David W. Richardson
Chapelgrove Films
From time to time I feel the need to re-run a short story I wrote some years ago called 'Solemn'. Today is one of those days...please bear with me.
SOLEMN
By David W. Richardson
“I do not understand what is happening,” the young Merchant whispers into the ear of the Elder, who sits in his fine robes and jewels, smoking his herb and watching intently the spectacle before them.
The palace gaming room has never been so crowded as this night. The Sultan sits upon his customary cushioning, a bevy of attendants fluttering about him like hummingbirds. The crowd – all men – sit transfixed, in utter silence, as the Scribe patiently studies the cards laid out upon the table before him. It is a complicated layering of colors and symbols, a game as ancient as the universe. Even the Sultan cannot remove his eyes from the table, as he licks his lips absentmindedly.
Beside the Sultan, a beautiful young woman stands shackled to a whipping post, her once resplendent robes now tattered and smeared with dirt. She is the Sultan’s daughter -- a lovely young woman with eyes like the bluest sapphires, hair golden as the sun and skin as cream. She is the fairest, most lovely maiden in all the kingdom. There is not a man of age in the land who does not adore her, yet few would dare speak of it.
Now a prisoner, the Sultan’s daughter looks fearfully at a man who stands at the edge of the crowd – the only man in the gaming room who is not intently watching the game. He is a young man. A Priest, whose dark eyes are filled with anguish. He never takes his eyes off the Sultan’s daughter, not even for a moment. Yet his heart is dark with a fear of its own.
A heavy perfumed smoke hangs lazily in the air as the Scribe moves one of the cards, placing it atop another. Anxious whispers come from the crowd of onlookers.
The Elder smiles slightly. Without turning his gaze, he addresses the young Merchant at his side.
“It is quite simple, my young friend.” The Elder takes a puff from his herb. “The young Scribe plays the game of Solemn for the life of the Sultan’s daughter.”
(Solemn, as you know, is an intricate game of cards, played by a lone player.)
“Ahh, I see.” The young Merchant replies with a sly smile. “If he should win, the lovely becomes his prize.”
“Not at all,” the Elder says with a sigh.
The young Merchant is puzzled. “But…..if he loses, the girl dies, yes?”
“Yes,” says the Elder. “If the Scribe loses, then the Sultan’s daughter will be taken to the yard and hacked to death by the swords of the Royal Guards. Then the Scribe’s own hands will be cut off and his eyes torn out of his head. He will be condemned to be a blind beggar for the rest of his days.”
The young Merchant is horrified!
“If, that is, the Scribe loses.”
At that moment, the Scribe deals a fresh set of cards onto the stacks from an ever-dwindling deck. A ripple of trepidation flows through the crowd.
“I see, I see!” says the Merchant. “So the Scribe plays the game to save the life of the lovely. As would any man!”
The Elder chuckles.
“No other man would accept the conditions the Sultan has placed upon this game.”
The Merchant looks at him quizzically.
At length the Elder explains.
“If the Scribe loses the game, the results……well, they are as I have already described.”
“Yes? Yes?” the Merchant says eagerly.
“But if the Scribe wins the game………then it is HE who will be hacked to death by the Royal Guards. The Sultan’s daughter will go free, and will resume her lover.” The Elder points to the Priest at the edge of the crowd.
The young Merchant falls to his knees in shock. He cannot believe what he has heard.
“But….but….I do not understand. Why would he….? Why would ANYONE…?”
The Elder turns and looks the Merchant directly in the eye.
“Because, my young friend……he loves her.”
The Merchant is aghast. He ponders this horrible scenario for a long time, as the game play continues. Cards are dealt. Moves are made. The tension in the room grows almost unbearable.
“Wait,” the young Merchant says at last. “Wait. I know. Surely the Scribe is so expert at the game of Solemn that he knows how to play it to a draw. And thus win freedom for himself AND his love. Yes?”
The Elder shakes his head. “I know the Scribe well. He is but an amateur at the game. Even a skilled player could not play Solemn to a draw.”
The Merchant is bewildered.
“And what if he could,” the Elder continues. “What would it profit him to do so?”
“Well surely the lovely would be his forever, knowing what he had risked to save her.”
The Elder makes a small noise. “No my friend. She would kiss him upon the cheek in earnest gratitude, and then leave this place in the arms of her lover. For it is the Priest whom she loves, not the Scribe.”
“How in the name of all that is holy can this be? I know you say he loves her. But he should leave her and find another to love. The world is full, and there are many others.”
The Elder looks at the young Merchant. “Tell me my friend....have you ever been in love?”
The Merchant smiles, a bit proudly. “Yes. Many times.”
The Elder leans close to the Merchant. “Then I tell you that you have never truly loved at all. For if you had, you would have known in that moment that you had never loved before......nor would you ever love another.”
The Merchant ponders this with a look of worry.
“Imagine for a moment that all your life you ate butter and thought it was honey.... and then you tasted honey!”
The Merchant tries to grasp this.
