King Dog

by Le Guin, Ursula K.

  Table of Contents

  New Introductory Note

  Part One: The Stranger Comes

  Part Two: King Kammin’s War

  Part Three: Jogen

  Part Four: King Ashthera’s War

  Part Five: Eight Years Later

  Part Six: On the Space Ship

  Publication Information

  King Dog

  A Movie for the Mind’s Eye

  Ursula K. Le Guin

  New Introductory Note

  A little background: The character of King Ashthera, with his dog, and his gambling streak, is derived from King Yudhisthira in the Mahabharata, the wonderful and interminable epic of India. When, towards the end of the story, Yudhisthira gets to Heaven, he is outraged to find some of his enemies are there, and some of his friends are not; and he decides not to enter Heaven at all unless they let his dog in with him. I stole all that.

  The theme of figuring out what one’ s duty is and how to follow it is from the Mahabharata too. The rest is my invention. Yudhisthira’s dog’s name is Dharma, but Ashthera’s dog is just Dog.

  Why did I write this story as a screenplay – a format that doomed it to obscurity from the getgo?

  Noel Young at Capra Press was nothing if not adventurous. He not only published it, but published it back-to-back (in the old Ace Doubles format) with a screenplay by Raymond Carver and Tess Gallagher, Dostoevsky. It made a handsome little book, which was published in 1984, and is long out of print. (Last I looked it had 7 listings on Abebooks, ranging from $15.00 to $200.00.) Noel is dead and Capra no longer exists. I salute him, and all the small-press publishers who still set the standards for quality, integrity, and courage in the publishing game.

  Writing King Dog as a screenplay was not the result of courage but of necessity. I wrote it first as a dramatic narrative poem. It was not a good poem. It was a very bad one. I knew the story was good, though, so I tried to turn it into a novel. It would not be turned. Its peculiarities of language and movement were intractably non-novelistic. I realised at last that it was a drama – something I had never written. But not a stage play. Settings and landscapes were of essential importance, the pacing was filmic, and it was visual in film terms – quick-cut, wide shot, pan, close-up, and all the rest. When I saw that, I saw what it was. It’s a movie, stupid.

  I’d been to Hollywood – with the great writer/director Michael Powell, trying to sell the screenplay of Earthsea we wrote together. I knew an industry that treated Michael Powell like a ringworm wasn’t going to give me the time of day. PBS had had a true success in 1981 with the film of my Lathe of Heaven, on the script of which I did a lot of rewriting; but its producer David Loxton had already had so much trouble trying to get The Left Hand of Darkness into production that I knew it was no use asking him to look at an unknown quantity. So I wrote King Dog not as a shooting script, spaced out so as to show about 100 words per page and full of intrusive signals like INT and EXT and OS and VO and (BEAT), etc., but modified to be readable as narrative.

  My agent, Virginia Kidd, knew she had a hard sell on her hands, but she never complained; she liked a challenge. When Noel Young asked us for something new, she promptly sent him King Dog – and he took it. I was very happy then, because I like this story. I’m happy now to get it where some more people may find it exists, because I still like it. And I’m proud of it: it made Michael Powell cry.

  So here it is, a story-as-screenplay, and I invite you, the reader, to produce this movie, in that incredibly equipped, absolutely up-to-date, unsurpassed-in-Hollywood studio, your mind. You are a courageous producer, a wonderful crew, and the best director in the world. Thank you!

  Ursula K. Le Guin

  2008

  Part One: The Stranger Comes

  The Opening: Tollin Bay.

  It is late dusk on the shore of a great bay. The wet sand or mud of the beach shines dimly down by the quiet, blue-grey water. Far off across the bay, dark mountains stand between it and the sea, and over them a little rusty stain is left from sunset, low in the sky. Far down the shore to the left are a few faint yellowish lights —firelight or lamplight in fishermen’s huts. A boat is passing; a candle in a horn lantern, very dim, sways on the mast. The shadowy sail fades across the water till it can be seen no more. Above it, high up in the sky, a star shines out.

