Bedtime Story

I know, I know, I know. I'm a cantankerous old man and all you want is a bedtime story. Truly, no wiser man was afflicted with a worse granddaughter. This wasn't how your mother was raised, to be sure.

But I will tell you a story despite your ingratitude, and it will be true, besides. I myself can attest to its veracity, for I was there.

What? You are a very rude child indeed. Hush. Be still. I am beginning.

Many years ago, when I was a young man, I lived in the capitol city. In those days, it was grander and more beautiful than it was now, for this was the time of the Not-Jade Emperor. They called him that, of course, because he was the first emperor to wear a crown surmounted with precious stones, instead of the sort of jade cap or corno ducale which his predecessors had worn.

As it so happened, I was fortunate enough to be a scribe for the Not-Jade Emperor, one of the upper thousand who attended to his every word while he sat in the throne room of his palace, easily itself as large as a small city, with all of us sitting in a sort of semi-circle about the throne in a trench or pit, so that we would never enter the emperor's sight unless he so wished. In those days, respect was paid. We recorded many things. I myself cataloged the endless procession of curious and fantastical beasts which the Not-Jade Emperor received as tribute. These were animals which had never been seen before, all of them, sent by lesser kings who feared to anger our distant but powerful land. Sparrows, wyverns, ocelots, a cyclops, creatures with hides or plumages of gold and silver, a sphinx, oh yes, all these and many others did I see in my time. But it was the sphinx who caused the most trouble, and that is the tale I am presently relating to you.

Although her lower half was the body of a brutal beast, the sphinx had the face of a woman and a pleasant manner of speaking which even we scribes could see delighted the emperor. She was immortal, and was unimpressed by kings. She had been, she told the Not-Jade Emperor, a gift to the King of Araby, but she asked him a riddle which had driven him mad.

"The new king of Araby feared both yourself and me," she told the Not-Jade Emperor, in a soft voice that could lull a tired man to sleep. "They have made a gift of me to you in the hopes of ridding themselves of both of us."

At this, the Not-Jade Emperor laughed uproariously. For, you see, he was not the sort of man to be driven mad, not by sphinxes or their riddles or for women or from wine.

"I fear," he said, cheerfully, for he was a man of good-humor, as any ruler of the known world might reasonably be expected to be, "that I must disappoint them, for I shall not be driven mad. I would punish them for this plot were it not so amusing and if not for the fact that you, my dear sphinx, are not entirely to be trusted." For the sphinx would tell a lie as easily as she would tell the truth. She was not unlike granddaughters in that respect.

"You are most sagacious, oh Not-Jade Emperor," purred the Sphinx, which was of course base flattery, but of the sort which pleases potentates. "May I tell your majesty a secret?"

Now, the Not-Jade Emperor had a weakness: he loved secrets. More precisely, he loved other people's secrets, and his agents collected them assidously, which means, all the time.

"I insist," said the Not-Jade Emperor, and this is where the trouble really began.

"I am a sphinx," said the sphinx, "and as such I know many secrets. But it seems to me that the secret which would most interest your majesty is this: there is an island, and there live the first scribes, who record all the secrets of the world."

"Where is this island?" demanded the Not-Jade Emperor, entirely interested.

"I will tell you," said the sphinx. And she did.

Of course, the Not-Jade Emperor could hardly bear the thought of not knowing all the secrets of the world since the first times, and so he determined to journey to these islands. Being a prudent empror, he brought a large retinue with him, myself amongst them. He had with him a thousand scribes, to record the secrets he would find, ten thousand soldiers, to protect his person, and nine thousand courtiers and nobles, to provide him with company, for he was a gregarious as well as an inquisitive potentate.

We voyaged for days and nights in our coracles or cogs, as befitted our rank, a great flotilla stretching across the horizon. We saw many things along the way which have now faded from the knowledge of the world, sea monsters and mermaids and manatees, which liars will tell you are the same. Presently, after adventures which I shall relate to you at another time---if you behave, which I consider most unlikely---we reached the island of which the sphinx spoke.

I could try to describe this island to you, but your untutored mind could not possibly comprehend the fantastic nature of what we saw there. Many of our company perished as we made our way from the shore of that place to the citadel at the center, but at last we reached our, or perhaps I should say the Not-Jade Emperor's, goal.

The citadel itself was beaten out of gold into the shape of an inverted bowl, quite simple in appearance. The gold aside, of course. But during the first times, they did not think so much of gold as we do now. Its doors were barred, but the soldiers saw to that; they felled trees and produced battering rams. Gold is a soft metal, my beloved but insolent granddaughter, and if you are ever called upon to build a citadel, you would be well-served to use a less ostentatious but more sturdy metal.

Be this as it may, the Not-Jade Emperor entered the citadel in a state of great excitement, and as many of us, sages, soldiers and retainers, as could fit, followed.

We found ourselves before a throne, carved of some glittering black substance, sitting on a sort of dais or pedastal. Sitting upon it was a man, after a fashion, whom all of us at once recognized for who he was.

"It is the Lord of Wickedness!" gasped some fool courtier, and quick as you please, the Lord of Wickedness (for that is indeed who it was, of course) leapt from his seat and wrenched the man who spoke's head off.

