by _Anthology
The prince paid no heed to the furtive whispers and clucking tongues of his subjects. Instead, he rose from his throne and decreed that he and his legions would leave the safety of the glade to come to the aid of the embattled pond-dwellers.
At this, his attendants raised their voices in disbelief. "My lord - the soil of this land is all that we have ever known. And yet you would have us abandon it all for the sake of this fickle lover?" When next the Lotus Prince spoke, it was with the steel and authority of a monarch. Though his voice was low, the ground trembled with the power it commanded. "Though I no longer wear my coat of colors," he said, "though my love may be misplaced, I am still your ruler. And none shall keep me from honoring my vows."
And with that, the Lotus Court humbly left the safety of their home and followed their prince into the unknown waters of the pond. And as the court sunk their roots into the depths of the water, their robes fanned out over the pond's surface. Beneath this canopy of silks, the pond-dwellers were hidden safely from view, leaving the herons no other choice but to abandon their search in favor of clearer, more plentiful waters.
Days passed. And before long, the prince was visited by his vagabond lover once more.
"Why?" the koi asked, bewildered and remorseful. "It was karma that my betrayal would be my end, but you abandoned all that you knew to save me from it. Why?"
The prince smiled at the frustrated youth and drew him into his sheltering arms. "I made you a promise that night," he said, "that I would always be with you." To hear such kind words and to meet the gentle eyes of the prince were more than the koi's conscience could bear and his cheeks flushed with shame at how he had wronged this noble creature. "Then," he said haltingly as he raised his eyes to his lover's, "if you will still have me, then I've no choice but to stay by your side. Besides," he smiled, falling into the prince's embrace, "to have you chase me all over creation would be most tiresome, indeed."
And forevermore did the koi dwell beneath the sheltering fronds of the white lotus, for all of creation to see.
The Wishberry Wish
By Camilla Bruce Once upon a time there was a rich merchant's son who traveled the lands in search of fine fabrics for his father's many stores. The young man was beautiful and fair with blond curls and blue eyes, and wherever he went the young ladies would swoon and the elder ones blush and suddenly remember the long gone sweetness of love.
The boy was untainted by the world's darkness. His gaze was that of an innocent, his steps held the confidence of one who'd never been to battle, never grieved, never hurt. He was one of Fortuna's favored children. Money and prospects had been his by birth and on his travels he feared nothing as thieves seemed to shun him and violence never occurred. It was as if evil could not come close enough to touch him and he praised his good fortune and paid his due to each church he passed: lifted his shiny blue gaze to the heavens and said his prayers from a clear, honest heart.
This young man, we'll call him Peter, had an eye for beauty, which was why his father trusted him to bring back only the prettiest patterns and the finest woven fabrics. For Peter, this thirst for the beautiful was so strong, it could almost have been a flaw, had it not been for his generosity with the gold coins bestowed upon the poor women of the mountain villages and the light he brought with him to the small earthen huts by the coast, the way he spotted and awarded the neglected masters of the arts of spinning, weaving, cutting and sewing. He gifted many poor with a better life, selling their linen in the cities.
An angel, they called him. A saint. And he was carefree and happy at that. On one of his trips through the country, our hero arrived in a small village by a great forest. He thought the place very sad and ugly. The woodwork of the few houses was dark and stained. The people wore only black and grey; men, women and children alike. There were few items of beauty there and Peter despaired! It was as if he could not breathe when all he saw was darkness.
He felt a strong urge to flee the village, but it was soon to be nightfall and he did not wish to travel the forest after sunset, as there were wolves haunting the lands. Instead he found a small tavern, a place just as dark and gloomy as the rest of the village.
Dark eyes measured him when he entered, over goblets of sour wine, from under dirty hair and furrowed brows. He must have been a rare sight for them, wearing his burgundy cloak over pale blue leggings. Shamelessly exposing his wealth through fine jewelry, ruby ring and pearl pin.
