a King, a Queen, and a court fool

Beware readers, for bewitched you shall be when you hear the stories

Stories of a trickster god centuries ago

Stories that fascinate still the starry eyes of little ones

O’ the tales you’ll hear of his adventures

Of how he used to trick a King into giving him bags of gold

Of how he used his wit to trade a Queen’s mirror for bags of grass

Of how he roamed through villages and towns and kingdoms

Spreading his trickery with a mouth of honey

Of how he stood atop a roof with the face of a fox.

But alas, as they say: what is great shall never last

They said he ran away

To somewhere far, somewhere to hide his treasure

Upon his journey, he was lost forever

But they said one day, he shall wake from his slumber

And with mischief, the land shall soon know again the tricks of the trickster.

Click. Click. Click. She passes clicking heels, thumping boots, and flowing hoop skirts. Her shoulders brush overabundant fabrics, tense arms, and guarded pouches. Her bonnet bumps top hat gentlemen, tightly-tied bonnets, and busied eyes. Mud squishes and squirms underneath her soles, finding its way to every shoe, every hem. The damp stench grabs onto anything its dirty fingers can reach: corners of streets, hooves of horses waiting in disorganized lines, wheels of carriages old and decay.

When the carriage door closes behind her, the foul stench of animal feces and dirt lingers still. She shakes off the bitter wind and watches as it continues to terrorize passers-by, women clutching their shawls, men holding onto the rim of their top hats, dragging themselves to their destinations. The bustling street is reduced to simmering murmurs, even the shouting of the newspaper boy sounds dim. Harsh blow knocks at the window, bringing with it sand and dust and ash from tiny crevices across London. They haze the glass and even manage to blur the sky. Up above, the wide canvas is stroked with murky yellow sand, a spread of grey fog with shades of black smoke.

“Take me to the circus,” she commands.

Whip lashes and the horse trudges on the bumpy road.

RINGS OF RIDDLES

Come come come people of all places

Come and enjoy the magic, the clowns

Listen to riddles and see tricks beyond belief

See freaks and animals roar

See masters of water and masters of fire

Witness yourself the magic that the world has to offer

She looks up at the hung banner. Painted figures in acrobatic outfits and flat widespread smiles accompanied the red letters. Floral lines of gold and black adorn the edges on a background of white. At the center of it all, a clown dressed in a medieval jester costume steals the spotlight. Under the motley patterned hat dotted with three golden bells are his red locks of hair, shrouding his eyes in a matte shadow.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding,” she leans against the wooden frame. Inside the tilted tent, his burgundy outfit blends with the shadow, bells dangling from his monk's cowl glint under the glow of a lamp.

“You are not suppose to be in here. This is for circus members only,” he ignores her, applying the makeup.

“I paid your showman quite a sum. He’ll be fine with me being here.”

He doesn’t say anything. Now and then, the sounds of gentle powdering and humming on his end seep through the prolong silence.

“The others can not wait any longer. They demand you tell them where you hide that treasure of yours.”

“You are all being very rude. That treasure is mine. And what is mine, I do not give to anyone,” he draws red and black diamonds on each of his eyelids.

“We’ve reached an agreement. You are no longer a trickster god, so there’s no reason for you to hold onto those golds. We figure they’ll be of more use where our matters are concerned.”

“Oh, and what are your matters of concern, if I may ask?” he turns to her, face hazy and blotched.

“That, unfortunately, is none of your business. All we need is your golds, and once we have them, you shall never hear from us ever again.”

“Tempting, I do want some peace and quiet from your constant interruptions,” he strokes his chin. “However, I do not wish to be parted from my gold. I could, however, give you my mirror instead. So that you all have something to reflect upon,” he flashes her a smirk.

“Don’t try to be smart with me, Reynard. That didn’t end well for you last time, did it?”

He resumes painting his face. “I’m truly sorry that you took your time coming here, but sadly, your time and your dagger’s time have been wasted. You should have known better than to challenge me.”

“My time shall not be wasted, I shall remain seated here until you give it to me,” she takes out a chair and settles herself. “I know this place means quite a great deal to you, I do not wish for it to be destroyed because of your stubbornness. I also do not wish to see you putting yourself in harm's way by angering the other trickster gods.”

