Jester's Diadema

G enerations here are begotten and gone like sand in the wind, with twenty-seven cycles of posterity having slipped through the wages. And though the folks are few at a time, they all do their part—day until dusk. This keeps the wheel turning.

The hills that get there are unforgiving, and the roads are terribly weak. They crumble like cornbread under the rain and fall from the sides of the mountains after every step. Like the voices of the village, they tremble over the cliffs of these peoples’ lips—as such a result of thy passing through. And when somebody is on this way, of course, they know where they are going. Nobody just stumbles across it, for it is hidden far within the tallest trees and the deepest valleys.

So we find ourselves, in the stone meadow at the foot of the valley. Blankets of sycamore canopies try and close the sky as it oozes blue from places among the leaves. Gardens of ruskartoe and parsley overflow the fields, and the sheep mingle like they have no shepherd. This is a simple place after all, dressed in nature’s garb.

The village is made up of three grounds, each joined by an oak bridge. The stone meadow receives the last of the seasonal waters from the mountain’s peaks and borders the mouth of Bovine Creek. It also holds the gate to the villages. Furthermore into the valley is called Euha, where resides the church and the common marketplace. This is also where the fortunate go to attend the schoolhouse by the week. And beyond this, is Anatolia. Here inlays a pithy metropolis embedded in the side of the mountain and lathered in intricate brickwork. One pillar juts out the main hall and stretches up above the rest, its spire stabbing the sky. This overlook stands above the highest mountain, sees east past the Aegean Sea and peers through the entire west land of Teraphim. Directly below that tower is where the charter and the royal court are found.

~

A day from out of the green came a traveler. He had not a thing for sale, which is a novel thing for the village. All they know are their potions and pastures, and surely no hermit with no thing for sale would ever come to visit them. Many folks that arrive, come from far out west to sell their temptations: vigor, brews, philters and celestine elixirs. So, it would be strange if you arrived and ought not to have something for sale.

The traveler made over the roads of scattering dust towards the village gates and approaches a Malleate Knight up nine feet on a post. By this hour, the sun has sprawled itself across the horizon and glows behind the knight, causing him to cast a dark silhouette.

“There sir! I am Hişam and I bring a message!” The traveler unfurls from below.

The knight cannot help but to ridicule the man, who was scantily clad and wears but a tunic of flax linen. He has a small bag affixed on the end of a stick thrown over his shoulder, and a mustache narrow enough to pick a lock.

“There sir! I am on a quest! Open the gates!” Hişam issued up to the guard again, but this knight spoke nothing and didn’t move.

So, old man Hişam scutters up to the wall and tries to scale the bronze lattice, bare-toed. A Malleate Knight atop his post then hangs down and hurls a spear into the land beside him. Hişam freezes dead in his tracks and gulps his spit, looking down at the javelin struck into the ground then up at the knight.

“What do you come for!” The knight thunders. At this point, Hişam was shaking in trepidation—burling his eyebrows and pouring sweat through his palms; his knees chattering.

“F..for the Druidaen Congregation, Sir!” he stumbled out of his mouth, turns to his side and lets his bindlestiff on the ground. Lay was the old man, but allayed his collywobbles were not. He was jittery as a tree in the wind. And so the knight pries in and seeks to see what this man brings, but instead the linen sack falls open and his gorgeous blueberries scatter about, escaping from their confinement.

“Oh clodhopper!” He cries out. These vibrant orbs, decorating the path beneath, make him skitter hither and thither as he collects them one by one. The Malleate Knight stood by, atop the post, watching the man run in circles and chase his fruit.

Hişam taught those berries a lesson or two and planted them back amid cloth custody, aside the parchment he had initially gone to beckon with. He grabs this scroll now, tight with his fingers, and holds it in the air for the knight to see. The velvet ribbon wriggles in the breeze.

“Ayo, see?” he grins with fragile teeth. And so the Malleate Knight opens the gates for Hişam, who passed as a sincere old man. They creaked against the crimson sky, and slowly exposed the village.

He was now standing before Halben—one long stretch of society, and the whole valley was towering over him! He saw flags of green and brass lining the main brick road, all the way up to Anatolia and straight through the heart of the village. These flags were fierce in the gale. And it was before dusk, so he gets a good look at the magic shops as their wagons are wheeled indoors. Everybody is heading home as the fire on the horizon goes out and everything is availed in darkness.

“Call me Arrow,” he spoke vividly in a deep rasp and his words turned over into silence. After the gates were shut, a cloud of dirt picks up and the knight steps down to escort him. Then, he himself Hişam begins to talk:

“A lot of these people think we are machines hanging on the back of our faces, oh but if these trees could talk. Let me walk with you lad and discover older than places. Can you see them? Glass sidewalks, and invisible pillars of the floating oasis; prism breaks and fractured dioramas of light walking in between the spaces. Does this make sense young lad?”

