Ode to Words.
The new god comes down the mountain, walking tall, radiant with power. His hair is long, swept back by the wind, he does not concern himself with it. Eyes of agate, a mouth curved for laughter, generous heat, lightning life in him. Wherever he is going, it will not be able to contain him.
At the Palace the King and his court stand stiffly and talk of books, they do not know he is coming to them. In the kitchen, children clean and food is made in mountains. Wine flows, words play carefully in the silence, in straight lines. A thousand candles can’t light this kind of darkness, shadows are comfortable here. It’s a well-acted play, played repeatedly, the feast is long, the food luscious with fat, the salt well behaved.
Do they sleep as they eat? One might think so. All the windows are closed.
A noise at the door, the guards open it, Ah- it is the Prince. Young and vital, splashing life about him as he walks to the dais. Figures come to life behind him, yearning hearts, and envious eyes. A thousand candles light his flashing grin, all the blue in the room has gathered in his eyes. He bows to his father and mother, kissing her hand while the courtiers smile and relax in their chairs. The rolls of plenty rest comfortably on knees, fingers are delicately licked, bones tossed.
The Prince greets the Lords and Ladies, raises a glass with the guests and pinches the serving girls. Blushes, promises, he pours wine for his tablemates, then takes his seat. Murmurs of approval circle like soft kittens.
Who opened the shutters? Breezes dance with flames, rosy bosoms, a manly gaze over the glass, something is alive now. The Prince lures them like moths to light, the King watches with indulgent approval as the center burns, without him. The Queen stitches modestly, hemming her son’s shirts, humming. Pastel Princesses hover in the background, a glorious garden of assets.
This is the perfect court, the perfect Kingdom. Its people love their Prince, they wait patiently for the Golden Age he will bring. He drinks a great deal of wine, they follow suit. His dark hair curls loosely on his forehead, witches think of living in his eyes, he is beautiful. When he rises, all faces face him, rapt with his perfection. He stands and gives them time. Breathing a little faster, lips slightly parted, white teeth treasure in full view. Childlike, erotic, clean, virtuous, gorgeous. Wide shoulders, born to carry. Wide brow, born to rule, custom body, Adonis, Narcissus, Venus.
A self-made God, he raises his hand, and his disciples fall silent. He begins to speak. “My people, my friends, my children.” Roaring and thumping on tables, he lets them go on for a while, sips from his glass and puts it down. Jewels flash, his hand in the air again, they fall silent again, instantly. He pulls a book from his scrip, he holds it up, something sacred, wrought in skin and twined with gold. Long patience scrolled into words both hideous and beautiful. All eyes are on it, he places it on the table before his father, the King. A servant gives him a clean white cloth, he carefully wipes his hands. “Majesty,” he says, clarion voice and perfect enunciation, “I am deeply honoured to present to you the last copy of Smith’s “The Love I lost”. Wild applause, parental gratification, he is the hero. Showers of flowers, swarms of children in their best clothes, he smiles and takes it all in. He has worked hard for it. A long, tireless pursuit of words, a systematic destruction of certain ideas, a good thorough cleansing of all that is dirty. The Kingdom glows.
He turns to the table. “With your permission, Majesty.” A royal nod, tables are moved, a space in the floor is cleared. Servant girl, like walking fresh fruit, sweeping and smiling, he accepts his homage with grace. The floor is clean, a boy appears with a basket of wood, dressed in virgin white and trembling. The Prince steps forward, a hand on the shoulder, the smile of a father, he takes the basket, the boy tries to kiss his hand. Charming, the Prince turns, smiling, with his basket, the boy slowly backs away. Such applause, who can resist virtue and beauty united?
The Prince knows how to build a fire, ladies smile behind their fans, old men nod approvingly, the Queen shudders. They hold their breath, waiting for him to toss it in the fire. He signals for quiet and opens the book. Dogs crunching bones, servants shuffling, obedient silence, he stands like a careless Greek god, the book in his hand, his face slowly freezing into something else. His voice is quiet when he speaks, cringing from itself.
