In For a Pound: Chapter Six
Nov. 12th, 2005 08:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kaitouI've fallen a little behind, what with the great power problem and all. But I'm hoping I'll be able to catch up again tomorrow. Now I post chapter seven which has the rest of the funeral stuff, and a dream sequence that I'm pretty happy with. Oh, just so you don't go thinking I'm too creative or anything, the idea of the paper gifts is from the Chinese Ching Ming festival where they burn paper money and gifts for the dead...nowadays you can even buy paper airconditioning and such for the dead. Had to steal it!
In for a Pound
Chapter Six: Remembrances and Revenges
As the funeral procession passed the silent bubble in the crowd dissipated and the furious speculation began. But Cael didn’t hear a word of it, lost and unable to comprehend. It may have well been an entirely foreign language.
“Where was the Queen!?”
“It’s true, she must be mad.”
“The poor wee Prince Wilhelm! He’s practically an orphan now. What will become of him with that blackguard in control?”
“I knew that that boy would never turn out well. The blood of the Thurians had to run true in one of her get.”
“He can’t do anything to the Crown Prince. The dagger will see to that. Don’t know what he thinks he’s doing.”
Cael turned and looked at Anton with a shocked expression. “Did you see him? He does…he does look just like me.”
“Shht!” Thelonius elbowed him swiftly. “Not so loud or in this company.”
Cael turned to him. “But…”
“This is the same as the taverns,” he said harshly, “Exactly the same. Will you have it all turn out wrong now?”
The prince’s expression hardened. “You can’t know that it would.”
“Oh, you’d cause a big scene alright. You may even get to your brother before the soldiers get to you. But think, man! Who would they believe? You may look a lot like the Black Prince, but you’re obviously dressed as a commoner. Everyone’s always believed in the Black Prince. This imposter is only playing into their hands and expectations. You’d be lucky if they only locked you in the gaol or madhouse. But you’d be much more like to be put to death. Right that moment. They’ve already tried once, remember? They probably still think you dead now!” Thelonius whispered all of this into Cael’s ear, so quiet that not even the other actors, pressed close, could hear it.
“What do you expect me to do then?” Cael said between gritted teeth
“I expect you to wait until we have a plan.”
“I can’t.”
Anton broke in on his other side. “You can.”
Cael bowed his head and wept. The crowd around the small band took no notice as they waited for the tone of the great cathedral bell to signal the end of the ceremony. It was the longest three hours Cael ever knew. He wasn’t aware of the people around him, only of the chill of his body and the great frustration, rage and sorrow that twisted and burned deep inside.
Finally the bell rang, a Carollian cascade of sounds. When they heard the signal all of the collected mourners pulled out their own bells and rang them for the soul of the King. There were bells of all kinds, black iron ones like the bell in Cael’s hand, porcelain bells with clappers strung up by a length of ribbon, brass and wooden hand bells, children’s trap bells with a high clear chime. They all kept the steady cadence of the Great Bell, continuing to ring even after it fell silent and the doors of the Cathedral were flung open.
A carriage was waiting, a hearse that the coffin of the king was carried to by eight soldiers in dress uniform. Those close enough to the gate tossed flowers for the king, some landing on the coffin. The Black Prince walked by and gave them a withering look that made the mourners press back in fear.
The two princes were escorted to the front of the carriage, and once they were settled, the driver snapped the reigns smartly and the gilded carriage lumbered forward slowly. The crowd pushed back into itself to make room again.
Cael and the others watched it until it disappeared into the sheer number of black mourners, like the night swallowing up the moon.
When they got back to the camp, Harcourt laid a fire with more care than usual, and Cael disappeared into the wagon, returning with the tin bell, the ghost paper gifts, wine and oil. Margot brought out a large dish for the oil, and they placed it over the mouth of their cooking pot, filled with water that hung over the fire. As the water boiled, the plate heated and the rich scent of sandalwood was released into the air.
There weren’t any words for this ceremony, as it was only a folk observance done in the privacy of home and family. Cael was touched that the Extravaganza was willing to be there with him for it.
The scent of sandalwood mixed with the sharp scent of pine trees, and the indescribable smell of autumn. It wasn’t nearly as strong as in the oil shop and Cael took a deep breath of it, trying to banish thoughts of the Black Prince imposter from his mind and focus only on what his father needed.
Using a switch he lowered the tin bell into the crackling fire, then uncorked the sweet wine, pouring it in a spiral around the bell. The flames roared up hot and blue, the air around the bell shivering and warping.