  The star brightens, keeps brightening, and its motion becomes apparent — it is falling, falling, to the bay in a great brilliant arc. A deep thunder noise increases, louder and louder. The brightness is blinding: the bay mouth, the mountains, the water, the silhouette of a wooded island out in the bay, all are distinct, spectrally vivid white and black, as in a lightning flash prolonged unbearably — and then in one instant both noise and light cease, as the “star” falls behind the island.

  Silence. Twilight. Down the beach a lantern swings, and faint indistinguishable voices are calling. A dog barks excitedly in the distance.

  Images of Romond’s Journey to the Capital.

  An old man is speaking, a Councillor called Batash; as we hear his voice we see these images on the screen:

  A man, very dimly seen, in silver clothing and helmet, comes towards us up from the water’s edge on the beach of Tollin Bay.

  A dog runs along the water’s edge and across the mud flats, barking wildly.

  The man in silver — Romond — carrying his helmet in his hand, with shadowy figures of fishermen and villagers accompanying him, goes away down the beach towards the little town. It is nearly dark. Romond and the villagers are talking, mostly in gestures, pointing out to sea.

  In hot, sunny weather, Romond, wearing the tunic part of his silver suit but also wearing leather breeches and carrying a leather backpack and a walking stick, trudges along a dusty country road, deeply rutted with wagon tracks.

  In the rain, beside a big plowed field, Romond is talking to three or four peasant women and men. They are at some distance — the landscape, the big, lonely, halfwild landscape, is the dominating presence in this and many other scenes — and we can’t hear what they say, but Romond talks earnestly and they listen intently, nodding or interrupting once or twice. He points to the ground and makes gestures indicating some activity. A gesture — “it’ll grow this high!” He laughs, they laugh, dark toothless grins. He salutes them, turns, and walks on along the wagon-track towards us. As he walks, Batash is ending his speech.

  BATASH’S VOICE: My lord the King! They say this man is wise. The fishermen of Tollin Bay saw a star fall in the sea between the nightfall and the night, and then saw this man come across the bay in a silver boat, they say, a boat without sail or oars, they say. He left Tollin and went from town to town. He can cure the cough, they say, he can prevent the plague. He knows the secrets of the earth, when to plant the seed and where to mine for lead. He’s walked for half a year across your kingdom, coming to your city Aremgar. He hopes to serve your majesty, though he knows well that your majesty needs no service, being complete as is the sun at noon.

  The Throne Room of the Palace in Aremgar.

  Now we see the face of the old man, Batash, as he finishes speaking; and then we see that Romond is standing beside him; and then as the camera pulls back, the whole group of courtiers who stand facing the throne. It is as if we sat on the throne, seeing these men.

  This is a society in the Bronze Age. There are none of the luxuries and appurtenances of industrial high technology. But it is a civilisation. The throne room is large, long, high, and beautiful, lit with a diffuse indirect daylight from hidden windows, decorated with fine tapestries. The courtiers, all men, a dozen or so, are dressed with elegance and style, in clear soft colors; the cut of their clothes is not recognisable as coming from any place or period on Earth, but it’s not outlandish at all. Romond wears
his silver suit minus the helmet, and does not stand out too badly.

  The courtiers face the throne, and none of them turns his back on it at any time, but they are not servile or particularly formal; this is a working government carrying on daily business.

  Councillor Batash is a stout, handsome man, not so old after all, about sixty. Kida, a minister, is fortyish, dark, alert, well-fed, shrewd. Fezat, the king’s youngest brother, is in his twenties, very handsome, with a pleasant, thin face; the other brother of the king, Bolhan, is about thirty, also handsome, but with a bad complexion, puffy and discolored. Harish Ashed, the Lord of the North, brother of the king’s wife, is a barrelchested, broad- shouldered, vigorous man, not tall, in soldier’s gear. He is about thirty, as are most of the other courtiers — Batash is the oldest man there.

  When Batash has finished his peroration, Kida takes up the introduction.

  KIDA: His name is Romond the Traveller, my lord. He’s lived twelve days now in my house, a welcome guest. He tells good stories about the foreign lands he’s seen. The world grows stranger every time he talks.

  BATASH: But there’s no foreign land where he can have seen so strong a kingdom ruled by a king so righteous!

  BOLHAN: Who bets against such heavy odds.

