by Jon Jacks
‘A waste of good men!’
‘But don’t you see? The Trojans now had no reason to suspect any further trickery! This great horse, built by the Greeks supposedly to fool the Trojans; why, now it showed only that the Greeks were the fools, the Trojans the wise ones! Now they freely chose to display this example of Greek foolhardiness throughout their city!’
‘And then the horse came alive, once it was in the city?’
‘Not at first; as the tales truly tell, it waited until it was dark, until most of the populace was either drunk or asleep. And then, at last, it awoke; this nightmare, this fearsome beast that inhabits only your very worst dreams!’
‘But how – how could it bring about the downfall of an entire city?’
‘It trampled men underfoot: it resisted all attacks, as if made not of wood, but the strongest flesh, such as we see upon the rhino. It rampaged throughout the city. It kicked out with its hind feet at the city walls, the great gates, bringing down towers, splintering the oak of the doors. Yet the worst thing of all, as I heard it from the terrified survivors – for yes, we poured into the city to lay waste to it once its walls were breached – was the fear it instilled within you; petrifying you, as if you were witnessing death itself coming to take you away.’
He shook his head, as if wishing to forget the horrors he had seen that day.
‘Do you…do you think this witch could restore life to the dead?’
Mima asked her question hesitantly, wondering if it was a fair question to ask this tortured man. Fearing, too, that he might answer in a way that destroyed her hopes.
He thought about the answer only for the briefest moment.
‘If anybody could…yes, it would be her!’
*
Chapter 10
Detritus sadly informed Mima that, no, he didn’t know where the great witch could be found.
But he did know of a man, another ex-soldier badly disfigured in the wars, who had once had contact with her; indeed, had even received her help.
They both set off looking for Detritus’s friend early next morning. Detritus had persuaded Mima to take a long, wallowing bath in the stream before the washerwomen turned up.
No, he couldn’t smell her, he explained; but he could tell by the way everyone preferred to sleep by the donkey rather than her that there must be something wrong!
They climbed up into the hills and through the densest parts of the woods, where the daylight fought to penetrate through the massed branches. Eventually it was so dark it was hard to tell when the sun had begun to set once more, and Detritus had to construct and light a firebrand to light the way.
For quite a while now, Mima had been wondering what could be making the odd noises she had been hearing coming from somewhere off the path they were following: like the striking of gongs, the ringing of dull bells, the rattle of sticks, and whistling of wind through metal.
Ironically, she could at last see the cause of this weird musical accompaniment to their journey – for the blaze of the flames was reflected back in the darkness as it struck the armour that had been strung up from trees. As the armour turned in the wind, Mima saw to her horror that the skeletons of the dead warriors were still encased inside, their looser bones tinkling as if transformed into gruesome instruments.
Detritus suggested that they light a fire, eat and make-up their rough beds of grasses once more. He had killed a few pieces of game as they had travelled, being an excellent shot with the sling despite him lacking one eye. He also knew which herbs and mushrooms were edible rather than to be avoided. He cut and roasted the meat expertly.
Just as Mima began to tell herself that she would sleep well tonight after all, however, the donkey began to skitter nervously, a sure sign that it had picked up the scent of a prowling beast. Soon even she could hear the steady crushing of the undergrowth, the low growling of a stalking animal.
‘Don’t worry,’ Detritus said, calmly continuing to eat his meal. ‘I recognise that noise. It’s my friend.’
*
It wasn’t until morning, as they were finishing breakfast, that Detritus’s friend revealed himself to them.
He stepped into the area where they had made their makeshift camp.
The panicked donkey threw itself about in a frenzy as it tried to wrench itself free of the branch Detritus had thankfully securely tied it to.
Perhaps even Mima would have risen to her feet and run if Detritus hadn’t placed a consoling, calming hand on her knee. Yet she doubted that she would have been capable of running at all, for her legs had locked, her back had rigidly frozen, her mouth had fallen open, gawping in terror.
The man approaching them had the head of a huge bull, his bared torso being a mix of both human and the more exaggerated undulations of an animal’s throbbing muscles. He was immense, towering over even Detritus as the latter stood up to greet the newcomer.
He seemed in someway to soak up the light around him, leaving him darker, more foreboding than he would otherwise appear – which was terrify enough! He was a nightmare come to life, everything about him strangely unfocused, a hazy remembrance and mingling of all the beasts who had ever chased you in your dreams.
‘Detritus my friend,’ he growled harshly, proffering a hand.
The two old warriors shook hands, embraced each other warmly, jovially.
‘I have someone who wants to meet you!’ Detritus said.
‘Someone who wants to meet me?’ He turned to glower curiously at Mima. ‘Then she must indeed be a very strange person, Detritus!’
*
Chapter 11
The bull-headed man led them farther into the darkest parts of the wood.
They passed evermore hanging skeletons, their bones rattling inside their armour whenever they were twisted or turned by a breeze.
