The mirror and the musk

At the battle of Clontarf, the Norwegians were so disgraced that the noble king summoned the poet and said to him.

"The most illustrious deeds will lose their luster if they are not remembered in words. I want you to sing of my victories and praise me. I will be Aeneas, and you will be Virgil who sings about me. This event will immortalize us both; do you think you are up to the task?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," said the poet. "I am a singer. I have been studying rhyme intensely for twelve years. I have memorized all three hundred and sixty fables that are the basis of authentic poetry. The historical facts of Elster and Munster are stored up on my strings at the touch of a button. I am full of pearls, I know the most elegant words and the most profound metaphors by heart. I master the secrets of our art, which are incomprehensible to the mediocre. I can praise love, theft of livestock, navigation and war. I know the fabulous genealogies of all the royal families of Ireland. I am well versed in the effects of herbs, astrological divination, mathematics, and ecclesiastical statutes. I have beaten my opponents in public contests. I am well versed in sarcasm, which can induce skin diseases including leprosy. I can wield a sword, as has been proven in the battles of His Majesty. There is only one thing I do not understand: and that is how to be grateful for your majesty's gifts."

The king, who was easily bored by the long speeches of others, heard him finish and breathed a sigh of relief:.

"That sort of thing is well known to me. I hear that the nightingales are already singing in England. When the season of rain and snow is over, when the night drive returns from the south, you will recite your carols at the court in front of the members of the poets' society. I give you a full year. Every word and every line must be deliberated and refined by you. You know my temperament, and you will not be paid less than you deserve."

"Your Majesty, there is no better reward than a glimpse of the dragon's face," said the poet. He was very good at flattery.

He bowed and took his leave, having worked out some verses in his mind.

It was a year of pestilence and rebellion, and when the deadline came the poet delivered his ode. He did not even look at the manuscript and recited it without any panic. The king kept nodding his head in approval. The whole court, even the people crowded at the door, followed the example, although not a word was heard.

The king finally spoke up.

"I approve of your work. That was another victory. You gave each word its true meaning, and none of the adjectives you used had precedents from the earliest poets without provenance. The images in the whole ode have their roots in classical works. War is a magnificent interweaving of people, and the water dripping from the sword's head is blood. The ocean has its governing gods, and the clouds foretell the future. You make skillful use of foot rhymes, superimposed rhymes, close rhymes, volume, rhetorical tricks, metrical echoes. Irish literature, even if extinguished - may there be no ominous signs! --would be rebuilt by your classical-like odes. I ordered the thirty honorary writers to copy it twelve times.

He was silent for a moment, and then said.

"Good though it is, it is unresponsive. The blood flow in the veins did not accelerate. The hand did not grasp the bow and arrow. No one's face changed color. Who did not raise a battle cry, who did not raise their chests to face the Nordic pirates. We give you one more year to appreciate another of your odes, poet. Now bestow on you a silver mirror as a commendation."

"I understand, thank you very much," said the poet.

The stars shifted and another year passed. The nightingale sang again in the Saxon forest, and the poet came with his hand haggard, this time with a poem not as long as the last. He did not recite it; rather, he read it out hesitantly, omitting certain passages, as if he could not understand them himself, or would not spoil them. The verse is strange. It is not a depiction of war, but war itself. In the chaos of battle, disturbed by the Trinity, the pagan gods of Ireland, and the gods who would strife hundreds of years later in the early modern era. The form of the poem is also rather odd. The singular noun is followed by a plural verb. The usage of prepositions also does not conform to the common rules. There is a mixture of failings and highlights. The metaphors are far-fetched, or so it seems.

The king, after a few words of conversation with the scribe beside him, spoke and said.

"Your first ode can be said to be the greatest collection of Irish poetry of the past and present. This one surpasses the last, and at the same time overthrows it completely. It is suspenseful, surprising, and dazzling. The ignorant will not see its beauty, but only the learned will appreciate it. This manuscript will be preserved in an ivory box. We are counting on your raw talent to write another, more masterful work."

The king smiled and added.

"We are all characters in a fable, and remember that fables revere the number of three."

The poet said boldly.

"The three powers of the sorcerer, the three for the multitude, and the undeniable Trinity."

And the king said.

One as a token of our approbation gives you this golden mask."

"I understand, and am very grateful," said the poet.

Another year was completed. The guards of the palace noticed that the poet had arrived empty-handed this time, without a manuscript. The king could not help but be a little surprised to see him; he was almost a different person. Something (and not time) had carved wrinkles on his face and changed its appearance. His eyes seemed to be looking far away, or blind. The poet asked for a few words alone with the national worker. The slaves withdrew.

"Have you written your ode yet?" The king asked.

"Yes," said the poet sadly. "May Christ my Lord forbid me to do so."

"Will you read it?"

"I dare not."

"I give you the courage you lack," declared the king.

The psalmist read out the psalm. There was only one line.

Neither the poet nor the king had the courage to read the line out loud, but only to savor it in their mouths as if it were a secret prayer or a curse. The king was no less astonished and shocked than the poet. The two men looked at each other, their faces pale.

"When I was young," said the king, "I used to sail to the west. On one island, I saw the boar of silver goring the boar of gold. On another island, we smelled the scent of magic apples and our bellies were full. On one island, I saw the walls of flame. On one of the farthest islands, there was a river through the sky with fish in it and boats on it. These are all magical things, but they cannot be compared with your poems, which seem to include them all. What witchcraft made you write it?"

"Toward dawn," said the poet, "I woke up with a start and read the words, not understanding at first what they meant. Those few words were a poem. I felt that I had committed a sin which God would not forgive."

"The very sins that we both now share," said the king quietly. "Understanding the sin of beauty, because it is forbidden for people to ask for it. Now it is time for us to pay the price for it. I give you a mirror and a golden mask; here is the third and last gift."

The king took a dagger and placed it in the poet's right hand.

As far as we know, the poet committed suicide as soon as he left the palace; the king became a beggar and wandered around his kingdom, Ireland, never reciting that poem again.