  HARISH: Yes, Traveller, in those foreign places did you ever see a king who was threatened with invasion and wouldn’t lift his hand to —

  BATASH: So strong a kingdom, I say, strong and secure —

  HARISH: Secure!!

  His roar brings sudden silence, in which he and Batash recollect themselves and turn again towards the throne. In the pause, Romond steps forward, and now addresses the throne. He has a slight foreign accent, a self-possessed manner, a warm, quiet voice. He turns to each man as he names them.

  ROMOND: Lord Harish Ashed, Lord Bolhan, Lord Fezat, my kind hosts, your majesty! The experience of others is uncertain gain. The traveller tells his stories, and the old say In my day, but each of us must live our days and none can live them for us. So I came to live some of the days of my life in your kindly kingdom, under your bright sun.

  As Romond speaks the viewpoint shifts, pulling back to include King Ashthera sitting on his throne, facing the courtiers. The throne is of dark wood inlaid with gold wire tracery and opals: old, fragile, regal, precious. The king, a man of thirty-four or thirty- five, is dressed in darker, plainer clothes than most of the courtiers. He has an unremarkable face. A dog, a big, handsome hound, nothing fancy, sits alert beside the throne. Also alert and relaxed, the king responds to Romond’s speech with a pleasant nod. Romond steps back to stand beside Kida, who looks pleased and says something to him in an undertone. Bolhan, ostensibly addressing Romond, speaks for the king’s ears.

  BOLHAN: A pity that you came in cloudy weather.

  HARISH: Kingdom? What kingdom? A country torn apart, half of it thrown away, thrown to the dogs —

  FEZAT: (goodnaturedly) Harish, leave out the poetry. Say what you want to say.

  HARISH: I will speak!

  BOLHAN: Or bellow, as the case may be.

  HARISH: King Ashthera, my sister’s husband, my king! You know that if you don’t fight for it, King Kammin will take over the whole EasternProvince and then invade from there. You talk about peace. Peace, when his sword’s drawn! We can choose to fight or to surrender, to win or get beaten, to live or to lie down and die — but we can’t choose peace!

  A COUNCILLOR: The EasternProvince sent messengers again this morning, your majesty. They beg again for troops to help them hold the border before it’s too late to make a stand.

  HARISH: Your father won the EasternProvince in a great battle. You cannot let his victory go to waste!

  BATASH: Who says cannot to the king? But I will say, majesty, that the time seems ripe. The only jewel missing in your crown is the ruby of Victory.

  HARISH: We must strike before Kammin moves —

  THE COUNCILLOR: The EasternProvince fears for its freedom —

  ASHTHERA: Freedom?

  There is a little silence before he speaks again.

  ASHTHERA: Freedom is a very tricky business. Justice, though, justice is a human matter, justice is in our hands, isn’t it? Well, my father won that land, all right — took it from Kammin’s father. More of their people live on that land; but we won the battle. The victory. Now King Kammin and I each claim the land. So where’s the right? With the victor — is that right?

  Again a silence.

  ASHTHERA: If justice is simply a matter of winning, why drag armies in? Why kill people?

  FEZAT: You want a single combat with King Kammin...?

  ASHTHERA: He’d never take me on. My reputation with a sword’s too good. I thought I might challenge him to a game of dice.

  HARISH: Dice!

  BATASH: A game of dice, majesty?

  BOLHAN: Well, brother, you run true to form.

  HARISH: A game of dice!!

  The king looks at them all, his gaze lingering a moment on Romond.

  ASHTHERA: The odds at dice are even. Our rights are about equal. Our armies may be equal, or may not. Do you think righteousness wins wars? Which righteousness? I’d rather trust to luck.

  HARISH: I’d fight — I’d fight for you, for my sister, for our cause — to keep from shame — And you laugh at that, you joke!

  ASHTHERA: I’m not joking, Harish.

  KIDA: But, my lord —

  BATASH: Your majesty is pleased to — to...

  ASHTHERA: I was always lucky, playing dice, you know.

  A couple of the courtiers, including Batash, look as if they did indeed know. Ashthera goes on:

  The Goddess loves a gambler. And win or lose, we’ll save the cost of war. In money and in lives.

