SIR HAROLD AND THE MONKEY KING

Part 3 of 4

by

Christopher Stasheff

Copyright © 1992

 

"Now, how did Monkey say he was going to do this again?" Chalmers asked nervously, eyeing the monastery gate, where Pigsy and Sandy lounged, one at either side against the wall, their weapons ready to hand.

"He said he's going to change himself into a rabbit," Shea muttered back, "a white rabbit.  Apparently, they're pretty special here, and Monkey seemed pretty certain the prince would drop everything to come chasing him."

"But what about his entourage?"

"Monkey seemed pretty sure he could lose them."  Shea eyed Pigsy and Sandy.  "Just in case he can't, though, Pigsy and Sandy are supposed to surround them and keep them here."

"Surround them?  How few does Monkey think there are going to be?"

"It doesn't seem to matter.  Would you want to go up against our worthy travelling companions, no matter how many people you had at your back?"

Chalmers took another look at Pigsy's face, and shuddered.

Shea stiffened, laying a hand on Chalmers' arm.  "I hear dogs."

"Do you?"  Chalmers lifted his head.  "Why, yes, so do I!"

The belling of the hounds came closer.  Suddenly, a small white blob came dashing across the meadow, straight toward the monastery gates.  As it dashed through, the riders came into sight—four of them, with a young man in embroidered silk robes at their head.  He rode yelling with excitement and dashed through the gate just as the white rabbit dodged in through the temple door.  "Curse it!" the young man cried, dismounting.  He threw his reins at Shea, crying, "Hold him, fellow!" and ran into the temple.

Shea stared at the reins in indignation, then looked up at Chalmers, who was trying to hide a smile—but a racket at the gate distracted them.  They turned to see the four other riders come plowing up a cloud of dust as they halted—then looked up in alarm as the gates slammed shut, and Pigsy and Sandy stepped out from the wall.

"Keep your seats," Pigsy grunted, leveling his muck-rake.

The hunters pulled together in sudden fear, but one of them tried to bluster.  "Who do you think you are, fellow?  Hold our horses and stand aside!  We must follow our master!"

"This is a holy precinct."  Sandy grinned, showing pointed teeth—not filed, naturally grown, the only vestige of his monstrous past.  "This is a holy precinct, and men of violence are not allowed inside."

The man eyed Sandy's halberd, no doubt noticing the glint of sharpness along the edge, and tried one more weak protest.  "What kind of monks are you, who hold weapons?"

"Very strong ones," Pigsy answered.  "I have repented my violent ways—but alas!  My temper keeps getting the better of me!"

"Be at ease," Sandy invited, though his blade did not waver.  "Your master will rejoin you soon enough."

The hunters eyed the two erstwhile monsters, and held their peace.

Shea wrapped the reins around the nearest post and beckoned to Chalmers.  "Come on!  This is one interview I really want to hear!"

They got to the door of the Zen Room just in time to hear the prince rage: "Why do you not bow to me, foolish bonze?  I arrest you for your impudence in failing to bow to a prince!"  He looked behind him to gesture to his men—and suddenly realized he was all alone.

"The white rabbit, too, has disappeared," Monkey said.  "Why not your men?"

"How dare you talk, audacious rascal!  Know you not that monkeys only chatter?"

"I am the Stone Monkey," the simian answered, "and my master, Tripitaka, is as much a prince as yourself."

"So I was born," Tripitaka admitted, "but I have forsworn all worldly titles.  I am only a Pilgrim Monk, Your Highness."  His back was as straight as ever, though.

The prince was not all that dense; he was beginning to get the drift that something unusual was going on.  He frowned at Tripitaka and said: "I do not seek wisdom yet."

"Every prince should seek wisdom," Tripitaka returned, "the more so when he shall one day rule—as you shall have to do, and very soon, too."

The prince's sword flashed out.  "Do you speak of slaying my father, fool?"

Monkey calmly reached up and took hold of the prince's wrist; the young man's eyes bulged, and he dropped the sword with a tiny mew of pain.

"Your father is already dead," Tripitaka said gently.  "He has been dead for three years, and he who sits on his throne is an imposter."  Then, to Monkey, "Release him."

Monkey let go, and the prince held his wrist, massaging it and staring wildly at Tripitaka.  "What nonsense is this you speak!  I saw my father only yesterday, and he was as hale and as hearty as ever!"

"You saw a sorcerer who had stolen his appearance," Tripitaka answered, then began to tell him the whole tale from the beginning.  The prince stood listening, his eyes growing wider and wider.

Finally, when Tripitaka was done, the prince bowed his head, chin resting on his breast, scowling at the floor, his face somber.

The companions waited, watching him closely, holding their breath.

Finally, the young man lifted his face.  "It may be as you say," he said, "but I cannot believe something of such magnitude on your word alone, even though you are a holy man.  What proof can you give?"

