The Century Mark
2003-08-11, at 2:04 p.m.
A brief note : This is my one hundredth entry! I join the century club today! So, with that in mind, I thought I might actually do something literary. Of course, I intended to post this story in a previous entry...but this works out better. I can't think of a better way to celebrate my century mark, than to share some of my poor scribblings with you - as opposed to my usual ravings.
Those of you who are familiar with the illustrious GutterPoet will know that he recently changed his template. However, the previous template had a picture on it which struck a chord in my imagination. It was a picture of a distressed young man, sitting with his head in one hand, staring down at the sheet of paper in the other hand. The caption read, "But none of it seems to rhyme!" From this, the story came...
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A Bargain In Rhymes
by John Grimm
He was a poet...or at least, he tried to be. The king had hired him almost six months before, as a court bard. Good fortune had smiled on him; he had never been required to perform for the king. Secretly, he thought this a good thing - he received the salary of a bard, without having to expose his shame as a poet - he could not write a single thing that rhymed.
He was quite accomplished at free verse - that form of poetry which, though poetic, does not have to rhyme. He could create the most beautiful images with words...images which sparked the emotions, as well as the imaginations. He had been widely acclaimed in taverns far and wide for his poetic works, because they would cause the young maidens to swoon with emotion...usually into the arms of some lucky soldier. And, of course, the soldiers told each other (and their superiors) about the wonderful poet who had caused them to have a comely young lady in their arms. They spread his fame as far as the throne...without ever having actually heard a word of his poems.
And so, he found himself in the service of the king. One would think that a king would have the taste and breeding to appreciate works such as his...but he was fearful that the king might NOT appreciate his work - and with good reason. Remember, this was long ago, and kings were not necessarily good or high-bred men. This king, in particular, was a boor. And our poet, being at least a minor member of the court, knew that the king's taste in poetry ran to dirty limericks and perverted nursery rhymes. Our poet remembered one day at court, when the king had had one of his bards imprisoned. The bard had recited a magnificent poem, about the beauty of a sunset over the king's forests. The king ordered the bard taken to the dungeons, because his poem "was not amusing".
And so, our rhymeless poet sat in his chambers now, pondering his ill fortune. He had received a royal proclamation this morning, delivered with all the fanfare and pomp which befitted a letter from the king. He held it in his hand now, and cradled his troubled brow in the other.
The proclamation read as follows : "To our most illustrious and noble bard, we send greetings! We are pleased to inform our bard of the recent events which have occurred in our court. For the crimes of being less than amusing to their lord and King, all of the bards employed by the throne have been executed, save one. It has come to our attention that you, noble bard, are the one bard which has never performed at court for our amusement. Therefore, your life shall not be taken with the lives of the other pretenders. We command you, noble bard, to appear before us on the morrow, at evening court, to amuse us with your poetry. You shall appear as Chief Bard of the Court, since there are no bards in the court, save only yourself. We look forward to being amused by our new Chief Bard!"
Our poet sighed. "How, oh how am I to survive this?" he said aloud. "I cannot make the simplest of rhymes, and yet I must. The king will execute me, just like all the rest!"
And so, with heavy heart, and with very little sleep, our poet went to the castle the next evening. He had accepted his fate...which was, he was sure, to be executed for failing to amuse the king. "I only hope for the headsman," he thought. "At least beheading is quick; the king might decide to burn me at the stake for not rhyming. At least the other bards rhymed!"
The throne room was laid for a banquet...the king had guests of state that evening. A nearby kingdom, rich in goods not found in this one, had proposed trade routes. Our king, thinking it a good idea, wanted to impress the emissary with proper ceremony. And, of course, our king wished for the emissary to be properly amused by the funny rhymes which he was sure his Chief Bard would produce. That is, his Chief Bard would produce funny rhymes...or else.
