The Desert Prince 3
Aug. 14th, 2003 02:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lobelia321Title: The Desert Prince: A Fable
Part: 3 (Back to Part 2.)
Author: Lobelia; lobelia321@yahoo.com
Other info: See Prologue.
~~~~~
Fascicle the Third
Later on that evening, we supped. Our food was not served in the kind of smoke-filled inn I was used to from our travels, but in a dining hall as lofty and lavish as everything else I had so far seen in this desert fortress. Our tables were not lit by fuming tallow candles; instead, large bronze lamps, their sides pierced with patterns of marvellous design, hung above our heads. We sat on cushioned benches. We drank from copper cups. The meal was, to my tradesboy's eyes, a feast. There were figs and olives, raisins and rice, smoked meats and curdled cheeses, and afterwards, most delectable of all, there were ices, cold as the dew drops in the dead of a desert night.
We shared our table with another merchant, a dealer in wines. He was a man of ample girth, with a twinkling eye and a kindly voice. My beloved companion, Sean ben Bean, introduced him to me as a dear old friend of his, and the merchant embraced me with his arms of a bear and said, "Our paths have not crossed for many a year but I remember you well, my fine young friend. You were but a lamb the last time I saw you but I dandled you upon my knee and sang you the songs that are sung to children."
I laughed and begged him to remind me of those songs. He indulged me readily, and imagine my delight when I discovered that I remembered some of his tunes and was able to hum along. Indeed, those simple melodies cast me in a most peculiar mood, part sweet, part sad. It is a mood that sometimes grips me; it is the mood of orphans.
But then I called to mind my beloved friend Sean-ben-Bean and looked up into his eyes, and my friend smiled upon me and said, "Let me go and speak with the other merchants alone tonight. Amuse yourself as you will." And he got up and walked over to where the men were unfolding the draughts tables and lighting their hookah pipes.
You must remember that my beloved companion, my Sean ben Bean, was not only my friend, my more-than-brother, but also my guardian and teacher. I was his apprentice, and he liked to take me along when the merchants debated among themselves so that I might learn the ways of trading with words. Still, that night I was to have to myself, to spend as I pleased.
It was always thus with my beloved friend. He took care to instruct and to teach me, but he also took care to let me be happy and free where I could.
So the wine merchant of the portly laugh and I talked merrily together for a while. He asked me to call him 'Uncle John' though his full name was John ben Rhys ibn Davies. He stroked his beard and smoothed his circlet of worry beads on the table top. He showed me his many rings and amulets and good-luck charms, and with a look of amused conspiracy, he showed me the poison concealed inside the secret chamber of the large signet ring around his thumb.
"Poison!" I cried, alarmed and intrigued all at the same time.
"Oh, yes, my fair young friend," he replied and winked at me. "You never know when it may come in useful."
"Surely not..." I began, but then I saw that he was laughing and that his eyes were twitching, and I realised that it was not poison in his ring but some harmless powder or, at worst, a sleep-inducing drug such as travellers carry with them on long journeys.
This is what I thought I realised. But, as in so many other things, I turned out to be wrong. Woefully and fatally wrong.
After the final morsel and a cup of sweet desert coffee, I put my hands together and bowed to 'Uncle John', and he slapped my shoulder with his broad hands and laughed and said, "You have grown into a fine young man, my son, and Sean ben Bean could have no better companion and apprentice." But then his eyes darkened and he said nothing for a while.
I begged him to speak his mind.
"In truth," he said and sighed, "I do not know why Sean ben Bean has brought you here. There is wealth here, to be sure, and much trade to be had, many deals to be done, but it is no place for a young boy."
I looked at him but did not understand. "No place for a young boy?"
"Yes," said my new-found friend, and the laughter had leeched from his eyes. He continued in a low voice. "There are perils here, those that are known and those that are not known. The Desert Prince..." He fell silent.
"What is it about the Desert Prince?" I asked, and even then my blood thrilled in my veins to speak those words, I knew not why.
"Hush," said Uncle John, looking about him guardedly. "It is best not to speak of him. All I meant was that the Prince... has peculiar preferences."
"Preferences?"
"Let me be blunt," said John ben Rhys. "The Prince, the son of this castle's master, likes young boys, young and beautiful boys, and he likes them more perhaps than he should." He put a hand on my sleeve. "So when you go to see him tomorrow, at noon, when we all must go to see him, take care not to show yourself too openly. Wear something drab. Hide your face behind a nomad's scarf. Make yourself small and grey like a mouse."
"And what of the master of this place?" I asked. "My guardian warned me to be wary of him, too. He told me not to look into the Duke's eyes. It is a strange warning."
Uncle John flinched like one caught in a desert storm, with the grains of sand hitting his eyes. "It is strange," he admitted. "But it is a necessary warning. Indeed, Orlando, my fine young friend, whatever you do tomorrow, you must not look into the Master's eyes. Do not meet his eyes! It will mean certain death."
