Read Online The Book of the Unknown: Tales of the Thirty-six by Jonathon Keats - Free Book Online
Authors: Jonathon Keats
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variegated feather. Yet it was her emerald eyes that he noticed most: He was sure he’d gazed into them before, in a palace somewhere.
He told her that he was a king, and asked if she was a princess. She asked if he cared for some breakfast. When he didn’t answer, the girl guided him to a gazebo. In a crystal bowl, she tossed him a salad of white rose petals dressed in fresh dew.
— Where am I? Who are you? Have I stepped into a fairy tale?
— There’s no such thing, Your Majesty. Don’t you know? You’re in your own country.
He scrutinized her more closely. He was sure she wasn’t of the local gentry. Then he realized why her eyes were familiar: They were steeped in the same green as his dice.
— Will you marry me?
— What for?
— That’s what girls do when kings offer.
— I’m content here by myself.
— Alone? You might be happier in my palace.
— I gambled once. It was enough.
— At least give me a chance?
— A gamble is only as good as the wager, Your Majesty. With all due respect, your kingdom is a slum. Tend to it. Make me want to leave this retreat.
As the girl walked away, a bird flew down and plucked the feather from her head. Her hair fell past her shoulders in a peasant’s double braid.
• • •
The king had to rouse his sentries from their beds to unbolt his palace gate, as they’d ceased keeping regular hours. What did His Majesty expect, when time had stopped on the royal clock? Nobody knew what day or month it was anymore: Some subjects greeted the king as if they’d seen him moments before, others as if he’d been gone for years. He himself wasn’t sure how long it had been, but he guessed he’d been absent quite a while, since nothing was as he recalled. Workshops were abandoned, or used as gambling dens, where, for want of cash, promises were wagered and threats exchanged. All anybody had to eat were wild radishes and blackberries. Uncleared in eons, the forest floor was a resting place for bodies that folks hadn’t bothered to bury, alphabetically or otherwise. And in the palace library the ancient books crumbled as the king’s hands trembled, littering the floor with words arranged by chance. When he knelt down, they didn’t make sense. He couldn’t find a trace that he understood: History couldn’t be recovered. He resolved to take greater care in the future.
Then he set about trying to fix the present. He implored his subjects to consider what they’d given up to chance, not only in daily housekeeping, but also in sense of purpose.
Those who could be bothered to put down their dice argued with him. What was the point in living, they demanded, when all possibilities had already been worked out for them, anticipated in books written before they were born? Once he’d granted them free will, they insisted, he couldn’t usurp it.
Really he couldn’t make them do anything at all. So he returned to his castle, and resumed his post without his subjects. He reviewed laws and made plans. And gradually, seeing him in the palace every day, simply knowing he was there because he’d chosen to be, others began to wonder whether surrendering their lives entirely to games of chance was so freeing.
One by one, they returned to work. Farmers farmed. Millers milled. Tradesmen began setting up in the marketplace again. Taxes were collected. The palace clock was reset and the calendar recast. Time resumed. But if its form was the same, its function was different: descriptive rather than prescriptive. Folks worked from experience with the seasons, choosing which crops to plant and when, yet rolled with the consequences of their decisions. They learned to gamble wisely, took their chances seriously.
Busier than ever, helping his subjects see the potential of each new situation they faced, the king staked all he still had on his little province. And so it happened that, one afternoon, while consulting his library on a matter of crop rotation—the books made
He told her that he was a king, and asked if she was a princess. She asked if he cared for some breakfast. When he didn’t answer, the girl guided him to a gazebo. In a crystal bowl, she tossed him a salad of white rose petals dressed in fresh dew.
— Where am I? Who are you? Have I stepped into a fairy tale?
— There’s no such thing, Your Majesty. Don’t you know? You’re in your own country.
He scrutinized her more closely. He was sure she wasn’t of the local gentry. Then he realized why her eyes were familiar: They were steeped in the same green as his dice.
— Will you marry me?
— What for?
— That’s what girls do when kings offer.
— I’m content here by myself.
— Alone? You might be happier in my palace.
— I gambled once. It was enough.
— At least give me a chance?
— A gamble is only as good as the wager, Your Majesty. With all due respect, your kingdom is a slum. Tend to it. Make me want to leave this retreat.
As the girl walked away, a bird flew down and plucked the feather from her head. Her hair fell past her shoulders in a peasant’s double braid.
• • •
The king had to rouse his sentries from their beds to unbolt his palace gate, as they’d ceased keeping regular hours. What did His Majesty expect, when time had stopped on the royal clock? Nobody knew what day or month it was anymore: Some subjects greeted the king as if they’d seen him moments before, others as if he’d been gone for years. He himself wasn’t sure how long it had been, but he guessed he’d been absent quite a while, since nothing was as he recalled. Workshops were abandoned, or used as gambling dens, where, for want of cash, promises were wagered and threats exchanged. All anybody had to eat were wild radishes and blackberries. Uncleared in eons, the forest floor was a resting place for bodies that folks hadn’t bothered to bury, alphabetically or otherwise. And in the palace library the ancient books crumbled as the king’s hands trembled, littering the floor with words arranged by chance. When he knelt down, they didn’t make sense. He couldn’t find a trace that he understood: History couldn’t be recovered. He resolved to take greater care in the future.
Then he set about trying to fix the present. He implored his subjects to consider what they’d given up to chance, not only in daily housekeeping, but also in sense of purpose.
Those who could be bothered to put down their dice argued with him. What was the point in living, they demanded, when all possibilities had already been worked out for them, anticipated in books written before they were born? Once he’d granted them free will, they insisted, he couldn’t usurp it.
Really he couldn’t make them do anything at all. So he returned to his castle, and resumed his post without his subjects. He reviewed laws and made plans. And gradually, seeing him in the palace every day, simply knowing he was there because he’d chosen to be, others began to wonder whether surrendering their lives entirely to games of chance was so freeing.
One by one, they returned to work. Farmers farmed. Millers milled. Tradesmen began setting up in the marketplace again. Taxes were collected. The palace clock was reset and the calendar recast. Time resumed. But if its form was the same, its function was different: descriptive rather than prescriptive. Folks worked from experience with the seasons, choosing which crops to plant and when, yet rolled with the consequences of their decisions. They learned to gamble wisely, took their chances seriously.
Busier than ever, helping his subjects see the potential of each new situation they faced, the king staked all he still had on his little province. And so it happened that, one afternoon, while consulting his library on a matter of crop rotation—the books made
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