The poet - or Chief Bard, as he was introduced - was nervous throughout the banquet. Understandably so. He picked at his food, although he did not really want to even touch it. But the king had been known to be angry if his hospitality were refused, so the bard did the best he could.
After the feast, the king called for dancing girls. The Bard began to hope that the king would forget about his command to perform poetry. He drank some wine, and watched the girls, and almost forgot about his impending command performance. Perhaps Lady Luck was smiling on him...
But it was not to be. After the dancing girls had finished, the king proudly (and loudly) told the emissary, "We will now be entertained by the Chief Bard of the Court." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively as he said this; the king was indeed expecting dirty limericks, or something like them. The emissary, a man of refinement, was puzzled by this - but he said not a word. Perhaps the Chief Bard was known for lewd poetry, a thing not known in his own kingdom. Poetry was revered there. However, he was a man well accustomed to dealing with foreign kings, and used to attitudes foreign to him. And as a lover of poetry, he waited expectantly...and hoped for the best.
Meanwhile, our Bard was almost in a panic. He had not really prepared for the performance, since he half-expected to simply be executed by virtue of being the only poet left in the kingdom. He had, with the help of the dancing girls and the wine, almost forgotten that the king expected him to perform. And now that the king actually, really wanted him to recite...his mind had gone blank.
So he did the only thing he could do. Performers of all kinds, all over the world, know what that one thing is. After all, the show must go on. So he stood and went to the performer's position, in the middle of the wide floor in front of the throne.
He said a prayer to the gods of poets and fools...closed his eyes...and recited.
I sing of a king who once rode into battle,
Carrying his sword of justice and light,
Bearing with him all the hopes of his kingdom
And a song of true love in his heart.
I sing of the maiden who watched as he left her,
The maiden who loved him as no other could,
Who would be a queen if he came back from fighting
A terrible battle of valor so true.
I sing of the battle which raged at the sunset
And how the brave king, so glorious, fell,
Defending his kingdom from those who would take it
He died with her face in his heart and his mind.
I sing of the kingdom, bejeweled in sorrow
Mourning the death of their king and their lord,
Of the maiden who loved him, and talked of his memory,
And how they then made the young maiden their Queen.
I sing of a Queen who was given a kingdom
And how she was loved for her beauty and grace,
But late in the night she was just a young maiden,
Who cried for the love she had so sadly lost.
I sing of her armies, how staunch and unbroken,
Made brave by the love of their elegant queen,
For her they went forth and defeated her foes,
And gave to her glory a kingdom to rule.
I sing of the Queen who ruled that great people,
And how they forgot the King after a time,
But she, no she never once gave up his memory,
Or the love and the care of the kingdom he left.
I sing of how all men must fall on the morrow,
And will be forgotten as days slowly pass,
But there is one thing that can make us immortal,
One who loves us and remembers us true.
As the Bard finished his recitation, there was silence in the throne room. He opened his eyes, just barely, and peeked at the king.
The king was red-faced with fury. He slowly stood, his jaws working, too angry to speak. The Bard stood and waited for the anger of the king to consume him...but before the king could speak, the emissary stood.
He was crying, and clapping his hands. The king turned to him, gape-jawed. The emissary, overcome by the words of the bard, clapped and clapped. Finally, he recovered his voice. "Bravo, master Bard! Your Majesty, I have never heard a more touching poem! Truly, this man deserves all of the honor of a Chief Bard. Please, allow me to reward him!" And with that, the emissary took his pouch from his belt and threw a handful of gold pieces at the stunned Bard's feet.
The king could not understand. The poem had not rhymed, and was not suggestive in the least...and yet, the emissary was overcome by it. It must truly be a good poem! And so the king looked at the Bard and said, "Truly, you have served us well this night. Your poem was...interesting. Henceforth, you are our Chief Bard for true, and you will be known only by the name of Bard. Well done, Bard!"
And the court applauded Bard, and his magnificent poem.
