A Chaucer’s Christmas #7

Interlude

                There was stunned silence once the story faded away. We looked at each other, blinking and shaking our heads. “Powerful,” someone said.

“I’m going to be thinking about that one for a while,” someone else said.

There was silence, then the storyteller looked at me. “Do you want to go now?”

The other agreed, encouraging me to take my turn. With no recourse, I leaned forward. “New Year’s is coming up,” I said, “So let me tell you a little story.”

                Story #7: Out With the Old, In With the New

                It was a day of celebration.

A day of anticipation.

A day, for me, of total and utter trepidation.

For today was the day my grandfather, Grand Ruler of the Angor Empire, He Who Was Hailed as Mighty – the invincible and magnificent victor of numerous wars and campaigns, the uncounfoundable pontificator of a million philosophies and ideas – would abdicate his throne in my favor. He would descend from his throne for one last time, and I, in turn, would ascend to take his seat.

I woke, if the end to a sleepless night could be considered ‘waking,’ to the sound of a rapping on my door. As I was roused out of bed by my attendants and assisted into my royal clothes, my mind flew back to an experience of which I had no memory, but which my mother had told me several times.

With a cry, the little boy launches himself into the bed of his grandparents, landing on his Poppy’s stomach. The man sits upright, bellowing in unison. “Who goes there?” he shouts, grabbing his grandson and throwing him into the air. His wife opens an eye at the sound and smiles at the sight.

                “I’m coming to take your crown,” the little boy says, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “And you can’t stop me!”

                “Oh, can’t I?” his grandfather asks, swinging his legs out of bed and throwing the boy over his shoulder. “I’ll throw you in the jail, you little rotter.”

                Today, ‘jail’ was the massive closet that held the emperor’s clothing. With carefully firm motions, he swings his grandson into the mess of robes and coats. Then, smacking his hands at a job well done, he turns away, pretending it ignore the little boy sticking his head out of the clothing, still wearing the same grin.

                As sneakily as he can manage, the child runs out of the closet, his bare feet barely making a noise on the stone floor. When he reaches his grandfather, he raises his hand and spanks the older man, right on the bottom.

                His grandfather turns, his eyebrow raised in shock. The boy grins up at him.

                From her place in the bed, his grandmother burst out laughing.

 

While I didn’t remember the experience, it was one of my favorite stories. My grandfather was mortified, while I was oblivious. My grandmother thought it was hilarious. I was reprimanded of course, and I never spanked him again. But now, as an adult, it was a distant memory of which we would often laugh about.

My robes on and properly fitted, I left my rooms, trying to quell the nausea and worry that rose within me. I was expected to attend the breakfast banquet, but I wasn’t sure I could eat any more than a small plate.

The entire world would soon rest upon my shoulders.

Unlike my grandfather, I was not a man of war and rule. I was an academic, who had a lot of untested theories and hopeful dreams. I was not strong like him. I could not make the decisions that he could.

 

“And you… just order men to their deaths?” I ask, confused. “How can you do that?”

                My grandfather’s face is careworn, but tough. “War is not a pleasant place to find yourself in. These men knew that there was a good chance they were not going to return from this fight.”

                “All of them died,” I reply, my temper rising. “I knew men in that division – they are all dead now!”

                “One of my closest friends led the charge,” my grandfather says. “He knew he would not be returning, but he ran valiantly anyway.”

                “But how can you do that?” I cry again. I was near tears, yet my grandfather still looked unfazed by the atrocity we had witnessed.

                “It was the only way to get around behind them,” he calmly explains. “We had no chance of capturing their cannons if they weren’t occupied by a frontal assault.”

                The words sound empty to my ears, and I laugh without humor. “That’s supposed to comfort me? That they died so the enemy could be attacked from behind?”

                “It was this or to watch the army march, unhalted, into our country and allow them to destroy everything we know and love,” my grandfather replied. “You will understand this someday.”

                “I don’t want to understand,” I spit. I turn on my heel and stalk away. Before I left the room, I throw over my shoulder, “I never want to understand you.”

                My grandfather says nothing, but as I leave, I could swear I saw his mask slip, if only for a second. A true expression of pain breaks through, tightening his jaw. Then it’s gone, and the hardness sets in again.

 

                I hadn’t understood that hardness until more recently. It was the wall that leaders set up to distance themselves from the burden and weight of their decisions that would otherwise crush them. Some form of it had been built up in my heart, but it was far from what my grandfather carried. I worried about what would happen if I were given command of a country at war.

I sat through the breakfast feast with hardly a word, which was well enough – the folks I was seated near were talkative enough. No one had the gumption to even dare ask me what my thoughts or feelings on the day were. Which, again, was well enough.

I was seated near my grandfather, naturally. He, too, did not say much. I surmised that he, too, was contemplating how I would rule the empire. After all, as much as you plan or consider, moments do not become reality until they are occurring.

My grandfather gave me a smile over the table, and I’m struck again by his dark eyes.

My father and I both shared those eyes.

 

“What are you painting?” my grandfather asks, standing over my shoulder. After a measure of silence, he coughs. “Is that your father?”

                “Leave me alone!” I shout, lashing out and sending the easel tipping onto one leg. It totters, then tips over, crashing against the floor. The unfinished portrait of my father lays face up, an attempt on how I last remembered him: sitting on his charger, his hand on the hilt of his sword, preparing to lead an expedition into uncharted lands. The paint spills, creeping across the ground, but somehow, misses ruining the picture itself.

                I refuse to look at my grandfather, and instead keep my eyes on the half-formed features of the portrait.

                “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

                I say nothing. He knows how I feel. And I don’t want to be asked to change my burning emotions. I don’t want to be talked out of the cold fury.

                So, instead, I leave the room.

