by Ben Okri
He made his way to the maiden's father, and offered to be his servant, for nothing, for no pay. The father saw the spirit of the prince in the guise of the beggar. The father set him seven tasks of art and love, and if he performed them he could be his apprentice.
When, that evening, the prince caught a glimpse of the maiden in moonlight, crowned in white light, he nearly died from concealed joy ...
This is how a fragment of that story came down to me, and haunted me.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
That was how it seemed before that cycle ended, before their golden age perished, before they passed away into the sands. The maiden's father died, and her mother passed on not long after. The tribe slowly disintegrated from loss of vision, vigour and guidance.
Where do all the sculptures go afterwards? And why was it that only minor works followed? That was the high point of its culture. It had no name then. Afterwards, during its descending ages, the works displayed were of rumours, of incest, of abominations, of men making love to animals, animals making love to women, images of alien colonisers, of big-bellied children.
The tragic nobility had left their art because when it spoke clearest, and with the greatest beauty and grandeur, the people did not listen, did not see, did not interpret clearly, did not prepare, did not heed the warnings in the golden light. And so their golden age died, and their true way died, and their world lost its axis. And it got set on a new course, at the low ebb of a new cycle, that may or may never again know the simple grandeur of its past.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
But all was not lost. It only seemed that way for a hundred years or so. In their disintegration the tribe of artists all but disappeared from the known spaces. They had finally learnt their lesson. They were forgotten, they became invisible, and yet their works continued to appear in the land, in the world, along trade routes, in marketplaces, in palaces, in the new centres of the changing world. They became the world's tradition and its future.
They had followed the fragments of the guidance of their secret masters and had moved often, till they dwelt in a place called no-place. There they thrived in quietness, responding to the needs of the world in art.
The decades passed, and as the world settled round the changing ideas of the new centuries, the tribe lost its taste for frequent migration, and slowly became visible again. But they were not the same as they had been. Their art had much diminished. Their golden age was long over and was now a whisper. They didn't even have a sense of connection with the art of the tribe that was all over the kingdom, mysteries in the forests or in caves. They were not heirs to themselves.
Their artistic creation was good enough to inspire delight among the uninitiated, but not astonishment among themselves. They are now a celebrated community in the land; and people from all over the world make long journeys to see their latest creations. If you walk into the town, down its main streets, you will see paintings and sculptures on display everywhere, but you will not see what was once a ...
CHAPTER NINETEEN
And yet somewhere, as yet undiscovered, among the images of prophecy and vision, in the vast storehouse of the tribe's hidden trove of artworks going back to its earliest times; among these works that foretold, in their images and codes, world wars, genocides, the destruction of great cities, turning points in the history of humanity, the assassination of world leaders, the death of whole tribes by unnamed diseases, the discovery of vehicles that can fly, the first publicly acknowledged encounter with alien beings from distant constellations, and the hint of the end of the world, which is really the beginning of true illumination; among these undiscovered works that hide underground, in deep forests, there is an image of haunting beauty and simplicity, made of pure lines, a heavenly light and an unaccountable pathos – the image of a dying prince.
And among those which were found was the image of a maiden as a princess, which was carried away from its home and stares mutely behind glass at the curious eyes of countless generations ...
CHAPTER TWENTY
The ways of time are indeed strange; and events are not what we think they are. Time and oblivion alchemise all things, even the greatest suffering.
CHAPTER TWENTY–ONE
All is not lost. Greater times are yet to be born. In the midst of the low tide of things, when all seems bleak, a gentle voice whispers in the air that the spirits of creativity wander the land, awaiting an invocation and the commanding force of masters to harness their powers again to noble tasks and luminous art unimagined.
They wander and they wonder at the unseeing eyes of men and women who dwell in the splendours and darkness all around them, in an unseen world.
CHAPTER TWENTY–TWO
What more is there to tell? Just fragments seen in the book of life. All stories lead to infinity. There is no end to them, as there was no beginning. Just an epic sensed in the unheard laughter of things. Just fragments seen in the murky mirror of mortality, when bright beings shine momentarily in the brief dream of living.