Memories fade as time goes by. The king recalled, for a while, that Bard was responsible for sealing the deal of the trade route. He recalled for a while that the non-rhyming poem must be a true and good example of "good" poetry. And so he called for Bard often, to give him more of this poetry...for which he had no true liking. But appearances were everything, in the king's opinion, and so he listened - at least part of the time. He wished to be a truly cultured man...or at least, to appear to be. But mostly, he slept through Bard's recitations.
Finally, though, after most of a year had gone by, Bard received another royal proclamation. He had grown not to fear such letters from the king; it seemed he was in good favor with Lady Luck, as well as with the king. But such lucky times are most often short-lived, as he saw from the proclamation.
It read : "To the illustrious Bard, we send our greetings! We grow tired of stories which masquerade as poetry, and wish Bard to entertain us with real poetry at evening court, on the morrow. See that the poetry rhymes, and that it is of sufficient earthiness to amuse us. This is our command."
And so, Bard found himself in the same situation which had begun his good fortune. This time, however, as a priveleged member of the court, he knew that there was no emissary to save him. He sat down on his bedside, much as before, the proclamation in one hand and his head in the other.
"What am I to do?" Bard thought. "I should have spent the last year studying with other bards. I knew this day would come...I should have prepared for it. But there are no other bards in the kingdom, aside from myself."
He paced the floor that night, worry creasing his brow. Finally, he did the only thing he could do...he got down on his knees and prayed. "I would give anything...even my soul...to be able to rhyme," he prayed. "Please, please, someone, anyone, hear my prayer and help me..."
A light touch on his shoulder startled him. He leaped to his feet, spinning to see who had surprised him in his private chambers.
It was a man...but not a man. A face of such exceeding beauty shone from below golden hair...and eyes of light stared into Bard's own.
"Fear not, Master Bard," the being said. "I have heard your prayer, and am here to answer it."
"Who are you?" Bard said, squinting against the light which shone from the being's eyes.
It smiled, revealing perfect, white teeth. Bard noticed in passing that the eyeteeth were slightly longer than the rest, and pointed. "Does My name matter? Or did you not pray for anyone to hear and answer?"
"Yes, but...I must know who you are. Forgive me!" And Bard fell to his knees, overcome with awe.
"Rise, Master Bard," the being said, touching his shoulder. "I do not require your worship. I only require that which you promised."
"What I promised..." Bard struggled to remember exactly what words he had used in his prayer.
"Have you forgotten so quickly? You promised your soul, if only someone would answer your prayer."
"So I did," Bard said slowly. "And now I know you. You must be Satan! Only Satan would be interested in my soul, as part of a bargain! I refuse!"
The being laughed. "Still hung up on names, Bard? I have many of them. I prefer Morningstar, to be honest. But it doesen't really matter. You made the bargain when you prayed."
"But...but," Bard stammered.
"But me no buts, human! The bargain is made! From henceforth, you will not be able to speak or write anything which does not rhyme. For this, I receive your soul, when your body has done with making use of it!" Morningstar smiled. "However long that is..."
Bard was looking at an empty room.
"Was it all a dream?" he thought. "Surely my luck cannot be that bad, to make a bargain with the devil and not even know it!"
By morning, Bard had convinced himself that he had, indeed, dreamed the whole incident. He went about his daily routines, dreary and sad. He knew this was to be his last day of life, for surely the king would have him executed if he could not rhyme. And, of course, he must make it a sufficiently dirty poem, to amuse the king. He was so depressed at the prospect, that he did not even respond when people greeted him. He simply hung his head (which, he was sure, he would shortly be without), and went on his way.
Bard was so depressed, he arrived late at the throne room that night. He was sure it wouldn't matter if he arrived too late to be introduced; no major events were planned for that evening...no major events save his own humiliation and execution, he thought. So, meaning to simply slip in and find his seat, he was surprised when the king rose at his entrance.
"Master Bard! We have been awaiting your arrival. Look who has graced the court with an unexpected visit!"
