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The Unknown Prince
He had no sense of how long he had been wandering, wearing names less cursed than his own and fighting wars in which he had no interest. And when he passed through lands where no lords were recruiting soldiers then he would labour in whatever way attracted the least attention and always made sure that he did not incur any debts or collect any dependents.
It was only when exhaustion forced him to sit quietly and rest, or lay down on whatever was his bed, that he could not prevent his dreaming feet from walking back to the land of his birth. Along the valley where the river wound and sparkled, through the fragrant forests of juniper and fir, past the villages that climbed the hillsides, up to the palace… where lay the bodies of his father, his mother and his brother.
For the first few months he had woken from those dreams with a shiver and a feeling of profound loneliness. Everywhere he went, the people who spoke to him had names they wore without shame, and could show him their village and their house and their family. And sometimes the village would be beautiful and the house would be comfortable and the family would be kind and he would begin to feel that perhaps this could be his home too. But always the past would creep up behind him and tap his shoulder and whisper “all these good things you were already given and you lost them.” And sometimes he would argue back inside his mind, generate excuse after excuse. But the adjudicator was not his head, it was his heart, and it found him guilty every time. His shoulders would sink in shame and he would pack his few belongings and be gone before his new friends could stop him; once again seeking the death that should have come to him when it came to his family and ended his suffering with theirs.
Almost a year passed in this manner until one morning when he woke in a mud-filled ditch, bruised all over and in pain, the only survivor of a skirmish in a disputed borderland he could not name. He lay still for a while, feeling the betrayal of once again having been denied a death with honour, and with it a sickening punch of self-loathing. What if you had got your reckless wish? he scolded himself. The last hope of your father’s house would have died with you. But after hours of despair, as the sun slowly rose and its light glowed red through his closed eyes, a second small voice began to assert itself inside his head. What hope? It scoffed. There is no hope for my father’s house or his kingdom. That story is long finished. A feeling of calm began gradually to settle on him. And when he found the strength to drag himself up onto his feet and begin walking again, he found that his steps were lighter than before and his mind was easier.
More months passed and every day he felt freer, the walls around his life seeming to expand every time he pressed against them. Whatever path presented itself, he would take. Whatever pleased him in the moment, he would pursue. And any limits, physical or mental, that he perceived in himself he would instinctively push through; drawn to the dangerous and the impossible, not to destroy himself as he had before, but to savour the way new suffering would break him and remake him stronger. And if he met someone whose way of being carried some quality that he could admire, then he would borrow that man’s name and even his way of speaking and carry them into the next place he landed, trying on another life like a suit of new clothes. Perhaps those were the days he enjoyed most because they took him furthest from the man he had once been.
He was contemplating another such interlude now, as he slipped away from another briefly-adopted home. On foot like a thief, light in his heart and hopeful, he walked for hours between emerald-green slopes and past clusters of humble houses, until he began to feel the pull of an imperial city. He could not yet see the gleaming palace that must lay at the city’s heart but he knew that he walked through its veins. The road began to widen and became more crowded by the mile as other roads joined and flowed into it, pushing their traffic ever closer to its gates. Soldiers marching in squares, officials in horse-drawn wagons, beggars on blistered feet, families with dead-eyed children on their backs. The quality of his clothes marked him out from the growing throng, he knew. And his bearing and steady, determined gaze still advertised his past. But he considered this state to be temporary; a brief reassertion of old habits that he could easily throw off. And as the road began to climb and the houses gathered more and more thickly into unbroken staircases of tiled rooves, spreading out as far as he could see in every direction, he felt no concern. Only curiosity, to discover what new character this place would draw from him when he arrived there. What new character and what new name.
The sun was red and sinking under its own weight when he reached the city’s heart. He was ready to rest, but what he saw at the palace wall revived him horribly, slicing through his train of thought. It was the bloodiest welcome he had ever encountered outside of a battlefield. A row of decapitated heads gazed out from the ramparts, displayed on stakes black with blood. Their slack mouths gaped open as if to speak to him in warning. There was no sign to indicate what crime these men had committed, if any. Only an enormous bronze gong, which hung beneath their heads and resembled a sun at first glance. Except that it did not punish the eye but drew it, incessantly. Around him, other travellers were visibly fearful at the sight of it, all tilting their heads away and making themselves look more diminished. But the prince felt no fear, only elation at the thought that perhaps this place harboured a more significant test than he had so far faced. An oppositional force that could break him like no other. All he was aware of wishing for was the opportunity to go beyond his limits once more and discover himself anew.