‘These woods are far worse than any labyrinth,’ Detritus said to Mima. ‘It’s so easy to get lost unless you know the paths to follow.’
As they rose up higher through the woods, the trees began at last to thin out a little, the ground becoming too rocky to support them. Soon they neared a cave that had been made as close as possible into something resembling a home, with timbers used to construct an outside wall, long grasses for a makeshift roof.
A woman was there, her back turned to them as she bent over a cooking pot. She turned around as she heard them draw close.
She attempted to smile, yet the effect was strangely even more horrendous.
Rather than teeth, she had the sharpest stones. Rather than hair, she had a writhing nest of serpents.
Mima was even more petrified that when she had first spotted the bull-headed man.
‘She won’t harm you,’ the bull-man told her, seeing and perhaps expecting her distress. ‘She’s my wife.’
*
In the cave, they were made as comfortable as possible, every piece of furniture imaginable being there, but constructed crudely of wood and stone.
They were even presented with stone goblets of a sour yet refreshing wine.
Once she had finished making her guests welcome, the serpent-haired woman looked as if she were about to try and remove her head; but instead, she was lifting what turned out to be a complex mask clear of her real head.
She was old, yet still had a great many of the signs that said to anyone who recognised them that she had once been a great beauty.
The serpents of the mask she carefully laid aside continued to writhe and hiss, as if a little irritated that they had been discarded.
‘To scare people away,’ the woman explained, noting Mima’s shocked stare. ‘That way, only the most valiant warriors remain to take on my husband in combat.’
Her husband sighed.
‘We would prefer it, of course, if they were all scared away. But thankfully, I have to face far fewer these days than I once had to!’
That would explain the dead warriors hanging in the woods, Mima realised. Another ploy, too, to scare away anyone foolish enoug
h to challenge the bull-man.
As the man slumped down almost with relief into a makeshift chair, he began to lift off his own mask.
This time, however, the removal of the mask didn’t reveal an old yet still handsome face.
It revealed a man with a bull’s head.
*
Chapter 12
The Flawless Wine
There was once a king of a small yet remarkably wealthy state who preferred to tend his vines rather than go off to war, seeking glory.
He measured his success by the quality of the wines his kingdom produced, not by the number of men he killed.
He grafted his vines endlessly in his search for the perfect grape, the perfect wine. And one day, he announced that he had at last achieved his goal: a wine that easily surpassed all others in taste, texture and colour.
It was undoubtedly the most perfect wine ever produced, anyone fortunate to taste it instantly agreed.
It was the drink of the gods! The drink the gods would drink, if only it were possible for them to make it!
It was universally acclaimed to be the ultimate, Flawless Wine.
It wasn’t long, of course, before such a perfect wine became a term of comparison when judging the quality of everything from cloth to a woman’s beauty.
For instance, any dressmaker wishing to boast of his wares would claim that his creations were the Flawless Wine of clothing.
Naturally, any such claims were met with the scorn they so rightfully deserved.
No one could really claim that their products were the equivalent of the Flawless Wine. At best, you might be able to reasonably argue that you had come as close as possible to achieving such perfection within your own particular field of expertise.
Even women previously regarded as being great beauties found themselves suffering the indignity of being honestly informed that even their renowned looks didn’t come close to achieving that measure of true perfection, the Flawless Wine.
Even the king’s queen, it had to be admitted by all, wasn’t the true, Flawless Wine they had once assumed her to be.
In fact, of course, everything suffered in comparison to the Flawless Wine.
The gorgeous rose gardens the king had once delighted in now became nothing but a vexation to him, for he could no longer ignore the pests that blighted his blooms, the diseases that yellowed their leaves.
The palace he had once enjoyed for its delicate beauty rather than any attempt at grandeur had sections of a displeasing lack of proportion. Rooms felt too confining for him to remain comfortable in.
Even the vines producing his Flawless Wine were disfigured by the manure that had to be strewn around and dug into their roots.
*
The king had become dissatisfied with everything save his Flawless Wine.
Nothing gave him any sense of enjoyment anymore.
He was inconsolably miserable even as he drank his Flawless Wine, unnerved by the imperfection he saw everywhere about him.
He felt annoyed – how could his search for perfection have resulted in him drowning in imperfection?
He felt betrayed – yet by whom, he couldn’t be sure.
He felt a rage growing inside him – but whom he could take it all out on, he didn’t know.
And so when he and his state were called upon to take part in a great war against a powerful enemy, he embraced this opportunity to direct his previously unfocused fury onto others.
Unfortunately for the king, in terms of martial skills the men he fought against were far closer to being a Flawless Wine than he was.
He and his men suffered badly in every battle, much to the anger of his brother. For his brother increasingly saw himself as the true leader of warriors, rather than this worthless grower of vines.
