Bally the Fool: The Dinner

Halfway to the wine, a trumpet sounded from the ramparts. the sound was quiet over the howling winds. The poor watchman. Bally smiled to himself at the thought of the youth gasping and panting into the flimsy funnel. “The Duke arrives,” Bally raised a finger to the air, drawing Illowen’s attention. “The hunt complete, I wonder what meat he has brought for the table?”

“He wasn’t hunting,” Illowen cocked a curious eyebrow. “He was going to fight a battle against the evil Count de’Tras.”

“Ah, of course,” Bally sighed. “Then I must be mistaken.”

“He’s ever so jolly after a battle,” Illowen clapped her hands as she ran to a window, looking out over the red and brown hills to see if she could spy her father’s banners. “I hope he has brought me a gift?”

“Hope, hope,” Bally rolled his head. “And they call me a fool.”

“Yes, well, you are one,” Illowen sniffed, glancing back before leaning even further out the window. “I can’t see him from here. Do you think he is coming from the south?”

“Sure,” Bally muttered. “Probably.”

“Then let us go see!”

The Duke was, in fact, coming from the south-west. once they had found a suitable window, his three blue banners were proudly unfurled against the red backdrop of the land. Bally watched as the banners swayed in the wind, marking the Duke’s approach.

Bally could remember the first time he had seen the Duke’s army, years ago. Several thousand strong, it was. Now, less than forty men made their way back to the palace. It was hardly an army, more of a posse. And yet it was still the strongest military force in the region, for all the good it did.

But the singing and chanting could be heard, even over the winds, even with only thirty voices joining in. The others were silenced by exhaustion or wounds. Two were even being carried on their shields, weakly waving and flapping their hands along with the song.

By the time they had reached the palace, Illowen had run down to meet them at the doors. Bally had let her go; her youthful enthusiasm was a bit much for his old bones.

How did he get so old? It wasn’t time, time had hit him just as hard as it had hit Illowen, and she was somehow much younger than he was. Had the Spot sucked the lifeforce out of him, like magic? Was there a vampire somewhere in the village, drinking his blood every night and leaving him more and more a withered husk? Why was everything so tiring these days?

After a quick, if careful study of the buttry, Bally made his way down to the eating hall. The Duke would make his way there soon enough, and if Bally wasn’t there to join in, or at least season the mirth, well…

Well…

Well, he was a fool, wasn’t he? And what else did a fool do except go where there was food and make people laugh? Soothe troubled brows through his japes and jests? Prove to the men with swords that his neck deserved to remain un-cleaved for another day?

He reached the banquet hall before the Duke, though not much sooner; the sound of metal sollarets on stone echoed ever closer as Bally glanced around the empty room. The tables were bare, the straw in the corner was fresh, and the two servants he could see were hurrying back and forth, preparing the room for its royal occupant.

Bally considered throwing himself into the Duke’s chair for a lark. He could lounge for a moment until he ‘realized’ the Duke was home, tuck and roll out of the chair while dodging and weaving until someone asked him why. ‘Sure enough,’ he would say, ‘I must dodge the Duke’s eyes, for as sharp as arrows they are.’" Then everyone would laugh.

They’d always laughed. He’d pulled that one two or three times. Did they honestly not remember? Was it funny each time? Oh, if only his old mentor were still alive, they could spend months in the tavern pouring over everything they knew and had learned about the treacherous enemy of every jokester: the audience.

He clopped his way to the table and lay down upon it like it was his own bed. He’d lay here for the moment, and take whatever came with the advancing horde of drooling soldiers.

It only took a moment. “Ah!” The Duke clapped his hands as he entered the room. “Come! A feast! Let us celebrate our victory and drown ourselves in wine and meat! Off of the table, fool, lest you think yourself a fitting meal for my men and I!”

