In Which I Remember Things

I have lived on the streets for as long as I can remember, which is not much. I have a rather terrible memory, but I do recall hearing that my parents were quite young when I was conceived. They were here when the city was established and the manor built for the monarch and his family. The Good King Florence and his beautiful wife Augusta were the first rulers of Laoghaire. They brought their noble family and a group of hopeful peasants who had tired of the wars that plagued the lands beyond the city.

I cannot remember my parents.

I remember dark, blurred shapes hovering about my crib, and hushed voices whispering, singing, in my ears. I can sometimes recall the sounds of their voices, but mostly, in my memory, my parents are just a low warble and a higher pitched hum.

My parents used to be dear friends with Florence and Augusta.

My home- or what remains of it- sits directly across from the manor, which was named Paderau. Paderau was a glorious monster of a structure built into the face of the hill; its towers were the only things in the city that were upright instead of tilted, the upper fangs that completed the gaping mouth that was Laoghaire. The sides of the building were covered in reflective windows like that of the skyscrapers. There was no gate surrounding Paderau, for Florence said that the citizens of Laoghaire were a family, and as such, the peasantry could visit the king with their complaints or concerns when they saw fit. Of course there were restrictions, but the people felt safer knowing that their king had not shut himself up behind cold stone walls. Before the rains came, Paderau would reflect the pale rays of the glorious sun, and shoot them in all directions so that they bounced off the offices and shops, causing the city to emit a pure white glow; our city was a city of lights and peace.

The road used to rise to the top of the hill and level off, running and twisting toward the outer cities where the wars were. There used to be a bus that would drive from beyond Alton, through the canopy of dead, thorn trees and rise up the hill, pausing to gather passengers or let travelers off in our little Utopia. The bus would whistle as it pulled away and would trek up the hill, pass it to the stretch of road and disappear onto the horizon. People would go to the other cities to purchase things from the factories, great clouds of smoke could be seen even from Laoghaire, and people used to say that as long as there was smoke edging into the sky from beyond the horizon, as long as the factories still operated, there was hope.

But paradise is only fleeting, and on one sunny, happy day, the war found us.

The king and his wife the queen climbed into the back of their sleek black Cadillac, their carriage, and started up the hill. They were going to speak with the leaders of the city over the hill and far away, a peace talk if my memory serves. Just as the car rose toward the pinnacle, there was a terrible sound, like the grinding of bones, and a plane appeared on the horizon above the thorn trees. It dropped what looked like a great black version of those bombs on children’s cartoons; on the cartoons the explosives would destroy anything in there path but by the next scene, the items would be restored just as they had been before. My mother, father, and myself stood outside of the house, watching as the bomb dropped just behind of Alton. It destroyed the stone wall around the prison and cut a gaping hole in the road, cutting us off from the city beyond.

My parents left me.

They dashed on foot up the road as the plane whooshed overhead.

The plane, the monarch’s car, and my parents reached the top of the hill at the same time. The bomb dropped from the plane and landed on the car. In an instant, my family was gone and our last connection to the outside world was severed. The road was broken, and the valley was formed. And unlike the cartoons, nothing was ever the same again.

I was seven, and Jamaar one.

They had a double funeral for them: my parents and the rulers. That is where Jamaar and I met, and that is my first and most vivid memory.

The entire city was gathered at the edge of the broken road, gazing down into the dark, charred abyss of the valley. Everyone was sobbing and clothed in black even the sky was covered in thick black clouds. I stood at the very edge of the shattered asphalt, peering down into the dark hole; I was searching for a remnant of the lives that had been lost there. Some sign of my parents that had tried try to save their friends; some people would call this heroic, I called it abandonment. I was wearing the same clothes I had been when they had died: a drooping red t-shirt that hung over my blue jeans and black and white sneakers. My blonde hair was tangled and shaggy, hanging over my ears down to my jaw line. In my hand I was clutching a rose that I had been given along with every other member of the city; we were to throw our roses down into the valley in place of onto the coffins: there was nothing left for us to truly bury.

He was standing beside of me, a white rose clutched to his chest.