Silently, Tripitaka reached into the folds of his robe and drew out the white jade tablet.

The prince seized it with a heart-rending cry.  "This never left my father's side!  How have you stolen it?  When?"  Without waiting for an answer, he ran for the door, crying, "Guards!  Courtiers!  Arrest these thieves!"

Pigsy leaped between him and the door, but the look on his face was grave.  "Please do not, Your Highness.  We are no thieves."

"You must be, for that tablet is a family heirloom!"  The prince whirled, pointing at Tripitaka with a trembling hand.  "It has been the property of the Kings of Crow-Cock ever since our dynasty began!  My father had it from his father, and will give it to me in his turn!"

Silently, Tripitaka held his gaze.

Trembling, the prince caressed the tablet, but his eyes were on Tripitaka's.  "You did not steal it?"

"I did not," Tripitaka returned.  "The ghost of whom I spoke, he gave it to me."

The prince faltered, but regained his composure bravely.  "I cannot be certain!  You may have stolen it from his pocket as he passed through a crowd—he may have given it to the temple on some foolish impulse!"

Tripitaka sighed with exasperation, but Shea said, "Why not ask your mother?"

The last vestiges of color drained from the prince's face.  He stared at Shea in outrage.  "What is your meaning?"

"Why, only this."  Shea spread his hands.  "No one knows him as well as his wife.  If there has been any change in him, wouldn't she be the one most apt to notice it?"

The prince still eyed him dangerously.  "In what way?"

Shea sighed; the kid was determined to be obtuse.  "Ask her if the King still loves her as much as ever."

The prince still stared at Shea, but his color came back; indeed, his face began to darken.  But he gave a curt nod and said: "It is well advised.  I shall attempt it.  If she says he has turned cold to her, I shall return and seek your assistance in my revenge."  He spun on his heel and stalked toward the door.

Tripitaka caught Pigsy's eye and nodded.  The pigheaded creature reluctantly stepped aside.

On the threshold, the prince spun about, his finger stabbing at them.  "But if she says he is as much in love with her as ever, I shall return with an army to slay you all!"  He whirled about, and was gone.

They stared at one another, listening to his footsteps receding down the hall.  Then Monkey said: "I note that he waited until he was at the door before he threatened us."

"He's not totally rash," Shea agreed.

"It was well thought, Xei," Tripitaka said.  "How did you come by such an idea?"

Shea shrugged.  "Just an incurable romantic, I guess.  I have this notion that everybody only has one true love, so that if the current King of Crow-Cock is a fake, he couldn't possibly be really in love with the Queen.  Of course, I'm assuming they were really in love with one another in the first place, which I understand isn't always the case here."

"Marriages are arranged," Monkey agreed.  "What has love to do with it?"

"Apparently it did, in this case," Shea said.  "At least, our prince seems to think so, or he wouldn't be going to question his mother.  Wouldn't it be great to be a fly on the wall during that interview!"

"Why, what a charming idea!" Monkey cried.  "Would you truly like it, Xei?  Then come, let us fly!"  He made a magic pass, and Shea felt some very sudden and very odd sensations.  The room swam before his eyes, and he felt panic; then it steadied, and he could see more of it—he had a 270-degree field of view, though it was broken up into dozens of fragments, a sort of living mosaic.  He turned to Chalmers, but Doc towered above him like a mountain, looking appalled.  With a shock of horror, Shea realized he was now a fly!

Then another fly buzzed over to him—a huge fly, as big as he was, and with Monkey's face!  "Are you ready, then?" asked the simian sorcerer.  "Then come, away!"  His face changed back into a fly's head, and he turned away, darting up off the floor, wings a blur.

Shea followed him, then realized he had not even thought about doing so.  With a sinking heart, he wondered if he could have resisted, if Monkey had not cast a compulsion of some sort over him.

They flew out the window, over the forest, and found the river.  Upstream they went, until they saw the walls and towers of a city before them.  It was not terribly big, by Shea's standards—he doubted if it held more than twenty thousand people—but it was very pretty from this height, with little white houses and a tall stone palace.

The Monkey-fly arrowed down toward that palace.  Shea followed.

Monkey buzzed from window to window, then ducked in through an ornate carved screen.  Shea came right behind him, just barely beginning to worry about fly swatters.

He really had no need; Monkey spiraled up and up to alight on the top of a tapestry, fifteen feet above the floor—though from Shea's new perspective, it looked as though he were gazing down from the side of Mount Rushmore.  He perched beside Monkey, feeling like Teddy Roosevelt's image, and scouted the surroundings.