His way was barred at first. The palace guards would not let him through. But he could already see that the energy in this city lived in the sprawling streets outside its walls. In every corner people huddled in excitable groups and spoke with agitation. All the drinking houses were noisy and overflowing. Street sellers pushed carts to and fro and barefoot children ran about in packs. The atmosphere was festive on the surface but with a volatile undercurrent. And yet from beyond the palace gate there came no sign or sound of life at all.
He had decided to enquire after a place to sleep when, all around him, heads turned to the ramparts. The noise of the crowd fell from a roar to a murmur. Curious now, he followed their gaze upward and saw a man step into view:
“This is the law!” a sneering official in imperial colours, “Princess Turandot the Pure will marry the man of royal blood who solves the three riddles she asks of him. But whoever faces the trial and is defeated must bow his proud head to the axe!”
The prince’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment. He smiled, realising that in the depths of his mind he had already half decided to try his luck against whatever demon it was that haunted this place. But now he reconsidered. What fool would want this princess for a wife? A wife of any kind would be burdensome to him, because with her would come a home and a family and, worst of all curses, the promise of children of his own, who would justifiably look to him for everything and no doubt would suffer terribly or be lost, as was fated to happen to all the souls he loved. And as for the kingdom she offered, the rule of which had presumably been these suitors’ true desire, only a madman would willingly accept such chains around his ankles and heart. The prince began to turn his mind to the problem of where to sleep that night.
The official continued: “The Prince of Persia had Fate against him: when the moon rises, at the executioner’s hand he must die!”
Curiosity renewed her play for his attention. One of these suitors still lives? And only grew more ticklish when he saw the excitement of the crowd. With zealous eyes that showed their whites all around and bared teeth like animals, they shouted “Death! Death! We want the executioner. Quickly! Quickly!” before crashing their bodies against the spears of the guards, who forced them back with blunt, workmanlike indifference.
He was allowing himself to be jostled towards the palace, just to see what might happen, when a cry went up from the side of the road. It snatched away his breath.
“This old man has fallen! Please have pity, who can help me lift him up?”
Before he could consciously locate the voice in his memory, time and reality began to spin away from the prince. It plucked him from the present and dropped him shocked and reluctant back into the valley of his youth; along the river that looped and sparkled, through the fragrant forest of juniper and fir, right to the heart of that long-forgotten palace where lay the body of his father… no longer dead but very much alive.
What?
Helpless and shaking on the ground, the king was much older than the prince remembered. His thick black hair had turned white and sparse, his proud face was sunken and drawn, and instead of a weapon in his hands, the prince noticed with deep sadness and alarm, he clutched an old man’s stick for walking. Clutched it with both hands as if he were at sea and it was the only thing preventing him from drowning.
Without consciously deciding to, his feet ran to his father’s aid and his arms – how little strength it takes, so light and frail a body – reached out to pull the elderly man from the melee. Two dim, watery eyes fixed themselves on the prince, full of confusion and distrust; was this truly the stern figure of authority who stood like a colossus in his childhood memory?
“Father, my father,” swallowing, he tried to sound reassuring, “I’ve found you. Look at me,” while in his mind, half-stunned, the same words repeated over and over: it’s not a dream, it’s not a dream.
“My Lord?!” The girl who had cried out for help now cried out again, this time in surprise. He almost looked over his shoulder to see what lord she was appealing to, then caught her eye, or rather not her eye but the top of her head as she bowed with respect to him. And only then lifted her face to his like the rising of the morning sun with an expression almost unbearable to him, so full of gratitude and joy and hope. Ahh no… she knows me. All of the faces in his previous life had looked at him that way, and first the sweetness of all their devotion and belief flooded through him and then, as inevitably as night follows day, he was struck with the full force of its agonising weight. He felt as though his father’s keep had collapsed onto his shoulders even as, in the old man’s face, recognition finally sparked.
“My son, you’re alive?”
Wearily, the prince inclined his head in confirmation but pressed a finger to his lips, sweeping the courtyard with newly vigilant and suspicious eyes. “The one who wears your crown seeks me and pursues you.” There is no hiding place in this world…
“I looked for you, my son. I thought you were dead!”
I was, I am, he thought with despair, but said, “I wept for you, father, and now I kiss your blessed hands.” And he did so, trying not to notice how violently they shook.
Prince Calaf
By the time they found a clear patch of ground for his father to rest, Calaf was carrying almost all of the old man’s weight in his arms. He talked incessantly and every word was a fresh sting: “only this girl would help me… she begged for me… she dried my tears.”