“But...” the Merchant sputters. “I.... It does not...”
The Elder looks at him sternly. “Love is not something you bestow first upon one, then upon another. Love is a force of life. It commands whom you shall love, and it does not sway. The Scribe is powerless to alter its course. No matter whom the Sultan’s daughter may love, the Scribe loves only her. And always it shall be.”
The Merchant shakes his head.
“Then it is a terrible thing we are witnessing here this night.”
“Is it?” the Elder ponders.
“Yes, most certainly. Because of love, this man has chosen either unimaginable death or horrible mutilation. He has destroyed his own life. And for what? To save the life of a woman who cares not for him? A woman whose only wish is to leave him and go to be with another? How can this be true? How can this be LOVE?”
“How can it not?” the Elder retorts, raising his voice for the first time. “Do you not understand? This man, this Scribe, has lost the one true love of his life. What matters to him if the Guards cut him down? He is dead already, in his soul. What matters if they take his hands and his eyes? He cannot touch her. He cannot see her. What use are his hands and his eyes to him now? Yes, he will be a beggar for life. But can you not see that in truth he is a beggar already?”
The Merchant opens his mouth, but cannot form any words.
“There is only one good thing left that this Scribe can do for the woman he loves. And we are here to witness his last, most courageous act. If he had refused to play the game, it’s true – he would have lived. But his love would already have fallen to the Guards’ swords. How could he bear such a thing? The only hope he has of saving her life is by sacrificing his own.”
A sudden ROAR courses through the crowd as the Scribe lays down the final card. The Merchant looks around, confused, trying to see what has happened.
“He has WON!” come the cries. “He DID it! The Scribe has WON!”
As the Merchant realizes the gravity of what has happened, tears fall from his eyes.
“He has not won. He has lost. He has lost his life.”
The Elder places a hand upon the young man’s shoulder. “But he has won peace. Do you not see that? He has saved the life of his one true love, and now he goes from this life of neverending torment to his own eternal peace.”
The Merchant looks up into the old man’s eyes.
“But he goes to his peace ALONE.”
“No my son,” the Elder replies. “No man goes to his peace alone.”
The Merchant watches as the Scribe rises from the table and bows respectfully to the Sultan, who returns the gesture with a great sadness.
The Sultan’s daughter is released from her shackles. She glances at the Scribe for a long moment, tears in her eyes. Then she rushes into the arms of the Priest, who kisses her tenderly.
With an image of infinite peace upon his face, the Scribe takes a long last look at the woman he loves.
Then he walks with the Royal Guards, out of the gaming room and toward the nearby yard.
SOLEMN
By David W. Richardson
“I do not understand what is happening,” the young Merchant whispers into the ear of the Elder, who sits in his fine robes and jewels, smoking his herb and watching intently the spectacle before them.
The palace gaming room has never been so crowded as this night. The Sultan sits upon his customary cushioning, a bevy of attendants fluttering about him like hummingbirds. The crowd – all men – sit transfixed, in utter silence, as the Scribe patiently studies the cards laid out upon the table before him. It is a complicated layering of colors and symbols, a game as ancient as the universe. Even the Sultan cannot remove his eyes from the table, as he licks his lips absentmindedly.
Beside the Sultan, a beautiful young woman stands shackled to a whipping post, her once resplendent robes now tattered and smeared with dirt. She is the Sultan’s daughter -- a lovely young woman with eyes like the bluest sapphires, hair golden as the sun and skin as cream. She is the fairest, most lovely maiden in all the kingdom. There is not a man of age in the land who does not adore her, yet few would dare speak of it.
Now a prisoner, the Sultan’s daughter looks fearfully at a man who stands at the edge of the crowd – the only man in the gaming room who is not intently watching the game. He is a young man. A Priest, whose dark eyes are filled with anguish. He never takes his eyes off the Sultan’s daughter, not even for a moment. Yet his heart is dark with a fear of its own.
A heavy perfumed smoke hangs lazily in the air as the Scribe moves one of the cards, placing it atop another. Anxious whispers come from the crowd of onlookers.
The Elder smiles slightly. Without turning his gaze, he addresses the young Merchant at his side.
“It is quite simple, my young friend.” The Elder takes a puff from his herb. “The young Scribe plays the game of Solemn for the life of the Sultan’s daughter.”
(Solemn, as you know, is an intricate game of cards, played by a lone player.)
“Ahh, I see.” The young Merchant replies with a sly smile. “If he should win, the lovely becomes his prize.”
“Not at all,” the Elder says with a sigh.
The young Merchant is puzzled. “But…..if he loses, the girl dies, yes?”
“Yes,” says the Elder. “If the Scribe loses, then the Sultan’s daughter will be taken to the yard and hacked to death by the swords of the Royal Guards. Then the Scribe’s own hands will be cut off and his eyes torn out of his head. He will be condemned to be a blind beggar for the rest of his days.”
The young Merchant is horrified!
“If, that is, the Scribe loses.”
