As Long As Praxis Doesn’t Show Up

“King Galen the Good is dead? Seriously, he ate himself to death?”

Counting out a stack of money, Queen Mariposa barely looks up at her foreign minister.

“Yes. You know how much Galen liked cherries. This year’s crop failed due to the harsh weather, so we imported them from Alsace-Lorraine. By the time they got here, they’d been sprayed with the Gods know what to keep them fresh. Galen had ulcers, and he did himself no favors by overeating and chasing the cherries with cold milk. Basically, his stomach exploded. I’m devastated. I’ll miss his sense of humor, his empathy, and his wisdom… He would have been seventy-six next week.”

Plumpish, round-faced, and red-haired, the seventy-year-old monarch maintains her composure by biting her lower lip.

As the court’s foreign minister, forty-six-year-old Cedric Grey has helped maintain peaceful relations between his homeland, Darvia, and Moldovia, two small, independent neighboring European provinces. His warm brown eyes, tidy mustache, prominent hook nose, and suave, cultivated presence have served him well for the past twelve years in King Galen’s court. He has even managed to placate the kingdom’s enigmatic mage, Septimus. Cedric is most proud of his six Moldovia Peace Prizes, one of the country’s most prestigious awards.

Queen Mariposa hands Cedric the stack of money.

“This is between you and me, in recognition of your loyal service. I strongly recommend that you use this money to leave Moldovia now.”

“I’m ready to serve you, my Queen.”

“I appreciate your loyalty, Cedric, but I’m not going to rule Moldovia. I’m going to follow tradition.”

“But if you don’t take the throne, your cousin Baron Tamerlane Tyree is next in line. Pardon me for saying this, Your Grace, but I’ve met Baron Tyree. He doesn’t have the mindset to be a king.”

“True. He’s an erratic, spoiled hipster who should be working at Dunkin’ Doughnuts and going to raves…Whatever those are. His spacey personality comes from being deprived of oxygen for four minutes when he nearly drowned as a child…Would you mind handing me that bottle?”

Cedric glances at the half dozen prescription bottles on the Queen’s vanity, picking up the first one.

“This one?”

“No. The one marked with the large N on it.”

Closing her eyes, she swallows half of the small seeds in the bottle.

“Do me one last favor, Cedric. I don’t want my cousin Begonia singing at my funeral. She sounds like a bull moose in heat.”

“I’ll remember that when the time comes.”

Queen Mariposa closes her eyes.

“It’s time.”

***

Septimus, Moldovia’s long-serving mage, stares enviously at the empty throne.

Tall, sinewy, and austere-looking with silver hair, rugged features, and a distinctive low voice, Septimus is believed to be hundreds of years old and is an outspoken advocate for traditional Moldovian values.

Cedric breaks the silence. “I still don’t understand why Queen Mariposa took her life.”

Septimus raises a finger as if to scold Cedric. “As far as the people are concerned, she died of natural causes. She was unable to live without her husband and died from a broken heart.”

“If I’d known the ‘N’ on her prescription bottle stood for nightshade, I wouldn’t have handed it to her. It’s the end of a golden age. The King and Queen have no living heirs. When I arrived here, Queen Mariposa told me that her son, Edward, had died in a hunting accident. Every time she spoke his name, you could see the pain in her heart…”

Septimus’ reply is cold and reptilian. “Yes, he died in a hunting accident. One of the boys, trying to chase foxes out of the undergrowth, uncovered a sleeping bear. He screamed, and Edward’s horse jumped, causing his gun to go off.”

“And her daughter, Katherine…”

“Another tragedy. She died in an airplane crash along with her husband and two boys.”

“So, with no other living heirs, Queen Mariposa’s cousin, Baron Tyree, will rule. Tyree, the Twit; it should be interesting.”

“I wouldn’t call him that in his presence,” Septimus warns. “King Galen and Queen Mariposa ruled for forty years. They were liberal, more interested in being loved by the people than ruling them properly. They wanted Moldovia to be a tourist playground like Darvia and ignored our sacred traditions.”

“You sound as if you’d like to see those traditions restored.”

“I do, and so does Baron Tyree. To start with, the King and Queen will be entombed together, along with their servants, guards, pets, and the members of their court.”

