The Auburn Prince

by Adam Zmarzlinski

  “Relax my friend,” the man said and stepped into the moonlight. He looked much different than his silhouette suggested. He was a pale gaunt man, dressed in a fine, shiny suit, with a small rabbit-shaped birthmark below his right eye.

  “Who are you?” the fox asked.

  “They call me… Arucol,” the man said.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Your friends went east,” Arucol began. “They are headed for a mill. Follow the hyssops up ahead. They will lead you there. But you must hurry, Prince Gideon, your friends’ color is sure to fetch a fine price. The poachers will not wait for their riches.”

  “You—

  “I said, the poachers will not wait for their riches,” Arucol said sternly. The fox observed him for a moment before moving past him toward a tunnel with hyssops at its stoop. The man stepped back into the shadow, his form changed to the skeletal silhouette with four rabbit ears. He grinned as the fox vanished into the tunnel.

  Emerging from the tunnel maze, the poachers and their captors ventured through the woods for another hour before coming upon a remnant of a small town. Abandoned cabins sat scattered and dilapidated. Caved in roofs and great craters littered the site. As they walked through, Clementine observed, with a sense of deep misery, the everyday things that littered the main street: a rusted tea kettle, a torn doll, a lone shoe, a pair of weathered drapes, a shattered door and so on.

  “Where are you taking us?” Clementine asked but her captors remained silent. A bit later she received an answer: built beside a riverside stood a great abandoned water mill; its water wheel peeking out from beyond the far wall. They were roughly shoved inside and came upon a glum place illuminated by candlelight and wall lanterns. A few dozen bags of flour lay on the floor. Many pulleys and hooks hung from the ceiling, while a handful of cots sat against the near wall. A trio of sheets covered something in the near corner. A thick film of dust covered everything. Over by a stack of large wooden crates, merged within the heavy brick wall, stood a cage. The color poachers threw them inside the cage, stepped back, and evaluated their catch.

  “Caught ya didn’t we. Ya’ll can’t escape us now,” Bruto said, giving them a toothless smile. Mika cast down her gaze as fear and sadness cradled her. The poachers eyed Clementine, who had enough color in her for the three of them to live off like kings and, if by some wretched luck, they were to have children, they too would enjoy an opulent life.

  “You don’t need to stare at me like some sort of hunting prize,” Clementine said.

  “Darling, if you only knew how much all that bright color you got there is worth, well, you’d be staring, too,” Ciego said.

  “Only sheep stare,” she said.

  Bruto laughed. “We tigers and ya’ll sheep,” he said.

  “Enough dilly-dallying, boys,” Ciego said. “We need to make a plan of action for how we’re gonna split up all this color. The dog has all the plain colors, worth a chest full of gold, of course, but nothing too thrilling. The lizard has a great many bright colors but in too small of an amount to make a fortune off. But the girl…” They glanced at her. “…she’s our ticket out of here. We can get rich off her and still have some color to spare for ourselves.”

  “Look at all that yello’,” Bruto said.

  “You boys prepare the syringes and get the cylinder boiling,” Ciego said and they nodded. Clementine watched as Sordos and Bruto unsheathed three wide, metal tubs and wheeled them over to the middle of the mill. After placing them above large holes—crudely cut into the floorboards—Sordos replaced the rusted lids atop the tubes with silver cylinder plugs and vacuum connectors. During the switch, Clementine noticed a thick, muddy substance swirling inside. Sordos continued his work by attaching slick black tubes onto the numerous valves and after affixing them to seven long needles, he fastened a dirty helmet composed of a dozen syringes onto a small pump. All the while, Bruto placed coal and wood into the holes under the cylinders.

  Panic shot up Clementine’s spine when, over in the far corner across from the cage, she noticed a pile of bones, withered skins and charred pieces of cloth. Faces—contorted, melted and shrunken like apples left out in the sun for too long—and gaunt remnants of otherworldly creatures made up another pile. She looked away to meet the gecko’s eyes, flooded with concern. “What are they doing?” she asked.

