The Tayle of the Peacock
The Tayle of the Peacock
by Lynda Keen
Once upon a time, there was a young Prince whose chief characteristic was his vanity. He was betrothed to a Princess whom he had not yet met. The Prince's parents decreed that 1st May should be a day of festival in order that the young people could be introduced under favourable conditions.
On 30th April, fairground stalls and archery targets were erected in the palace grounds and a large space cleared for dancing. A special box was provided for the Royal guests. Citizens camped all night by the palace gate to catch a glimpse of the Princes when she arrived.
Early the next morning, the Royal coaches drove slowly along the Mall and soon the two young people were introduced and sitting side by side to view the entertainments.
The Prince had entered the archery contest in order to impress his bride-to-be with his skill. He won the contest, too, partly because he was a fairly good archer, partly because the other contestants knew they stood a very good chance of being flogged, by Royal Command, if they beat him.
As he came back to the Royal Box, he entered by a rear door so that for a moment the girl was unaware of his presence. She was replying to a question from one of her ladies-in-waiting concerning the Prince's looks.
'Yes,' the Princess was saying, 'he is handsome, indeed. But there is in his eyes nothing but the knowledge of his own worth.'
'What!' cried the Prince, outraged. 'Why, then, since my eyes so offend you, they shall be closed, never to be opened again.' And he shut his eyes for he could not bear that something should mar his beautiful appearance, least of all something so insubstantial as an expression.
This high and haughty behaviour did not prevent the wedding from taking place at the appointed time. Many hoped that the Prince would open his eyes to look on his bride, but they hoped in vain.
A year after the wedding, the King died and many hoped that the Prince would open his eyes for the funeral service, but he did not.
He took to sitting beneath a large oak in the palace ground and spending his days in silent contemplation, sparing no thought for his Queen or for affairs of state.
After some time, the young Queen, feeling herself very badly used, returned to her father's court and there gained much sympathy from the younger courtiers, who all solemnly agreed that her husband's treatment of her was incomprehensive (and reprehensible, too, for they knew many long words). They mourned the neglect and all seemed willing to give her a large measure of compensation for this said neglect.
Meanwhile, the young King's ministers pleaded constantly with him to open his eyes and attend to kingly business. They flattered and cajoled, begged and wept, to no avail.
As the years passed and the state of the kingdom deteriorated, new ministries were set up under emergency procedures to deal with ever-evolving problems; there was much overwork and overtime within the civil service.
Until one day the Minister for the Solving of the Problem of Opening the King's Eyes was on a visit to a local office on the outskirts of the kingdom and there he met a glimmer of hope. That is to say, there he met a clerical assistant.
Not every day do great and worthy Ministers deign to acknowledge the existence of this lower and less worth species; but this particular assistant had brought up a cup of tea and as the Minister was feeling really low and worried, he made the mistake of saying 'Thank you.' The lesser being took this as an invitation to speech.
'Of course,' he uttered, and without a bow, a scrape or even a little writhe such as would have befitted his rank or rather lack of it, 'Of course, there wouldn't be all this overtime and extra work and all if they'd let someone with a bit of sense talk to the King.'
Here the Minister, who had done most of the pleading with the King personally, very nearly stood up and squashed the insect beneath his foot. But he really wasn't feeling up to towering rages. So he let the clerk continue and it transpired that there was a genuine wise man living in a hermitage outside that town. The clerk was about to recommend that the man be employed for the task of setting the King to rights but suddenly he lost his nerve and scurried back to more fitting occupations, fearing that he had already said enough to ruin any further prospect of promotion and also the chance of a job in the Ministry for his younger brother, who had just left school.
The Minister, however, thought over what had been said and decided to contact this sage. 'Another failure,' he thought, 'would only be another autumn leaf on an already withered pile.' For the Minister, in common with all civil servants and politicians, had missed his vocation in life. He should have been a poet.
The hermit sage was duly called for interview and the interview board thought him odd indeed. He did not ask about conditions of service or the salary scale. He asked only to see the King, without even waiting for the more seemly hour of nine the following Monday morning.
'Too keen,' whispered the board but they did as he asked.
First of all, the sage spoke with the King of love. Of the old Queen, mourning her dead husband and her living son; of the young Queen, who could be persuaded to return and bear Royal heirs if the King would see reason; of the people, who were unhappy that their King would not look on them. But the King answered, 'I am content. I have sworn to live and look on none but myself. That I can do with my eyes open or closed as I wish.'
Then the sage spoke of the King's duties. Of trade agreements needing to be signed; of petitions to be heard; of improvement plans for roads and buildings, which needed the King's approval. The King answered him, 'My duties are dictated by none but myself, sir. You speak out of turn and wise as you are may yet deem it wisdom to be silent.'
At this, the sage withdrew to where the Ministers were gathered around hopefully and sadly told them to go in to supper and leave him alone with the King until morning.
He returned to where the King was, under the tree, but did not speak. The King broke the silence. 'What are you doing, wise one? Thinking?'
'Aye, Lord, some wise thoughts and some less so. I have been set a task and I like it little. For to see folly in a King is hard. Yet you may find the curing of it harder.'
Then he approached the tree itself and after a long silence resumed his speech. He told of a serpent with a sting of pure venom, which he had placed in the tree. 'It is now at the topmost point of your tree and at nightfall will move slowly around the trunk, steadily downwards, smelling your blood. It will avail you naught to shout for your Ministers are out of earshot. Now will I bid Your Majesty good night.'
Early next morning, the Ministers gathered again in the garden and it was obvious even to those with only the brains of a scullery boy that there was a great change in the King. He was sweating and every few minutes would reach out and touch the tree. Some feared the worst and sent for the Royal Physician and the Royal Undertaker. A large crowd grew, but soon became bored, as nothing exciting happened.
All at once, the King sprang up, his eyes wide with fear. He stopped short on seeing the crowd, whirled round and stared up at the tree, which was now very green and friendly-looking in the bright sunshine. Then he simply stood, in total confusion, while the people danced around him in joy.
But the sage stepped forward and spoke sternly, 'King your people call you still. Yet you have opened your eyes neither for love nor for duty towards them but in fear of a monster made from my words and your imagination. Henceforward, then, Lord, even as you wished, shall your eyes be closed, except in fear.'
And where the King had stood was a bird, in Royal colours of purple and brilliant green and blue, its tail outspread, with a hundred piercing eyes, to ward off the boisterous clamour of the merrymaking.
Eventually, when they had recovered from the shock, the people chose a new King. And the peacock, as the Royal bird was named, was allowed to strut in the palace garden, where it could be seen sitting beneath the old oak tree. Sometimes it would shriek, as if in pain, but usually it would be preening its beautiful plumage.
In time, it became the favourite sport of small boys to run up near it and scare it into displaying the gorgeous fan-tail.