“I must’ve skipped that passage in the royal rule book.”

Cedric’s pleasant smile fades.

“…Wait. I’m a member of their court…”

“So, you are. The funeral service is next week, at which time you’ll be put to death. A week should give you ample time to put your affairs in order.”

***

Cedric drops his briefcase by the door, muttering, “For Christ's sake, it’s the twenty-first century, not the Dark Ages!”

He’s greeted by the sight of a pile of garbage on the dining room table, comprised of the awards given to him by the people of Moldovia. His treasured Peace Prizes have been turned into scrap metal.

His wife, Cloris, stands nearby, holding a photo of King Galen giving him the Humanitarian of the Year Award. Flicking a lighter, she sets it ablaze.

“Just doing some Spring cleaning.”

“You’re allergic to housework. Why start now?”

The couple has been married for twenty-three tempestuous years. Like Cedric, Cloris was born and raised in Capritsio, Darvia’s wealthiest city. When she came to Moldovia, polo matches at elite country clubs were replaced by mule races; instead of caviar, she was served traditional dishes made from elk, and ballets were replaced by sweaty male dancers twirling swords. She now spends most of the year in Darvia.

“Did you sign the divorce papers, Cloris?”

“Not yet. There’s still the issue of child custody.”

“What are you talking about? I haven’t seen Tad or Chrissie for years because you kidnapped them and sent them to live with your mother in Capritsio.”

“I want it in writing that they’re mine. Permanently.”

“Fine!”

Cloris's cat-like, ice-blue eyes narrow. “That was too easy. Trouble in Bumpkinville?”

“Yes, now that Septimus has his hands on the wheel. The royal family’s court is going to be buried with King Galen and Queen Mariposa next week. That includes me.”

“I told you when we first came here that these people were savages. But you said, ‘Try and understand them, they’re superstitious people.’ You could have had the same job in Alsace-Lorraine with a villa, a chauffeur, and an unlimited expense account. But no, you wanted to come to a traditional, quaint little country that even the Amish would shun.”

“As my wife, you’re on the list to be exterminated, too.”

Cloris’ neck cracks as her head twists in his direction.

“What?”

“When I die, you die with me, sweetheart.”

“I don’t think so, Henry Kissinger.”

Cloris marches to the roll-top desk, where they keep their papers. Plucking the divorce settlement from a stack of documents, she signs it.

“There. We’re divorced. Have a nice life. What’s left of it.”

***

A few days later, Cedric and Septimus find themselves standing at attention in the castle’s ornate throne room. They occasionally let their eyes roam to the impish Baron Tyree, who is leisurely eating an apple with his legs propped up on the back of a servant. He is wearing a silver face mask over his mouth and nose.

“I’m surprised you’re still here, Cedric,” Septimus whispers. “I thought you’d have fled the country with the rest of the unfaithful by now.”

“I believe in the peaceful relationship between our countries. I intend to see it stays that way.”

“Darvia’s State Department isn’t going to step in and save you. We’ve already prepared a certificate of death that says you died of a heart attack. You’ll die in two days with the rest of King Galen’s court and be entombed with him and the Queen.”

“I want to speak with the Baron, to convince him that this tradition needs to be abolished.”

“It won’t do you any good. The future king has already sent many of King Galen’s servants to be with him in the afterlife. His dog, Pookey, has been euthanized.”

“You killed Pookey? That’s cruel.”

“You may work for us, Cedric, but you fail to understand Moldovian tradition. It’s considered an honor to be entombed with the King and Queen. Many members of their court will go willingly to their death so they can live a more favorable existence in the afterlife.”

“Let’s talk about our present lives. Why is Tyree wearing a face mask?”

“To prevent him accidentally swallowing the germs of mere mortals,” Septimus says proudly. “He’s no longer a mere mortal. He’s an archangel.”

“That’s like an angel on steroids, right?”

An exotic-looking dark-haired woman carrying a gas can enters the throne room.

Septimus whispers, “That’s Bastet, one of the Queen’s handmaidens.”

Bastet bows to Tyree. “I pledge my loyalty to King Galen and Queen Mariposa and wish to join them in the afterlife.”

Bored, Tyree waves his hand, uttering, “Knock yourself out, sweetie.”