I shivered, but again I thrilled. I longed to ask more. I wished to know why I could not lift my eyes to those of the Desert Duke, whether the guards would execute anybody who dared stare at their masters, whether there was some curse laid upon this splendid but lonely place.
However, John ben Rhys gave me an uncle's kiss of farewell and hurried to rejoin the men at their draughts tables. He looked like one who has already said too much and more than is wise.
I left the dining hall for the cool air of the starry night. My thoughts were full of all the strange things I had heard but there were yet stranger sights waiting for me in the alleyways of the nighttime citadel.
~~~~~
TBC
Part: 3 (Back to Part 2.)
Author: Lobelia; lobelia321@yahoo.com
Other info: See Prologue.
~~~~~
Fascicle the Third
Later on that evening, we supped. Our food was not served in the kind of smoke-filled inn I was used to from our travels, but in a dining hall as lofty and lavish as everything else I had so far seen in this desert fortress. Our tables were not lit by fuming tallow candles; instead, large bronze lamps, their sides pierced with patterns of marvellous design, hung above our heads. We sat on cushioned benches. We drank from copper cups. The meal was, to my tradesboy's eyes, a feast. There were figs and olives, raisins and rice, smoked meats and curdled cheeses, and afterwards, most delectable of all, there were ices, cold as the dew drops in the dead of a desert night.
We shared our table with another merchant, a dealer in wines. He was a man of ample girth, with a twinkling eye and a kindly voice. My beloved companion, Sean ben Bean, introduced him to me as a dear old friend of his, and the merchant embraced me with his arms of a bear and said, "Our paths have not crossed for many a year but I remember you well, my fine young friend. You were but a lamb the last time I saw you but I dandled you upon my knee and sang you the songs that are sung to children."
I laughed and begged him to remind me of those songs. He indulged me readily, and imagine my delight when I discovered that I remembered some of his tunes and was able to hum along. Indeed, those simple melodies cast me in a most peculiar mood, part sweet, part sad. It is a mood that sometimes grips me; it is the mood of orphans.
But then I called to mind my beloved friend Sean-ben-Bean and looked up into his eyes, and my friend smiled upon me and said, "Let me go and speak with the other merchants alone tonight. Amuse yourself as you will." And he got up and walked over to where the men were unfolding the draughts tables and lighting their hookah pipes.
You must remember that my beloved companion, my Sean ben Bean, was not only my friend, my more-than-brother, but also my guardian and teacher. I was his apprentice, and he liked to take me along when the merchants debated among themselves so that I might learn the ways of trading with words. Still, that night I was to have to myself, to spend as I pleased.
It was always thus with my beloved friend. He took care to instruct and to teach me, but he also took care to let me be happy and free where I could.
So the wine merchant of the portly laugh and I talked merrily together for a while. He asked me to call him 'Uncle John' though his full name was John ben Rhys ibn Davies. He stroked his beard and smoothed his circlet of worry beads on the table top. He showed me his many rings and amulets and good-luck charms, and with a look of amused conspiracy, he showed me the poison concealed inside the secret chamber of the large signet ring around his thumb.
"Poison!" I cried, alarmed and intrigued all at the same time.
"Oh, yes, my fair young friend," he replied and winked at me. "You never know when it may come in useful."
"Surely not..." I began, but then I saw that he was laughing and that his eyes were twitching, and I realised that it was not poison in his ring but some harmless powder or, at worst, a sleep-inducing drug such as travellers carry with them on long journeys.
This is what I thought I realised. But, as in so many other things, I turned out to be wrong. Woefully and fatally wrong.
After the final morsel and a cup of sweet desert coffee, I put my hands together and bowed to 'Uncle John', and he slapped my shoulder with his broad hands and laughed and said, "You have grown into a fine young man, my son, and Sean ben Bean could have no better companion and apprentice." But then his eyes darkened and he said nothing for a while.
I begged him to speak his mind.
"In truth," he said and sighed, "I do not know why Sean ben Bean has brought you here. There is wealth here, to be sure, and much trade to be had, many deals to be done, but it is no place for a young boy."
I looked at him but did not understand. "No place for a young boy?"
"Yes," said my new-found friend, and the laughter had leeched from his eyes. He continued in a low voice. "There are perils here, those that are known and those that are not known. The Desert Prince..." He fell silent.
"What is it about the Desert Prince?" I asked, and even then my blood thrilled in my veins to speak those words, I knew not why.
"Hush," said Uncle John, looking about him guardedly. "It is best not to speak of him. All I meant was that the Prince... has peculiar preferences."
"Preferences?"
"Let me be blunt," said John ben Rhys. "The Prince, the son of this castle's master, likes young boys, young and beautiful boys, and he likes them more perhaps than he should." He put a hand on my sleeve. "So when you go to see him tomorrow, at noon, when we all must go to see him, take care not to show yourself too openly. Wear something drab. Hide your face behind a nomad's scarf. Make yourself small and grey like a mouse."
