by Thomas Sabel
“Helga, Edgar’s here too,” said Ulrik. She looked at him in his flowing white robes and enormous straw hat. He went to her and removed his hat. At first she blanched at his appearance, wondering what had happened to his face.
“Edgar got burned in the desert, but am fine now,” Edgar said, accepting her embrace.
“My two boys are finally home,” she said. She was about to say something else when she spied Barty. “But what about him,” she said, pointing at him.
“He’s changed, Helga; you could say he’s been reborn,” said Ulrik.
“And what about . . . what about that,” she said, pointing to Illyricus who was rubbing his sore snout with the back of his foreclaw
The dragon took a step forward, “You must be the wonderful Helga, whom I’ve heard so much about. Let me introduce myself. I am Illyricus Draconitis, baptized believer, and ready to serve you,” he said, bowing elegantly.
“And you’re full of hot air,” she said.
“Not as much as I used to be, not as much as I used to be,” he said, as everyone but Helga laughed. When Ulrik explained the dragon’s loss, she added her smile.
“I’m glad you’re all home at last. But we can’t dilly dally about; there’s much more to be done. I don’t know how much longer his majesty can last.”
“My father! He’s still alive? I thought the Mage killed him.”
“Not as long as Rupert or I had breath in us. Yes, he’s alive, but barely. I don’t know what’s been keeping him going; maybe knowing you were coming home.”
As she led them into the castle, she explained that after Ulrik and Edgar had left, the Mage’s magic cast an even darker pall over the castle, beginning with the tower and spreading outward. “It was like the night had arrived without the hope of a dawn,” she said. “Then he had that pen out there built for that creature of his, nasty thing it was. That was about the time the mercenaries and pirates showed up. They crept into nearly every nook and cranny of the castle, taking what they wanted and spoiling the rest. The only safe place was my kitchen, thanks be to God. Then the Mage put that scum to guarding the king. Guarding my foot! They kept everybody away from his Majesty. Not even Rupert was allowed in. That’s when Rupert and I cooked up a plan to get the king down here. First, we set up a bed for him in the pantry, the best we could. Then we went for him. Rupert knows the castle bettern’ anybody alive, including a few passages no one else remembered. That was how we managed to sneak his Majesty down here. We had to carry him, and the poor man was little more than skin and bones. My good broth and bread has helped change that a bit.”
As she spoke, she picked her way through the debris spread about the courtyard. By the time they reached the kitchen, Ulrik was surprised to find that even the kitchen had been affected by the contamination. The contents of the pantry had been pulled out and hastily stacked on every bare surface that could be found. The pots, pans, knives, and utensils lay scattered everywhere. Chaos replaced the order Ulrik remembered. Helga went to the pantry, knocked twice, paused, and knocked once more.
The door opened cautiously to reveal Rupert peering through the crack; then he opened the door wide, exclaiming, “Prince Ulrik! You’re home!” From deeper within the pantry a pained groan arose, silencing everyone in the kitchen. Rupert stepped into the kitchen and motioned the prince into the pantry, “He’s been waiting for you, speakin’ your name. That must be all that has kept his heart beating.” Ulrik looked to Prester John and the teacher went to his side; Ulrik led the way into the narrow pantry.
A single candle placed in the niche that once held the Bible illuminated the storage room now converted to the royal chamber. King Aelfric lay on the old campaign bed that nearly filled the narrow space between the walls. Ulrik knelt by his father’s side.
“Your Majesty?” Ulrik whispered. “It’s me, Ulrik. I’m home.”
The king turned his head towards the prince and groaned, “Ulrik? My son?”
“Yes, Father, it’s me.”
“Home . . .” said the king as a sliver of a smile eased onto his face. With great effort, the king raised his hand and cradled Ulrik’s face, catching a tear that slid down Ulrik’s cheek. Their eyes met, as for the first and last time.
Aelfric’s hand fell from Ulrik’s cheek and grasped the cross hanging loosely around his son’s neck. He pulled the prince close to his lips. “Ulrik,” he gasped, “forgive.”
“I forgive you, Father. Rest now.”
The king released the cross as his hand collapsed onto the cot. Ulrik took the hand between his own hands and felt it go cold as life and the king breathed his last.
“Into your hands, Almighty God, we commend his spirit,” prayed Prester John before he eased himself out of the pantry, leaving Ulrik to grieve in private. When Rupert saw the prince come out of the pantry he knew what had happened. Rupert then solemnly declared, “The king is dead; long live the king.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Thomas Sabel’s short stories, poetry, and reflections have been published in the online journal Million Stories, the journal riverrun, Tipton Poetry Review, wordriver, the Journal of Pastoral Care and Counseling and others. He teaches writing at Indiana University-Purdue University at Fort Wayne, philosophy at IVY Tech Community College, and preaches at St. Paul Lutheran in Otis, Indiana. He is currently working on a collection of poems as well as novel about the ancient mound city of Cahokia. Legends of Luternia: The Prince Decides is his first novel.
He lives in Fort Wayne with his wife and two sons.
Thomas’ poetry posted on his blog, Subtexts on Life, etc. at thosasabel.blogspot.com