He crossed the floor of the smoke-filled room and received a short nod from the keeper behind the bar. The thin man wore a filthy apron and his gaze pierced the smoky air with suspicion. Peter was not used to such hostility and his steps faltered a little. Wherever he came he was usually greeted with friendly smiles and curiosity. It had to be because they knew no beauty, he decided, that they behaved like this. And he wondered again about the lack of pretty things in the village.
He stepped closer to the bar and cleared his throat, in his usual soft voice he asked for a room and some food. The keeper nodded, said it could be done, but he seemed in no way curious to know who the merchant was, or what he was doing in the area, as the people he met on his trips usually were. Peter sighed and looked at the wooden beams above his head: no ornaments, no color, just grey wood. It made his heart feel heavy and sad. He sighed and let his fingers run down the velvet of his cloak, he was already longing for morning and light, for the moment he could escape this place.
"You should not dress like that!" The keeper suddenly spoke behind him as Peter began to climb the stairs to the rooms. His voice sounded crisp and quiet. "Not if you're traveling through the forest," the grey man added.
"Oh," Peter beamed down at him. "I am not afraid of thieves," he said cheerfully. "Many are the woods I have traveled and not once have I been assaulted," he smilingly assured the man.
A peculiar expression crossed the middle-aged man's face: "I was not worried about thieves, my lord, although we have quite a few of those here as well." The barkeep took a moment to wipe his chin with his hand. "There are other things..." He shifted slightly on the floor. "Other...dangers. Others who like shiny things as well..."
"What do you mean?" Peter blinked in the dark. "Are you trying to warn me against something?" he asked innocently, uncertain how to respond to the man.
"Oh yes I am..." Suddenly the older man began to laugh quietly and turned his broad back to Peter on the stairs. "Now you are warned," he added before disappearing from Peter's view. Peter shrugged, tried to make sense of the man's words. He could not quite understand it though as thieves and wolves were the usual sources of worry in the forests and wolves were not particularly fond of the shiny things in life. So if it wasn't thieves he was to look out for... Peter shook his head in confusion and climbed the rest of the stairs to his appointed room. There he put his bundle of beautiful clothes and expensive fabrics down on the floor.
Everything was ugly in the room as well; the young man shook his head again, with sorrow this time. The chamber was small and almost empty. The fabrics dark and dull in color. He unpacked his things and lay a few of his best silk shirts out on the bed just to have something nice to look at. The day's last sun rays came in through the thick glass in the window the same moment and made the silk threads shimmer and the golden buttons glitter. He smiled then and the cold darkness of the village seemed to fade as he was once again absorbed by the beauty of the magic of woven threads in blue, red, green and black. He wrapped himself in those brilliant colors before covering himself with the grey, rough blanket on the bed. Only then did he find peace enough to sleep, despite the uncomfortable surroundings.
The next morning came with cold sunshine that set the fine layer of ice covering shallow ponds and branches on silvery fire, yet still the village was not pretty. It was as if they deliberately avoided things of beauty there, Peter mused as he rode from the tavern on his way to the local church. No late flowers bloomed, in fact he could see leaves and stems by the roadside, but the petals were all gone, as if som
eone had walked the path and decapitated the plants when they bloomed. None of the houses had curtains in the windows and never did he see a building that wasn't grey. He stopped once to examine a small hut by the horse track and found that every piece of decoration, the very pieces of carved wood that were so common in these areas, seemed to have been ripped from the building with force. He could clearly see where pretty details had been and he also noticed that, even if the wood was fairly new, the house looked very old. He suspected they had rubbed ashes into the tar painted woodwork to make it appear older and less attractive.
When Peter finally arrived at the church he felt worried and disturbed. It was not right this... hiding pretty things under layers of old and ugly. As if nothing was allowed to sparkle or shine. The church house was covered in the same shade of grey as the rest of the village. Even the bell tower was a brownish tar tainted color. Peter swept his fingers across the wall and tasted it. Yes, it was indeed ashes and tar that created this extraordinary dull color.
