8
The Citadel
Through the Valley of Despair they came; an innumerable surge of gross humanity: unwashed, ragged, lame. Bowed but never quite broken throughout the generations of near slavery, they had at last straightened their backs and raised their collective heads. In the van, in line abreast, marched the committee of their leaders, some twenty of them, each one elected from his commune or his lodge; and in the centre of the line, the chosen one, the spokesman of the people, he who was chosen to voice their concerns, their demands, walked proudly step in step with the Symbol of their Grievances.
Their leader, primus inter pares, was old Jacob - James, Iago, the collector of mottled sheep, wayward women and other unconsidered trifles; and the Symbol of their Grievances was nothing less than a Dragon. Red it was, this fabulous Beast, the colour of blood coughed from consumptive lungs, and as huge as the house of a healthy Master. Thick as writs were the muscles of its legs; tight as contracts of employment were its sinews. The glittering Scales of Justice coated its huge frame. Its tail of thorns lashed like the lash of slave-drivers and the razor sharp sickles of its talons clawed like lenders of money. Its wings beat in time to the desires of the hearts that had created it; it breathed the fire of industrious revolution.
Through the Valley of Despair, in myriad lifeless rivulets, in countless parallel channels of insipid and deoxygenated fluidity, the Stream of Unconsciousness barely staves off drought. Its source is lost, buried forever beneath the towering edifice of black granite blocks which stands at the head of the Valley; its issue is meted out, second by second, from the massive ramparts of the Citadel. And second by second, and hour by mind aching hour, the stream of conscious dissent ignored the insistence of the watery medium and flowed uphill to its source until at last it stood as a great flood, a surge beating at the granite walls and threatening inundation and destruction.
At the mighty oaken gate, riveted in iron, old Jacob and the Dragon Beast found themselves pressed from behind by the tattered army and urged by the many strident voices to force entry: But how? But then there was no need for the gate eased open, silent upon well greased hinges. And there stood a single man, a young man dressed in sober black, washed, clean shaven, tidy of hair, neat of manner, nice of manners. "Please," said he, "There is no need for all this clamour. I am the Deacon and I am to bid your deputation to enter the courtyard - but no more than one hundred persons." Surprised by this quiet acquiescence, the rebels took many minutes to choose a number who would accompany Jacob and the committee to the courtyard. The Deacon waited, patient, humble.
Soon, Jacob and the Beast, backed by ninety-nine men, stepped forward to the gate. "Wait," cried the Deacon, "You cannot bring that thing in here."
"That thing -" Jacob said, pausing to add even more weight to his emphasis "- is the Symbol of our Grievances. It must enter. If you deny access to the Dragon Beast, you deny access to us all."
"But can't you see," the Deacon said, "it will not fit through the gates. Even if it did, those wings would cause no end of havoc within the courtyard."
This was an unforeseen difficulty. However, it was not insurmountable and some ten minutes of whispered discussion amongst the members of the committee resulted in an accommodation with the demands of the Deacon. In another five minutes, exactly one hundred men, including Jacob, and one slightly less massive Beast, now bereft of wings, stood in the outer courtyard of the mighty Citadel. The massive, iron bound, oaken doors closed silently behind them, shutting out the noise of the rabble. "What now?" Jacob asked to no one in particular.
His question was answered immediately as through a less massive cedar door, decorated in bronze, stepped another black garbed figure. "Please come with me - No! - Not all of you - about twenty will do," he said, and added: "Leave that Beast here."
"No," said Jacob, "the Beast comes with us."
"Look," said the Priest, "The inner courtyard is chock full of the finest sculptures in the world. That Beast would simply smash them, swinging his thorny tail that way. Besides, he's much too fat to squeeze between the statues." So, of course, it was agreed by the committee that the Beast should be slimmed down and that something should be done about his tail.
"Chop it off," suggested the Priest.
"That's a bit drastic," said Jacob. "And I don't know what that would do to his balance. I shouldn't risk it with all those fine statues around."
Eventually, the committee came to a decision. The Beast's tail would be docked to less than a foot in length and the muscles would be severed so that, although it swung enough to provide balance, it did so with insufficient force to damage the statuary. The Priest agreed to this and led the twenty members of the committee and their Beast through the cedar doorway into the inner courtyard. It was as he had said; barely a yard of ground was there that did not have a stone figure placed upon it. "Now," said the Priest, "you must wait a while for the Bishop."