And there, on the dias at the right of the throne, sat the same emissary from the year before!
The emissary rose as well. "Master Bard," he said, "I come in hopes of hearing more of your beautiful works. I am sure you will not disappoint me!" He smiled warmly down at Bard.
Bard was stunned. He could not believe his good fortune! This emissary must be his guardian angel, sent from above to rescue him from just these types of predicaments. His eyes filled with tears of gratitude, for he knew that now the king would once more acclaim his talents as a poet. He was struck speechless for a moment.
"Well, Master Bard?" the emissary smiled. "Torment us no longer with your silence. Favor us once more with your wonderful poems of olden times!"
Bard smiled, and readied himself. He brought to mind a poem he had worked on for more than three months. It was a beautiful story, of love and battle, like the one from before...but this time it had a happy ending, with the lord and lady riding off into a beautiful sunset. It was, in fact, his master work. Bard stood, erect and proud, as the emissary smiled down at him. "I recite this for the honor of this emissary, and for the kindness he has shown to me."
The emissary smiled even more warmly. Bard readied the poem in his mind...and opened his mouth...and spoke.
The girls who dance
Without their pants
Tease us with a glance
When we're in France.
The emissary's smile froze on his face...and then disappeared altogether. He turned to the king. "What does this mean? Surely this is not the same poet who spoke such beautiful story poems just last year?"
The king was scowling too. "We know not what game you are playing at, Master Bard, but our guest desires to hear your usual poetry. Our command to you does not hold; pray speak the poetry he wishes to hear!"
Bard, meanwhile, was dumbfounded. How did that...poem...even get into his mind, much less pass his lips? He opened his mouth, and tried again.
She smiles with grace,
And runs in place,
As she makes ready
To sit on my face.
The emissary was purple in his rage. He turned to the king once more. "Does the man mean to insult me? Why does he say these vulgar rhymes?"
"Bard," said the king, "We give you one last chance. Speak your true poetry, or face the headsman!"
Bard closed his eyes. He prayed, silently, for just one poem of true worth to pass from his lips. And as he prayed, he remembered his dream from the night before. Was it true? Was everything he spoke to be of such lewd quality? Could he not say a single word which did not rhyme?
NO! It would not end this way. No matter what Morningstar had said, he was still master of his own tongue. He would give his true poem, and nothing would stop him.
He opened his mouth and spoke once more:
Down in the muck,
We're all in luck,
For I know a wench
That likes to fuck!
"No more!" the king roared. "Guards! Take this pretender from my sight. Burn him! Burn him at the stake!"
The guards took the stunned Bard by the arms and began to drag him from the throne room.
"I completely agree, Majesty," the emissary said, laughing. "He's a pretender. Obviously, he copied the works of some great bard last year. Why, he's nothing but a gutter poet!"
Bard stared in horror at the emissary. It was the laugh, and the taunting voice. He realized where he had heard them before. There, on the dias, sat Morningstar, mocking his damnation. He screamed, "Your Majesty, trust not this man! He holds damnation in his hand! The emissary he is not - he'll take you where it's very hot!"
"Take him away! I sicken at his gutter rhymes!" shouted the king. "I would give anything - even my kingdom and my soul - to hear rhymes no longer!"
"Majesty," said Morningstar, "perhaps something can be arranged!"
And as they dragged the poor gutter poet away, he heard Morningstar laugh...
end
%%commentscount%% comments so far
I am feeling:
Mr. Grimm's Fairy Tales
The Last Man On Earth
A Bargain In Rhymes
Desert Damnation
A Merry Little Christmas
A Commercial Message...
A House Divided
Last Five Grimmspeaks:
- - 2004-03-22
Grimm's 200th Entry - 2004-01-14
From Annie - 2003-12-08
Grimmsville Reborn - 2003-11-30
Mr. Grimm's Special Drink - 2003-11-29