He could see holes and other remains from ornate pillars and roof decorations, but here as everywhere, they too were mysteriously gone. Not even God's house was excused from these peculiar customs it seemed. So it was with a heavy heart Peter entered the church room, steeling himself towards the devastating range of grey colors he expected on the inside. The church, unfortunately, did not surprise him; everything was dark and dead looking, the stones on the floor, the old benches, the altar and the cross -- grey all. Even those things that should have been black were rubbed with tar and ashes until they appeared just as dull and grey as the rest. Nothing was beautiful.
His footsteps sounded loudly in the big, empty room and Peter fell to his knees as soon as he reached the altar, asking his Heavenly Father to have mercy on these people and make them rediscover the beauty of the world, the pleasure of the pretty things, manmade and natural.
As he knelt there, praying and pouring the grief that had gathered in his heart on this poor, ugly village's behalf, his eyes caught sight of something emerald green under the open bible resting on the altar. His heart began hammering, as this was surely a sign from God, and he quickly rose to his feet and walked over to investigate further. With trembling hands he lifted the old, heavy book and almost lost the leather bound text when he saw what lay underneath: a woven cloth so beautiful he could not remember having ever seen anything quite as pretty. The red was that of poppies in bloom, the blue was that of summer lit ocean and the green was the sparkle deep inside the emerald stones. Even the white color seemed to glimmer as mother of pearl in the fabric. The scene was that of the Jews leaving Egypt, he could tell, led by a green clad Moses. He caught himself wishing for the scene where the sea parted, just so he could see how the master of this piece would have painted the waves with his threads.
Peter kept staring at the small cloth as if mesmerized. The golden rays of the sun seemed to reach out from the fabric to touch his skin, as if the woven sun held a real fire in its kernel that made the sand the Jews tread on shine and glitter.
He started with surprise and almost dropped the heavy book he held when a dark voice interrupted his admiration. "Please, put the bible back! Cover that picture immediately!" The voice held an urgency and a fright that made Peter obey at once. Yet he would have to protest when the bright piece of beauty was once again covered by the dull darkness that lay as a dusty spider web, covering the church.
"But... such a thing of beauty!" he said. "You can not keep it covered and hidden!" He turned to face the man who turned out to be the priest, clad in robes and collar. He was an elderly man as well, almost as grey as his church, his long beard reached across his chest and covered his folded hands and his cross. "This is the house of God's grace," Peter continued. "Beauty like this should be displayed in here, to His honor!"
The priest smiled slightly, almost sad, before he spoke. "I wish it could be so, child." His voice was softer now. "Alas, that pleasure is taken from us. What once was beautiful and bright in here is now covered and hidden with fear and ashes." The priest sighed deeply and Peter felt a strong pity for him. He obviously did not like to keep it hidden either.
"Why is that?" he asked the priest. "Why is everything painted grey and all the carved wood removed from your buildings? Even the church tower is stripped of its beauty and now I can see that you don't have a bell up there either... I assume it is because it is shiny... Now tell me, priest, as I am such a lover of beauty, why have you good people abandoned it?"
A strange, sad expression flickered across the priest's serious features. His speech was filled with anger and pain. "It is not our doing," he began, "Neither is it our will... This forest has a lord, and this is all his fault. The altar cloth I've kept, but in secret. Never is it openly displayed in this room."
"A lord? A lord who forbids you anything beautiful? How can that be?" The priest did not look at Peter but stared blindly out in the air. Peter assumed his silence a confirmation and felt a rare anger rise inside, that the cruel master would deny these people the beauty of the world. The next question burned on Peter's lips. "But who made it? I am a collector and a tradesman in fine fabrics, I could make this person rich if you told me who it is. I could bring her or him away from here...somewhere safe. No artist of such power, such a way of making threads and color speak, should be kept from working their craft..."
