Sunlight and Shadow

by Cameron Dokey

  “Therefore, hear what I have decided shall be done. Let Prince Tern choose one half of the tree. Let Prince Arthur choose the other. Then, let them fashion from the heart of the King’s Oak what their own hearts summon. In the morning, I shall judge what each has made, and in this way will your future king be chosen.”

  “You choose first, Tern,” Arthur said, before I could so much as open my mouth to suggest that he do likewise.

  Now, the King’s Oak had been split straight down the middle. You might not think it would make much difference which side of it I chose. But, as my father stood to make his decree, with his back to the tree and his face to his people, one half of the downed tree lay to his left side, and the other to his right.

  Yes, of course, you are no doubt thinking, and no doubt with impatience. How else would they fall?

  The point I’m trying to make is this: If I chose the left half, I chose the half closest to my father’s heart. And in so choosing, I would make a statement, stake a claim: that I was the son whose heart was the most like my father’s, and therefore most fit to rule when my father’s heart beat no more.

  This sort of thing is considered important where I come from. For my father believes, and I must admit that I agree, that the heart of a king is his most important attribute, not his proud bearing, his big voice, or even his fine mind. Any idiot in a decent suit of clothes may sit upon a throne, a thing usurpers have proved from time to time.

  The best kings are the true kings. The ones born to rule. The ones who have known this was their destiny before they understood what it was they knew, for it commenced with the very first beat of their heart. And that’s why regicide is such a terrible crime. A true king is a king in his heart, a heart which must be allowed to beat to the very end. To live its full and proper life. Only when the heart of a true king ceases to beat can the heart of his successor take its place.

  As a general rule, that heart is expected to beat in the breast of his firstborn son. But every now and again, even nature can skip a beat, and the heart of a king will beat in a younger son. I had often wondered whether this was the case with Arthur and me, because of our names, if nothing else. I get named for the seagulls, most of whom are scavengers. My brother, for one of the most legendary kings of all time.

  And so, after a hesitation that seemed like an hour but was, in fact, no longer than the time it took to take a breath, I bowed to my father and stepped to the tree’s right side.

  “I will choose the right,” I said, “for the right hand of a king must be strong.”

  I heard a murmur of appreciation rise up from the people, and two other sounds. So soft I think only the three of us most closely concerned heard them. I heard my brother, Arthur, suck in his breath, and my father expel his in a sigh.

  “And I will take the left,” Arthur said, stepping forward in his turn. “The better to protect the king’s heart.”

  “So be it,” my father said. “I will judge what you have made at dawn.”

  Jern Makes a Choice and Hears a Sound

  Swiftly my brother and I set to work. He on the left side of the King’s Oak, and I on the right. My father and his subjects returned to the village, leaving Arthur and me alone within a ring of torches. What beat in my brothers heart during the rest of that strange night, I cannot tell. But in my own there pounded a desire more fierce than any I had ever known.

  And it was simply this: to learn what my own heart might hold.

  I could hear our father returning before I was finished. It was only then that I realized Arthur had been silent for some time. I turned, for we had been working back to back, and saw him sitting upon the ground. His head was bowed, as if in weariness. Across his lap lay a great spear, as long as the King’s Oak was tall. And all carved from the heart of the left side of the tree.

  Oh, well done, Arthur, I thought.

  “You always have to try to be first, don’t you?” I said. “It wasn’t a race, you know.”

  At this, Arthur looked up with a smile, for this was an old joke between us.

  “Still trying to compensate for the order of my birth,” he replied. Then his face grew serious. “Tern,” he began. “About the half of the tree you chose—”

  “Arthur,” I interrupted him. “Please, don’t say anymore. I chose the right half.” At the unintended pun, I made a face. “The correct half,” I went on. “You know it, and I know it. I think even Papa knows it. Why else would he have come up with this particular test for us?”

  “He could just want to see what kind of wood-carvers we are,” Arthur remarked, his tone mild.

  “Good gracious!” I exclaimed in perfect imitation of our mother. “I hadn’t considered that.”

  “Old idiot,” Arthur said.

  “Young moron.”

  I cuffed him on the ear. He poked me in the stomach with one end of that impossibly long spear. We were standing with our arms around each other’s shoulders, grinning like buffoons, when our parents arrived.

  “Oh ho,” my father said when he saw us. “So now you’ve decided the fate of our kingdom is just one big joke?”

  “He started it,” Arthur said.

  “Did not.”

  “Did too.”

  “My sons,” my father said sternly, though his face twitched strangely, a surefire sign that he was fighting back a smile. “Enough. The people will be here soon and we must not confuse them with mischievous behavior. They’re already worried enough.”

  “Yes, Father,” Arthur and I said in unison, a thing which made my father’s face twitch once more.

  Arthur and I stepped apart. I could see my mother, who had, naturally, accompanied my father, looking first at Arthur and then at me. When she looked at my brother, her eyes were dry. When she looked at me, she had tears in her eyes. And so it seemed that the only people who did not know that the matter of who would succeed my father was already settled were his subjects.

  They crowded into the clearing now, their faces wary, yet expectant. Together, my parents stepped back to stand among them, facing me and Arthur.

