The Legend of Don Conrado

Don Conrado lifted his head from a double pillow, furrowed his brow, and listened intently to the bird sounds flowing through the open window near his bedside. But, he was not quite sure what species of bird, exactly, had woken him so abruptly on this particular early summer morning. And, having not yet lifted his eyelids, for fear of the light penetrating through and blinding him, he rolled over on his side, once again, and dozed off. He reckoned it must have been a lark, as they do occasionally sing from nearby trees this time of year, so he sank his head deep into the goose feathered pillows and muffled a sigh.

After some time, another distant chirp aroused him, so he raised a brow and lifted just one eyelid this time; just a peek, as he came to surmise, that it did happen to sound like the song of a woodlark — perhaps it was poking its head right out from the branches of some garden tree — whence the sweetest of melodies would’ve awakened even the most obstinate of European half-bloods. But, even still, lying here quiet and content — and confident in the knowledge he had acquired over the many years of studying various Aves — this couldn’t possibly be the case. For, though it had been many years since he’d last heard the melodious tune of this particular species, he was, otherwise, positively certain that the woodlark was not on this same continent. In fact, it hadn’t been since he’d last been summoned to Europe — on a rather lengthy expedition — a sort of mission (which maybe of some particular interest to the reader, should he continue to follow along on Don Conrado's adventure), that he had heard one such bird sing just like this. So, this being the case, he strained his ear once again, to listen, whilst the breeze from the open window blew his hair lightly back across his face.

And sure enough — at that very moment! — whilst still in this early morning daze, somehow or other — as if this woodlark had flown straight in through the portal (which was his open window) and dropped a parchment, of a sort, over his slumbering supine body — he opened both his eyes, nice and wide, and sprung to his feet; with such a start, he rose, it was as if a phantom had just paid him a visit and, with a pair of icy-cold hands, tugged at his very heels; whilst imploring him with a fair bit of urgency, so that he knew what must be done immediately; as if the instruction had come from outside the Matrix, and was subsequently inserted into his brain, via quantum computation. And so, it was in this instant, and rather by self-appointment (being fully qualified in the art of knight-errantry, having spent many an hour under the weight of all the countless books on feigning knighthood), that he took it upon himself to pay heed to this sudden and unexpected vision, and to tackle this next great mission that was behind the rather dark curtain of unknown.

Thus it came to pass: that he was being selected, among a chosen few, to be taken into an alien land, where he could be the designer and architect of his own fate and destiny going forward; as though he were travelling aboard some ship going through space and time. Where the very fate of mankind and the enhancement of human life, rested in his hands. He stood for a moment to take it all in: to absorb the beam of energy that the universe projected his way. And for a brief moment, he felt as though he was actually levitating, such a profound state of meditation had come upon him. But, of course, he was not. Yet, this woodlark, from some other higher dimension — which had invaded his chamber upon such a fine summer morning, and with such a pronounced lack of courtesy, for a don — would nonetheless serve as his beacon and guide.

If the reader should suspect, perhaps, that Don Conrado did not get enough sleep, and that he may, therefore, have awoken on this fine summer morning in some delusional state; or even, perhaps, that he had relinquished one too many brain cells overnight, during a bout of sleep apnea — do not be alarmed! Do not fear for the well-being of Don Conrado; for though it may, indeed, infuriate some obtuse villain to have learned that he still had his wits about him, this tale was aptly meant for the ears of the underdog — and for all generations of whistle-blowers who had ever been silenced into submission, by the machine. Having said this, he lay still and listened, and stretched out his arms, wide (somewhat like that of the largest living raptor of his time, the bald eagle), before he reached for the glass of water next to his bedside; at which point, he took in a sufficient mouthful; careful not to spill any of the contents on his silk mulberry robes, which would've displease him very much. He had succeeded in this simple task, but, alas, the water was still and lukewarm; and, in a sort of righteous discontent, he forthwith flung the bottle across his chamber with such a force that he heard it thump against the distant wall. And in so doing, and whilst having heard the thump clearly with much anticipation, he was now fully satisfied that his balls and bearings were in good functioning order, and thus assured that the woodlark could not, therefore, be some figment of his wild imagination. So, he propped himself up, on his elbows, and clapped his hands in a display of triumph, and felt instantly at ease, knowing that he was not setting out on this mission under any false pretence, or delusion.

And so being thus assured, he reflected on the contents of the water, and demanded a glass that was pure, crisp, cool, and refreshing to the palate; and that of which had been bottled from the finest springs in the whole of the kingdom. This very kingdom from whence he had been nestling as though banished, abducted, or even, for some unknown misdemeanour, sentenced to a far Northern tower, to watch over a sort of cuckoo’s nest — full of loonies, sparrow’s and jays; for it is suffice to say, many a bird in these here parts, were a great deal more mad than even he. But, even so, what had been afflicting the inhabitants of these parts could not possibly be due to the contents in the water, for it was conveyed from a source of endless abundance — in fact, a nearby river — and poured majestically from the spout; a crystal-clear liquid, as expected from the freshest spring — specifically drawn from the purest and most remote of sources, and made abundantly available for his personal use. Yet, the reader should know, that Don Conrado could not be detered, and would get to the root of this problem, whatever trials should present themselves along the way.

And, given such a morning, and given that his palette was now somewhat refreshed and satisfied, he got up and charged his way out the door of his chamber, naturally, and with a determination, and a purpose, that would have rivalled the combined stamina of all the world’s leaders, placed together as one, like a stack of dominos. Make no mistake, his brisk morning walk would bridge two distant worlds together — in less than half the time it would take to gather for another reckless summit.

However, the reader will have to continue to peruse his memoirs in order to understand how precisely he’d gone and done it. How had Don Conrado, indeed, gone on to overturn some of the long marble tables where the old fogeys sat; and mussed about; and stroked their fine beards, with their nose hairs far too overgrown, and their ears much too full of wax; and why was this noble don determined to impart some wisdom (unknown at this precise point in time) for future generations, from this day onwards — in order to turn the tide, so speak; or to bring the moon full-circle; or was it to bring the eight planets into alignment and rip a hole through the fabric of the space-time continuum, so as to entangle the reader within this multiverse? He imagined to have been born for such a purpose, to amuse the reining lordship — such as kings, emperors and, perhaps… even some banished knights not far removed from himself, at some distant and forgotten round table. And, at the expense of a multitudes of interesting pursuits, he would be carrying out this outrageous journey come hell or high water, and with or without his fine silk robe and plush sheepskin slippers; for there would be no need (on this occasion) for the vile weight of chainmail, nor the unsightly blood-dripping sword. No, not on this journey, to this ancient and forgotten realm. But, that’s not to say he would go bare back; no, no... he would be armed with modern technology — with a pocket phone, and the lightning strike of his noble fingers!