Worse still, their enemy had embraced magic in their aim to repel these invaders to their shores. The emblems painted on their shields, the roaring beasts topping their decorative helms, would spring into life in the very midst of battle. Instead of simply facing the slashing of swords, the pressing weight of massed, armoured men, the king’s warriors would suddenly find themselves up against eagles, serpents, elephants and dragons.
They fled the field many times, such that they came to be known as The Flawed.
The king’s brother seethed at the ignominy.
‘Tomorrow, we do not run like scared women!’ he stormed in the royal pavilion one night as they drank too much of the Flawless Wine. ‘We die like men!’
*
The enemy had come to recognise that the king’s men were a weak point in the Greek’s line of battle.
As such, the next day the king’s warriors faced the fiercest onslaught yet, the enemy expecting them to once again offer little resistance and eventually break.
Stung by his brother’s disrespectful comments the night before, however, the king was for once determined that his men would hold fast to their position.
The heavy waves of the enemy surged against them. Neither side was expecting such fierceness of fighting, the enemy as determined as the king’s men to prove their worth that day.
Even when the emblematic creatures and beasts blossomed into life, The Flawed continued to hack and harry, to barge with massed shields, to bring down great, terrifying creatures by severing tendons, by lassoing necks with whips and ropes.
The king found himself facing a massive bull. They fought each other as if in a private dual amidst the sweeping battle lines, the king’s men refusing to aid him, the enemy believing the bull was fearsome enough to take out this Flawed King.
They gored and mauled each other relentlessly, the king refusing to give ground, the bull thinking only in terms of killing this angry little pest.
With a swipe of its great head, a slash of its ferociously sharp horns, the bull took away half of the king’s face, a large part of his skull, a smattering of his brains.
Realising he was dying, the king swung low beneath the raging bull, brought up his great sword into its great belly – and they both crumpled to the ground as if lifeless.
‘The king is dead! Long live the new king!’ one of the king’s men cried out elatedly, hailing the brother as their new leader.
So, that’s it, is it? the old king thought as he was left to die.
Far from mourning my loss, being unnerved by it, despairing of it, they rejoice.
As he lay amongst the dead, he watched his brother take his jubilant men onto victory against the enemy.
Truly, he realised, amongst my entire kingdom, I was the most flawed.
*
It was a war in which the belligerence between the foes had risen to a point where little quarter was given.
Neither side allowed a period of truce when the dead could be collected from the field of battle.
The wounded were expected to crawl back to their own side. The more badly wounded, of course, would be swiftly put to death by the marauders who descended under the cover of night, cutting off fingers to steal rings, even heads to retrieve an expensive necklace,
Even so, it was the intense cold that took most lives. The king used what little strength he had remaining to completely split open the belly of the magical bull, to spill out some of its guts and climb inside the warm carcass.
Its blood, its savagely gored flesh, was surprisingly warm. Its warmth, its softly fluid comfort, soothed his own massive injuries. It all slipped so easily into the deep gashes of his own body, reminding the king of his own remarkable skills of grafting one branch to another.
He lay out amongst the field of the dead for days, drinking the bull’s blood, eating its raw flesh.
He also utilised the wondrous clotting abilities of the bull’s blood to stem his own bleeding wounds, the strangely malleable flesh to plug gaps and make repairs that began at last to heal.
One night, he heard what he had feared for so long; the scuffling of an approaching thief.
A thief who will take his life simply t
o take his royal rings.
*
He hears the approaching thief hesitantly call out his name.
Perhaps it’s not a thief at all!
Perhaps one of his men has come to save him at last!
He hoarsely calls out to the searching man, leading them ever closer towards him.
But it’s not a man.
It his wife.
It’s the queen.
She bends down to tend him, relieved that he is still alive, aghast at his fearful condition.
She has been searching every night for him out here, refusing to believe his brother’s claim that he had died.
Helped to his feet by his wife, the king is surprised to find that he is by no means as badly injured as he had first thought. He can move, he can walk, if not yet steadily.
They stumble off the battlefield together, taking the path leading up into the hills, knowing it is now too dangerous to head for their own royal pavilions. The new king will not rejoice at the return of the old one.
In the hills they settle down to a simple life within a cave, their food caught by the one-time king as he takes on the muscles and power of the magical bull he has become grafted to. His sorely damaged head recovers too, but only by taking on the attributes of the by-far stronger bull, his skull enlarging, horns sprouting above his bovine ears.
He is a monster, he recognises this.
Yet his wife, the woman he had foolishly and unfairly declared as being far from perfect, doesn’t see the monster.
She sees the man he once was.
The man he could be again. If only he would stop seeking perfection.
And so, of course, they could have lived happily ever after.
Unfortunately, just as the one-time king once did, many men throughout the world continue to seek perfection.
The perfection of their valour, of their skills at war.
Hearing tales of this powerful monster, living in cave in the hills, they seek him out.