It is very rude of you to challenge an old man's syntax. Show proper respect!

At any rate, all was cast into confusion. Soldiers threw down their weapons---for what arrow could pierce the armor of the Lord of Wickedness? What sword could parry his blade?---in their haste to escape. Courtiers threw aside their diamond-covered fans and discarded their coronets as they ran. Even my fellow scribes, I am sorry to say, tossed aside their wax tablets and styluses and fled.

Only I and the Not-Jade Emperor remained. So you may be certain that no other version of what I shall now relate to you is the truth. For I was there.

"It would seem," said the Not-Jade Emperor in a conversational tone, for he was not without sang-froid, "that the sphinx has mislead me."

"So it would seem," replied the Lord of Wickedness, who was engaged in wiping a late courtier's blood onto his magnificent robes. "I have never killed an emperor before, much less a Not-Jade one. I suppose you would like to beg for mercy?" From his tone, he and the emperor might have been discussing the price of oats.

"I am afraid," replied the Not-Jade Emperor, "that to do so would be incompatible with my position. I don't suppose, however, that you would like to riddle me for my life or some such thing?"

"Oh no," said the Lord of Wickedness. "I no longer do such things. Too many people were spending all their time becoming clever at riddles, and it became quite frustrating for me. If I were to devote all my time to the solution of insoluble riddles, I should be no good at wrenching heads off, and that would hardly do."

"No, not at all," murmured the Not-Jade Emperor. "Well," he continued, "I must say, I am disappointed. My splendid soldiers have abandoned me for fear of you, my fawning courtiers have raced to save their own skins (and no doubt argue amongst themselves as to who will be the next emperor), and my indispendable scribes have all fled but for this fellow," by which he meant me.

"Ah, yes," said the Lord of Wickedness, "well, it's nothing personal, you understand, but I am going to wrench all of their heads off too, if only to stay in practice."

"It rather serves them right," said the Not-Jade Emperor, "running off like that. Those who seek only to save their own skins never prosper."

"Well, let's not pursue that avenue of thinking too far," replied the Lord of Wickedness. "After all, I'm going to wrench your head off, too."

"Fair enough," said the Not-Jade Emperor. "However, I think I should like to try my luck with a sword, first, if you have no objections."

"None at all," replied the Lord of Wickedness, cheerily, "for as you know, I am quite impervious to such things."

"It just seems right to set an example," said the emperor, and he drew his sword.

I have not told you, oh unworthy child, of this sword, until now. The sword of the Not-Jade Emperor was like no other sword. It had been forged from steel, as any sword might be, but it had been taken home by the blacksmith, and his wife sang to it every night, not of war, as you might imagine she would, but of stars and sky and sea, and all of those old love songs which you will claim you hate until you start to meet highly unsuitable young men. The sword was not magic---the idea of a magic sword is absurd!---but as with any young man---or disobediant young lady!---the addition of an education had greatly improved it.

So when the Not-Jade Emperor drew the Educated Sword from its sheath and struck the Lord of Wickedness with it, that most remarkable blade did, in fact, draw blood.

The Lord of Wickedness looked quite cross. "Now, you have gone about and had foolish women sing of romantic notions to this sword. Well, if there is one thing I cannot abide, it is a romantic notion. Now I really am going to wrench your head off, no two ways about it. I greatly dislike being cut."

"Well," replied the Not-Jade Emperor, whose dander was also a bit up, "I think I would greatly dislike having my head wrenched off, so there you have it. In fact, I think if you try it, I will run you through."

"This is most indecorous of you," said the Lord of Wickedness, in a rather outraged tone of voice. "I suppose next you are going to reveal that your scribe has a dragonwing cloak, and you're about to make your escape?"

Now, as it happens, I did indeed have a dragonwing cloak. I wore it under my ceremonial robes to keep warm; it was a gift from my mother. She was a thoughtful woman and is doubtless turning in her grave at the thoughtlessness of her great-granddaughter. I would not make thoses faces at me, if I were you.

"I do," I said, nervously, "have a dragonwing cloak."

"Well, this is a how-de-do," snapped the Lord of Wickedness. "I suppose you've not yet used it to fly, either?"

"No sir, I have not." At this, the Emperor seized me by the scruff of the neck---as I will do to you, if you do not stop that---and shook me quite firmly. This, as you know, is how to get a dragonwing cloak to fly, and that is exactly what happened.

Oh, the Lord of Wickedness chased us for as long as he could; he ran along the treetops as if they were the ground, and he leapt for us like a tiger. But of course he could not fly, and when we crossed over the sea, he could not follow, for he is as much a prisoner on his island as he is lord of it.

In fact, he was in such an ill humor, that he did not take the time to wrench the heads off of all the soldiers, scribes and courtiers, and they returned to court in a few months time, looking appropriately sheepish.

In the interim, I was showered with riches and honors, and was raised to a largely inactive but highly lucrative ceremonial position, which served me well, for in those days, it was best not to be too prominent.

That is my story. I am sorry that you did not like it or its lack of a moral, but as you have shown yourself incapable of appreciating morals, I thought you might prefer something that at least had the virtue of truth. Go to sleep.