Bad Prince Charlie

by Moore, John

  Charlie sheathed his sword, drew himself up to his full height, and favored Gagnot with what he hoped was a confident sneer. “Try it, Abe, and you’re a dead man.” He grabbed the chain around his neck. “I’m warning you. I have a—AAAAGH!”

  His scream of pain startled the horses and echoed off the surrounding mountains. Everyone jumped. Packard and Gregory turned around. Gagnot shook his head, as if to clear it, and said, “What was that about? You have a what? A backache?”

  Charlie had grabbed the chain around his neck and yanked it with all his strength, intending to snap it free in a dramatic manner. But both the chain and clasp proved unexpectedly sturdy. He had merely succeeded in driving the gold links into his skin. He rubbed his neck. A welt started to rise. More carefully, he pulled the chain over his head and held it in the air. “Ah, that was just to get your attention. I have a getting-out-of-a-tight-spot device.”

  It got their attention, all right. Every man on the ground took an involuntary step backward, while the men on horseback tightened their grips on the reins. Then Gagnot, not wishing to appear cowardly in front of his men, stepped to the front again. “Really,” he said in a silky voice. “You know, I’ve never seen one before. A genuine getting-out-of-a-tight-spot device.4 And what, exactly, does it do?”

  “Um,” said Charlie. He looked at the crystal dangling from his hand. “That I cannot tell you. . . .”

  “But we’ll know when the time comes,” chorused Gagnot, Packard, Gregory, and, in fact, pretty much the entire army. No one smiled, but Charlie had the distinct feeling they were laughing at him. He looked around angrily.

  “Fine!” he said. “Have it your way!” He grabbed the gold and crystal pendant and squeezed it. There was the tiniest click, the gold wire holding the crystal sprang open like the petals of a flower, and the crystal itself dropped into Charlie’s palm. Without hesitation he flung it at Gagnot and threw up his arms to protect his face.

  The crystal caught the sun as it flew through the air. The tiny, glittering object transcribed a flattened arc, struck a boulder, glanced off, hit the ground, and bounced on the rocks to stop at Gagnot’s feet. Gagnot also flung up his arms in a defensive gesture, as did most of the men who stood around him. But when nothing happened, they lowered their arms and eyed it warily. Gagnot himself bent over it. He was careful not to touch it, but he studied it cautiously. The crystal gave off a brief flicker of red light, like a candle sputtering just before it dies. Then it did nothing. It did not even sparkle. It lay on ground, dull and inert. He smiled thinly and straightened up.

  “My, wasn’t that anticlimactic?” He ran his thumb along the edge of his sword. “Any more surprises for us, Prince Regent? No? Then I think it’s time to put an end to this.”

  He made a few exploratory swipes in the air with his sword, extended it in Charlie’s direction, and raised his left hand to motion his men to follow him. He paused to give them a chance to resume their formation, then threw his hand forward and down. “Attack!” And he charged up the slope.

  He was about halfway to the top when he realized that no one was following him. He looked down and saw the rest of his men still gathered at the bottom of the rock pile. He looked up and saw Charlie had his sword back out and aimed at Gagnot’s heart. Without a signal from his brain, Gagnot’s feet quickly terminated the advance, controlled by an ancient and primordial instinct—the desire not to impale oneself on a naked blade. Then, feeling more than a little ridiculous standing by himself, waving a sword, halfway up a pile of rocks in the middle of nowhere, he tried to make surreptitious signals to his soldiers below to join him.

  The problem was, they weren’t looking at him.

  The men on the lake side of the rock pile had turned completely around and were staring at the water. The men on the opposite side were moving around the rock pile to get a better view, quietly and politely threading their way among the men in front of them. Even the horses seemed to be jockeying for position. Gagnot looked to where they were staring, and found himself staring also.