  “They’re setting up the brewing process,” Nir said. Mika walked up to the iron bars, her tail curled under her behind. “It’s not pleasant what they do here,” he continued. “Color is an attribute found in life, in that which has a soul, a spirit, a zeal for being, and they drain that from the body.”

  Bruto finished his work then lit a fire under each cylinder.

  “What’s that gray liquid inside?” Mika asked nervously.

  “That’s clay mixed with wood pulp,” Nir said. “Using the syringes and hoses they distill the color from the body and run it through three batches of clay and wood pulp to get the purest color. Then they bottle it.”

  Clementine bit her lip fretfully.

  “You see, color is a drug,” Nir continued. “Color is joy. Color is music and music is color made audible. To those who’ve never noticed it, the ones who’ve taken it for granted, its importance is lost in everyday moments. But to those who’ve lived in the shadow of the Other, in the thick fogs of Mundialis, its importance rivals that of breathing. In this land, rich men pay great sums of money for a few drops of color: for that scarce moment of joy in the form of a smile or a short burst of music.

  “In the Gray Lands, all have lost their color, that zeal to live. Their spirit’s gone dark and now they hope to rekindle its flames by stealing the zeal of others. They don’t realize that each of us creates their own color while the hue of others only enhances our own vibrancy. With the Other ruling over all of this, over remnants of these people’s hopes, they turn to color poaching, to the theft of that which is most important in all life: the willingness to go on. Color exists in the darkest of souls but the Other makes them forget that. And those who do not give up, those who continue to fight, to have a glimmer of blue, green or brown in their eyes are taken here or to hundreds of other color distilleries. Jealousy becomes routine. Violence becomes commonplace. I guess our journey was always going to end this way. We never really had much of a chance in finding the Soundsmith.”

  “Don’t say that,” Clementine said. She looked over at Mika who stared teary eyed at the cylinders and needles and hoses and flame. She shivered and marvelous rainbow colored tears ran down her cheeks. Clementine knelt beside her and hugged her.

  “It’s going to be all right, Mika,” Clementine said. She picked up the beagle, found a corner of the cage where she made herself comfortable and sat down, placing the pup on her lap. She hugged Mika tighter, running her hand gently down the hound’s neck.

  “Don’t let them see you cry rainbows, Mika,” Clementine said.

  Mika looked up at her. “I wish I could just forget who I am,” she said. “I wish that I could become what I am now: a beagle, a dog. I don’t want my colors to be taken from me; I don’t want to know what it means not to be me.” She rested her head on Clementine’s lap. The girl scratched her ear and placed a gentle kiss atop her head.

  “All will be fine,” Clementine reassured her. “It has to be.”

  While Clementine exemplified great courage in her words, inside she felt utter despair and the same loneliness that gnawed at Mika. As desolation set in, her color flickered and the heaviness of the Other’s presence permeated her. Fatigue set in and, like any person bathed in doubt, Clementine became unsure if she believed in what she was saying or thinking. She watched the flames dance for a moment. For a split second, they flickered red.

  “I have to inspire them with confidence,” she thought. “Even if I’m lacking in it myself.”

  When Mika and Nir fell asleep, Clementine turned to Meditations for comfort. She flipped to book eight, where, highlighted in yellow, sat a phrase, which she h
ad read a thousand times, “The mind cannot be touched by fire, steel, tyranny, slander or anything at all, once it has become a perfect sphere in solitude.” She reread the line several more times, as if it were a prayer, and looked up at the simmering tubs. Bruto poked at the burning coals with a metal rod and added a log to it. When their eyes met, he gave her a toothless smile.

  Feeling of disgust ran through her spine and she looked down at the book, where, peeking out from beyond its pages, sat the handkerchief. She took it out. The lines moved in a zigzag, contorted and suddenly Clementine stared at a black and white image of a beaded bracelet radiating with a faint light. Her chest grew warm. Her cheeks flared with a blush. The lines, as if aware of her despair, rearranged themselves into a singular unending line that bloomed with decorative medieval flowers:

  The be inside the infinity symbol pulsated, shimmering in numerous colors. A sound of music echoed in Clementine’s ears: violins and a piano followed by the calm humming of a harp and a soft drumming. Happy chimes of a xylophone joined in with the chirping of flutes, clarinets and oboes. At once, the whole brass entourage arrived along with a lone ringing of the triangle. The music boomed and churned, culminating in a full crescendo from an unseen orchestra. Whisps of color danced in front of Clementine’s eyes.