Cael unwrapped the paper gifts and pulled out the paper cottage. “For your comfort,” he said, tossing it in. He followed by tossing in the lounge and bed. He gingered the books, the names of novels, histories and philosophies carefully lettered on the spines. “For your entertainment.” Then the pipe. “For your pleasure. I’m sure Mother wouldn’t mind now. And,” he said pulling out the stage, he’d left the title of the play blank, “this is for you to remember me. Just as I will always remember you. I hope you enjoy it.” Cael tossed the last of the gifts into the fire. Last was his letter, which he brought to his lips before letting it go. The pine needles pressed into the paper popped and sparked a hot yellow as the paper burned.
As was tradition, the players sat around the fire, letting it burn itself out as they watched. Iago poured the remaining wine into a tiny stoneware cup and passed it to Cael who drank it down, before filling it himself and passing the cup to Anton. Each member drank, and filled the cup for one another, with only Cael taking a second as the blood relative.
Just as the sky began to turn pink and orange and violet, the fire burned itself out to glowing embers. Careful not to rekindle the flames, Laertes used a smalls hovel to pull out the remains of the bell, melded and curled into a small, misshapen puddle. He scooped it up and put it in the water from the old stew pot to cool it down enough to touch.
Harcourt was the one to pull it out of there, turning it over carefully in his hands. The metal was blackened in some places, dull silver and still molten looking in others. Swirls of the metal spun out from the core and the surface was smooth and rippled. “It looks a bit like the sun,” he said handing it carefully to Cael with both hands.
Cael only nodded and smoothed his thumb over a rough spot on the tin.
Harcourt said, “You know that I come from gypsy stock, so I’ve no fear in telling you some of our old traditions. It’s said that if you take the remains of the tin bell and place them under your mattress the night of the funeral you’ll have a dream of the departed, and they will point you to your true path.”
Cael was skeptical but he took the lump of tin and did as Harcourt said. And that night he dreamed…
Cael found himself in a wooded glen, all sunshine and dappled shadows like the forest backdrop they used in one of their plays. In the clearing was a small two storied cottage that seemed very familiar. Cael walked forward and pushed the door open, but instead of feeling the rough grain of wood under his hand, the door felt strangely like smooth paper.
“Michael,” King William said warmly.
“Father!” Cael smiled widely and came the rest of the way inside, hugging his father tightly.
“It’s good to see you, son.”
“And you.” Then his heart sank. “But all of this is a dream. I’m only dreaming of you at all because Harcourt said that I would.”
The King had always been pragmatic. “That’s probably true,” he admitted, “But whether it’s true or not, that doesn’t mean that you don’t have the tools to solve your problem lying before you. You were always a clever child.”
Cael looked out the window and saw that the cheerful glen had disappeared. Now a dark storm rolled forward. The trees shrieked and moaned in the wind like they were alive and walking. “I don’t even know where to begin,” he whispered.
“Wilhelm called to you. But to get to Wilhelm you will need to get inside the castle. You will need inside help. Follow me.”
He opened the front door and pulled Cael outside. But instead of the woods, they were in the eastern half of the palace, the old palace with its pale stone walls and mosaic wainscoting.
They walked down the hall and through a hidden corridor that led to the servants’ wing. They were walking slowly, but the scenery blurred around them like they were on horseback.
They went through the servant’s quarters and up into the throne room, the largest room in the entire palace. The lights were set as if it were a ball, but instead there were rows and rows of chairs, and half of the room was cordoned off by a red velvet curtain.
“Thank you for your gift, Michael.” King William pulled on a yellow tassle and the curtain parted to show them…back in the Theatre in Triest Arincourt. Cael turned to look behind him, but the throne room was gone.
On the stage were white statues, like the old marble athletes dug up in the south, each stood stock still in an artificial pose. When Cael walked forward he saw that each pale figure was a member of the Traveling Extravaganza. He touched Theresa on one arm and color and life suddenly flooded through her.
She was obviously dressed for a play, in a vermillion gown and tall powdered wig. Without seeming to see Cael she snapped her fan towards someone only she could see. “Sirrah, I protest your odious insinuation! Do you think that because I am compelled to wear red, that I am somehow beneath you? *I* am the consort to an Emperor! I wear this color proudly and would have no other! Be it on your head to defy my choice!”
Then she stopped short, holding her pose, arm flung out and head back. The color faded out of her and she became a simple statue again.
