An Incomparable Pearl by Jon Jacks
‘It would have to be a magical crown, then Kalligeneia,’ she chuckled bitterly. ‘For no such artifice could possibly exist in this world!’
‘Yet there is a tailor I’ve heard of, my lady, who claims to weave magic in amongst his threads: he makes the ugly feel beautiful, the stumblers graceful, the sartorially inept shine.’
‘Hah, then if he makes such outrageous claims, perhaps I should have the charlatan called up before my learned justices!’
‘If he is indeed a charlatan, my lady, then he rightfully deserves your punishment; and yet if he tells the truth, you have the crown of your dreams!’
*
Everyone noticed that the tailor Kalathos was in a surprisingly bad mood after his audience with the queen.
He kicked the dogs in the streets. He kicked the cats in the gutters. He would, if it had been in any way possible, have also kicked his own ‘big, fat, useless ass.’
He had agreed to the queen’s ridiculous request!
Just how stupid was that?
But what was he supposed to do, when she was sitting there, wearing her damn crown? (Letting him know for sure who was boss around here. And who was the subservient, inconsequential peasant who does as he’s told.)
Tell her it was a stupid idea?
Tell her it was impossible?
That would have been the very quickest way of losing his big, fat stupid head!
A crown that inspired reverence whenever the queen demanded it: yet also somewhat magically (miraculously, more like!) allowed her to appear approachable (and all cuddly and soft, too, no doubt!) whenever she desired it to be so!
‘Oh they’re ten-a-penny, crowns like that, my lady!’
Thankfully, he hadn’t said that.
Stupidly, he’d said, ‘When would you desire for it to be delivered, my lady?’
He just wished he could hide his head away in waste basket, and completely cut himself off from the rest of this unfair, cruel world.
*
Fortunately for Kalathos the tailor, he had a secret.
Not a closely guarded secret, however: for, quite cleverly, he had regularly yet surreptitiously promoted the idea that he included magic within his creations, thereby naturally ensuring that no one believed magic could possibly be involved.
Everyone knew, of course, that magic would only ever be involved secretly! Not shouted about from the roof tops, or even whispered about in the coffee shops.
Unfortunately for Kalathos the tailor, even his magical aids scoffed at the possibility of producing a crown to the queen’s specifications.
‘That’s stupid!’ Waft declared
‘Impossible!’ agreed Weft.
Kalathos glowered down at the two minute fairies, reminding them who was boss.
‘Er, ah, well…’ Waft began both a little fearfully and a great deal doubtfully, ‘I suppose the, er , Great Helm of Phanes fits that description…’
‘Yes, yes!’ his wife Weft agreed ecstatically. ‘The Great Helm of Phanes would be ideal!’
‘The Grate Elm of Fain?’ Kalathos repeated unsurely, wondering if his two captive elves were using this as an opportunity to make fun of him, even to trick him.
‘Yes, it reveals the secrets of men’s hearts: then magically changes!’
‘Miraculously!’ his wife elatedly corrected him.
‘Miraculously changes?’ Kalathos pondered this, intrigued by the possibilities, then asked, ‘And so how…in what way do I come by this magical tree?’
‘Tree?’ Weft was perplexed by Kalathos’s query until the reason for his confusion abruptly dawned on her. ‘Oh no, no!’ she said. ‘Not elm, as in tree. Helm, as in helmet!’
‘Why, you simply have to call up the Goddess Metis,’ Waft explained. ‘Although, I would advise you, oh great master, that that isn’t wise, unless you wish to be wise!’
‘And just how wise do you think I’ll be if I lose my head?’ Kalathos snapped irately. ‘Call her up, this goddess: though I can’t think how she can help me unless everything you say about this magical helm is true!’
*
‘You have to drink from our cup, from the kykeon,’ Waft explained, pointing towards the small chest the cup was safely stored within.
Kalathos glared suspiciously at Waft: he sensed he might be being played for the fool. Weren’t fairies infamous for their treachery? While he was in a stupor, wouldn’t the fairies use it as a chance to escape?
He had come across the fairies by chance as they themselves had drunk happily, deliriously, from the kykeon.
The drink had made them careless, almost stupefied: and when they had indeed finally passed out, Kalathos had used this as an opportunity to take them prisoner.
Now he rewarded them as often as he could for their hard work with yet another drink of the seemingly endless draught of the kykeon, keeping them in such a stupor that they were usually completely blind to the world.