I remember he was so erect and clean, not like any child I had ever seen before. His back was straight, so straight that it looked as if someone had strapped a board to him beneath his fancy black suit. His shoes were so shiny that I could see my form reflected in them, and I found myself inadequate next to him. His face was round and angelic with eyes so beautiful that to see them dark with pain and wet with a sea of tears was heartbreaking, and I almost was able to force emotion to rise to my cold surface; one of his eyes was a pale blue like the sky before the war and the other was a deep green like the grass that had grown on either side of the road that was now nothing more than a crater. His blonde hair was long like mine, but combed back and tugged back into a tiny ponytail at the back of his head. Blood was staining his steady hands as he clutched the flower’s stem too tightly and the thorns pierced his noble flesh.

Behind him stood a cadaverous figure wearing a militaristic uniform with shimmering silver buttons that caught the dim light and reflected it back like pale, cold eyes; a black cape tied about his neck that dangled down to his ankles. Attached to his belt, which was tightened about his thin waist, was a rapier pushed into a sheath. His black hair was swept back from his forehead and caked with gel to keep it firmly in a glistening pompadour. His black eyes were sunken and cold, and he was glaring down into the hole, his thin lips locked in a constant frown. His bony ringed fingers were clutching Jamaar’s small shoulders like talons.

Jamaar’s teary mismatched eyes found my dry blue ones, and he inclined his head. “You are the one who… what I mean to say is that you were the child of….,” He said my parent’s names, but I cannot remember them no matter how hard I try. “Yes?”

“Well, the male bedded the female and she bore me if that is what you’re asking, but since they abandoned me to be noble and heroic, I am not claiming them as my parents.” I said flatly, shrugging my shoulders. Jamaar stared at me, utterly horrified, and the tall, vulture-like male standing behind him glared down at me with narrowed eyes.

“You… mean to say that you’re not sad at all?”

I was thoughtful before a moment, then looked down at the prince and raised a brow. “Should I be?”

“I should think so! After all they were your parents!” He squeaked in dismay, his pudgy, bleeding hands clinging to his flower and twisting his fingers about its thorny stem. I watched him blankly for a moment, then furrowed my brows thoughtfully and turned to face the gaping hole. Slowly, my knees buckled and I sank down to the edge of the shattered asphalt. I parted my lips, allowing my lower one to tremble. Immediately, I forced tears to my eyes and they ran down my face in thick cold clumps of moisture.

“MY PARENTS! NO!” I cried, clutching the rose to my chest so tightly a few of its petals tumbled into my lap. “No, no, what am I going to do without them? Who will tell me to wear clean underwear and wash behind my ears?” I was shaking now with laughter that I disguised as sobs. I pushed one of my hands to my lips and gave a low groan, rolling my eyes back into my skull. “Oh, what am I to do!? The monsters in my closet will devour me, my clothes will remain unwashed, wrinkled, my dinners will go unmade, the cookies unbaked. Oh, woe is me! Whatever shall I do?! I will die here, at this very moment, there is no reason for me to be alive anymore!” With that, I gave a huff and fell backwards onto the road, closing my eyes and lifting the rose to cause it to stand erect over my chest. I gave a little gurgle then exhaled and let my head fall to the side, my tongue lolling as my arms dropped limply on either side of my body.

After a few moments of waiting for a reaction, I cracked open one eye, seeing that the prince was staring slack-jawed at me, his flower dangling by his side in limp fingers. “Like that?” I whispered, and the young prince nodded, utterly dumbfounded. Nodding, I opened both eyes and I cleared my throat, standing back up, and I casually tossed my flower into the hole. “Good riddance.”

From that point on, we were best friends.

In Which the City is Explained and I Play a Lullaby

The city of Laoghaire is poised precariously on a steep incline that rises to an almost sharp point before dropping again into a valley on the other side of the triangular hill. The sky above the city is a perpetual shade of iron, dark and cold; the buildings shudder and convulse at the roaring of the relentless thunder that roars behind the thick charcoal clouds that linger above the buildings and the single unbending road. The buildings protrude from the side of this hill like pointed, dripping fangs, cold and gleaming in the dim, hazy light of the stream lamps that decorate the awkward sidewalks that ran on either side of the single street that runs from the bottom of the hill up through Laoghaire and ends abruptly in a jagged mess of broken asphalt at the pinnacle of the hill.