  Packard and Gregory left the group entirely and walked to the water’s edge. Out in the lake, perhaps half a mile from shore, the water was roiling and bubbling. It almost looked like it was boiling, but they knew that was not the case, for they could see fish jumping and playing in the foam, and occasionally the wind brought the mist to shore, where they all could feel its coolness against their skin. Twice the height of a man, the water lifted itself from the lake surface in a great pile of foam, and bubbles that caught the sunlight and reflected iridescent gold and blue and red. At its source, the roiling and bubbling must have been quite loud, but from the shore, the soldiers could only hear a pleasant, harmonious fizzing. It was all quite hypnotic—the bubbles, constantly forming and collapsing, the flashes of color and light, the melodious fizz. Each man kept his eyes fixed on it.

  Everyone except Charlie.

  He looked at the crystal. From his perch on top of the stone rubble he could see it clearly. It flashed red, once, brighter this time. He looked toward the foaming lake, then back at the crystal. It flashed a third time, then a forth. He was sure the flashes were coming closer together.

  It was counting down the time.

  “Um, guys,” he called down. “I think we better get out of here.”

  No one moved. The soldiers continued to look at the bubbles, pointing to them and talking to each other.

  “No really,” Charlie called, louder. “I don’t think this is a good place to be. I think we need to back off a few miles. Starting right now.” He looked over his shoulder at the crystal. It was flashing steadily now.

  “Uncle Packard, Uncle Gregory! I’m pretty sure we’re all in danger.”

  His uncles ignored him. “At least we know where it is,” Packard told Gregory. “We won’t have to drag the lake after all.”

  “One hundred seventy feet, did you say?”

  “That’s the average depth. It could be deeper. We should be prepared to go three hundred, if need be.”

  “After we get this one up we can build duplicates. Even if only Thessalonius knows the magic that underlies it, other sorcerers should still be able to copy it.”

  “Right. Then we can set off one or two to prove we really have them. You know, we could even sell them to other countries. We’ll ask for a percentage of the spoils they take when they win their wars.”

  “Abe, listen to me! I surrender, okay? I put myself in your hands. I throw myself at your mercy.” Charlie tossed a pebble at Gagnot to get his attention. It struck him on the shoulder. “Abe, you need to tell your men to get away from the lake.”

  Gagnot brushed his shoulder absently. “You know what it reminds me of?” he asked one of his officers, without taking his eyes off the foam. “It reminds me of a giant fizzy bath bomb.”

  “I think you’re right, sir.” The officer also kept his gaze directed on the lake. “I can even smell jasmine.”

  “No, that’s lilac. It grows wild around here.”

  Charlie considered fleeing. Only minutes ago these men were ready to kill him, after all. He could escape alone, leave them to their fate, and if what he thought was going to happen really happened, they would be no threat to him ever again.

  But he couldn’t do it. These were Damask soldiers. As much as he hated to admit to an emotional tie to Damask, they were his countrymen. Most of them were fresh from their farms, forced to enlist by economic necessity. They didn’t think of this fight on their own. They had been manipulated into it by Charlie’s uncles, and by Charlie himself. He couldn’t abandon them.

  That left him with only one other choice.

  He had to get their attention. He had to make a speech that would break their concentration, that would penetrate their brains, that would dissolve the glue that fixed their minds on the lake, bring them back to reality, and alert them to the danger they were in. He knew what that meant. He hated to do it. The thought revolted him, but he knew the words that he would have to say. Desperat
e times demand desperate measures, he told himself. Damask was a fairy-tale kingdom, and as much as he loathed the idea, in a situation like this, there was only one kind of speech that would do the job.

  Iambic pentameter.

  He quickly finger-combed his hair, dusted off his boots with a handkerchief, braced one foot on a rock, and held his sword up in what he hoped was a dramatic and dashing gesture. Then he began:

  Abjure this evil beach, good men, fall back.

  Too near this water fills me up with dread.

  Do not be fooled by bubbles bright and gay,

  Or sunlight playing on the sparkling lake,

  Or iridescent colors in the foam.