Bally tucked into a roll as the Duke shoved him off the table. The rest of the army came in like…well, like an army. The bravest warriors of the Duke’s warriors given the honor of feasting with him this night. There were at least twenty, almost half his entire army. Before long, this would be his entire fighting force. Then less than ten. Then maybe only five, and they’d still be the largest fighting force on the ever-shrinking continent.

Most were bandaged in some manner; an arm in a sling or a cloth wrapped around their head. Their cheering and talking was mixed with groans and gasps of pain. One soldier staggered along, held aloft by his fellows as he cluched at a seeping wound in his chest. After a few steps, he clattered to the ground.

“Dress that man’s wounds again,” the Duke tossed the command over his shoulder like a worn shoe. “I’ll not have his blood season our meal, not when our vanquished has provided more than enough.”

The welcoming laughter was tinted with relief. A servant ran out the door, while the bleeding knight was laid down in the corner. The other servants ran forward, carrying mugs of ale and wine.

The Duke quaffed a mighty swallow, before wiping his mouth with his arm and bringing his fist down on the table. “Now, while we wait for the meat, tell me a riddle, fool!”

Bally stared at the knight where he lay, groaning. One of his brothers knelt next to him, his eyes red with held-back tears. They whispered to each other, as quiet and gentle as a mother and her babe. The blood leaked and flowed, slipping across the cracked stone floor. Mud caked the fingers of the upright warrior, gripping the back of his fellow’s head. The movements of the dying soldier’s hands became more and more feeble. What life there had been in his eyes was sure to leave soon enough.

Slowly, the man’s hand moved away from the wound. It was deep and red, just over the man’s left hip. It must have been a sword, so slim was the wound, yet blood poured from it like tears. The ragged edge of muscle and fat pulsed with each shuddering breath. Life was draining away, slowly and surely. a narrow hole torn through flesh. It was a promise of death, a harbinger of the sorrow that was soon to come. A bubble popped in the middle of the red river before the man’s hand returned to press hard against the gaping rend.

“Come, fool! Your duty!”

Bally couldn’t look away. “Auntie Brightbrow, all in red, rests a ring upon his head. Soon his house comes falling down, and Old Roy Ratskin grabs the crown.”

“Eh? What was that?”

Bally twisted about, bringing his hand up to his bell-tipped hat, and swept it off his head in an acrobatic bow that set the upright and amazed soldiers gaping in delight. “A puzzle, dear auntie, a puzzle for your pate. Scratch away, scratch away, lest the answer come too late!”

A cry from the bleeding soldier echoed thought the stone chamber. His brother bellowed to the hallway, roaring like a wounded animal for the barber to come quickly with his meding implements. Surely, it would not be long now.

“Well,” the Duke frowned, fingers tapping on the arm of his throne, “surely, you’ve given away the first part of the puzzle already. Call me auntie, do you? Ah! The crown on my brow is bright enough. Auntie Brightbrow is me, then?”

The muttering of the soldiers fell to silence as they listened for the fool’s answer. Surely, he would deny it — pull some clever word-trick that assured the Duke that he had not just been called an old woman, a withered crone.

“True enough,” Bally said, spinning his leg around to make as if he was sitting in the air, resting his elbow upon his knee and his chin upon his palm. “For sure you are no mother.”

“I am not,” the Duke’s voice was low. A rumble of a distant storm. The soldiers were tense, their bodies ready to leap away from the feral slaughter that was sure to come. “Nor am I a woman.”

Bally didn’t move. “Faith no? And yet I hear with my ear, a pitter pitter pat of cloth shoes on gray stone. Who comes, dear auntie, but the butcher barber and leech? Yes! See there she comes, wrapped in white ribbon and cloth to try and staunch the flow of noble blood from your dear devoted soldier.”

Sure enough, the barber had just made their way into the room, a look of calm resignation on her face. She sniffed gently as she approached the dying man, ignoring the pleas and sobs of the one who held him, brushing him away like an annoying gnat.