Bastet pours gasoline over herself, then strikes a match.

She disappears in a wall of flame without so much as a whimper.

Tyree takes his feet off the servant.

“Well… bye-bye, Bastet! Get a bucket and broom and clean that up, pronto. Baron Makar is due any minute.”

Stunned, Cedric can only repeatedly whisper, “Why?”

“Bastet was a servant,” Septimus replies. “Because of her loyalty, in her next life she could be elevated to the wife of a nobleman.”

“Or remain ashes and bones.”

Moments later, twenty-eight-year-old Baron Kale Maker and his teenage assistant, Zarley Zaplatski, enter the throne room. Both bow deeply.

“Watch and learn,” Septimus says.

“We pledge our loyalty to King Galen and Queen Mariposa and wish to join them in the afterlife.”

Baron Tyree tosses his apple aside. “Well… Bye-bye!”

Zarley hands a revolver to Baron Maker, who promptly puts the gun against the side of his head and shoots himself.

Zarley catches the Baron as he falls backward, gently easing his dead body to the floor.

He picks up the gun.

Cedric shouts, “Wait! Don’t throw your life away! You’re just a boy!”

“But I’m going to a better place!”

Placing the gun under his chin, Zarley pulls the trigger. The bullet shoots out of the top of his head.

Tyree lets out a dissatisfied grunt. “We should have put a vinyl cover on the floor. All that blood is going to stain the expensive marble.”

Cedric steps forward.

“You’re Cedric Grey, the one with the mouthy old lady, aren’t you?” Tyree asks. “I bet you want to put some gone between you and her. Would you like to be the next to join the royal couple in the afterlife?”

“Let me make this perfectly clear… HELL NO!”

Septimus attempts to pull Cedric away, but he stands his ground.

“He’s just nervous, Baron,” Septimus offers. “He’s from Darvia, but as our foreign minister, he’s aware of his duty.”

“Duty schmooty. Ancient law says he dies in two days, even if you have to kill him.”

***

Cedric enters the throne room the following afternoon with a bucktooth man carrying a scuffed briefcase and wearing a tan Brooks Brothers suit and a scraggly toupee.

Baron Tyree shoos the pretty handmaiden sitting on his lap away.

“What do you want, peasant?”

“I’m Justin Case. I represent Minister Grey.”

He opens his briefcase, handing Baron Tyree a document.

“This is an injunction preventing you from murdering my client.”

“That’s a bit harsh. You need to mellow out, counselor. Cedric is just fulfilling his destiny.”

“Nevertheless, he’s not dying tomorrow.”

“If he doesn’t, our crops may wither, our livestock might die, and a plague could ravage the population.”

“We’re willing to take that chance,” Justin replies. “See you in court.”

***

Cedric’s trial takes place a week later.

Justin meets Cedric outside the throne room.

“You’ve already won, Cedric. We’ve passed your execution date.”

“Don’t organize the victory part just yet. I hear they haven’t sealed the tomb yet because they’re waiting to put me in it.”

“Don’t worry, the fix is in. Tyree doesn’t want this controversy hanging over his head. Not when he’s days away from being crowned King. I slip him fifty grand of your money, and he deports you back to Darvia. He keeps his tradition, and you keep your life.”

“It’s that simple?”

“Sure. As long as Praxis doesn’t show up.”

“Who?

“He’s our ancient god of justice and guards our traditional way of life. He appears when our way of life is being threatened. His word trumps the King, or in this case, the about-to-be King. He’s a hooded figure dressed in black. It’s believed that if you touch him, you’ll die. I wouldn’t worry about him, though. Praxis hasn’t been seen in hundreds of years.”

“What happened the last time he appeared?”

“It was the same kind of case. A servant, Rash Varney, refused to be buried with King Rupert the Righteous. Praxis judged him guilty. But instead of him and his immediate family being killed, Praxis ordered the death of his stepbrother’s family and his cousins' families. Varney had a stable of Arabian horses. Praxis touched them, and they fell to the earth, dead. The peasants ate well that day. Then the horses were stuffed. So were Rash and his family before they put him in Rupert’s tomb.”

Cedric turns to Justin. “Does the word precedent mean anything to you?”