Intrigued Cael moved on to the next, a grave faced Thelonius sitting in a wooden chair. At his touch the colors deepened to black and plum velvet. His brow beetled together in a frown. “And woe that I ever came to see such a pass. My shame is great for having assumed too much. Had I known what she truly was, I had sooner put her to death than let that raven claw at the body of the Court. But I only saw the colorful feathers of the little bird of Sampan.”
Iago laughed, his head flung back at Cael’s touch. “Ho! Dost thou hear the trumpets? The thunder and bluster of the troops? They may sneer at a little man, but see how they jump to a snap of my fingers. All that was planned shall now come to pass.”
Laertes and Isabel were posed on the floor, his head laying in her lap. When Cael touched her shoulder they both came to life.
“I swore that none but I would sit upon the throne. It seems that I am much mistaken,” Laertes said breathlessly.
Isabel sobbed, “I wouldst that it were I, taken instead.”
“Wish not so, Love. For who will tell my tale and prove that I am not the false man your people believe me?”
“You will always be the King of my heart.”
“For which I am grateful. Do not fear, sweet one, it is not so bad. Though the imposter tried fro the crown, he has been caught up in a trap all of his own making.”
“But I wish you were not caught in it as well!”
Then they were both silent and still.
Margot was dressed as a simple peasant. “La, sir,” she said. Like Theresa she spoke to the air. “How was I to know who ‘ee was? Everyone running around in costume, wasn’t they? Not like decent hard working folk. No, says I, he gave me the letter to give to the young woman in green, and that’s exactly what I did. T’aint my fault the man was colorblind!”
The last of the statues was Harcourt, who was dressed in gypsy finery, but spoke his lines in his own blunt straightforward way. “Come now, come now, all life is a folly, and this we have proven. But we are the merry makers of the lot. Are you so much wiser, so much happier than we? Cross my palm with silver and I will tell you MY tale.”
He too fell white and silent.
Cael turned to his father in confusion. “But none of those lines is from the same play.”
“Of course not. You left the stage blank on the ghost gift. How is anyone to know what to do until the play’s been decided? They’ll all be at cross purposes until then.”
Cael looked back and forth between the marble players and his father. The king smiled softly and put his hands on his son’s shoulders. “Do you understand now?”
“I think I know what I have to do.”
His father handed him a quill and led him to the base of the stage, where there was a scrap of white paper built into the floor. “Then go to it, my son. Go to it.”
Cael pursed his lips and scrawled out a title.
And then he woke up.
In for a Pound
Chapter Six: Remembrances and Revenges
As the funeral procession passed the silent bubble in the crowd dissipated and the furious speculation began. But Cael didn’t hear a word of it, lost and unable to comprehend. It may have well been an entirely foreign language.
“Where was the Queen!?”
“It’s true, she must be mad.”
“The poor wee Prince Wilhelm! He’s practically an orphan now. What will become of him with that blackguard in control?”
“I knew that that boy would never turn out well. The blood of the Thurians had to run true in one of her get.”
“He can’t do anything to the Crown Prince. The dagger will see to that. Don’t know what he thinks he’s doing.”
Cael turned and looked at Anton with a shocked expression. “Did you see him? He does…he does look just like me.”
“Shht!” Thelonius elbowed him swiftly. “Not so loud or in this company.”
Cael turned to him. “But…”
“This is the same as the taverns,” he said harshly, “Exactly the same. Will you have it all turn out wrong now?”
The prince’s expression hardened. “You can’t know that it would.”
“Oh, you’d cause a big scene alright. You may even get to your brother before the soldiers get to you. But think, man! Who would they believe? You may look a lot like the Black Prince, but you’re obviously dressed as a commoner. Everyone’s always believed in the Black Prince. This imposter is only playing into their hands and expectations. You’d be lucky if they only locked you in the gaol or madhouse. But you’d be much more like to be put to death. Right that moment. They’ve already tried once, remember? They probably still think you dead now!” Thelonius whispered all of this into Cael’s ear, so quiet that not even the other actors, pressed close, could hear it.
“What do you expect me to do then?” Cael said between gritted teeth
“I expect you to wait until we have a plan.”
“I can’t.”
Anton broke in on his other side. “You can.”
Cael bowed his head and wept. The crowd around the small band took no notice as they waited for the tone of the great cathedral bell to signal the end of the ceremony. It was the longest three hours Cael ever knew. He wasn’t aware of the people around him, only of the chill of his body and the great frustration, rage and sorrow that twisted and burned deep inside.