"It cannot be done!" the priest interrupted. "The lord took her away from here a long time ago. She is a prisoner in his castle now, deep, deep in the forest. It was after she was taken we had to cover all the beauty of our village in ashes. We feared more would be taken...disappear."
"But will you not rescue her? Have you not even tried?" Peter's heart already bled for the imprisoned creator of such a beautiful thing. "It is not right! She must be freed!" The priest sighed again. "I wish," he said with pain. "But no one who has tried to find her has ever been seen again," he told Peter. "Truth is, we are not even sure where his castle is, just that this village has been ruled from it since the beginning."
"I shall try!" Peter declared, feeling all bold and aflame. "I shall find this woman and bring her back with me!"
"No!" The priest warned sharply. "Not you!" he said. "With your bright clothes and your pearl pin... the lord will find you first for sure!" "Then so be it!" Peter was determined. "I have held Heaven's grace so far. No thief has ever touched me, no beast has ever gone near me, even when I slept on the forest ground! I shall find this castle and the woman who is captive there, if it is God's will." And so, without another word, driven by youth's rashness and his passion for beauty, he strode down the aisle and did not pause before he reached the door.
There he suddenly stopped and looked back. "Just tell me which direction to look," he asked, a little uncertain. "If you must go," the priest replied in a quivering voice. "Look toward the North, and perhaps you will find what you're looking for. But be careful, child!" he added. "God only knows, but... perhaps you are indeed the savior we have been praying for." A little smile lit up the old man's face then, and Peter, despite knowing nothing about this peculiar Lord, swore in his heart; he would not fail the priest or this town.
He had taken the scarlet cloak today and as he rode he admired the red color against the dark green of the forest. He rode north as he had been told and, despite the beauty of the nature around him, he did not get sidetracked, but kept his mind focused on the task ahead. He was a little more insecure now -- still determined of course and ready to perform this knightly duty -- but he realized he should perhaps have asked more questions before he rode off. He didn't really know anything about this cruel lord he was to fight. Did not know quite what to expect. Secretly he wished the lord would be a rather reasonable creature so fighting would not be necessary, as Peter's skills in the area were somewhat lacking.
He was not one to worry though and as he rode he began daydreaming instead, about selling the artist's works to churches and monasteries in the region. He imagined how happy his father would be; all the
gold he would gain from it. And he imagined himself with the privilege of seeing all the fabrics and cloths before they were sold. Maybe even see them being created between this unknown woman's fingers.
He almost forgot to scan the surroundings for signs of the castle's whereabouts as he lost himself in these visions. Maybe the priest was right, he thought. Maybe this was his task. His true and only mission in life. Maybe God had brought him here on purpose, he mused. To free this woman and save the villagers from their evil master.
A little further in the forest, while he rode a narrow track between the pines, he suddenly became aware of a peculiar scent, fruity and sweet. It filled the air like incense in a church. Wave upon wave of it; a tempting and lovely scent with hints of spice to it. The scent was shifting and changing, sometimes it reminded him of vanilla or cardamom, then apples and pears.
Soon his path was surrounded by low bushes with five-fingered leaves. A kind he had never seen before. The wood was dark red in color, like blood. And between the leaves lay huge berries like eggs in a bird's nest, resting on the soft green. They were the size of cherries, he saw, and jet black in color. Each berry's surface was shiny and tight, seemingly bursting with juices from within. It was the bushes that gave off the wonderful scent, Peter realized, and he felt curious. Why was it that he had never seen anything like these before? They had to be a local plant.
He wondered if they were poisonous, or if it was safe to eat them, as the scent in the air made his mouth water. He was hungry and the berries looked delicious, offering themselves to him on each side of the steadily narrowing path. He reached down and picked a berry as he rode by, lifted it to his nose and smelled it. Oh yes, it was indeed the same lovely scent! He squeezed it a little, but the surface didn't burst. The berry lay heavy and full and ripe in his hand and without clearly realizing what he did, Peter lifted it to his lips and swept his tongue across the black surface.