Cruelly (and unbelievably ineptly, for Kalathos truly was a most unaccomplished tailor), he had loosely stitched each fairy’s wings together, allowing them just enough movement to be capable of rapidly weaving in and out between each other, thereby ensuring they could create their miraculous materials.
Of course, when it came to cutting these materials, he made sure they could only get their little hands on overly large scissors, ones requiring them both to grasp the handles.
Out in the wild, the loose threads binding their wings would cause them to soon become entangled, to tear their delicate wings further.
As an extra precaution however, whenever they weren’t working – as now – Kalathos securely fixed to these threads iron chains that were themselves deeply embedded into the wood of the workbench.
So even if drinking from the cup did send him into a stupor, these stupid fairies were still incapable of escaping, Kalathos reassured himself.
So he drank from the cup – and patiently waited to see what would happen.
*
‘Nothing’s happening: I think all this will just be some ridiculous illusion anyway!’
‘If you think, something must be happening,’ Waft chuckled, his reward being an irate swipe of Kalathos’s hand that sent him bowling uncontrollably across the workbench.
‘This is the illusion,’ Weft said, indicating their surroundings with a casual waft of her hand, ‘while it is the supposedly illusionary world that is real!’
‘You were thinking of me?’ a woman said, entering Kalathos’s workshop.
‘May I help you?’ Kalathos asked, putting on his most ingratiating smile, yet unintentionally tainting it with a grimace of terror as he moved to block the woman’s view of the two fairies. ‘This is my workshop, and out of bounds to my customers!’
‘I thought you were calling on me to help you?’ the woman replied.
Kalathos was finding it difficult to think clearly.
‘And you are…?’ he asked.
‘Metis, the Goddess Metis, of course.’
‘The Goddess Metis?’ sneered Kalathos, worried once again that he was somehow being deliberately made a fool of.
‘Oh yes, yes: I can assure you it is me,’ the woman said brightly, ‘though I can understand your suspicion, for it’s well known, of course, that Phanes frequently appears in my guise. Can you believe that?’
‘Phanes? Is this the man with the magic helm? Shouldn’t he be here in your stead if you’re really wanting to help me?’
‘Ah, he’s a very busy man, I’m afraid. But naturally I know of the helm you’re referring to: the one that–’
‘Yes, yes; I know what it does. What I want to know now is, where is it?’
‘Why, it’s here of course,’ the woman said, producing a glittering crown as if from behind her back, as if out of nowhere.
‘But…it’s a crown,’ Kalathos breathed disappointedly.
‘Well, yesss…’ The woman appeared briefly perplexed by Kalathos’s dissatisfaction.
‘Well, isn’t a helm a h
‘Not if, say, you’re a king, or an emperor: so what would it be if you’re the First Born god of light, of procreation, gestation, and the generation of new life – one whose very name means “appearing”, “I bring to light”?
‘Never heard of him!’ the confounded tailor scoffed.
‘I thought not,’ observed Metis astutely. ‘He was a hermaphrodite, as well as being Eros–’
‘Ah, Eros: love!’ Kalathos grinned, glad that he could help.
‘Different kinds of love. The carnal, as the child of an illicit relation between Mars and the Evening Star of war. But also the higher aspirations when, as a serpent, Eros becomes one with the female Psyche, transforming into Hermaphroditus, offspring of Mercury and the Morning Star of love.’
‘What’s all this got to do with the crown I’m after?’
‘I’m simply trying to help, to explain the three phases of Phanes: like a glorious sun, one that necessarily sets before it can rise once more. He later became Mithras or Dionysus, himself born from a serpent Zeus who – when the Moon’s rays had been veiled, and as Mars dallied with Venus alongside him – wormed his way past the virgin Persephone’s own guardian serpents to seduce her.’
‘All myths, myths; of no use at all to me. How are they going to help me keep my head! Can’t I just try on this helm you’ve brought?’
‘But don’t you know that both Mithras and Dionysus were said to have been crucified, with torchbearers either side, one destined for the underworld, the other for heave–’
‘Please, please: I’m a very busy man. Busily trying to keep my head! So please, can I just try on the crown, please?’
‘Of course,’ Metis said, seemingly preparing to hand him the crown., yet holding it back at the very last second. ‘But are you sure you don’t want me to explain the meaning of, say, the Grail procession? The two torchbearers? The lance of Longinus, representing the crucifixion’s removal of the veil and the revelation of the light of truth? The way the Grail arrives on a silver platter that shines like the horns of an earthshine Moon, while the heart of the cup glows as bright as a full Moon?’