Finally the bell rang, a Carollian cascade of sounds. When they heard the signal all of the collected mourners pulled out their own bells and rang them for the soul of the King. There were bells of all kinds, black iron ones like the bell in Cael’s hand, porcelain bells with clappers strung up by a length of ribbon, brass and wooden hand bells, children’s trap bells with a high clear chime. They all kept the steady cadence of the Great Bell, continuing to ring even after it fell silent and the doors of the Cathedral were flung open.
A carriage was waiting, a hearse that the coffin of the king was carried to by eight soldiers in dress uniform. Those close enough to the gate tossed flowers for the king, some landing on the coffin. The Black Prince walked by and gave them a withering look that made the mourners press back in fear.
The two princes were escorted to the front of the carriage, and once they were settled, the driver snapped the reigns smartly and the gilded carriage lumbered forward slowly. The crowd pushed back into itself to make room again.
Cael and the others watched it until it disappeared into the sheer number of black mourners, like the night swallowing up the moon.
When they got back to the camp, Harcourt laid a fire with more care than usual, and Cael disappeared into the wagon, returning with the tin bell, the ghost paper gifts, wine and oil. Margot brought out a large dish for the oil, and they placed it over the mouth of their cooking pot, filled with water that hung over the fire. As the water boiled, the plate heated and the rich scent of sandalwood was released into the air.
There weren’t any words for this ceremony, as it was only a folk observance done in the privacy of home and family. Cael was touched that the Extravaganza was willing to be there with him for it.
The scent of sandalwood mixed with the sharp scent of pine trees, and the indescribable smell of autumn. It wasn’t nearly as strong as in the oil shop and Cael took a deep breath of it, trying to banish thoughts of the Black Prince imposter from his mind and focus only on what his father needed.
Using a switch he lowered the tin bell into the crackling fire, then uncorked the sweet wine, pouring it in a spiral around the bell. The flames roared up hot and blue, the air around the bell shivering and warping.
Cael unwrapped the paper gifts and pulled out the paper cottage. “For your comfort,” he said, tossing it in. He followed by tossing in the lounge and bed. He gingered the books, the names of novels, histories and philosophies carefully lettered on the spines. “For your entertainment.” Then the pipe. “For your pleasure. I’m sure Mother wouldn’t mind now. And,” he said pulling out the stage, he’d left the title of the play blank, “this is for you to remember me. Just as I will always remember you. I hope you enjoy it.” Cael tossed the last of the gifts into the fire. Last was his letter, which he brought to his lips before letting it go. The pine needles pressed into the paper popped and sparked a hot yellow as the paper burned.
As was tradition, the players sat around the fire, letting it burn itself out as they watched. Iago poured the remaining wine into a tiny stoneware cup and passed it to Cael who drank it down, before filling it himself and passing the cup to Anton. Each member drank, and filled the cup for one another, with only Cael taking a second as the blood relative.
Just as the sky began to turn pink and orange and violet, the fire burned itself out to glowing embers. Careful not to rekindle the flames, Laertes used a smalls hovel to pull out the remains of the bell, melded and curled into a small, misshapen puddle. He scooped it up and put it in the water from the old stew pot to cool it down enough to touch.
Harcourt was the one to pull it out of there, turning it over carefully in his hands. The metal was blackened in some places, dull silver and still molten looking in others. Swirls of the metal spun out from the core and the surface was smooth and rippled. “It looks a bit like the sun,” he said handing it carefully to Cael with both hands.
Cael only nodded and smoothed his thumb over a rough spot on the tin.
Harcourt said, “You know that I come from gypsy stock, so I’ve no fear in telling you some of our old traditions. It’s said that if you take the remains of the tin bell and place them under your mattress the night of the funeral you’ll have a dream of the departed, and they will point you to your true path.”
Cael was skeptical but he took the lump of tin and did as Harcourt said. And that night he dreamed…
Cael found himself in a wooded glen, all sunshine and dappled shadows like the forest backdrop they used in one of their plays. In the clearing was a small two storied cottage that seemed very familiar. Cael walked forward and pushed the door open, but instead of feeling the rough grain of wood under his hand, the door felt strangely like smooth paper.
“Michael,” King William said warmly.
“Father!” Cael smiled widely and came the rest of the way inside, hugging his father tightly.
“It’s good to see you, son.”
“And you.” Then his heart sank. “But all of this is a dream. I’m only dreaming of you at all because Harcourt said that I would.”
