Short fiction

Playing King

The dawn filtered through purpled clouds and cast a dull light over a field cloaked in lilac. The sun was still too weak to make the violet sparkle, but the air was just cold enough to freeze the dewdrops drizzled over the ground. A crumbling Tudor-style manor home overlooked swathes of deserted country land, and from its attic window a little overlord in-the-making looked out on a day tinged with grey, and shadowed by purple haze.

The Little Lord was restless; the disobedient house was still sleeping. Tiny milk teeth nibbled at his pink lips, and sparkling eyes, as grey as the dawn, scanned the horizon. A small set of gnawed fingernails rapped out a rhythm quietly on the window pane. Insistently he played. Tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap, then suddenly - slam! – as the flat of his palm met the glass. The beat was familiar, and he was deep in thought. A little furrow crinkled his forehead, and a pair of fair eyebrows came together slowly. His kingdom seemed dull before the sun had risen properly, and he was not amused. 

There was a humming in his head which didn’t fit with the tranquil dawn. The throbbing rhythm lingered, warning that there was something wrong in his empire, but the King’s childish mind couldn’t understand what the matter was for now. Setting it aside as only a child can, the wispy eyebrows parted each other’s company, and his forehead smoothed once again. Today would be a good day to rule - he could feel it.

A flush of excitement thrilled the young sovereign as he awaited the start of a new day, and he trotted across the room to retrieve the sacred stone from his bed. It was jagged and bloodied by the battles he had emerged from in victory. The latest had been just before bedtime, but now the time for sleep was over, and the time to find his loyal subjects and demand they make him breakfast, was at hand. He cantered down the stairs astride his invisible steed, and brought the magnificent beast to a standstill in the second floor bedroom. It was empty. For a moment this troubled him, but the disquiet didn’t last long. He had a sneaking suspicion that as the grandest bedroom in the house, this one should belong to him anyway. Yes, that was it – of course!

He dismounted, and flew forward to dive on top of the gigantic four-poster bed. Drapes of wine-red fabric were tied up around the posts, and the Little Lord wasted no time in swinging from the folds. He landed on top of the delightfully squishy mattress, all unease forgotten. Who cared what had happened to his subjects? He bounced and bounced, and lifted his arms to touch the ceiling. It was easy. He was the greatest ruler in the land, and he shouted about it. After a while he stopped and listened for the voice telling him to be quiet, but there was only silence. The sun was closer to being up, and the light coming in through the window was an unusual grey-purple, tinged with pale gold.

He stood still on the bed and looked outside, puzzled for a while by the abnormal silence. Then he remembered that he was the King, and of course the servants shouldn’t tell him how to behave! What had he been thinking? A happy little giggle burbled in his throat, and he stepped from the bed and remounted his horse. It was nice that the servants were being quiet, but he really was hungry now, and it should nearly be time for breakfast.

A hint of a sulk was brewing on his face as he trotted the horse down the first flight of stairs and into the entrance hall. Still, all remained quiet save for the irritating rhythm beating its way through his head. Tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap, SLAM! He shook his head and tapped the rock against the banister in distraction, noticing angrily that the front door was looming open. How was he meant to protect his kingdom if the servants couldn’t even keep the gate closed? He huffed it shut himself and stormed through to the kitchen, ready to give the cook a piece of his little mind. The dubious horse was left abandoned at the bottom of the stairs. 

The empty kitchen held the King teetering on the cusp of a tantrum, and the rock found its way crashing to the floor in exasperation. The tiles quivered with tap-tap-tapping, and the toast on the counter remained as bread. There was no-one to make the Little Lord breakfast. Had they forgotten about him? His nibbled bottom lip trembled. The dry flecks of blood were moistened by alarmed saliva, and a pair of soft eyes became hazy behind a glaze of saltwater. A small whimper was stopped in his determined little throat, and the miniscule mogul set his jaw. A King must learn to fend for himself, of course.

He picked up the special stone and delicately set it on the kitchen table beside his plate. He didn’t think that the toaster would obey him first time, so he stretched up to the cupboards and sought out the cereal. There was only some horrible wheat stuff and a few dull old cornflakes – none of his favourites. His temper bubbled and he let it simmer in silence for a while, as he poured the cornflakes into a bowl, and sloshed nasty red-topped milk on top. His slaves were not doing their jobs properly.

The crunch-crunch of boring flakes, as purple tinged with gold filters through the window and onto the King’s inadequate breakfast. Tap-tap-tap, Slam! plays in his head. A cracked clock on the wall ticks softly, while an unpleasant, metallic smell begins to infiltrate the home – but only faintly. Tiny King wrinkles his nose and continues to eat the dreary food; recognition of the scent stirring a forgotten place in his memory. Tap-tap-tap grows louder. It is irritating. The sovereign is uneasy. Shadows in the next room mingle with the stench. The buzz of flitting houseflies whirrs through the air.