  Let not your senses by these things be trapped,

  Nor by the gentle music of waves.

  For wicked magic that had slept below,

  Is now disturbed and like the kraken wakes,

  To unleash power quite beyond our ken.

  Doom and destruction threatens all our lives.

  Death waits to those who linger in its sphere,

  Of influence. So therefore tarry not,

  But emulate the crayfish on the sand.

  Who, sensing danger, bravely waves his claws,

  Yet also backs away, his hole to seek,

  And hides, protected by the solid rocks.

  Or like the hart and rabbit of the woods,

  Who flee the forest fires when they come.

  They know the conflagrations are too great,

  For them to combat with their puny power.

  And so they run away, but soon return,

  To graze in comfort when the ash is cold.

  It worked! Slowly at first, one man after another, but then in groups of five or six, the men turned their heads away from the spectacle of the lake and looked at Charlie with annoyed expressions. Charlie was exultant. The irritating sound of bad blank verse was breaking their concentration, cutting right through the pleasant, relaxing ambiance of the bubbling water like bagpipes at a violin concerto. He took a deep breath and continued:

  You get my drift? Do not forsake your wives,

  Nor leave your mothers weeping on the hearth.

  Let not insurance salesmen gnash their teeth

  And grudging pay survivor benefits.

  You must not linger, ’tis no hero’s death,

  To suffer to be blown to smithereens.

  Just go on home, and later you can lie.

  Exaggerate the bravery that you showed.

  Old soldiers do it all the time, you know,

  And glean more honor from a tale grown tall,

  Than simple truth carved on a graveyard stone.

  So grip your reins and turn your horse away.

  Set spur to flank and urge him to top speed,

  For quickly we must boogie out of here.

  Charlie stopped when he saw that all the men had turned away from the lake and were scowling at him. Even the horses looked like they wanted to kick him.

  “Are you deaf or what?” he shouted. “Get going, or I’ll start rhyming couplets!”

  It was nearly too late. Shocked into awareness, the mounted soldiers cast a backward look at the lake. Their expressions changed with the sudden realization that the behavior of Lake Organza was far from normal. They spurred their horses into a galloping stampede and headed for the trailhead to Damask. The dozen or so men who were on foot scrambled to mount their horses, and took off only slightly behind the main group.

  Charlie was left alone, standing on a pile of rock, watching them disappear. Behind him the noise of the lake changed. He turned to see the bubbling water lift up, piling on top of itself, rising above the lake’s surface, until it formed a column of swirling liquid a hundred feet high. The bubbles turned green, then blue, then gold, a lovely sight by any standard. But then they turned an ominous black, as though they had been dipped in soot. Beneath his feet the crystal stopped flashing and now glowed a bright, steady red. “Time to take my own advice,” said Charlie, and he scrambled down the rocky slope to flat ground, running at his best speed away from the shore, toward the surrounding ridges, not daring to look back.

  Then the earth split open.

  Xiaoyan, the High Priestess of Matka, who walked a path of her own footsteps, paused on a hill outside the city and beheld the ship that would take her away from Noile.

  For the task of herself and her companions was finished, and no more would they need her—nor each other—and soon they would be dispersed among the world.

  And she thought in her heart: Shall I leave without sorrow? For I came here as a child and I have grown up among these people and they are all I know. But I am a child no longer and I must make my place in the world. I cannot tarry longer.

  And so she entered the city in the midst of the solemn procession, and the people of the city gathered on both sides to bid her farewell, and she looked about the city with regret, for she was certain in the knowledge that she was going to miss all the good end-of-summer sales. And she passed by the salons and thought: I wonder if there is time to get my hair done.

  But immediately upon thinking this she grew angry with herself, and she chided herself in her heart for her vanity, and she told herself that such an action would be foolish and wasteful. For you are going on a sea voyage, and the salt spray and the blowing wind will quickly leave your hair in disarray. Yet even as she told herself this, the thought came unbidden to her mind: Perhaps just a short flip cut to get it off the shoulders and make it more manageable.