The Duke’s eyes narrowed, though his light tone did not change. “Tell me, fool; how does this mean I am better called Auntie than Duke?”

Bally dropped his leg and spun on his foot. “Why did I not hear you say as you entered the room, ‘dress that man’s wounds?’ And even now the dresser wraps the man in white. A white dress that spares one from death? I’ve heard enough tales of spinsters and widowers to know that surely tis a wedding dress! And ne’er have I met one who dares with such proud and forceful tone to put another in a wedding dress than a dear and loving auntie.”

There was a gasp of pain and moan that surely could have come only from a dying man. The quiet mutterings of the barber continued as silence fell once more.

Then, the Duke barked a single laugh. A mirthless laugh, but a laugh all the same. It was enough to set the other soldiers at ease, relax their shoulders, and return their boisterous bragging to their lips.

“Come then fool. Auntie Brightbrow is me, then? And what of this Old Roy Ratkin? I know of no one by that name.”

“Sure you do not,” Bally cocked his head, pausing briefly to balance on one hand before springing off the table and kicking an empty mug to another knight’s open palm. “Yet all of us do. He’s the Roy of refuse and pink-tailed Pontificate. He scurries here and there to be torn to pieces by your dogs.”

“Ah!” The Duke slapped the arm of his seat. “Yes, of course, I know well who you mean! Old Rat-kin indeed. Kin of rats, Edvar de’Tras, the wretched scum! Well puzzled, fool, for yes I am now covered in the red of his family’s blood! My hounds, my soldiers, have torn his flag and put his house to the fire. His family’s blood soaks their fields, and nothing more of his rotten bloodline remains to threaten my rule.” The Duke’s eye twinkled as he raised the tarnished silver goblet in his hand. “I puzzled out your warning, fool, and I’m afraid it was what came too late.”

Bally sighed as the soldiers gave a rousing cheer that drowned out the wails of the wounded knight. He glanced out the window into the blood-red sky. That was the problem with people who think they’re clever: they always concoct some convoluted nonsense instead of just accepting what was right in front of their eyes, no matter how simple you made it for them.

So be it. The rats would own the kingdom soon enough.

His thoughts were broken by the doors opening, and trays of roasted meat advancing through the room. The scent of roasted pork was alluring, if disappointing when compared with the amount; only a single pig lay on the largest tray, a withered apple in its mouth. It was a far cry from the rich and savory smells that had once filled the castle, but the soldiers dove into their plates with the same gusto, the same slaboring sounds of chewing and tearing of flesh.

Had they been dreams? Surely not. But memories and dreams were ellusive at best, beguiling and deceiving at worst. There was nothing worse than waking after a pleasant memory only to realize you had lost the details. How red was the apple? How crisp the skin? Had there been seven or eight? It didn’t matter. All there was now was the feeling, the sense of something lost that no matter how hard you think, you cannot place. An innocence, perhaps, or a joy long since faded to slate gray.

Bally looked back at the bleeding soldier. The surgeon was dabbing at his side with something. The man’s chest was still moving, slowly, steadily.

He was still alive.

“Your gracious grace,” Bally felt his spine bend. “Might your fool avail himself of your noted wisdom?”

The laughter subsided, the room quieted. The only sounds were the faint rustling of flame from the torches, and the haggered breathing from the knight on the straw. After a moment, the Duke’s voice rang out, “What is it, fool?”

Bally felt his tongue loosen. “Any news from Good Sage Ranquin?”

“That old skeleton? Why do you care for his caterwallings? Are you running so low on jokes you must gather new ones from him?” The Duke barked a laugh that was dutifully echoed by his feasting knights.

Bally bowed low again. His back stretched unpleasantly as he spoke quickly. “My poor pate, of late, cannot unknot this little riddle. I fear, my dear, there’s no known reply. I try, and yet beget naught but no remedy, my head is empty.” Bally tilted his bow while his spine rolled around his hips, back and forth like a sagging stalk of celery. “I do not know the answer. I am but a poor fool, and know little of the ways of the world, unlike yourself, your Grace.”