The King had always been pragmatic. “That’s probably true,” he admitted, “But whether it’s true or not, that doesn’t mean that you don’t have the tools to solve your problem lying before you. You were always a clever child.”
Cael looked out the window and saw that the cheerful glen had disappeared. Now a dark storm rolled forward. The trees shrieked and moaned in the wind like they were alive and walking. “I don’t even know where to begin,” he whispered.
“Wilhelm called to you. But to get to Wilhelm you will need to get inside the castle. You will need inside help. Follow me.”
He opened the front door and pulled Cael outside. But instead of the woods, they were in the eastern half of the palace, the old palace with its pale stone walls and mosaic wainscoting.
They walked down the hall and through a hidden corridor that led to the servants’ wing. They were walking slowly, but the scenery blurred around them like they were on horseback.
They went through the servant’s quarters and up into the throne room, the largest room in the entire palace. The lights were set as if it were a ball, but instead there were rows and rows of chairs, and half of the room was cordoned off by a red velvet curtain.
“Thank you for your gift, Michael.” King William pulled on a yellow tassle and the curtain parted to show them…back in the Theatre in Triest Arincourt. Cael turned to look behind him, but the throne room was gone.
On the stage were white statues, like the old marble athletes dug up in the south, each stood stock still in an artificial pose. When Cael walked forward he saw that each pale figure was a member of the Traveling Extravaganza. He touched Theresa on one arm and color and life suddenly flooded through her.
She was obviously dressed for a play, in a vermillion gown and tall powdered wig. Without seeming to see Cael she snapped her fan towards someone only she could see. “Sirrah, I protest your odious insinuation! Do you think that because I am compelled to wear red, that I am somehow beneath you? *I* am the consort to an Emperor! I wear this color proudly and would have no other! Be it on your head to defy my choice!”
Then she stopped short, holding her pose, arm flung out and head back. The color faded out of her and she became a simple statue again.
Intrigued Cael moved on to the next, a grave faced Thelonius sitting in a wooden chair. At his touch the colors deepened to black and plum velvet. His brow beetled together in a frown. “And woe that I ever came to see such a pass. My shame is great for having assumed too much. Had I known what she truly was, I had sooner put her to death than let that raven claw at the body of the Court. But I only saw the colorful feathers of the little bird of Sampan.”
Iago laughed, his head flung back at Cael’s touch. “Ho! Dost thou hear the trumpets? The thunder and bluster of the troops? They may sneer at a little man, but see how they jump to a snap of my fingers. All that was planned shall now come to pass.”
Laertes and Isabel were posed on the floor, his head laying in her lap. When Cael touched her shoulder they both came to life.
“I swore that none but I would sit upon the throne. It seems that I am much mistaken,” Laertes said breathlessly.
Isabel sobbed, “I wouldst that it were I, taken instead.”
“Wish not so, Love. For who will tell my tale and prove that I am not the false man your people believe me?”
“You will always be the King of my heart.”
“For which I am grateful. Do not fear, sweet one, it is not so bad. Though the imposter tried fro the crown, he has been caught up in a trap all of his own making.”
“But I wish you were not caught in it as well!”
Then they were both silent and still.
Margot was dressed as a simple peasant. “La, sir,” she said. Like Theresa she spoke to the air. “How was I to know who ‘ee was? Everyone running around in costume, wasn’t they? Not like decent hard working folk. No, says I, he gave me the letter to give to the young woman in green, and that’s exactly what I did. T’aint my fault the man was colorblind!”
The last of the statues was Harcourt, who was dressed in gypsy finery, but spoke his lines in his own blunt straightforward way. “Come now, come now, all life is a folly, and this we have proven. But we are the merry makers of the lot. Are you so much wiser, so much happier than we? Cross my palm with silver and I will tell you MY tale.”
He too fell white and silent.
Cael turned to his father in confusion. “But none of those lines is from the same play.”
“Of course not. You left the stage blank on the ghost gift. How is anyone to know what to do until the play’s been decided? They’ll all be at cross purposes until then.”
Cael looked back and forth between the marble players and his father. The king smiled softly and put his hands on his son’s shoulders. “Do you understand now?”
“I think I know what I have to do.”
His father handed him a quill and led him to the base of the stage, where there was a scrap of white paper built into the floor. “Then go to it, my son. Go to it.”
Cael pursed his lips and scrawled out a title.
And then he woke up.
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Date: 2005-11-13 02:03 am (UTC)