The Horse King

The river ran backwards on the day the queen vanished. I was there, not in the kingdom, at the river. I watched the water take its course as only nature can, this same immovable way. At first I supposed the 'ran in reverse' idea quite poetic. When the common person had come to genuinely believe this, and as a response to the King's love lost, I found concern. By the end of her second month vanished it was still the focal point of all relevant creation. We didn’t speak of her when she was here, but the state of government has spun out.

Harold was called The Horse King. The furthest kingdoms had come to know that name by the sound of his army, insiders said it was his stubborn which got him the title, and the pagans believed something else entirely. It’s been a point of mine to stay objective in the flow of life, but I've found myself in the presence of title worthy people through these years. Including Royalty, I found The Horse King to be a rather larger than life dinner figure whose confidence worthy of appreciation. Instead you should rather be weary in life of the quiet sham. The ruse of an intellectual yet bashful man of influence. Those who hide their intentions are far worse than an assured believer. I believe the tales of The Horse King’s cruelty, as even in his humor over a meal, the brutality existed. Nothing of the queen, but a beautiful diamond. She laughed in accordance to him, nodded to his politics, and rested a gentle hand on his warm arm in efforts to calm him when necessary. I thought not of her besides a small sorrow, and the thought should she gain awareness, she’d fly. So when I finally heard the river's backwards, despite my own eyes observation, I knew she flew.

Of course the blame fell to sovereign nations. I find times like this the most useful in gauging a society’s ability to self-govern and remain rooted in reality. Typically satisfied with the common opinion, I came and went without swaying a public idea, or becoming too much of a celebrity. Since the queen vanished I’ve had my woes. The people panic, they believe propaganda, they fear each other. Could she be in the Outskirts, lost in the mountains, kidnapped by neighboring nations? Anything was possible except her leaving. The Horse King installs a secret police force, abducting suspects off anonymous tips. While outside the walls, foreign borders are decimated, in a fruitless quest for truth or vengeance.

For the past 60 some years, I've been going as Simon Park, and thanks to the legacy success of an Opera I wrote in my younger years, I could always find means to survive. Seeing as how I had met The Horse King before to some appreciation, maybe it fell on my bawdy shoulders to straighten the boy's head. In the past at our dinner I found him to be a genuine man of passion. Even in his most bastardly of decisions he held his ideas true. All this new chaos under the guise of “his love” was an unusual use of an excuse from a man who sought none. Had Harold wanted any of this suffering he’d do it with no regard. With hesitation in my heart I figured yes, it best for me to see the king again. When I approached the ruby stairs of the High King Palace a reinforced General approached with haste “Excuse me sir, there will be no visits to the majesty”

“Aye? What about an old friend? Would you tell him Simon Park has come to visit” I lit my pipe and kept the tone of an old evergreen to level the nerves of the frightened boy locked in a suit of horror steel. “Oh Mr. Park, I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. It’s been a while since we’ve seen your grace and-”

“-And I’ve gotten fat, yes I know young lad now, are you sure the king doesn’t have a moment?”

“Well…I suppose for you it might be okay. However I must tell you, he isn’t himself. Practically unreachable. In fact, the only reason I will let you in is because I fear you may be the only one left in the kingdom who can reach him.”

“That so?”

“Yes Mr. Park, in the war room he quotes the mighty Arro from your opera ‘Empire’ constantly and he’s always reading your-“

“Arro is the fool?”

“Well. Yes Mr. Park. That was my interpretation as well, the King however…found his own interpretation of your…script sir.”

“Oh bother, has he now?”

“I…”

“Good job boy, thanks for the help. Keep your chest out and your shoulders back. It’ll make ya look more intimidating. Make it look like you're wearing the armor and not the other way around”

“Yes Mr. Park. King Harold is beyond the hall in the throne room.”