“Bless her.” I didn’t even get close enough to discover that you were still breathing.
When he had established that his father was not hurt from his fall, he turned to the girl with his questions. Her manner was familiar and her face sparked memories. But it was difficult to begin speaking to her as she kept bobbing away and would not meet his eye for very long. He crouched down beside her where she knelt on the baked earth.
“Who are you?” He asked, gently.
“Nothing!”
His gaze was persistent.
“Just a slave, my lord.”
“Then why did you take on my father’s anguish?” You owed him nothing.
At this the girl bowed her head deeper than ever and became preoccupied by the embroidered sleeves of her tunic. “Because one day… in the palace…” She took a deep, shuddering breath. Then another. “You… smiled at me.”
“Oh…”
He smiled at her again now, his brow creasing with sadness and confusion. That was all? A smile? He had worked so hard to forget himself, never suspecting that someone else would keep him alive in her thoughts. How she had managed to weave such tenderness from the few threads of his reality she had known, he could not fathom. Gently, he lifted her face up to his, wanting to say ‘you don’t know me, and even if you did…’
But as they looked at each other, her wide eyes constantly darting away from his gaze, for a moment he felt the suggestion of a new future. A new path creating itself at his feet. Or really an old path, a version of his first. It sparked no excitement or passion in his heart but it still exerted a pull. He and this girl… together could they make a peaceful home for his father? She was a slave but what did that matter? He was a prince of nowhere, an aberration, a joke. He swallowed and dropped his gaze to her hands, then took one and held it. With every passing moment it felt more inevitable, that he would step into the role she had dreamed for him. He knew the lines by heart, he had been given them in the cradle. It would be easy to speak the words he knew she wanted to hear and with them transform her life as he knew he could…
He was halfway there in his mind when a roar of welcome went up from the crowd, breaking the spell. He blinked and looked away to see what new presence was among them, unconsciously dropping her hand as he watched the people part like waves. Through them came running a gang of young men, all brandishing knives. The men were uniformed like warriors but they did not move like any warriors he had ever known. To the prince’s appraising eye they looked more like acrobats or dancers. Under the snarling animal masks they wore he could see that their true faces were pale and sallow. The knives they flourished he judged to be no more dangerous in their soft hands than the sticks held by the delighted children who followed them, copying their feints in play.
These people cannot have fought a real battle or faced an enemy of significance in their lives, he thought, or they would not make such a festival of a single death. But even though he wanted to dismiss it, the spectacle aroused his curiosity and he could not quite look away. And when a group of revellers capered within his reach he caught one by the shoulder, a young man, and asked him: “What are you gathering here to see? Surely they will not behead a man of royal blood here in the street!” The youth shrugged and tried to twist away, but the prince tightened his grip and finally the boy looked at him properly and realised it would go better for him if he answered the stranger’s questions. His eyes kept flashing around, though, back to his friends and the palace walls. His words came out breathlessly.
“The princess, of course! The prince of Persia rang the gong and now we will see her…” The crowd began chanting and, unable to repress his excitement, the wild-eyed boy joined in by way of explanation: “White as jade, cold as a knife, the beautiful Turandot!”
The prince released him and looked on in distaste as the boy shot away back to his friends. They jumped and gestured, and continued the chant: “Love is in vain if he doesn’t have luck!”
“My son, what is happening?”
I wish I knew…
He looked back towards the quavering voice. His father seemed confused again, and lost; reaching out for his son, inaccurately, with snapping fingers. The girl shuffled closer to the old man, taking his hand and guiding it onto her shoulder to reassure him. “Your son wanted to know why all these people are here.”
“Ahh… yes!” His father laughed, wryly, seeming to regain some of his sharpness. “Another marriage trial.”
The prince’s frown deepened. “How long have you been in this place?”
“Oh… not long…” The old man turned falteringly to the girl for corroboration “At least I don’t…?”
“It does not feel as though it has been very long, my lord.” She said, and her gaze wandered down to the old king’s feet, which the prince now saw were torn and bandaged. Whatever physical capacity had got his father to this city was obviously long spent.
The old man patted her hand, looking abashed. “She wants to leave. We were hoping, today…”
His voice trailed off. There was an uncomfortable pause. The girl looked up at the prince once more. And there, again, was the new path at his feet…
He walked it all the way to their lodging; through the narrow and crowded alleyways, past the white lanterns that hung from every balcony, dipping his head in time with hers to avoid the fluttering banners strung from house to house. When she pointed out the room where they were living, the meagreness of it twisted his heart. But she had kept everything so neatly that her quiet dignity sang from every corner. It was easy to find his place in it.