"And what of the master of this place?" I asked. "My guardian warned me to be wary of him, too. He told me not to look into the Duke's eyes. It is a strange warning."
Uncle John flinched like one caught in a desert storm, with the grains of sand hitting his eyes. "It is strange," he admitted. "But it is a necessary warning. Indeed, Orlando, my fine young friend, whatever you do tomorrow, you must not look into the Master's eyes. Do not meet his eyes! It will mean certain death."
I shivered, but again I thrilled. I longed to ask more. I wished to know why I could not lift my eyes to those of the Desert Duke, whether the guards would execute anybody who dared stare at their masters, whether there was some curse laid upon this splendid but lonely place.
However, John ben Rhys gave me an uncle's kiss of farewell and hurried to rejoin the men at their draughts tables. He looked like one who has already said too much and more than is wise.
I left the dining hall for the cool air of the starry night. My thoughts were full of all the strange things I had heard but there were yet stranger sights waiting for me in the alleyways of the nighttime citadel.
~~~~~
TBC
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2003-08-14 07:25 am (UTC)Man, I wish I could be coherent. I'll say what I can: I like this a lot and I'm eagerly hoping and waiting for more.
(no subject)
Date: 2003-08-14 08:32 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2003-08-14 07:52 am (UTC)<3
(no subject)
Date: 2003-08-14 07:53 am (UTC)*jeers*
(no subject)
Date: 2003-08-14 08:34 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2003-08-14 08:33 am (UTC)Yes, that is the John sitting on my shoulder during the writing of this. Spot on! Heh.
(no subject)
Date: 2003-08-14 08:43 am (UTC)Well, I've read the warnings on this fic, so I'm pretty sure I have a general idea of where this is heading. But it wouldn't be much of a story if Orlando kept wearing drab browns and consequently never "got any," now would it? Hee!
RE: John/Sallah
At first, I thought you were pairing them in a fic, and lo did I tremble! Then I just kind of giggled at the thought of John sitting on anyone's shoulder. Double hee!
chest and tummy! you have an icon of his chest and tummy! O.O
(no subject)
Date: 2003-08-14 09:12 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2003-08-14 09:20 am (UTC)But thank you for liking my variant on the slow build-up, :-) That makes me very happy.
(no subject)
Date: 2003-08-14 11:02 am (UTC)Maybe because it has a main character played by Sean Astin? Your mind is already in an unconscious state of rebellion. I am really very afraid of squicking you.:) Maybe I need to include an Astin-warning.
although he is so little and cute in this movie I don't see how anyone could possibly object.(no subject)
Date: 2003-08-14 04:08 pm (UTC)Oh, what a lovely, beautiful line.
What an impossible concept. *g*
I'm still in love with narrator!Orli. His candid innocence, his slightly-bitter (like coffee) reflections upon himself.
This is kinda like Eco, without the intellectual wank. We loves it, precious.
(no subject)
Date: 2003-08-15 05:48 am (UTC)Thanks so much. Especially re comment on grey mouse. I love detail-fb! And about Orli!narrator. God, I hope I can keep him up and be consistent. But getting a comment like this is good and braces me for future developments. To thine own narrator be true, et cetera.
Like Eco? *splutters* Well, we must agree to differ. But how like Eco? All semiotic and Italian?
(no subject)
Date: 2003-08-17 04:56 pm (UTC)It's possible this only makes sense in my head. Many things do.
(no subject)
Date: 2003-08-20 05:28 am (UTC)Eco is too intellectual for me. I *love* intellectual writing but there needs to be that little bit extra. Also, he is *such* a semiotician, and I can't help thinking his fiction is just a vehicle for his theories in different guise.
(no subject)
Date: 2003-08-21 12:59 am (UTC)I'm not expressing myself well. I blame it on the fact I just got out of my novel class.
Anyway, I love and adore Eco. The wealth of detail and the way he gets me thinking. Just immersion in conceptual glitter. So there you go, I guess. The world is beautiful and full of difference. *g*
I think it was Belinda who suggested Song of Solomon (I always call it Song of Songs, because that's what it is in my Bible), and I heartily second the nomination. It's a tonal thing, more than the content (which is what Arabian
KNights has going for it) but also works a little in that regard. There's a similar sort of rapturous tingle about both SoS and your Desert Prince.(no subject)
Date: 2003-08-21 03:32 am (UTC)Ooh, but Eco himself is nothing if not post-modern!
Now, I was imprinted with post-modernism when I first encountered it way back in the early 80s. And I loved all things po-mo for many a year. *sighs* Although modernism has things going for it as well but it was getting a bit tedious for a while back there, all that earnestness and suspicion of a good plot.
But you are right, of course. Quibble with favourite authors one cannot. As one of my colleagues once wisely said (can't remember the exact wording so am making it up): analysing a work of art is an act of intellect, but responding to a work of art aesthetically is an act of love.