  A great roar came from the outside. The ground trembled and the mill shook. Sordos quickly darted outdoors. The clouds disappeared revealing the moon. A living whiteness with black veins flooded the sky. As hundreds of black creatures with red eyes swarmed overhead, spiraling appendages of shadow emerged from the whiteness and stole what moonlight remained. The earth trembled again.

  “The Other,” Ciego said.

  Bruto looked at the cage to see Clementine staring into the handkerchief. A faint light illuminated her face. With a few swift steps and key in hand, he stood in front of the cage. A key turn later, he held both the handkerchief and Meditations.

  “Give that back!” Clementine screamed. Bruto inspected the handkerchief. Its light faded and the lines dispersed. The earth stopped trembling. Ciego peeked outside. The whiteness and its appendages receded. The bühos too, flew off. Sordos returned to the mill.

  “Come here,” Bruto said—motioning to his comrades—staring at the piece of cloth.

  “What is it?” Ciego asked.

  “It’s magic,” Bruto said.

  “Magic?” Ciego said. Sordos stared dumbfounded.

  “This is a sorts of magic that we be better not having,” Bruto said. “If the bühos sensed it…” He slid his fingers across the cloth. “This ain’t meant for us mortal men.” The poachers looked at Clementine who stood upright, hands red from clenching the bars of the cage. Mika and Nir stood behind her.

  “Give it back,” she demanded putting out her hand. “Now!”

  “Where did you get this?” Ciego asked.

  “Return it,” she retorted.

  “Y’all think the Other would give us a something for this?” Bruto asked.

  Ciego gave him a dismissive look. “That’s like thinking that a forest fire will spare your life if you feed it a little coal,” he said. “This is a matter that needs to be taken to someone else.”

  The toothless poacher looked at the girl. “Are ya gonna tell us where ya got this from?”

  “Return it, I said,” Clementine replied. Bruto sighed. He walked over to a staircase, which led up to the second floor, opened a large chest that sat beside it and placed the handkerchief and Mediations inside.

  “Ya better go see him about it,” Bruto told Ciego.

  “You’re right,” Ciego nodded. “Watch them good, they might be worth more than just the color inside ‘em.” With one more glance at Clementine, Ciego left the mill.

  The next few hours passed in silence. Sordos hung the cage key on a hook next to the chest and went upstairs to sleep. Meanwhile, Bruto fed the fires, bringing the clay and wood pulp to a slow boil, but soon exhaustion crept in and he fell asleep on his cot. Nir snored curled up atop Mika who lay asleep in her corner. Clementine continued standing, gripping the bars. Her gaze fixed on the chest. Nonetheless, the gentle bubbling of the clay lulled her resolve and her eyes began to close until, suddenly, the door to the mill slowly opened. Cautiously, the fox stepped inside. Clementine’s optimism surged.

  Gesturing for silence, the fox put his paw up to his lips and silently cleared the length of mill. In a moment’s time, he held the keys in his mouth and stood in front of the cage. Freedom was at hand, but Clementine’s feeling of joy was short lived when Bruto, more silent still struck the auburn ghost on the back of the head with a wooden log, rendering him unconscious.

  “He’s got himself ‘nuff color to make us a ‘undred vials,” Bruto said, watching the color drain from Clementine’s face. “And he arrived just in time, the clay be ready. We can begin distillation.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  A Caged Bird

  “It is true,” said Perow, the King Consort of Vivéret. “My stepson and his fiancé were murdered in cold blood by assassins sent from our neighbor, the Grand Duchy of Oswald. Our noble knights caught the murderers and in an attempt to save their own skin from the noose, they spilled the conspiracy clean like black ink on a white parchment.”

  The crowd stared silent at the King Consort.