Without speaking, they drew the shutters together as naturally as if they had done it a thousand times. Then she waited beside him in silence as he and his father discussed their future. Were they all safer in this place where they were unknown and foreigners were common? Or should they move on, perhaps to a place where their family still had friends? His father advocated strongly for that course but then became vague and confused on the subject of where exactly, and could only name cousins and aunts whom the prince knew to be long dead.
When it became clear that his father was too tired to continue talking, his eyes falling closed for longer and longer and his speech becoming stuck in repeating circles, the prince excused himself politely and withdrew to their small balcony, leaving him to the girl’s care – Liu was her name.
Before long, the aroma of cooking began to seep through the doorway. And moments later she tiptoed outside to offer him a bowl. He took it in both hands with a nod of thanks. When she was gone he stared down into the cooling broth. The reflection of his own face stared up at him, pale and haunted. Older than he remembered. He pierced the surface with his spoon, lifted up a pool of dark liquid and watched it trickle, slowly, back into the bowl. He could find no appetite in himself and put the bowl down on the wooden rail, then allowed his face to sink into his hands.
You should be happy. You have not lost as much as you thought. But he wasn’t happy. He suffered, deeply, at the sudden arrival in his life of these things that he had forgotten could be his. What ought to have lightened him seemed only to weigh him down. Are you so selfish, Calaf, that you are happier when you have nobody?
Lifting his head, he gazed out over the dark city as though it might offer a comforting response. Countless rooftops slanted into the distance, all slotted together like an elaborate game of cards. Inky blue slats sinking into deep black shadow. Ridges and eaves picked out red-orange by the dying light of the sun. They did not seem to end, just gradually merged into the blurry mountains on the distant horizon. The moon had risen, growing brighter against the darkening sky, and had brought with it a cool breeze from the plains in the south which stirred the heavy city air and set the turtle doves cooing on their rooftop perches.
The prince remained still but could feel himself stirring too, a new pressure growing, like the pressure that grows beneath the lid of a boiling pot. The alleyway beneath him was an invitation. It was quieter now but there were still a few souls walking under the night sky; beggars straggling from door to door, tired workers shuffling their feet, furtive people on urgent business. In a sudden burst of decisiveness, he vaulted the balcony’s rail and dropped to the ground.
Conscience tapped his shoulder even before his legs found their stride. What now? His mind reproachfully pictured the bowl of uneaten broth he’d left behind and Liu’s bewildered expression on finding it there and him gone. They will worry. They will be disappointed. But he shrugged it off and continued to walk - I will go back to them, soon, I will go back - directed by nothing but the sudden and overwhelming need to be once more among people for whom he was nameless, people who would accept him as whatever manner of person he claimed to be. He could have taken almost any name here, invented any number of pasts. Until his father. Until Liu. But that was all over now.
Curse this city! And curse the roads that had drawn him here. And a thousand curses on the Princess Turandot and her wall of trophies. If only he hadn’t seen them and begun, fatally, to wonder he might have been back on the road by now, happily oblivious to his father’s plight and ignorant of his wishes.
But he had seen them and he was still here. And even as his feet tried to quicken their pace, propelling him on through narrow street after narrow street, he felt his past pulling against him like a rope hooked to his back, slowing him down and down and down. Remember who you are. Remember everything. He was a prince who had never wanted the responsibility of command, or the trust of his people, or the honour of being the sole author of his family’s peace and comfort. He had never asked for any of it, just woken into it out of oblivion! And in his longing to cast the burden off he had grown careless and complacent. He had sunk his energy into escapes and distractions. He had not voiced his dissent when he needed to or, if he were honest, even turned his mind in any serious way to the protection of his kingdom. A kingdom that in the depths of his heart he knew he could perhaps have saved if he had just once…
But he had not.
His legs stopped moving. A tremor had begun in his stomach and was gradually spreading to his back, shoulders, arms and hands. A strange, bitter feeling was stretching his jaw. Blind to the road ahead and the people around him, he could see only the palace of his youth, and knew with sickening certainty that however burdensome it had been, however miserable, to be the Prince Calaf that everyone loved and trusted, he would go back to that old life in a heartbeat if some enchantment would allow it. He would give his head to have made no mistakes and to see it all restored as it was... but what could he do? Go back now to his father and face that loss? Unbearable. But it was either that or continue running away. Shameful. There were no other paths. There was nothing.