  But there was no time, for as the procession wound through the city and toward the harbor, the mayor and the aldermen came out of the Great Hall of the City. And when she saw them she knew that she would have to make a speech, and glad she was that she had prepared for this day with a memorized boilerplate.

  And the mayor hailed her, saying:

  High Priestess of Matka, decades you have watched over us from your mountain fastness. Decades we have walked the trail to your temple and brought to you our problems and our fears. For you came to us at a time when our nation was deeply troubled, and all was in turmoil, and each man’s hand was raised against his brother. The future was as a dark night to us. We could not see our way and so uncertain were we that we hesitated to move at all. But you held before us a glimmer of light so that we could see to take a first step, and thus we moved forward with our lives.

  And it truly must be said that deep was your wisdom and keen was your understanding, and that your rates were not at all unreasonable, certainly a lot better than that quack the astrologer we used to have—I never understood how anyone could believe that stuff.

  Now your ship rides the tide, and the wind that will carry you away from us fills its sails, and in the great play of life you seek another stage on which to perform. But there is time yet before the tide turns. Therefore we ask you speak to us and tell us of ourselves and what lies before us. For we would fain take more interest in that then hear yet another go-in-peace speech which we have all heard before, give us some credit.

  Xiao bowed her head and asked: People of Noile, what can I speak of save that which is already in your hearts?

  And an alderwoman stepped forward and said: Speak to us of time.

  And Xiao said: Time is a gift of nature and measured by the sun and seasons. It cannot be caged nor controlled, nor counted—and to attempt to do so will only lead to unhappiness. For surely we have noted that in the summer when we need a good swimsuit, the shops are filled only with winter clothing, and yet in the winter when we seek to buy a sweater, the shelves are filled with summer clothing. We must reconcile ourselves that time is out of joint and we cannot put it right, but at least we can buy on sale after the holidays, when prices are heavily discounted.

  An old woman spoke out and said: Speak to us of children.

  Children are a blessing to the world and a burden to the eighth-grade teacher. They bring joy to their parents when they are born and even more joy when they are finally old enough to mo
ve out. Children fill the home with love and warmth and affection. Nonetheless, consider getting a cat instead, which will do the same thing and also keep the house free of mice.

  Then a young, bearded man stepped forward and said: Tell us of Gaia, of the Earth Mother, the Goddess, the Spirit that surrounds us all and inhabits every natural thing, that quenches our thirst with her rain, and warms us with her light, and speaks to us in the wind and the rustling of the trees, yeah man, the trees, the trees speak to me, man, and the earth is alive, I can feel her pulse beating, I can feel the pulse of the earth, man, and it is like, totally cosmic.

  Xiao said to him: Oh wow, like what have you been smoking? I think you need to lay off that stuff for a while, dude.

  And a model slash actress raised her hand and said: Speak to us of beauty.

  There is the beauty of nature and there is the beauty of art and there is the beauty of the human spirit and the beauty of the soul. There is the beauty and sorrow of the female form, for the beautiful woman inflames desire in all men, yet she is hard put to satisfy the desire of even one man. The beauty of youth is fleeting and evanescent and the joy it brings is temporary. Therefore think not to realize only your outer beauty and neglect the beauty that lies inside you. For truly it can be said that a fat woman might lose weight someday, but a skinny bitch will never develop a nice personality.

  And a scholar said, speak to us of learning.

  The wise man knows himself to be a fool, and the fool thinks himself wise, and both are correct. We are all wise in some small way, and all modest in knowledge of a few more things, and totally ignorant of all the rest. The philosopher seeks to know himself and believes that the unexamined life is not worth living, but never considers that the examined life might not be worth living either.

  Here Xiao spread her arms to encompass the whole of the people that filled the square.