Tap-tap-tap... Slam! Small sovereign’s hand, stone clenched in it, strikes upon the table harder than he’d expected.  A momentary lull in the buzzing of the flies, and a memory snuggles back into its forgotten place. Nose still wrinkled, he walks towards the smell and the insects, his hands scraped by the harsh stone. What had happened to the servant? First the door was left open, then there was no-one to make him breakfast, and now the lounge needed cleaning. It was unacceptable. A secret temper weaves itself around the stunted memory, and the two intertwine in the dark.

Just outside the lounge now, and the metallic tang seems to roll in an unruly wave over the Little Lord. His unrest is obvious now. This is not how a kingdom should be run. Stomach growling over the inadequate breakfast, eyes holding back a stream, his bottom lip juts forward and trembles in the dim light of the room.  The thick curtains are closed in here, and ruler though he is, the King doesn’t like the dark. The lamp by the door is broken – the servant should have had it fixed. He huffs to himself again and stamps his feet, teetering in the doorway between light and dark. There’s nothing for it, he decides. He has to go in.

Trembling little man walks forward, his stomach beginning to slosh with a vaguely primeval instinct. Maybe that strange scent means trouble. Tiny hairs stand on end, arms are quivering. The servant’s transgressions will be forgiven if only she’d come back now; if only she’d come back and save him from the flies in the dark. Tap-tap-tap... Slam! So loud now it almost wakes the memory. Anger bubbles beneath its surface. The buzzing is more frustrating than before.

The wooden floor feels damp beneath his bare feet, and he slips on his way to the wall. Fumbling for the light-switch, the little boy is crying. Hollow whimpers reverberate in the shadows, although it’s difficult to tell whether they echo from the King, or from the forgotten memory as it struggles its way into remembrance. Shaking fingers find the switch, push down on the greasy plastic; and shadows run to seek cover from the scene. 

Red stains, like cherryade only much thicker, snake their way into crevices between the wooden planks. Footprints, larger than expected, are smudged along the floor and stop at the Little Lord’s feet. His toes are peppered by the stain, and the liquid squelches underneath them. The hem of the King’s dirty trousers is crusted with darker red and spotted with similar discolouration higher up. This puzzles the tiny Ruler. He dare not follow the cherryade across the floor.

Tap-tap-tap... Slam! The sound is struggling harder to be recalled, growing much more forceful in accord with the buzzing of the flies. The sovereign is scared now. His eyebrows knit together and darken as they tremble. He clutches the sacred stone tightly in his hand, the memory of last night’s victory now far too distant to give any comfort.

But what is that? That incessant tapping, like something forbidden, straining to get out. Little Lord braces himself and quivers. The sound is irresistible; it’s like a physical strain. The memory has to be found. Tap-tap-tap, Slam! He screws up his face like a child far younger than his age. Tap-tap- it’s like a breath being held in the chest. Tap-tap- it aches. It’s painful.  Tap-tap- it can’t be contained! Tap-tap-tap... SLAM.

Silence save for the flies. His forehead is furrowed and he raises his head. Frightened eyes follow the stains across the floor. Take note that the sideboard is tarnished as well, and the chairs and their cushions too. Waves of metallic smell-turned-to-taste roll over and crash through his nose; tremors which begin with the stone in his hand rattle the young Lord’s frame. The back of a sofa is turned to face him, and the mass of flies forms an untidy cloud over its front.

Trembling Little Lord, scared of his own kingdom, pads slowly across the discoloured floor. Beneath the ominous cloud rests something familiar. Prostrate against the cream suite, pools of a red far deeper than cherry, more reminiscent of wine but with none of its civility, encrust the ebony hair of the King’s favourite subject. Indents from a stone have collapsed the back of her head, and he knows better than to try to wake her. His simmering temper knots together with the memory, and something in the darkness slips.

In the kitchen, a blue light seeps in through the window, and the King hears his front door click. He turns to face the doorway, where a man is standing close to him with more people lingering behind. 

    “Do you know where my mummy is?” the confused King asks.

Silence for a heartbeat, and then a woman comes forward to silently put the King in chains. He doesn’t struggle. He has a feeling that this treason is justified.

    “Come on now. I’m sure we’ll find her somewhere,” she says.

People wearing white suits step into the house, as the handcuffed man is led outside. The body of the wife is captured in flashes of light, and a sudden scream from the sovereign husband resounds from a police car. The memory falls back into place, and the purple haze is lifted.

Laura Elliott