by Bob Brown
“There’s the nightingale!” cried Conway Goldenhair. “How majestic and resonant.”
The stylist rolled her eyes. “That’s a dog, miss.” Little Barron suppressed a giggle.
They walked over a bridge and onto a raised walkway that led through wetlands. Crickets chirped and frogs croaked.
“Which of those is the nightingale?” asked Preice Reinbus.
“Neither. Come on, we’re almost there.” The stylist urged the Trumpress and Little Barron along, doing her best to ignore the other courtiers. “You should hear her soon.”
And then the nightingale began to sing. The assembled courtiers fell silent in awe, transfixed by the strength and beauty of the night bird’s song. Silently, the stylist pointed to a branch high up in a maple tree, where a plain, brown bird sat and sang. A hint of red on her tail feathers was the bird’s only embellishment.
“How plain and drab she is,” murmured Bannon the White. “Perhaps seeing all these great and beautiful people frightened the colors off of her feathers. I could restore them, for a price.”
“Nightingale,” called the stylist, taking a large step away from Bannon. “Nightingale, the Trumperor wishes you to sing for him tonight. It is a great honor!”
“I shall sing with great pleasure,” said the nightingale. “Which of you is the Trumperor?”
“He is not here,” said the Trumpress, finding her voice as she wiped a tear from her eye. “My glorious husband is in his tallest tower. You are to sing in the dining room in the top floor, overlooking the city.”
“I think he would enjoy it more out here,” the nightingale said. “The song sounds best among the trees, under the night sky. But as you ask, I shall come.”
Trumpress Melania bowed graciously and offered the nightingale a silken pillow, upon which to ride to the tower. The nightingale giggled and said she preferred to fly. And so the courtiers returned to the Trumperor’s tower, serenaded by the nightingale as she flitted from branch to branch alongside them. By the end of the journey, every courtier had tears in their eyes, and Little Barron had the barest hint of a smile on his face.
~o0o~
Every light in the tower was lit in anticipation of the nightingale’s arrival. A huge, golden banner hung across the entryway. It said, “Welcome Nightingale, World Class Singer! Best Bird in the World!” The nightingale flew up to perch on its corner, cocking her head side to side as she examined the golden cloth. From a distance, she looked like a fleck of mud marring the banner’s glossy shine.
After much bustling about, the court was assembled and dinner was served. The nightingale rested on a silken pillow set upon a golden table in the middle of the room and watched the proceedings. Courtiers who had not heard of the nightingale wondered why the small, dirty bird was sitting in a place of honor in the golden hall. Surely someone had made a mistake.
When dinner was finished and the nightingale began to sing, all the jewels and expensive clothes worn by the beautiful people were forgotten. All eyes turned to the drab bird with the transcendent song. The song transported them over field and stream, forest and mountain. It rose up into the starry heavens, bringing all the listeners with it. Tears rolled down the Trumperor’s cheeks. He was so moved by the song that he offered the nightingale his golden ring to wear around her neck.
“I have already been richly rewarded,” said the nightingale. “I have seen tears in the eyes of the Trumperor, and know that my song has moved his heart. What are gold and jewels compared to such as that?” And then she burst into song again.
All the ladies and gentlemen of the court gushed about the performance, each attempting to outdo the others with the most stupendous and overblown descriptions. Some even put water in their mouths and tried to mimic the nightingale’s trills, as if to harness some of the birdsong’s power. To a one, every dinner guest was both delighted and satisfied, which had never happened before in the history of the Trumperor’s banquets.
~o0o~
The nightingale was a sensation throughout the Northeast Kingdom. People came to the city of towers from all over to hear the nightingale sing. For her part, the nightingale was given a palatial room in the tower and a dozen servants to attend her. Everything in the room, including the servants, was covered in gold, for this was how the Trumperor best knew how to show his affection. Guards kept the commoners, and even lower nobility, from disturbing the creature. She needed all her rest, it was said, so that she could perform her best for the Trumperor every night.