He, once again, remains silent. His face is now ivory white. Red curls fall down in front of his ever bright emerald eyes, like a torch of flame lighting a raging forest. She has never seen those eyes tranquil. They always hold such mischief that you can’t help but wish you were in on the secrets that he knows so well. Barrels and wheels pile around where her chair is. Hay scatters the floor, some even stick to her muddy boots. Her handkerchief is back on her nose when the smell of sweat and stored clothes invades her senses. Looking at the place, she can not help but feel such disdain. Disdain that such a talent would succumb to this mediocre of a life, wearing a mask to entertain a fleeting crowd. Pathetic.

The lamp, which has been placed on the table, teeters each time he moves about the cramp space. Masks on the walls, make up powder, cards, shimmering outfits with shiny embroidery, all essentials for a magician and clown. She sighs.

“Oh no, you just sighed. Should I run for my life?” he teases while hands still dabbing the last of the makeup, the three flopping points of his hat bounce as he inches closer at the scratched mirror, the bells jingle with every move.

“I feel sorry for you. I remember when you would run around kingdoms and trick people. How the bards would sing songs about you, about your adventures. Imagine their disappointment when all they can sing now is a dusty room and a silly magic clown. How could you be content with being in this wretched place?”, her voice is full of contempt.

He stops. Turns to her, eyes darkened. It could have been because of the fickled light, but his burgundy monk's cowl and motley breeches seem to be bursting with seething flames. She’s reminded of those clowns stuffed in boxes, ready to jump out and scare people. Is she scared of him? She grips the dagger hidden in her coat as he approaches. The room seems to have shrunk, and she finds it harder to breathe.

Then he smiles with his eyes close, pointed shoes grinding the squashed hay.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand but I like it here. This feels like somewhere I can belong.”

“No, you belong with us, the gods. That’s who you are.”

“You’re wrong. That's who I used to be,” his features soft as the room drowns in the glow of the lamp. “I’m no longer the cunning fox you knew. Like you said, I’m not the one people would sing songs about now.”

He pulls himself a stool and sits close to her, his hands clasping together. The bells ring.

“I find myself not caring as much about whether people still hear our tales or not. Not all songs about us are true. Everyone wants a funny tale but no one ever ask what has become of the characters involved.”

“The characters involved? Who would want to listen to them? It’s fun. The burst of energy coursing through your veins, the laugh you get seeing these humans fall for your trap, the admiring looks from people who would later tell and listen to your tale-”

“It’s not fun for me,” he cuts her off of her excitement. “I find no joy in what we do. All I could remember from those times were crying faces, blood-boiled rage, and accusing tones pointed at one another.”

“I’ve always thought you were unaffected by such trivial things. In fact, you reveled in it.”

“Not anymore. Not since that time.”

She raises her brow, not quite sure what time he’s talking about. Time never is something they pay much thought to. Time simply passes and they move on with it, finding more mischievous things to do along the way.

“Have you ever thought about what a sad world we live in, Arley?” he pauses. “People are never happy, they’re more guarded now. They don’t trust anybody, they don’t share smiles that easily, and they don’t let themselves be vulnerable before anyone. Hoarding their souls away, never letting a single person enter. People who are not happy, they make other people unhappy, and round it goes, never stops. But you know what’s even sadder? That we are partly to blame. We stole their trust, Arley. Not diamonds or golds or anything. Trust is what we have tricked people out of.”

His eyes meet hers. Those eyes that is always containing excitement, at this moment, they’re tender and are filled with something resembling guilt and sadness. She turns away. This is no face for a god.

He continues. “People come here looking for entertainment. They look for an escape from their current lives. That’s what I’m here for. I can’t take back what I’ve done but at least I can make them forget about their troubles and make them laugh." He grins. “What better way to be a trickster god than to trick people out of their misery?”

He walks back to his mirror, making sure everything is in its place.

"Well, my performance is about to begin. You are welcome to watch. I assure you, there shall be no moment of boredom,” he winks.

And with that, he exits the room.

A sash of light slips through the cracked curtains, illuminating a sliver of his being. He closes his eyes. Silence.

“AND NOW LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THE PERFORMANCE YOU’VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR: REYNARD THE MAGIC CLOWN!”

Then like a forest hunger for the first break of dawn, emerald eyes open. This is the moment. This is his moment.