“Althea. In my dreams I drown in your black skin. Losing the whiteness of my own flesh in the dark gloss of yours, hoping it will disappear entirely when I am inside you.” The page is carefully ripped out and given to the fire.
“I need you to fuck me sane, the witches in me are winning.” He pauses, a sick shade of pearl, the page is ripped, held to the flame until its words crumble down into hell.
“Never, I want to fuck the witches too.” A bead of sweat now, on the Princely forehead. Sixteen handkerchiefs, three skirts and a kiss are offered to help with the royal distress. He is shaking as he crumples the page, he throws it in and calls for rosewater. All eyes on him as he washes his hands, he has time to regain control of himself. Breaths are held, ah- there it is, the royal smile.
A lord leaps to his feet and becomes the new favourite. “Let me, Highness. Let my hands be soiled, yours carry far too much weight.” Kneeling, head bowed, hands held out, his heart thumps so loud he hears nothing. Time passes, such a long time, soon he will tremble, no- the weight of the book suddenly, in his hands. He looks up, real tears in his eyes. “I will treasure the honour beyond measure.”
A slow walk, a slow kneel on one knee, the toxic book in his hands, all eyes on him as he pauses, his own lordship climbs with the smoke. Why does he not throw it in? Will it burn even? What were the words? Unknown Lord newly made, the strength of conviction, the power of right, he rips the book in two. His voice rings out, “black!” toss the first half into the fire, “witch!” toss the second. Thick smoke roiling upwards, hide the words, hide the ideas. The book takes forever to die. They bring him a broom and more wood, build the fire, and keep what floats upward down where it belongs. Beat it down. Leave no traces of a kind of love you can never have. Leave no traces of racist words, no traces of witches.
Thick smoke rises, the doors open again and make it dance, swirling around the god, who walks in smiling.
The helpful Lord rises, the King and Queen rise, a second later everyone else does. The Prince remains seated, his perfect face carved into brave lines. The god is amused, ceremony means nothing to him, he approaches the fire, and it dies instantly. He picks up scarred remnants, holds them in his hands like treasure, so gently. Winds sweep through, ash and will, the book grows like a bloom in his hands. He turns to the Prince. “Why are you burning my book, your highness?”
The Prince looks up at him, luminous eyes, fires still burning in them. Hatred, naked, proud, and gaining strength every moment. He gets slowly to his feet. “Because I can. What will you do to stop me, unknown god?”
The god cradles the book in his hands, his fingers play over the words, he shivers. Memory curling around him, he puts the book down on the table. “She was close to perfect. For her sake you will never know what I could do to you.”
He stands close to the Prince, looking down on him. The Prince looks up, “height means nothing to me, I am the Prince. You are not our god; you have no power in our Kingdom.”
“You might like to think so, highness, but you are mistaken. Allow me to demonstrate.”
Ashes fly to the ceiling and become vicious black storms, lightning snakes, apocalyptic thunder crashes. Falling stones, fires, screams, panic, soon the hall is in ruins, lords and ladies little more than twists of gore. He has spared the dais, King, Queen and Princesses are dry and stricken mute. He has spared the Prince, who smiles grimly, “this is my Kingdom, I decide what words can be used, yours are offensive.”
The god looks at him, wrestling with pity and justice and living ignorance. He holds out his hand, the book rises and comes to him, glowing with promise.
“Whatever you may rule, brave Prince, it will never be words. Forbid them, find them out and destroy them, burn them, they will live on. They do not need your permission to exist, they always will.
“You are a sad, pitiful man, who knows nothing of words. You will never be mystified by them or feel their tendrils winding around you and changing how you see. You will never know their power to give you whatever you are missing.
“You will lose your own story, there will be no words to write it. This is as it should be, you do not deserve to be remembered in language. Save yourself, while there is still time, save your kingdom.”
He walks to the dais and lays the book on the high table. The King is rigid and pale, the Queen is flushed. Her hand trembles lightly, finding its way to the book, she tucks it into her skirts. He kisses a long row of soft hands, his hair falling around his face, his lips warm. Blood flows in long forbidden places, shake off the dust, sweep away the curtain, what do you feel?