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.
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