Applause erupts the moment he steps out from behind the curtains. Blinding lights erase the burgundy she thought he had worn and instead lit it ablaze with a crimson red. Cheers and cries quake the circus. If power could be generated by sound alone, the large tent would no doubt fly up and disappear in the night sky.

He bows. They clap. He rises. They roar. This is what he lives for, the attention, the admiration, the affection, let them rain down onto him. He takes a moment to breathe in the scent of what’s surrounding him. Odours of a thousand bodies warm the tight circle. The smell of food, of rotten meat, of mud-stained boots stepping on filth-splattered shoes wrap this odd area in a bubble that promises to never pop. This always sends Reynard back to those villages he used to wander to. People then were no different from people now, always eager for a story or a riddle, always searching for something to distract themselves with, to bring them moments of fun and peace. He lets himself get burned in all this nostalgia, this warm burst of flame enrapturing his entire being. An image of the court room emerges from the depth of his memory. People dancing, musicians singing and playing their various instruments, he making a fool of himself, and there on the throne sat the King and Queen. A single tear rolls down his painted face.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your fullest attention?” his voice echoes through the circus. All eyes are on him.

“Like many other nights before, tonight I shall give you a riddle. What is peculiar about this riddle, though, is that even I do not know the true answer to it. So whoever can give me the most satisfying answer will receive a free pass to this circus forever.”

The audience hold their breath. Arley hears whispers of calculation: a free pass means they’ll never have to debate with their spouses or their whiny children whether they should save it for food tomorrow or for one night of entertainment. The bustling crowd from before has suddenly turned to stilled statues for everyone is trying to crane their ears and necks to hear this intriguing riddle that even the one citing it does not know the full answer to.

“The riddle goes:

A King, a Queen, and a court fool

Now this fool was unlike any fool

This fool he fooled an entire kingdom

Fooled the people he thought were such fools

The King and Queen were both nobles

Noble both in blood and in spirit

Ignored the nobles they did when they rescued

A false beggar who was later their fool

No one had ever heard of such a peaceful realm

Peaceful in weather, peaceful in people

Though there existed minor conflicts

But those were no problems to pay one’s mind to

But prosperity's never outstretched its gift for long

Soon a drought came, and the people starved

‘This is my chance, this is my chance’ the fool chanted

‘This is my chance to wreak havoc!’

He started with an Earl, then a Marquess, then a Duke

He, in the name of the King, asked them for their gold

He gave them the King’s letter and confirmation

And would soon left with bags of gold, which he kept three for him alone

‘My King, the nobles have placed their trust in me

Trust that I will deliver their gold to you

For you to use for the poor, the destitute

Hurry, Your Majesty! There’s no time to lose!’

Must had been such a day for the poor

Gold from the King helping them in this poor time

But when money was no longer an issue

A plague reeked, killing thousands from time to time

Knowing their gold was used for the destitute

They thought the King had had them fooled

“He got you fooled’ the fool whispered to the Duke

The Duke, fueled with rage, planned on what to do

The Queen confided in the fool

‘O’ dearest fool, what shall I do?

Illness reeks and the people’s health deplete

Every time I see them, I weep’

‘If your trust for me is true

Then give me your silver mirror

I’ll find someone who can help

And soon this plague will be over’

He took the mirror and came back with bags of grass

Grass he said would heal all ailments

But little did the Queen know

That grass did nothing but increase the illness

Hatred bloomed like a rose in June

Civil war rose, the people and nobles wanted to take control

Nobles couldn't trust the King, folks wouldn’t trust the Queen

All the while the fool watched this unfurled from his window

People accused the Queen of being a witch

They wanted her burned at the stake

The nobles started the fire

And added the King for the sake of it

The pleading looks full of questions and regrets

From the King and Queen burned the fool

The looks linger still as they burned

Haunting the fool deep at his core

War continued, the plague continued

All it took was one whisper, one nudge

From the mouth of a playful being

To ruin the harmony and trust

Where was the fool amidst all this horror?

Well I’ll tell you

He ran away

Ran away with his heavy gold and scratched mirror

So I ask you now

A King and Queen who trusted their subjects

The nobles who trusted the King, the folks who trusted the Queen

And the fool who trusted nothing but trickery and deceit

Who was the fool?

He then turns to her, with a defeated look, maybe with a sigh that wishes to turn back time.

Who was the fool?