“A riddle without an answer?” The Duke cocked an eyebrow before casting his eye over his table. The knights were all silent, waiting for the Duke’s response. At last, the old man gave a nod. “Very well. Give me your riddle. I’ll set you straight, you’ll see.”

“What of the Spot?”

The silence of the hall deepened. A stillness fell over the table, and the non-plussed smiles turned to frowns. Eyes became downcast. Breathing became slow.

“What of it?” The Duke asked at last.

“It grows,” Bally felt his lips crack as his dry throat struggled to speak the words. “Still. As always. And yet, I see nothing happening. You are the most powerful Duke still living, and yet…do you do anything about the Spot? Is there anything to be done?”

For a time, the silence remained in the room. Then: “You sour my drink with your mewling,” the Duke said, though Bally could hear from his tone that his heart wasn’t in it. “The Good Sage Ranquin is working, toiling as he always does, I am sure. If he had something reasonable to say, he would tell me.”

“Reasonable,” Bally echoed.

“Aye,” the Duke sucked at his cup. “Reasonable.”

“But surely, is it not a great problem that must be solved quickly? Might unreasonable solutions —”

“Ten paces a year,” the Duke raised a finger. “I know you are a fool, but even you can do math. At this rate, the edge of the Spot will not reach over our heads for ten years at least. And even then, we know not what it will do. Perhaps nothing at all.”

“Nothing?” Bally gasped. “My Lord, already the fields turn to ash and the cows go dry. The land is crumbling into the sea as we speak. Surely, it is doing something already.”

“We are adapting,” the Duke tossed a bone aside, where it skid and clattered along the stones towards Bally’s feet. “There is still food enough, there is water enough, there is land enough. If we must make do with less, we must make do with less.”

“Faith, my Lord,” Bally kicked the bone into the corner, “I am indeed a fool, for while I agree that, as you say, if we must make do with less, we must make do with less…but must we make do with less?”

“What would you have us do?” The Duke spread his hands. “Live as we always have? If these tables were as rich and full as they had been in centuries past, why, it would take all the food in the province. Our people would starve.”

“But, we are living as we always have,” Bally protested. “Your throne is still there and your table is still full.”

“What would my starving do for the people?” The Duke laughed, joined again by his knights. “You think that by hanging up my crown, this would soothe their aching stomachs? No, my fool, what the people need is hope. Yes, a promise, that tomorrow will come, and it will look much like today. And I make and keep that promise by making sure that today looks very much like yesterday.”

“But your Grace…”

The Duke cleared his throat.

There was a pose he took, Bally had come to learn it well, when the Duke thought it time to speak plain and simple. It was a posture he must have imagined made him look perfectly regal, like one of the ancient sage kings who spoke with the wisdom of sages and the strength of the land. All the pose did for Bally was make him rethink everything the tall paintings in the library told him about how wise and good these ancient monarchs really were.

“Fool,” he said, with a tone that echoed limply in the empty room. “For months, there has been little worth celebrating in this world. Pain and hardship come at us from every direction. It is difficult enough for my men, toiling daily in their practice yard, swinging their rusty swords and heaving their rusty sheilds about, ignoring their aching bones and screaming muscles. They have so little left to bring them joy. Now, today, they have done something wonderful. Something glorious. They have made their mark on the world in a way that shall change the shape of the future. Our kingdom is safe from the rancid rat-kin who sought to take our lands for himself. Let us revel, fool, without your whining and mewling. Let laughter once more fill this hall, if only for a single meal. Do not come at us with tales of gloom and fear, do not harrass us with portents like an old witch. I say, let them have their joy.”

The applause of metal gauntlets echoed through the room, drowning out the gasps and moans of the man on the straw. His brother sobbed next to him, his face covered with his muddy hands.