***

Baron Tyree sits on the throne, his mask moving in and out like a sail catching a breeze as he dozes intermittently while Justin makes his case.

“Your Majesty?”

Tyree snorts as he wakes up. “Send both wenches to my chambers… I’m an archangel, send two more…Ooops!”

“Your verdict, Your Majesty…”

Tyree is about to speak when a booming voice yells, “STOP!”

A tall, hooded figure dressed in black glides across the marble floor. Bolts of lightning shoot from the figure’s black robe.

Tyree turns into a quivering ball of flesh.

Cedric turns to Justin. “Let me guess. Is that Praxis?”

“Yeah. We could be in trouble here.”

“We?”

Praxis speaks in a deep, authoritative voice. “I sense an injustice is about to be rendered here that threatens the Moldovian way of life. Are you the perpetrator of this injustice, Baron Tyree?”

Tyree’s eyes pop as he shivers. “Nope! Not me, bro! I mean no, my invincible mightiness!”

“Cedric Grey, for refusing to sacrifice yourself in the name of King Galen and Queen Mariposa, I sentence you to death! You will be pulled apart by horses in the courtyard as an example to those who defy our sacred traditions!”

Cedric faints.

He regains consciousness moments later. He tries to stand up, groaning in pain.

Praxis moves toward him. Cedric grabs his arm, pulling himself up.

Praxis’s protective bolts of lightning fizzle out.

“Cedric touched Praxis, and he’s still alive!” Justin shouts.

Cedric pulls off Praxis’s hood.

Tyree gasps. “Septimus! Why are you pretending to be our most revered spirit?”

“There is no Praxis… only me.”

“People have been living in fear of Praxis for centuries,” Justin says. “When I was a kid, my mother said I’d be sealed up in a tomb with Praxis if I didn’t eat my vegetables. Your deceit will turn our beliefs upside down!”

“But what about human sacrifice?” Tyree questions. “It’s supposed to bring us closer to our ancestors. Sacrifice is good!”

“May I make a suggestion?” Cedric asks.

“Speak. You’ve earned the right by cleverly unmasking Praxis.”

“Statues.”

Baron Tyree’s mouth drops, punctuating his confusion. “Say what?”

“If a King or a Queen dies, instead of killing everyone associated with them, why not make statues of them to send to the next world?”

Baron Tyree cocks his head. “Will the gods accept that?”

“Why not? Look around you. There are statues representing the gods in this very room. Why not make statues representing the living that can be entombed, instead of forcing citizens with bright futures ahead of them to die prematurely? Who knows how many Aristoteles, Teslas, and Roosevelts we’ve robbed ourselves of?”

Baron Tyree taps his finger against his head. “I like it! Case, you’ll draft my new decree. From henceforth, statues representing the court will be buried with the royal family.”

“Your groundbreaking decision will usher in a new period of enlightenment, Your Majesty.”

“I just want people to like me, but that’s cool too,” Tyree replies. “As for you, my disloyal mage… What’s up, homey? Why’d you do the royal family like you did?”

Septimus lowers his head. “I’m afraid it’s the age-old curse, Your Majesty. Money.”

“Don’t we pay you enough piasters?”

“I have a bad habit. I’m a gambler, and I’m not very good at it. It began many years ago when I lost to Hannibal in an elephant race. One time, to cover my debt, I took a golden scarab from King Mumford the Mellow’s tomb. Then I took another. I worried that my thievery might be discovered, so I replaced everything in his tomb with forgeries.”

Tyree steams. “Mumford ruled over six hundred years ago! You’ve been ripping off my relatives for that long?”

“I’ve done worse. Prince Edward didn’t die in a hunting accident. I shot him. I also sabotaged Duchess Katherine’s plane to eliminate the royal family’s heirs so that I could get closer to their money.”

“This is unforgivable! I should have you executed!”

“May I make another suggestion, your Grace?” Cedric asks.

“Take another swing. You’ve earned it.”

“Banish Septimus to Darvia.”

“That hardly seems like punishment.”

“Send him there as a servant. Make him wait hand and foot on a family.”

“Whose?”

“Mine.”

“That’s cold, dog. I’ve met your ex-wife, Cloris. She’s a real… Well, she’s not nice. The punishment is severe, but just. Well, Septimus, bye-bye!”