They were in a high-roofed, light, airy chamber, hung with silks and tapestries and floored with a rich carpet.  The furnishings were luxurious, but uncluttered—a rich, wide bed, a table with two chairs, a chest or two.  By the window sat a woman painting a scroll, which was an amazing feat of dexterity, considering how long her fingernails were.  She was richly dressed in an embroidered silken gown, black hair elaborately coiffed.  She was in her forties, but still strikingly beautiful.  But in spite of her luxurious surroundings, she seemed listless, unhappy.  Her brush strokes were few and labored, and her gaze kept drifting off through the window.

There was a scrabbling from that window, and she sat up in alarm.

"Mother!" came the prince's voice.  "Admit me, please!"

"My son!"  She rose in a single, fluid motion that contrasted oddly with her tottering walk as she hurried to open the screen.  Shea saw why—her feet were so small that they might have been those of a child.  He suppressed a surge of nausea and focused on the events below him.

The Queen was clasping her son to her breast, weeping openly, then stood away, as though remembering the proprieties.  "My son, it is so good to see you!  It has been three years since your father forebade us to meet!  I have heard tales of your deeds, but have longed to see you with my own eyes!"

"And I you, Mother."  The prince knelt, bowing.  "But I must speak briefly, for I come in secret."

"In secret?"  The Queen glanced at the screen and quickly pulled it closed.  "Yes, of course.  It will go hard with you if your father learns of this, will it not?  Oh, how foolish of you, to take such a risk!"

"It is necessary—because of that same king."  The prince looked up at her, his face intent.  "And because of my father."

"Why... why do you speak of them as though they were two separate people?" she asked, her voice faltering.

"It is for you to answer that," the prince returned.  "I was led today by a magician, led to a holy man who told me of a dream, and because of that I must ask you a question..."  He blushed and turned away.  "Oh, but it is too personal!"

The Queen began to see where the conversation was going.  She drew herself up, composing her face.  "If it touches on your father's welfare, my son, you must ask it."

"I have no right...."

"But you have a duty.  He is your king.  Ask what you will."

Neatly done, Shea decided—the prince had warned her of what was coming, but had managed to phrase it in such a way that she could not object.  He bowed his head now, and asked, "Forgive me, Mother, but I must ask—has my father become less fervent in his love for you these three years past?"

She stared, stricken, then burst into tears.  The prince was on his feet beside her in an instant, arms open to console, but she shrugged him off and tottered over to sit by the window again.  She mastered her sobs, nodding.  "It is even as you have guessed, my son.  Your father suddenly turned very cold toward me, and has remained so to this day.  He avoids me as much as he can, and when he cannot, he treats me with cold civility.  Oh, he is never cruel or infuriated—but I could wish that he were!"

"The monk's dream was true, then," the prince said, his face grave.  "Forgive me for having saddened you, Mother."  He bowed and started to turn away, but she caught his sleeve and cried: "Wait!  Surely now you must tell me this dream the monk spoke of!"

The young man hesitated.  "It might imperil you to know of it...."

"I think I do already!  For know, my son, that I, too, have had a dream, only this night past—a dream in which your father appeared to me, and he was soaking wet from head to toe.  I cried out, asking him what was the matter, for I had seen him hale and hearty only a few hours before.  He told me that the Prime Minister, he who disappeared so suddenly and with so little explanation three years ago, had actually drowned your father in a well, then taken on his face and form—and throne!"

The prince bowed his head.  "It is even this that the monk told me."

"Then there must be more, for your father's ghost told me that he had asked the Pilgrim Monk to avenge him!  Oh, son, is this true?  Is there any proof?"

"The monk showed me the white jade tablet that Father always carried with him, and that the King has not shown to anyone these three years past."

The Queen turned away with a wail of grief.

"Mother..."  The prince stepped forward, reaching out to the Queen.

"No, no, I will endure, I will endure!" she said between her sobs, mastering the emotion and wiping her eyes.  "There will be a time for grief, there will be a time!  For now, son, you must seek out proof that all the ministers of the kingdom will acknowledge, and aid the monk in avenging your father's death!"

"I must, and I shall."  The prince knelt before her, bowing his head.  "Courage, mother.  Soon we shall talk more freely, and the kingdom will share our grief."

She clasped him in one more brief, impulsive hug, then pushed him away.  "Go, and be quick, and careful!  For if I should lose you, too, I should wish to lose my life!"

The prince bowed and turned to the window.

Monkey dropped off his perch and buzzed away toward the carved screen.

Shea stayed only a moment longer, for one last look at the Queen, who was quietly weeping, then leaped into flight and followed Monkey.

The freedom of flight was glorious, without an airplane or a broom between him and the elements.  Shea resolved to get Monkey to teach him the spell, then remembered that it probably would not work in any other universe—and he was not sure he would want to try, if he did not have guaranteed results.  He resolved to enjoy it while he could, and found himself almost sad to be soaring in through the door of the Treasure Wood Temple and settling on the floor.  It was a real wrench to feel himself growing so huge and leaden, becoming human once more.