The sidewalks are formed of pale concrete and shoot up the side of the street; both the road and the walkways are ridged like small stairs to prevent pedestrians and vehicles from sliding down the slippery asphalt and concrete, down to the abrupt flat street that led away from the city and the dark, treacherous valley through a field of tall skeletal trees. Their long, twisting branches spread over the road like a thick, thorned canopy that did little to keep the heavy, relentless rains from staining and drenching the straight, seemingly endless road. The road leads to the Alton Correctional Facility, a square grey building surrounded by a crumbled stone wall that is reminiscent of the old ruins of nobler times when monarchs were born up upon the shoulders of their people, hailed and adored.

Our monarch sits below Alton, chained by a tight iron collar about his throat with a thick chain link leash that is attached to the wall several feet above him. A metallic gag is snugly buckled around the back of his shorn head; the device is made out of thick iron with a curved strip of metal that begins just under the victim’s ears and joins together at their lips where a thick cube of iron is forced between their lips and teeth, holding down their tongue much like a bit holds down a horse’s. There are no windows in his cell, and no other inmates are down below in the other enclosures that surround him. He is utterly alone. The hands that once spread over our land with gentle grace as a mother to her child, are bloodied and broken and rest against the damp stone floor. The mismatched eyes that used to look down at us with genuine love and compassion, are now blinded by tears and dull as the spirit behind them has been broken.

Our beloved Jamaar kneels in pooling rainwater and filth from the drains on either side of the street that splash through the cracks in the high walls down into his cell; our king sits in silence awaiting the day, the hour, the minute, the second, the moment, when the small eye level slit in the thick metal door to push aside and reveal the cold eyes of the executioner.

Our monarch, instead of being borne upon our shoulders is waiting to die for a crime that he did not commit.

The streets of Laoghaire are quiet save for the pattering of the rain as it drums against the metal buildings then down the street, pooling in the grooves made by the small ridges in the asphalt before it dribbles into the gutters that lead down to the flat road that lead down to the prison walls that leak into the solitary cell of our once great leader. Even the thunder is silent tonight on the eve of his demise.

I am standing on a pool of light, watching the small bells on the tips of my curved shoes glisten in the lamp light; the bells jiggle faintly as the rain patters against them. My thin body is balancing at an angle like the rest of this city. My clothing clings like a second skin, black and white checkerboard flesh; atop my head rests the trademark cap of my trade, a hat with three limp tentacles ornamented by three silvery bells.

I lift my hand and grasp one of the floppy tentacles and tug my hat down from my skull, letting it dangle from my gloved fingertips as I tilt my head back to let the rain run over my face, which is smeared with white makeup; my eyes, which are a very pale blue, are outlined with thick, thick layers of kohl; my full lips are black as well. My pierced tongue slips between my teeth and licks away the rain that has gathered on my lips. Without my hat, my messy blonde hair immediately becomes saturated with the cold rainwater and heavy so that it falls around my face. Unlike the paint staining my lips and the white makeup that covers my face, the kohl is not waterproof.

It streaks and smears beneath my eyes, betraying my true feelings. Like sinful tears, it courses down my face in black rivers until it curves beneath my strong jaw line and dribbles down against one of the white squares on the front of my costume. I have no other makeup to line my eyes, and I refuse to stand anywhere but this single lamppost. From this lamppost, I can see everything. I see the city and all of its people as they travel up and down the sidewalk, as they tiptoe across the asphalt, as the few brave souls attempt to drive up the sharp incline toward the valley.

I am the king’s fool.

My hat drops from my fingers as my other hand lifts my mandolin and rests it against my chest. My now free fingers lift as my cap tumbles against the sidewalk below me and is caught on one of the ridges, its bells tinkling with confusion. The mocking, cheerful notes drift from the strings as I pluck them deftly with the tips of my fingers.

The music fills the silence, and I recall when my lord was young and the storms would drive away his slumber, leaving him trembling beneath his bed. I would be torn from the lamppost and thrust into a dark car that would take me to the manor where the king resided. Roughly, I would be pulled from the vehicle and pushed into his room and ordered to play until he slept.

I wonder, as I hear the first clap of thunder echo above like the sound of a marching army, whether the king is able to sleep beneath the earth chained like an animal with the thunder snarling and shouting its complaints. This thought disturbs me, and my tune becomes a soft, melancholy lament.

A last lullaby for the Great King Jamaar.