  “My sons, have you completed the task I set?” my father asked, his tone formal.

  “Father, we have,” I responded.

  “As Prince Tern chose his portion of the tree first, let Prince Arthur be the first to show what he has made.”

  “As the king commands,” my brother said, and he stepped forward.

  “I have made a spear,” he said as he knelt and offered it to my father. “As long as the King’s Oak is tall.”

  “And why have you done this?” my father asked as he took it from him. He hefted it, as if testing the weight, judging how far it would fly when thrown.

  “So that there should be no portion of our land that my arm cannot protect in time of peace or defend in time of war,” my brother responded.

  “This is well done,” my father said. And he gestured for Arthur to rise. He handed him back the spear. Arthur accepted it, then returned to my side.

  “What have you made, Prince Tern?” my father asked.

  And it was only as he asked the question that I realized something. An important something. A something you would have thought I’d realized before now: I didn’t know. My heart had been so full of the desire to know itself that I hadn’t even noticed what my hands had carved.

  I looked down at them now.

  “A flute,” I said. A flute? Oh, for crying out loud. This was a bit eccentric, even for me, particularly after Arthur’s very manly spear.

  “And why have you done this?” my father asked, just as he had asked my brother.

  I did the only thing I could. I pulled in the deepest breath my lungs would hold, looked my father straight in the eye, and told the truth.

  “My lord,” I said, “I truly do not know. I listened to my heart when carving from the tree, and the flute is what my heart called forth.”

  I think even my father was somewhat at a loss for words at this. It’s difficult for someone who has alway
s recognized their destiny to hear the words, “I do not know.” Fortunately for all concerned, my mother chose this particular moment to speak up.

  “Let us hear you sound it,” she said. “Perhaps, then, we all shall know.”

  “As the queen commands,” I replied.

  “Say as she requests, rather,” my mother said, and she smiled.

  And so I pulled in a second breath, as deep as the one I had just taken, lifted the flute to my lips, and began to play.

  It’s hard to describe what happened next. I think the simplest thing to say is that, for me at least, the world around me was no longer the world I knew. Or rather, it was the world I knew, but so much more.

  My mind knew that I was standing in the King’s Wood, facing my parents and my father’s assembled subjects, with my brother at my side. My mind knew that there was grass beneath my feet and trees in a great circle all around. It even knew that I felt both foolish and afraid, for I was far from understanding what was going on.

  But my heart … My heart registered none of these things, for it was filled with sound.

  I cannot tell you what melody I played. I’m not so sure it was one you would recognize. Instead, it was as if the voice of the flute was the voice of the wide world itself and the beating of my own heart, all at once. Playing was like running as hard and fast as I could, simply for the joy of it. Like standing absolutely still with my bare feet in the waters of a clear, calm lake, with my face tipped up to face the sun.

  Like starlight. Like moonlight. Like nothing I had ever experienced or could ever hope to describe. As if all the possibilities I could ever dream of, as well as countless others which had never even occurred to me, had suddenly become crystal clear and transformed into sound.

  That was the music the flute made. And at the moment I ceased to play, I understood the truth: I had been playing the music of my heart. And no sooner did I understand this than I heard a new sound seizing the fading notes of the flute, as if it had been chasing after them. Holding on to linger when the sound of the flute was done.

  Faint, yet clear, I heard the chime of bells.

  Slowly I brought the flute down from my lips. The look upon my father’s face was one that I had never seen before.

  “I believe that Death himself would stop to listen to such music,” my father said.

  And, suddenly, for the first time ever, I saw into my father’s heart, and saw that it was filled with doubt. Strong and true as Arthur was, it might be no bad thing for me to succeed my father after all. For the flute that I had made might inspire the people I ruled to greatness. Might halt an enemy without the spilling of a single drop of blood.

  That was when I heard it again, louder this time: the high, sweet call of bells. The sound they made seemed to set my whole heart jangling, so near, so very near it was to my heart’s own song. And at that moment, I knew what I must do. If I was ever to search out my own destiny, find the one whose heart beat with mine, I had to set out. Right now.

  “My lord,” I said, and I went to kneel before my father as my brother had done. “I honor you, and I honor this land. But as you commanded me to carve what I would from the heart of the Kings Oak, now let me say what is in my own heart.”

  “I pray you, do so,” my father said. And he stooped and put his hands on my shoulders, urging me to rise.

  “Father,” I said when I had gotten to my feet. “Let my brother, Arthur, be king when you are gone. For his heart bids him to stay, while mine urges me to go. I cannot be a good king, a true king, if my heart lies elsewhere, no matter how much I love our land or the people I would govern.”

  “Is this truly what your heart speaks?” my father asked.

  “It is,” I answered steadily. “I swear this on my honor, as your son.”

  “Then so be it,” my father said. He embraced me, stepped forward to embrace my brother, then, with one arm around my shoulder and the other around Arthur’s, he turned all three of us to face the assembled crowd.

  “Hear now, all of you!” he cried. “Prince Tern will travel through the wide world, listening to the music of his heart until he discovers what it may hold. Then, with all my heart, I hope he may return to us once more.