                I never touch the painting again.

 

My father, the rightful heir to the throne, died while exploring uncharted lands on our southern border. My grandfather had requested him to go personally, and my father had no choice but to agree.

But now I was fatherless, and next in line to become emperor.

I didn’t hate my grandfather – I was more mature than that – but it had taken a long time to forgive him.

I left the table, following the procession to the throne room. As my grandfather sat in the old, golden throne, I realized that the day, long awaited and feared, was happening. I took my seat in front of the crowd, seated next to my mother and grandmother.

The Archduke stands, walking towards the throne. He bows, and my grandfather indicates for him to rise with his scepter. The ceremony has officially begun.

“Grand Ruler of the Angor Empire,” the Archduke intones gravely, turning to face the crowd. “We gather here on the morn of a new year to celebrate the years that you have graciously and judiciously ruled us. In turn, we gather to recognize the end of your time as Emperor, and welcome your grandson as the new Grand Ruler.” He paused, letting it sink in for a second. “Grand Ruler, is it still your wish to continue with this ceremony?”

Even as the words leave his mouth, my grandfather is already responding, “It is my wish, Archduke.”

“Then let us continue,” the Archduke says.

 

“And what if I decide I don’t want the throne?” I ask. The question is not hot-headed or rebellious. It’s an honest request from an earnest heart.

                “We both know what will happen,” my grandfather says.

                We stand on the balcony of the palace, overlooking the capitol. The night air is cool, filled with the lights of the fireflies and stars.

                I take a deep breath, filling my lungs. “And why must you go, Grandfather?” I don’t call him Poppy anymore.

                “I am a man of blood-soaked hands,” my grandfather says quietly. “We need a man of peace ruling our empire.” More quietly, so that I can hardly hear him, he adds, “A man who is not afraid to mourn those he commands.”

                He puts a heavy hand on my shoulder. “I am old. And I am stuck in my ways. The world, though – the world is always new. You can be a ruler who can adapt to this new world. It is time, my son, to take your place.” He calls me his son – not attempting to replace his son with me, nor replace my father with him, but as a sign of affection. “And I have full confidence that you will rise to the occasion like no one else.”

               

With shocking finality, the ceremony is finished. I was called to take my seat upon the throne, and with equal portions fear and excitement, I came to sit. As I lowered myself into the chair, I remembered all the times that, as a child, I was kept out of this room, for fear I would climb onto it.

The scepter was given to me, a long piece of twisted silver. At the end, a dark crystal, in a rough cone shape that always reminded me of a pine tree, glistens. The Black Ice crystal was one of the most famous pieces of stone in our land. Even I, in line to the throne, had rarely seen it outside of this room. And now, I held it in my hands.

The crowd cheered in front of me. In their faces, I could see the same mix of emotions that I felt in my heart. Sadness at losing the Grand Ruler. Excitement and fear at the new prospect. And, in all of them, the realization that, no matter what happens, the country will never be the same.

As the ceremony ends, I am asked once again to rise. I followed the Archduke out to the same balcony my grandfather and I rested at only weeks before. There, I can see all of my people. They’ve traveled from all over the country to be here for this day.

As I came into view, they began to cheer, just as the crowd inside did. I nodded graciously to them, smiling and waving. My grandfather, next to me, whispered, “See? The people love you.”

Yes, perhaps, I thought. But you held their trust.

Once the perfunctory congratulations and introductions are made, my grandfather grabbed my arm. “Come with me,” he said, guiding me away from the crowd and down a hallway.

“Behind us is the throne,” my grandfather said. “It’s the public seat of power. But here,” he said, opening the door to his council chamber, “Is the true seat of power.”

As I walked in, my mouth opened in surprise. It’s not the gold pineapple resting in the corner – though it was indeed majestic. Nor is the fearsome carved wolf crouching in the middle of the room, though it was also impressive.

No, what filled my mind with such surprise was the painting hanging on the wall.

It was unfinished, but it depicted a man in radiant armor sitting on a golden charger. The man’s hand touched the hilt of his sword, and even unfinished, he had an expression of surety above him.

“This,” my grandfather said quietly, walking toward the painting, “is my most prized possession. There is nothing in this world that I value more. Except,” he said, turning, “for the one who painted it.” He looked around the room, taking it in for the last time. “This is yours now, my son,” he said. “Do with it what you will.”

Then, without another word, he left, letting the door swing close behind him. The soft thud reminded me that I was alone now. The responsibility was on my shoulders.

I walked to the council table, and my eyes caught the mirror hanging on the wall. I turned toward it, and my grandfather’s words came back to my mind. “The mirror reflects you. It does not reflect me, or your father or anyone else. You, my son, are your own man. You are your own leader. I do not expect you to lead the way I did, or make the same decisions that I did. In fact, I might be disappointed if you did.

                “Be your own man, my son. And whatever happens, know that I love you, and will always stand by your side.”

I stepped away from the mirror and turned back to the portrait of my father.

It was the dawn of a new era. What better time was there to finish what I had started?

Postlude

                As I finished my story, I looked around the room. My friends were smiling at me, obviously enjoying it.

It was the girl with the yellow blanket who noticed it first. “It’s not raining anymore!” she exclaimed, jumping up and running to the window.

“A Christmas miracle,” said one of the guys, testing the lights. They still didn’t work, which wasn’t surprising. Power was out over most of the city, so I didn’t anticipate getting ours back anytime soon.

I looked at all of them. Each of them, so unique and vibrant. Every single one of them was precious to me, and as I looked around the room, I realized how true to life it was.

With a friend by your side, and a story in your heart, you can weather through the most treacherous of storms.

I stood up, setting my tea down. “Come on,” I said, motioning to the door. “Let’s taste the free air.”