the other one, as you’ll soon see by what I have to tell you.

  The second notable event of those days that were all alike happened to the two adventurers and the ferret prince one morning when a storm made its presence felt by thundering on the other side of the river, though it didn’t break till the afternoon, which got dark all at once, as if the world were a kettle and somebody had decided to beat on it after throwing cold water onto hot grease. But all morning the storm just crouched, waiting, and the three of them were crouching too, silently watching a busy scarab beetle rolling tiny balls of mud.

  “Why’s it doing that?” asked Livna’lams.

  “Making a nest,” said Loo’Loö.

  “What’s happening,” said Renka, “is that the Lord of the Scarabs is provident, and when he knows that the moment has come, when his hard wings tremble and his jaws clack, he hurries to gather little balls of mud.”

  “But what for?”

  “Don’t rush it, because he doesn’t rush it. He’s ready, but he doesn’t let himself be rushed,” Renka went on. “When he’s got a lot of little balls of mud, I don’t know exactly how many because I’ve never been a scarab, but enough, he goes scuttling off to where a Scarab Lady is, and he finds her, infallibly. If there’s another male beetle around, he opens his jaws wide and bites off its head. Then he brings the Lady of the Scarabs to where the little mudballs are, and they do together what they have to do, and she lays eggs and he covers them with the mudballs and hatches them, and she goes off, airhead that she is, hoping to meet another Scarab Lord. It’s even possible she may say nasty things to him about the first one.”

  The ferret prince put out a finger towards the beetle.

  “Don’t bother him,” said Loo’Loö. “He’ll feel very bad if you interrupt him.”

  “Great Ladies do things like that,” Renka said, “and I don’t like Great Ladies, not that I’ve known many.”

  “Come on, Renka,” said Loo’Loö, “let’s not start that again.”

  “I’m going to tell you a secret, little ferret,” Renka went on as if nobody had said anything, or as if somebody might have said something but he hadn’t heard it—“Your mother, the Lady Hallovâh, is a Great Lady, and your uncle Lord Hohviolol, scion of the ambitious Ja’lahdahvas, was a shameless, feeble, greedy, vicious turkeycock who, instead of dying in a soft bed of a fever like an honest man, should have been stoned to death in the public square. And your father was not a traitor.”

>   Now, you good people listening to me, know this: the ferret prince was not surprised. Know it as surely as I do, as if he himself had come from death across the years to tell us. Know that, instead of surprise, he felt the core of sorrow in him was gone, and in its place was a core of anger. And he was aware that it wasn’t Renka who had made that change just now, but that he’d been making it himself, slowly, for a long time, with infinite patience and secrecy, but not alone. No, not alone. Strange as it seems, his mother the Empress Hallovâh had helped him in his great task, and so had the Protocol of the Hehvrontes.

  “That’s enough, Renka,” said Loo’Loö.

  And now the ferret prince was surprised. What surprised him was hearing the familiar voice speak in an unfamiliar tone, as if the strings of a lady’s lute were to play a march to battle. And what surprised him was the look on the face of the lanky, gentle man who was or wasn’t named Loo’Loö as he looked at him, at the prince, while he spoke to Renka. He heard and saw a tone and an expression that seemed familiar, though he didn’t know why.

  “Renka, will you tell me everything?” said Livna’lams the Ferret.

  “Sure I will, little ferret,” said big Renka.

  “You will not,” said Loo’Loö.

  The two men faced each other, and the ferret prince remembered the tigers. Not that Renka was a tiger—he was a mad elephant about to charge. The prince had seen an elephant gone wild, seen it sweep men and arms and wagons aside, trampling on whatever got in its way, heard its furious trumpeting while it killed and while it died, defeated at last. The other man, Loo’Loö, was the tiger, a splendid, supple tiger, serene and dangerous, defending his territory against everyone and everything. The ferret prince thought for a moment that the tiger was going to spring and sink his claws in some vulnerable part of the elephant’s hide. But they both held still, watching each other.