  “Prince Arthur will succeed me. He will rule in this land after I am gone. Now let the kingdom be filled with rejoicing, for the riddle of the King’s Oak is solved!”

  “Long live Prince Arthur!” the people shouted. Caps flew into the air. Children clapped their hands as they were hoisted up onto shoulders. “Long live Prince Tern!”

  “I’ll thank you to notice they said my name first,” Arthur murmured as my father went back to stand beside my mother, leaving the two of us to stand waving at the crowd.

  “They’re just brownnosing,” I murmured back. “You’re going to be king, after all.”

  At this, Arthur gave a shout of laughter, and the people hoisted us up onto their shoulders and carried the two of us home through the dawn.

  Shortly after a good breakfast, in which it seemed to me the entire kingdom took part, I tucked the flute into a pocket of my tunic right above my heart and pulled a well-provisioned knapsack upon my back, for I am not entirely without good sense. Then I set out to answer the call of the bells.

  The Lady Mina Speaks Her Mind

  Fear.

  I could feel it in the arms that held me. Taste it on the tip of my tongue. Hear it in the sound of the wind as it tore through the trees. Fear and pain and rage combined.

  My fear. My pain at the duplicity of my father. The breaking of my mother’s heart. The fear of my father’s soldiers. Where the rage came from. I could not tell. But, every now and then, like a flash of sheet lightning against a pitch-black sky, came an emotion that stood alone, and this one was easy to identify: It was the Lord Sarastro’s triumph.

  Just when I was sure my ribs would break from being bounced against the hard shoulder bone of the one who held me, I heard a barked command, and the company halted. Almost at once there came a great clang, like the raising of a portcullis. There was a second command, and, again, we moved forward. As we did so, I heard the hard-soled boots of the soldiers ring out upon stone. Since I was facedown, I could easily see the way that sparks flew up, so smartly did they march inside the Lord Sarastro’s dwelling place. With a second clang, the great doors of iron closed behind us.

  Trapped, I thought.

  “Set her down,” said the Lord Sarastro. “But bring her along.”

  At once, I was set on my feet. One strong hand remained on my arm. It propelled me through a series of narrow corridors so swiftly, it was all I could do not to stumble. Then, with a suddenness that reminded me of the way the earth will sometimes abruptly fall away on both sides of a twisting mountain path, the walls of the corridors winged back and a great hall yawned before us.

  I could tell this mostly by the feeling of immense open space, by the way the room felt, not because I could see it for myself. My hood was still pulled over my face, so low I could see nothing save when I gazed straight down.

  “Release her,” the Lord Sarastro said. And, at his command, the hand fell away. I heard the scrape of a boot as my captor stepped back. I was left standing alone.

  Of course my first impulse was to push my hood back, the better to study my new surroundings. Or, if not that, then at least to stare with open defiance at the man who, within the last few moments, I had decided I would never call father.

  I did nothing.

  Instead, I kept my head bowed, my hands folded inside the sleeves of my cloak. For it came to me without warning, as inspiration often does, that my silence might be a weapon I could use in whatever battle I was about to fight with the Lord Sarastro. That there must be a battle seemed obvious.

  He had broken the agreement made at my birth, broken his own oath. Set his will against my mother’s and broken hers into pieces. But he had yet to learn how strong my own will was.

  “Welcome, my daughter, Pamina,” the Lord Sarastro said. “Welc
ome to your new home.”

  And, at his words, I felt my legs begin to tremble as a terrible emotion seized my whole body.

  You are wrong, my lord, I thought. I cannot have a new home, for I never had an old one. A home is a place one’s heart creates and so recognizes as its own. A place it enters of its own free will. All others are merely dwelling places.

  I bit my lip to keep from crying out my pain, for it seemed to me, in that moment, that I saw my future spreading out before me. My father would marry me to some stranger of his own selection, a man who matched the criteria of the Lord Sarastro’s heart but not mine. I would spend my life in the dwellings of others. I would never know my own true home.

  The pain of this realization stopped up my voice, so I made no answer to the Lord Sarastro’s welcome. “Let me take you to your room,” he finally said when it became clear that I would not reply. “Perhaps, when you have had a chance to rest, you will see that all will be well.”

  How can it be, when it has begun like this? I thought. Though the truth was that the pain of this moment had been started long ago, in the moment my parents first turned away from one another.

  He must have made some signal, for, again, I felt that strong hand upon my arm. It piloted me across the great hall and toward a flight of stairs. As I lifted my foot to place it upon the first step, I suddenly cried out, for, as the torchlight fell upon the stair, light leaped into being, a light so bright it all but dazzled my eyes. Some vivid mineral flecked the stone, sleeping deep within until awakened by the light of the torch.

  “This is porphyry,” the Lord Sarastro said as he paused to let me catch up. “Do you know it? It is beautiful when the light shines upon it, don’t you think?”

  It is, I thought. And it is not It seemed even the steps beneath my father’s feet had been created to prove a point, the same point he had driven home to my mother by snatching me away. No matter how strong, no matter how beautiful, dark would always be overcome by light.