“She gives me more joy than I have ever known,” said the Trumperor to speakers on the magic picture box. “I shall name my next tower ‘Trump Nightingale Tower’ in her honor.” Not even the Trumperor’s family had a tower named for them.
The common people grew to love the nightingale even more, though they could no longer hear her sing. Twelve named their sons “Gale” and eleven named their daughters “Gail” in the bird’s honor. One clever courtier paid one hundred families one hundred dollars each to change their last names to “Nightingale.”
One day, a crate was delivered to the Trumperor’s favorite tower. Outside was stamped in large, black letters, “NIGHTINGALE.”
“What could this be?” asked the Trumperor, when the box was brought before him. “Is it a painting, or perhaps a statue in honor of my beloved nightingale?” The Trumpress sat stiff and silent beside him as the package was brought forward, and Little Barron sat silent and pale beside her. Neither wished to disturb the Trumperor’s good mood and earn his ire.
When the crate was torn open and the packing removed, an artificial nightingale on a golden pedestal stood in the center of the court. It was twice as large as the living nightingale. Its tail was studded with rubies, its wings with sapphires, and its eyes were glittering black diamonds. The pedestal was decorated with emerald leaves and ferns, as if it were a golden tree.
Under its wing was a note. “The Trumperor’s nightingale is a sad, drab thing compared to our nightingale.” It was signed by the owners of rival towers within the city.
When the golden bird was wound up, it sang one of the songs that the real nightingale sang. The gems glittered as it flapped its wings and bobbed its head in time with the music. All the court was enthused by the spectacle. The Trumperor ordered an appropriately snide thank-you note be sent to the nobles who sent this expensive, delightful gift.
The Trumperor listened to the artificial bird’s song two more times, then bade the nightingale sing a duet with the metal bird. This did not go well, for the artificial bird’s song was regular as clockwork, but the living bird’s song was as free as its soul.
“They both sound nice, but only one delights the eyes as well as the ears,” said Conway Goldenhair. “I favor the one that matches my hair.”
“The one represents freedom, the other represents order,” said Preice Reinbus smoothly. “Both have their place in the kingdom.”
“But one should take precedence, if the kingdom, and the music, are to be properly governed,” said Bannon the White. “The proper order must be maintained. And what is beauty if not order?”
As usual, the Trumpress and Little Barron said nothing. Trumpress Melania noted that no one had to wipe tears from their eyes when the artificial bird finished its song.
The court listened to the song twelve more times. “Now the other nightingale should sing,” said the Trumperor. “Nightingale, sing for me! Delight and entertain me, as you have done these past weeks.”
But the nightingale was nowhere to be seen. With all attention turned to the golden bird, it had flown out an open window and returned to its home in the central forest.
“What is the meaning of this?” roared the Trumperor. “Ungrateful bird! It is weak and disloyal. I hereby banish it from all my towers!”
All the courtiers nodded agreement.
“I have the best bird,” crooned the Trumperor. “The greatest, most golden, most musical bird of all time.”
And again, all the courtiers agreed. B
y the next day, all the papers that shared news and the people on the talking picture box agreed as well.
“But I liked the real nightingale,” said Little Barron softly. The Trumpress hushed him before anyone important could hear.
~o0o~
For over a year, the artificial bird’s song was played many times a day. It sang for the Trumperor in the morning when he woke, and in the evening it sang him to sleep. It played to greet guests and to accompany meals. There were even concerts held in the lobby of his wonderful towers with the bejeweled bird as the star performer. After a while, the courtiers knew every whir, every click, and every note of the golden bird’s song.
Some of the commoners, those who had heard the nightingale sing in the forest, left the concert unsatisfied. “The Trumperor’s bird is beautiful and sings prettily, but something is missing,” they said. “I don’t know what. It’s as though I have eaten a meal, but I am still hungry.”
One evening, as the Trumperor laid in bed listening to the artificial bird sing, something popped inside the bird’s body. The music ground to a halt.