Poor Arrow looked dumfounded, like he was barely able to follow along.

“Just look up for a moment lad, here, up to the stars. Do you see those? Up here— let me direct your attention towards those crystals there, just dangling in the sky!” Hişam guided the knight.

“I cannot see anything... Only the darkness” ~ Arrow

“Nothing at all?” ~ Hişam

“Nothing, old man!” ~ Arrow

Hişam then took off his spectacle and endowed the Malleate Knight with his blades of vision. The universe quintessentially perked out at him and the stars of the sky drop into view.

“O, my God!” he called, as the whole of eternity was sipped into his eyes…

His mouth remains open, making a profound “O” shape, and his eyes are like black holes, trying to fit the whole outer space in. He felt like screaming, as he was surely being blinded, but instead turned towards the knight to allay his vision and realized everything was fine. In fact, he could see intact and everything was more than fine, it was hyper definition. However, this did not last long.

Hişam retrieves his piece back off of Arrow’s nose and his old worldview returned.

“You need a monocle, young lad. Let us find the mage and we will see what she can do,” he said. Arrow had become quiet, and his humility shaken, though was fundamentally curious and yearned for greatness—he was inspired. These two gentlemen walk down the road of Bovine Valley.

First, they pass through the stone meadow, a jagged rock formation sticking through the air and the paddocks. Then, a series of wooden cabins and courts of chartreuse grasses, where the overgrowth reaches to the edge of the red brick road but is just and fortified by a log fence. And every so often, there is a wooden trellis over the road holding the torches and flags which poke the dusk. These are occasionally covered in vines and garland—and more rarely taken by the nests of the blue-throated macaw.

“What is your origin after all?” Arrow posed.

“The Meridian Chalice. I am just the herald and I bring a scroll of parchment, that is all.” Hişam admitted and held it up once more. The velvet ribbon wriggles in the breeze. They pass the tannery, the blacksmith and approach a treen saloon. In front was a carriage of bronze with one horse, but no chauffeur.

“We ought to go by the wagon, since the druid is on the brink of Anatolia—a moment up the way.” Arrow advised Hişam, as he pet the cart horse’s mahogany mane.

“As you wish, young lad.” He whispered in fatigue, pulling at his own long scraggly hair. Together they looked about for the chauffeur, but there was no one to be found, so they interred into the saloon.

By now, Hişam is hungry for a blueberry and begins to drift off thinking about them. Arrow on the other hand was taken by the green and brass flag wrestling off the terrace. It was nearly about to be ripped off the pole.

Inside is a dimly lit bar with staves absolutely covered in paintings. Tall arches stand vulnerable to the candlelight flicker, and they echo the petrified sound of footsteps.

A man in a leather cloak is at the counter, drinking from a glass of brown liquid. As the doors endure their pendular swing, this man sees the knight and the courier appear—floating in the condensation on his glass.

“There sir! Move us up the way!” Hişam didn’t hesitate, anticipating this man was nose to the grindstone. As it happens, this man was definitely not the wagon chauffeur, whoever he is. He turns and stares at Hişam with dead eyes that hang drapes of irreverence. His face was sunken in and his hood puts a deep shadow over his words.

“We ask a lift is all,” Arrow spoke.

“…what are its contents?” This man in the leather cloak, quiet and stiff, observes the scroll and the velvet ribbon wriggling around in the air. He notices a carmine wax stamp like nothing he had ever seen. He wants it.

Then, all in the same moment, Hişam realizes in terror he lost his blueberries! The glass drops and shatters on the stool, the candles are smothered by a gust of cold air, and Arrow hits the ground—scarlet cascades.

~

When I awoke, my feet were cold, and I found myself wedged in one corner of the court, loathing on the slabs of gray stone—a torch flickering its plumage above my head. With time the most valuable thing, I quickly began jotting down these sleep dreams before they withered away. The story landed firmly embedded in the crease of the closing pages, and I shut the small black notebook. “What a dream…” I thought, echoing all throughout my skull.

I drop my feather quill and dark ink spills all over my pantaloons. “Clodhopper!” I curse, as a bell from my fool’s hat comes loose and bounces off into the distance. I steered my gaze up to the right and pulled it to the bay. My squinty eyes flinched from the blaze of the throne which is encased in gold. Though my dream ended abruptly, I was ready to tell The King this great story. So, I spun it for him.

He had a good grin and thought highly of it, unexpectedly tossing down a sackcloth of gold coins. When this bundle of money hit my hands, I realized the gravity that came with it. This must have been worth more than my cottage. “What even shall I do with it?” I pondered and decided to go share it with my family.