  “We’ve learned that after the murder, the bodies of our beloved Prince and his fiancé were dumped into the depths of Oshmiel Lake. Pure savagery! The assassins were to be brought back to the Capital to face justice, but unfortunately, news of their capture reached the ears of the rulers of the Duchy, who sent assassins to dispose of their assassins. A couple of our knights survived the attack; the best doctors in the land are now treating their injuries in the royal infirmary.”

  The King Consort paused, his voice cracking. The glum crowd looked on.

  “I, the King Consort, decree that the next three days be those of mourning the Prince and his love. In a symbolic gesture, the court will host all citizens in this hall to pay their respects, starting this afternoon.”

  The King Consort covered his face with his hand. A stream of tears ran down his cheeks. He wiped them away before they fell to the ground. The crowd watched him, breaths ahold.

  “I… the kingdom will not stand for this treachery, for this horror and vile act. As we mourn, we must be ready to lay justice upon the rulers of the Duchy. Hence, I, the King Consort, regrettably decree that in five days’ time, Vivéret’s army will march upon the cowards of Oswald and bring the murderers of our Prince and his fiancé to justice! This will be a just war! An honorable war! We shall harm no civilians. Our only enemy is the Duke and Duchess of Oswald, their corruption, hatred and ill will toward all men. We go to war for their freedom!”

  “For the Prince!” a voice yelled from the crowd.

  “For justice!” sounded another.

  “For Vivéret!” the crowd began and the cheering grew louder and louder still until the whole of the Capital, from the greatest man to the smallest child praised the kingdom, the glory, the war and the King Consort.

  “For Vivéret,” Perow said and disappeared into the back halls of the keep.

  After a war plan meeting with his generals, the rest of his morning and early afternoon passed as any other: he read ancient texts in the library, reviewed and signed economic policy, documents and decrees, pretended to pray at the chapel of the Windcallers, strolled the royal gardens and ate a meal of veal, potatoes and salad on the grand balcony overlooking the city. When the time for theatrics arrived, he dressed in a fine black suit with a deep purple collar; thin decorative silver chains ran from his left shoulder to his right chest pocket where a beautiful white rose lay. The fire that hung above his spiraling crown changed from red to black.

  In the late afternoon, Perow took his place on the Throne of Glimmer, which sat draped in the finest black velvets. Two empty, richly decorated coffins lay before the throne. Men and women filed past the King Consort, kissing a large black ring with an image of
a secretary bird quartering a serpent, as they went.

  “Heartfelt condolences, my Lordship,” a comely countess said. “To lose the Queen, and now the Prince and his love…It’s just unfair!” She finished and burst into tears.

  “Thank you, my dear,” Perow said. “My heart beats shattered, yet, for the people, I do my best to act strong.”

  “Bless your heart,” she said. “May the great goddess Xis bless you with all that is good.”

  Thousands of men, women and children passed before Perow and his two mahogany props. Thousands of condolences were uttered and seas full of tears were shed. A hundred symphony halls could not house the wails of sorrow that the Great Hall of the Capital had to endure. Yet the walls listened silently and without protest and when the line of mourners diminished, the King Consort sat alone staring at the flower draped coffins.

  “Are you all right, my Lord?” a young man asked.

  “I’m as I should be, Rafel,” Perow said. “It’s so very hard to come to terms with the fact that they’re both gone. I loved them very deeply. When you’re older and have children of your own, you will understand that parental love, that emotion of seeing your child grow. A man weeps more within the first few hours of his child’s birth than he does in all the days that follow. And after, you think to yourself that no matter how many gifts I give this child, it is never going to be enough to show just how much I love them. There is but one gift, not dependent on wealth, that a father can give his child. Trust. Trust and a hope that all will end well.”

  “My Lord, did you not marry the Queen when the Prince was twenty-three?” Rafel asked.

  Perow smiled. “Nevertheless, my love for him was still the same,” he said and, after patting Rafel on the shoulder, left the great hall and headed for his chamber where two sunken-eyed bühos greeted him. Beaten and bruised, the white canary sat silently in a small metal cage upon the King Consort’s writing desk.