The Trumpress leaped out of bed and ran over to wind the bird again, but the key came off in her hand.
“What’s the meaning of this?” roared the Trumperor. “Did you sabotage my beautiful bird? I will have you fired for this!”
“No, no, my love,” cried the Trumpress, cringing in fear. “Let me go summon help for the bird.”
“Yes, bring the best physicians! Musicians! Anyone who can fix my bird,” ordered the Trumperor.
The Trumpress scurried away to do as he bid. After she called physicians and musicians, she also summoned the best clockmaker in town. Trumpress Melania was no fool.
The physicians came to examine the bird. “We cannot fix a patient of metal, your majesty.” The Trumperor dismissed them with an impatient wave of his hand.
Musicians came and tapped on the bird, putting their ears up to it. “Nice resonance, but it’s not working, your majesty.” The Trumperor fired them on the spot (even though they were not technically employed by him).
Finally, the Trumpress presented the clockmaker. He opened the artificial bird’s chest and examined the gears. “They’re worn out, your majesty,” said the clockmaker. “I can probably make new ones, but they’ll be custom. Not cheap.”
“How soon can you fix my beautiful bird?” asked the Trumperor.
“A few weeks,” said the clockmaker, rubbing his chin. “Maybe a couple months. I’ll have to disassemble the bird and take some of the parts with me to copy.”
“Do it, and get out of my sight,” grumbled the Trumperor, glaring at the silent, golden bird. “I want to hear it sing again as soon as possible.”
~o0o~
After the clockmaker left, the Trumperor stomped around his royal apartments, seething with rage. He threw expensive sculptures at the wall. He kicked over mahogany end tables and chairs. He ranted and raved, shaking his fist at the sky. The courtiers hid behind doors and ran down hallways to avoid him. None dared gainsay him, and no one knew how to calm the Trumperor.
At the height of his rage, the Trumperor grew pale and collapsed. The Trumpress summoned the Trumperor’s private physician, who shook his head. “I warned him to take it easy,” said the doctor. “His body is tired, and so is his soul. There is nothing that can be done. He will not survive the night.”
The courtiers shook their heads and went in search of the Trumperor’s oldest son and heir. He would need advisers and sycophants to serve him.
“I can speak for the new emperor,” said Conway Goldenhair. “His words are sure to be more intelligent than the old Trumperor’s.”
“I can help manage his schedule,” said Preice Reinbus. “His actions are sure to be more mature than the old Trumperor’s.”
“I can tell him, er, help him decide what to do,” said Bannon the White. “My services are always available, for a price.” Under his breath, he added, “And a younger ruler should be easier to manage.” He followed the others out to offer service to the new ruler.
Trumpress Melania looked at her husband, laying cold and pale on their golden bed. When he took his last breath, all of his wealth would pass to the eldest prince. Part of her wanted to sit with her husband in his final hours, but she knew that if she and Little Baron were to survive, then she must curry favor with the new emperor.
Besides, he was not aware of anything right now. He was barely breathing. It would not be long now. She opened a window to let the moonlight and fresh air in, then left to secure her future and protect her son.
~o0o~
The Trumperor could not move. He could not speak. He could barely breathe. A huge weight was crushing him. When he opened his eyes, he saw that Death was sitting upon his chest. Death looked just like him, he realized, but with a wicked, mischievous smile. He wore the Trumperor’s golden crown on his head, the Trumperor’s majestic red tie around his neck, and the Trumperor’s golden ring on his hand. Death looked down at his dying twin.
“Let’s see what’s on, shall we?” Death picked up the control wand and turned on the Trumperor’s talking picture box.
An old woman’s face appeared. “Do you remember me? You foreclosed on my house. I died penniless, living in my son’s basement,” she yelled. “It’s all because of you!”
“I never knew,” whispered the Trumperor. Perspiration beaded on his forehead. Sweat dripped down his cheek, or maybe it was a tear.
“You never paid me,” said a Hispanic man with a thick accent. “We had a contract, and you broke it! I lost my business because of you.”