Moving beyond the General Boy it appeared to me that the Royal guard had been so frightened by this manic king, their own worth has been impounded to nerves. School boys again checking about the headmaster's presence. This would be the second time I ever stepped foot in the throne room and hopefully the last. The only other time was my execution...

When I was a boy I sang for the church choir, it’s there that I met Henley. He was the person who taught us other boys what fun meant. As we all grew a little bit each day, Henley seemed to age 4 times our rate. Around 17 years old he taught me of all things “pagan” and unfolded the biggest lie. Our kingdom had one religion, that of Harold’s family; Forwell. The Forwell family history starts at the beginning of time with the creation of a child. When Henley explained to the choir boys and I, all about the pagan tales that told eerily similar stories, we shrieked in horror. Some called him blaspheme and most laughed, including myself. However I knew what he spoke was true, we all knew Forwell family members. The first family may have been tucked away in the gardens never known to common folk until coronation, however, cousins? By the second, third, and fourth were rampant and they held no holy. Henley and I wondered of the adults around us “do they believe this family for real or is it because they have to?” The unanimous agreements always varied in answer and authenticity until we were influenced to quit questioning faith all together. In our final years as students, Henley and I were of each other’s only company. Ostracizing ourselves against the world in an unfashionable way and making loud trouble. It was clear Henley and I would be leaving the Forwell nation in search of more “uncivilized” society. Spending our kingdom time in the great library, we learned as much as one could under the censorship of Harold’s grandfather Ramsay. In those days the city walls closed nightly and curfew was enforced, therefore the best lives happened at night outside the walls. Just beyond the walls existed the Skirt Cities. Whole villages built on the Outskirts of the Castle walls. We found all night drinks, dancing, and work. We’d make small fortunes running the night city errands. One stand delivering to another on the opposite side of the bazaar and we’d run it. Henley and I knew these people better than those inside the walls.

Henley and I shared our seventeenth birthday dashing through the night, during a walk back the beggar Garato called us forth. Garato first appeared nights before, he didn’t do much but ask for change from the dark of his tent. This night he warned that King Ramsay would die in 9 days by the hand of his son Prince Toro. “Then why tell us?!” Henley shouted in the face of the monstrous beast only to be met by a small whisper “it’s all I know, you’re the only ones young enough to listen” Henley, quite worked up, began to sweat so I interrupted “The Kingdom knows not of the heirs if there be any, we couldn't say a word.” Henley allowed me to pull him away from the cow and out of the tent “let’s get some air this is prophecy, fear-mongering.”

“Lawson, be serious.” From there he explained a desperate plan to seek urgent wisdom from the elders in the pagan land. Upon reaching home Ramsay the Ram King was dead and his eldest son Toro took the throne. Too much for Henley, he thoughtlessly burst thru the throne room blaspheming the new king and accusing the royal family of treason. Too excited to stop, I assured the crowd all Henley said was true. We knew too much for teenagers. To be so young, and challenge all the ideas of old in front of their own faces, terrifying. Without a moments notice the chamber room flocked to the gallows where we were to be hung for the assassination of The Ram King and the attempted assassination of the new King Toro. Scorning my own mind I’ve tried to remember all I can, but the fear so immense my memories are like a tired mattress with the same spots worn in. Henley kisses my check and whispers “run”, I fall free from the gallows and bolt thru the crowd, I turn behind me and he’s not at my hand. He’s behind, hanging… 60 years doesn’t forget that… My aging body hadn’t either as I found my clothes messy with sweat. All the nerves I callously waved off, after passing the General Boy, came back before the throne room. What a fool could I be for ever daring step foot in that room again. The past dinner party, while fine for bragging, was nothing compared to a one on one meeting with the supreme ruler of the land. Me, the sole blame for his grandfather’s death in the halls of history. Years of hiding incognito had made me a foolish old man, brazen enough to imagine a world where an exile fugitive slips under the kings nose. I felt sick and began to turn away before the proud voice called “Is that you Simon Park?!