At that moment, the Scribe deals a fresh set of cards onto the stacks from an ever-dwindling deck. A ripple of trepidation flows through the crowd.
“I see, I see!” says the Merchant. “So the Scribe plays the game to save the life of the lovely. As would any man!”
The Elder chuckles.
“No other man would accept the conditions the Sultan has placed upon this game.”
The Merchant looks at him quizzically.
At length the Elder explains.
“If the Scribe loses the game, the results……well, they are as I have already described.”
“Yes? Yes?” the Merchant says eagerly.
“But if the Scribe wins the game………then it is HE who will be hacked to death by the Royal Guards. The Sultan’s daughter will go free, and will resume her lover.” The Elder points to the Priest at the edge of the crowd.
The young Merchant falls to his knees in shock. He cannot believe what he has heard.
“But….but….I do not understand. Why would he….? Why would ANYONE…?”
The Elder turns and looks the Merchant directly in the eye.
“Because, my young friend……he loves her.”
The Merchant is aghast. He ponders this horrible scenario for a long time, as the game play continues. Cards are dealt. Moves are made. The tension in the room grows almost unbearable.
“Wait,” the young Merchant says at last. “Wait. I know. Surely the Scribe is so expert at the game of Solemn that he knows how to play it to a draw. And thus win freedom for himself AND his love. Yes?”
The Elder shakes his head. “I know the Scribe well. He is but an amateur at the game. Even a skilled player could not play Solemn to a draw.”
The Merchant is bewildered.
“And what if he could,” the Elder continues. “What would it profit him to do so?”
“Well surely the lovely would be his forever, knowing what he had risked to save her.”
The Elder makes a small noise. “No my friend. She would kiss him upon the cheek in earnest gratitude, and then leave this place in the arms of her lover. For it is the Priest whom she loves, not the Scribe.”
“How in the name of all that is holy can this be? I know you say he loves her. But he should leave her and find another to love. The world is full, and there are many others.”
The Elder looks at the young Merchant. “Tell me my friend....have you ever been in love?”
The Merchant smiles, a bit proudly. “Yes. Many times.”
The Elder leans close to the Merchant. “Then I tell you that you have never truly loved at all. For if you had, you would have known in that moment that you had never loved before......nor would you ever love another.”
The Merchant ponders this with a look of worry.
“Imagine for a moment that all your life you ate butter and thought it was honey.... and then you tasted honey!”
The Merchant tries to grasp this.
“But...” the Merchant sputters. “I.... It does not...”
The Elder looks at him sternly. “Love is not something you bestow first upon one, then upon another. Love is a force of life. It commands whom you shall love, and it does not sway. The Scribe is powerless to alter its course. No matter whom the Sultan’s daughter may love, the Scribe loves only her. And always it shall be.”
The Merchant shakes his head.
“Then it is a terrible thing we are witnessing here this night.”
“Is it?” the Elder ponders.
“Yes, most certainly. Because of love, this man has chosen either unimaginable death or horrible mutilation. He has destroyed his own life. And for what? To save the life of a woman who cares not for him? A woman whose only wish is to leave him and go to be with another? How can this be true? How can this be LOVE?”
“How can it not?” the Elder retorts, raising his voice for the first time. “Do you not understand? This man, this Scribe, has lost the one true love of his life. What matters to him if the Guards cut him down? He is dead already, in his soul. What matters if they take his hands and his eyes? He cannot touch her. He cannot see her. What use are his hands and his eyes to him now? Yes, he will be a beggar for life. But can you not see that in truth he is a beggar already?”
The Merchant opens his mouth, but cannot form any words.
“There is only one good thing left that this Scribe can do for the woman he loves. And we are here to witness his last, most courageous act. If he had refused to play the game, it’s true – he would have lived. But his love would already have fallen to the Guards’ swords. How could he bear such a thing? The only hope he has of saving her life is by sacrificing his own.”
A sudden ROAR courses through the crowd as the Scribe lays down the final card. The Merchant looks around, confused, trying to see what has happened.
“He has WON!” come the cries. “He DID it! The Scribe has WON!”
As the Merchant realizes the gravity of what has happened, tears fall from his eyes.
“He has not won. He has lost. He has lost his life.”
The Elder places a hand upon the young man’s shoulder. “But he has won peace. Do you not see that? He has saved the life of his one true love, and now he goes from this life of neverending torment to his own eternal peace.”
The Merchant looks up into the old man’s eyes.
“But he goes to his peace ALONE.”
“No my son,” the Elder replies. “No man goes to his peace alone.”
The Merchant watches as the Scribe rises from the table and bows respectfully to the Sultan, who returns the gesture with a great sadness.
The Sultan’s daughter is released from her shackles. She glances at the Scribe for a long moment, tears in her eyes. Then she rushes into the arms of the Priest, who kisses her tenderly.
With an image of infinite peace upon his face, the Scribe takes a long last look at the woman he loves.
Then he walks with the Royal Guards, out of the gaming room and toward the nearby yard.