By the time he had readjusted, Monkey was already finished with his report, and Tripitaka was asking, "So he is bound back here to us, then?"

"He is," Monkey confirmed.

"And he's in such a stew that he probably isn't going to think to be careful," Shea added.  "He'll probably have five spies following him before he's out the city gates."

"Well, they will not manage to follow him all the way through the wood," Monkey answered, and turned to Pigsy.  "Will they?"

Pigsy grinned and said, "Of course they shall not, Monkey."  He turned away to the door.

"Remember, no killing!" Tripitaka called, alarmed.

"No killing," Pigsy agreed, with real regret.  "I will not even give them one more blow than is necessary—but I assure you, Master, they will not follow the prince here."

"Even if they did, what matter?"  Monkey shrugged.  "Who could fault a prince for visiting a temple?"

"That is so," Tripitaka allowed.  "But what are we to tell him when he has come?"

Boots sounded in the hall.

Monkey looked up, alert.  "Sandy!  Make sure Pigsy succeeded!"

The reformed cannibal gave him a sharp-toothed grin and turned to the door.  He bowed as the prince strode in, then slipped out.

The prince had not even noticed him.  In fact, he did not even seem to notice Monkey, Shea, and Chalmers.  "Reverend prince!  Holy sage!  I apologize most abjectly for my rudeness and my skepticism!"  And he bowed low.

"I am honored by your apology."  Tripitaka inclined his head.  "But I must caution you, prince, to seek only justice, not revenge."

"Justice will have to satisfy me, then," the prince sighed, "though I will not deny that I had rather see the usurper suffer the Death of the Thousand Cuts.  Still, if justice it must be, I shall be content.  How, then, are we to go about it?"

Tripitaka sat very still.  Shea hid a smile; the monk had been about to ask the same question.

"It would seem to me," Monkey said, with deference, "that before we can speak of justice against this sorcerer, we must capture and hold him.  Then may we judge him."

"True."  The prince frowned.  "Yet if we do not kill him outright, how are we to convince his ministers and generals that he is a false king?"

"How are we to prove it even if we were to kill him outright?" Monkey countered.

Chalmers cleared his throat and stepped forward.

Both princes looked up, surprised.

"Pardon my intrusion into so lofty a discussion," Chalmers said, "but it is written that the sage seeks wisdom from the East and from the West." 

"It is?"  Shea stared.

"By W.S. Gilbert, Harold," Chalmers hissed.

"How is it written?" Monkey demanded.

Chalmers recited,

 

"I've wisdom from the East and from the West

That is subject to no academic rule.

You may find it in the jeering of a jest,

Or distill it from the folly of a fool."

 

"And you are from the West."  Tripitaka smiled.  "Though, I hope, you are not a fool.  Well, then, Magician Chao-mar-zi, what wisdom have you to offer, to aid us in our plight?"

"An instance from the law of my country, Reverend Sir.  There, if a man is imprisoned and not released after three days, his counselor can demand that the jailers present the body, to prove that the man is alive and well."

"Or beaten and dead," Monkey said darkly.  "Drowned, in this case—but I take your meaning, Chao-mar-zi."  He looked up at Tripitaka.

The monk nodded.  "Surely presenting the dead body of the king would be most convincing proof of the usurper's falseness.  Do you not agree, Your Highness?"

"Why, of course," the prince said, astonished.  "But how are we to retrieve it?"

"That, I think we may leave to the wizard who recommended the course of action," Tripitaka said slowly.  "May we not, Wizard Chao-mar-zi?"

Chalmers stared, totally taken aback.

Shea stepped forward.  "Why, of course, Reverend Sir."  Frantically, he was trying to figure out what sort of spell could raise a dead body from a well.

He still had not figured out the answer by the time the prince left to start plotting, and Monkey turned to him with a grin.  "Excellently thought, Xei!  And how shall you raise the dead king's body?"

Shea stalled.  "It'd be kind of chancy.  It would need a brand-new spell, and I don't need to tell you how many things could go wrong with that."

Chalmers blanched—he knew very well how much could go wrong.

Monkey nodded, satisfied.  "Truly said.  Indeed, there are some puzzles that are best solved by the use of brute force."

Pigsy strolled in, grinning.  "It is done, Master.  The prince had passed by on his homeward course before the spies who followed him began to regain their senses."

"But there was no killing?" Tripitaka asked anxiously.

"Not even by accident," Pigsy said regretfully.  "In fact, I'm sure none of them even saw me."

"Pigsy," said Monkey, "would you like to find a buried treasure?"

Pigsy's little eyes expanded amazingly.  "A treasure!  Gold and gems, all for myself?  Where is it, Monkey?  Tell me, tell me!"

"I'll do better than that," Monkey said.  "I'll show you."  He turned to Shea.  "Would you care to accompany us, Wizard?"

Shea knew better than to decline.

TO BE CONTINUED…