  HARISH: Soldiers’ lives? Save them? What for?

  ASHTHERA: The hitch is, will King Kammin bet with me. He’s not a gambling man. Well, my lords! Shall I send my challenge? The EasternProvince, best of three — winner takes all.

  BATASH: For shame, my lord!

  FEZAT: He might play — for shame. But if he lost—

  ASHTHERA: He wouldn’t pay. Well, then, you could have your war.

  HARISH: Our war? Yours — your war — your right — your duty as the king! The land is yours!

  ASHTHERA: As much as it is Kammin’s, anyway.

  HARISH: I speak of your whole kingdom — the InnerLand — the Northland my sister brought you! Would you gamble that away? Are you so afraid of fighting?

  FEZAT: (cuts in adroitly) I doubt Kammin would have the nerve for single combat. He fancies himself a strategist. Safe behind the lines, in other words.

  ASHTHERA: Well, my friends, consider my suggestion. We must make up our minds tonight. Now will you leave our guest an hour with me?

  As the courtiers withdraw, the king’s brothers Fezat and Bolhan join him a moment as he steps down from the throne. He strokes the dog’s head as he listens to them.

  FEZAT: You’re caught, Ashthera. No way out. Don’t put it off by playing games. War’s your duty, and you know it.

  BOLHAN: Dutiful Ashthera!

  FEZAT: Quit sneering, Bolhan.

  BOLHAN: I’m not. I’m stating fact. I see a rabbit in a trap and say, there’s a trapped rabbit. Or, projectively, there’s rabbit stew for supper.

  FEZAT: You’re drunk.

  BOLHAN: Temporarily, yes. But our brother the king drinks the sour wine pressed out by trampling barefoot on his conscience, and is always drunk.

  FEZAT: Come on.

  Fezat and Bolhan leave. A couple of servants have been setting the throne room in order, and now go out quietly. Romond is standing where he has stood throughout the audience. Ashthera now turns to look at him. They look at each other for a moment in silence. The high room is quiet around them.

  ROMOND: In the inmost room of the great house, splendor becomes silence.

  ASHTHERA: This isn’t the inmost room. I’ve never found it.

  He continues to look at Romond, smiling but reserved, study
ing him as one might study a person recognized from a picture or from a meeting very long ago.

  ASHTHERA: I’ll take you as close to it as I can.

  The dog close beside him, Ashthera goes to a tapestried wall behind the throne and holds the tapestry aside for Romond; they enter a small door hidden by the tapestry. They are in a corridor now, a rat-run between the palace walls, dusty and cramped, littered with bits of wood and plaster, light coming from somewhere up where the roof meets the high wall. The dog goes first, then Romond, then the king.

  The Inner Room

  They come out through a narrow little door into a room with high ceiling, whitewashed walls, bare wood floor. There is a string cot and a low table, the height for a person sitting on the floor. On the table is a book, handmade, handlettered, a rare object, old and much handled. Clear, calm light enters from a broad window set high up in the wall; up in the window, on the inner ledge, a tabby cat is sleeping, having given the newcomers one uninterested, slit-eyed stare. On the wall facing the window is a single large tapestry, somewhat ragged and much darkened by age, threads and patches of color and gold in it catching the light. As the king and his guest sit down to talk this tapestry dominates the room, and Romond glances up at it from time to time. Its subject is a single large figure, an androgynous dancing god/dess, holding the sun in the right hand and the moon in the left. The figure is graceful, erotic, and threatening; the face, however, is totally serene. The background and lower part of the tapestry are composed of a mass of small figures, which as the light catches them stand out, now one, now another: corpses, people dying of plague, women in childbirth in prison, warriors disembowelled, a bound slave being blinded, a baby spitted on a sword, horses foundering under loads, oxen at the slaughterhouse, dogs whipped, people and animals starving thin, broken tools, houses collapsing in earthquake, altars befouled, palaces burning. All these small images form a dark, burnished mass or heap beneath the dancing feet of the god/dess; and at the bottom of the tapestry is woven the image of a wide-mouthed bowl of reddish clay, into which thin streams of red, black, and gold run from the mass of tormented figures.