When he finally arrived, brushing crumbs from his mouth, the Bishop proved to be a jolly and amenable type. "Yes, of course we'll try to get you all in," he smiled, encouragingly. "We may have a spot of bother with that charming Beast of yours, though." He pointed to an ornate doorway, intricately carved in finely graded fruit woods: "As you can see, the door isn't much larger than a person. Perhaps if you can just make the Beast a trifle smaller...?"
It was agreed.
"And remove his claws," beamed the Bishop. "You see, we have this antique wooden floor in the palace - worth a king's ransom. I'd really hate to see it scratched by the Beast's claws. Oh, I know he'll be careful but I'm sure he'd be very upset if he damaged it by accident."
The Beast's claws were duly pulled and the twenty moved towards the door. "Ah, silly old me!" cried the Bishop, slapping his own wrist. "I've just remembered that I've been allowed to show a dozen of you around the architecture of the palace." His face split in a wide smile as he said: "There'll be tea and biscuits, as well."
So it was that eight men and a Beast the size of a pony entered the palace of the Citadel through the ornate doors carved in delicate fruit woods.
"What on earth are you doing bringing that thing in here?" screeched the Archbishop. "Just think what those rough scales could do to the upholstery."
"What upholstery?" asked Jacob, puzzled, for the hall was perfectly bare of furnishing, the better to show off the antique floor.
"Not here, man!" yelled the Archbishop. "Of course there's no upholstery here. I'm talking about the private rooms. That's where you're going, isn't it?"
"I suppose we are," said Jacob, not entirely sure of what was happening. "But what on earth can we do about his scales? They are the Scales of Justice, you know. If we take them off him, there's hardly anything left."
"Hair!" snapped the old Archbishop. "An animal should have hair, not scales."
"No!" said Jacob, firmly, looking to his seven comrades for support. "This is where it stops. The Beast must go in with his scales intact."
"And quite right, too," said a smooth, cultured voice behind them. It was the voice of a dapper, middle aged man dressed in red. "Now toddle along," said the Cardinal to the old Archbishop, "I'll see to things here." Turning to Jacob, he continued: "We couldn't have you removing the Scales of Justice from your Beast. I'll tell you what: just reform them into the shape of hairs; they'll still be scales, or scaly hairs, if you like - and everyone will know that, of course - but they'll be safer for the upholstery. What do you think?"
That it was a very good idea was agreed by all eight of the men.
"And if you could do two other little things for me, then I'm sure we can get you in to see the Prince much quicker," the soft talking Cardinal said.
"What?" Jacob asked, ready to help the Cardinal smooth their interview.
"The first thing is the fire-breathing bit," said the Cardinal. "I really don't think I could risk the Prince getting singed if your Beast just happens to sneeze."
"Okay," agreed Jacob, to understanding nods from his men. Then: "What's the second thing?"
"Ahh!" sighed the Cardinal. "Call it vanity if you like but I really think that beastly red clashes with my robes. I would deem it a personal favour if you could change it to white."
The remaining members of the committee could find no reason not to pander to the Cardinal's little whim and the Beast was made white. To tell the truth, they all thought he looked much smarter in that colour.
"Good, good..." mused the Cardinal, inspecting the Beast from every angle. Then, drawing Jacob away from the others, he said, "Now, I am permitted to take only you and the Beast in to see the Prince. Before we go in, however, I want you to take off those old rags and dress in this new silken tunic and fine cloak of gold thread. Don't ask why; it's obvious: it really isn't permitted for anyone to meet the Prince dressed like that."
Thus it was that the splendidly red Cardinal ushered the even more splendidly silken and gilded Jacob, along with the sadly diminished, defused, de-scaled, de-clawed and whitened Beast, through the Great Golden Door into the Prince's Throne Room. There, across the vast expanse of the Sapphire pavement, over the silked and brocaded couches, under the vast literary tapestries that in their stitching formed a library more complete than could be found written in the scrolls of any university, beneath the forest of sconces bearing such a multitude of lamps and candles that the light from the sun would pale to a dim phosphorescence in comparison ... there, on a throne of pure gold set with amethyst and beryl and carbuncle and diamond and emerald - and every precious jewel up to zircon ... there sat the Prince.
As Paul - for that was the Cardinal's name - brought old Jacob across the Sapphire pavement, Joachim rose from the throne in greeting. The two men stood face to face and, truly, there was not one iota of difference in their appearances. "Welcome, brother," Joachim said. "I have waited so long for you to take this burden from me."
And at their feet, the scene was echoed as the lamb greeted its own twin.
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This is one of the Tales of Joachim |
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Ink Amera |
(C) David 1/9/2007 |
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