“No, no!” cried the Trumperor. “I never!”
One after another, Death showed the Trumperor his deeds, the good and the bad. And there were many, many bad. His past cruelties weighed heavily on him. With every recitation, every accusation, Death grew heavier. The Trumperor was being crushed under the weight of his deeds. He tried to lift his hands to cover his ears, but they were pinned under Death’s enormous rump.
“Music,” he gasped. “Play something for me, golden bird. Please, sing for me. Drown out these awful voices!”
The bird glittered in the moonlight and was silent. It had no heart to pity the Trumperor, only gears. No one was there to wind it, so it could not play a note. Death laughed and danced as the torrent of voices babbled on.
~o0o~
The Trumperor was sure that he was breathing his last when a trill of lovely song exploded from the windowsill. The nightingale had come. As she sang, the Trumperor turned his face toward the bird singing to him from the window. In the moonlight, the drab, brown little bird seemed to shine.
Her song drowned out the voices from the magic picture box, and the faces faded away. Death’s weight sat less heavily upon the Trumperor. Death was transfixed by the nightingale’s song. When she paused, he cried out, “Sing, sing, little bird!”
“Yes, if you give me the Trumperor’s crown,” said the nightingale. Death handed it over eagerly, and shifted some of his weight off the Trumperor’s chest. In this fashion, the nightingale convinced Death to return each of the Trumperor’s treasures. She sang songs of gardens and churchyards, fields and fen, and the joy of returning home after a long day’s work. Her songs woke in Death a longing to return to his own home, with its lovely garden. Death flew out through the window, leaving the Trumperor in peace.
~o0o~
“You are saved,” sang the nightingale. She flew to the Trumperor’s bedside and perched atop the artificial bird. “I am glad that I got here in time. It must have been fate that I overheard courtiers walking in the wood talking about your illness. I came as quickly as I could.”
“Yes,” said the Trumperor. His voice was stronger. “Come closer, little bird.”
The nightingale chirped happily and hopped up onto his bed, next to the Trumperor. With a great heave, the Trumperor rose and backhanded the bird. It flew sideways and hit the wall, then slid down to rest on the floor.
“You’re di
sloyal and ugly,” snarled the Trumperor. “If you hadn’t left, I would never have gotten sick in the first place. You’re fired!”
With that, he rose from the bed and headed toward his royal dressing room, calling for servants to bring one of his darkest suits. “I have some work to do. Everyone disloyal to me will suffer. I will pay Bannon the White’s price, and he will fix my golden bird so that this never happens again.”
The Trumperor noticed Little Barron in the doorway. The boy had heard the song of the nightingale and come to listen. He shrank and shivered under his father’s gaze. “You,” said the Trumperor, “clean that mess up, and be sure to wash your hands afterward. Wild animals are covered in germs.”
When the Trumperor was gone, Little Barron crept hesitantly into his father’s room. He found a towel and gently lifted the injured nightingale. Quickly and quietly, he ran back to his room. He found a shoe box and lined it with some of his silken underpants. By then, the nightingale was awake and looking around. Carefully, he helped her into the box. She held her wing at an awkward angle. “Is it broken?” asked Little Barron.
“I’m not sure,” said the nightingale. “I don’t think so, but it is hurt. I cannot fly right now.” She cocked her head at him. “What do you plan to do with me? I warn you, I will not sing if you put me in a cage.”
“Well,” the boy swallowed hard. “Will you be my friend? It is scary and lonely in the castle. And my father, I mean, the Trumperor, is really mean sometimes.”
The nightingale chirped to him. “I will, Little Barron. And I will sing to you of the wide world, and the people in it. The brave and the wise, the foolish and the weak. Some you can trust and love, others will look to you one day for protection. There are the deplorable ones who adore your father, and the desperate ones that hope he will save them. I see them all, and I know them. I can teach you much, child, if you want to learn.”
Little Barron clasped his hands and looked at the nightingale hopefully. “Can you teach me to sing?”
