The Queen And Her Bull

She sits on her throne. An elegant, pale hand extends to stroke the fur of a beast laying at her feet. Jagged horns and honed snout. Dark eyes. It breathes and a dark curl tumbles off her shoulder, draping itself upon the air. That empty air, teeming with silence like a goblet, sides dripping from bit too much wine. Sun-stone balusters, gleaming frescoes offer relief from the tension. Images dancing upon the walls of women with flowing locks and brown eyes reach out and urge their audience to join them. Come, they say, dance with us! May your worries be lost at sea, come and play on land. Here we have the tamed bulls. Acute humour, famous at court. For that is where I am, knees bent and eyes raised to her.

  She twirls a curl around her finger. With each breath her chest moves up and down, a flicker of curiosity in her eyes.

They say she laughs

They say she bites

They say she walks among the people in pale moonlight

How could we ever keep up, O Queen!

For when gazes meet eyes gleam mean

That song bards perform in every tavern from mainland to island comes to me now, in whispers in my ear, trickling into the back of my mind and forming a pool. How I fear I may spit a line up when I am finally permitted to unhinge my jaw.

To her left is the one I am sure is cruel, her eyes tell me so. One hand she lays firmly on the throne, protective of her queen always. They say their union extends beyond friendship, the queen and her stewardess. Those are rumours I must believe are true, for in every moment of anticipation the queen turns her head to seek the counsel of dear Pura. Every time our eyes meet that stewardess throws a dagger and stabs my heart, leaving me to bleed on the tiles which I kneel. On the right-hand side of Queen Sima is another woman, hands folded neatly and eyes darting around the room like a rabid dog, skittering and frantic in its jolting movements. This one, Kitane, is much more anxious than Pura, her stance is that of a tiger ready to pounce. Even the bull at the Queen’s feet is calmer. What a sight those four make: the noble Queen, her best subjects and her cow. And the bull is the most honoured. That is the choice of Queen Sima, and who is there to doubt her wisdom?  

“Lift your head to me, O Peasant Woman,” the queen calls out. Her voice is smooth, creamy. Melted silk chocolate flowing like the River Asijaka. I want to lap it up, let it trickle down my throat. Instead I raise my head and force myself to meet her eyes. Brown reflective pools, passed down from the generations before her. Her mother had those eyes, and her mother before her. The sea would churn and churn, mountains raising to the sky, farms burning and palaces tumbling. Yet the Queen would always have those eyes. I draw in a breath.

“Queen Sima, your dominion is everlasting and your affection will touch our souls for evermore. May I place a request upon your shoulders?” Her serene expression unchanging, Queen Sima tilts her head.

“You may.”

“I ask for one thing,” I say. Now is the time I gather all my courage up. “My husband, whom I must always be wedded to, is very cruel. Not only does he act out against me and my children, he refuses to fulfil his manly duties of the house. Along with rear our children, I am also burdened with the task of putting food on the table.” The Queen watches me, unblinking.

“What would you have me do?”

“Remove him from my life. In any way you see fit. Please, I throw myself down before you and beg. Rid him or fix him.” One. Two. Three. Four. Five seconds of silent suspension. Then the Queen does something that never in my wildest dreams would I have predicted. She extends a sandaled foot and raises herself from her throne. She lifts a hand.

“Follow me, Peasant Woman.” A flick of her wrist and the others disperse from the chamber, even Pura. She flees and I follow.

Only her footsteps and my panicked breathing. I cannot hide my fear any longer, I have laid myself bare and thrown my cards down at her feet. Still she guides me, past the columns and murals and draped cloths until we burst into the courtyard. Emerald branches contort and twist their way up their trunks, forming heavenly spirals. Staircases to the sky. Dotted around are the cubic bushes, green leaves neatly trimmed and flattened into a robust uniform. Upon our entry, all servants look to us and then scurry off. Ants. When we are alone the Queen turns to me, her robes curling up at her feet. Her bull is at her side, it paces and sniffles until eventually settling on the steps.

“I had a husband once,” she speaks sincerely and void of emotion.

“What happened to him?” I know she does not have him anymore, she has Pura. She replies sincerely:

“I killed him.”

I froze. My feet suddenly sprout roots and hold me to the earth, I cannot move I cannot breathe I cannot think. My voice tumbles out shakily and hesitantly:

“I-I ask for your pardon, my Queen?”

“I killed him,” she replies, as calmly and informatively as before. “He was an obstacle in my way and I removed him. For generations my line of Queens has ruled. What right does he, a man, have to disrupt that?”

“What?” The Queen sighs and I realise I am witnessing her first outward emotion. Annoyance.

“Life is fleeting and frivolous. In their hearts, everyone is out for themselves. If you surrender yourself they will suck you dry and leave you to rot. Take things for yourself. That is how I sit upon my throne with Pura on my left and Kitane on my right and my bull at my feet. Do you understand?” I breathe in and out.

“You are going to kill my husband?” The Queen scoffs and then chuckles.

“No, my sweet. You are.”