‘No!’ Kalathos insisted, grabbing the crown thankfully, even though he still wasn’t sure if he was being made a fool of or not.
As Kalathos put the crown on his head, he glanced shyly into a mirror, wishing that if he were indeed being ridiculed he could hide his head away in a basket once more and–
And in the mirror, through the gaps in the close-knit weave, he saw that his reflection was wearing a basket: not a crown!
It worked!
This crown of Phanes or Eros or Herma-something or whoever he or she was, actually worked!
His head was saved!
*
Kalathos excitedly pulled the basket off his head.
‘How much do you want–’
She wasn’t there. She had gone.
And so had Waft and Weft, along with their cup.
The binding iron chains and threads had been cut as cleanly as if by a single sword strike; a small set of iron-smith’s tools had been left upon the workbench, no doubt provided by that treacherous woman!
Still – Kalathos laughed.
Why should he bother that they’d gone?
He didn’t need them anymore.
When he presented the queen with the Great Helm of Phanes, he’d be rich and famous beyond his wildest dreams!
But wait a minute!
All he had in his hand was a woven basket!
Had he been tricked after all?
But then, magically – miraculously – the basket changed as he held it within his hand.
It became a crown once more.
The sparkling Crown of Phanes!
*
The queen was naturally amazed when the tailor Kalathos arrived at court, claiming to have already created the miraculous hat she had requested.
Bowing low before her, he presented her with a light wooden chest. When she opened the chest, she saw a crown nestled there amongst padded silk.
She frowned.
‘It looks just like a normal crown to me!’ she complained.
‘My lady: you have to place it on your head to access the magic of my most divine creation!’
The queen took the crown in her hands, slipped it gently onto her head and looked towards the nearest mirror.
She was wearing a crown.
A beautiful if extremely old crown: but still a crown.
Not a magical crown, which revealed her deepest desires and thoughts.
If it really had been a magical device, it would have changed into an executioner’s hood
Because she was furious; furious with this charlatan of a tailor, who had tried to make a fool of her.
Of course, she wasn’t to realise that the role of the Great Helm of Phanes is to reveal our own role in life, as predetermined by the Fates.
Her role, of course, being to wear the crown of a queen.
Naturally, the poor tailor was instantly beheaded.
And his head, as the crown had so percipiently foreseen, ended up in a basket.
*
Chapter 35
Now the prince understood why the crown had remained a crown when it had been placed by the lion-man upon his head.
He was destined to be king; and to bear all the burdens that came with such a role.
Noticing the dawning of understanding flooding across the young prince’s face, the joy that replaced the misery, the ass grimaced in hard admonishment.
‘I fear you listened and saw only one part of the tale: didn’t you see that there were other things to be heard?’
The prince was surprised by the ass’s rebuke, feeling at once that he was being unfairly judged.
He had taken on board that kingship would bring extra, unseen burdens with it!
Why would the ass think he had missed such an important part of the tale?
‘I see, once again going by your expression – this time one of hurt – that you are still under the illusion that you heard everything you needed to take in!’ the ass fiercely reproached him once more.
‘Sometimes we sense that the truth is almost within our grasp, yet it unfortunately remains elusive; other times, we feel we have grasped the truth, only to realise too late that we hold nothing but air.’
The ass shook his head, this time admonishing himself
‘Maybe it’s my fault; maybe I’d have been wiser telling you a more familiar tale, such as how Perseus used his gleaming sickle to destroy that lowest of beasts, Medusa…’
On his back the moon appeared to be melting, weeping both tears of silver and gold, the gold leaving behind a track of the finest leaf. Where it wept silver, however, it revealed a pure, reflective blackness beyond, as if through a dark glass.
The silver pooled at the base, collecting into the horned-curve of an earthshine moon, glistening like the curling sides of a silvered platter.
Within the fragmented streaks of gold, the prince saw his reflection – and momentarily retreated in horror.
He appeared there as a gorgon himself, his hair a mass of writhing serpents, their hissing heads the glittering of the seven stars.
Then, as if the sickle moon had abruptly and thankfully decapitated that beastly head, the gorgon vanished: and was even more strangely replaced instead by a glorious view of his beloved, the Princess Lorica.
Her hair wasn’t that of snapping serpents, but one of lustrous locks.
His heart flamed, as if it were a dangerously overflowing cup.
See thyslef in me who speaks, the Mirror of Angels whispered.
*
Around him, everything had changed
He was no longer in the chamber, with its vast reflection of the universe, its overburdened ass.
The mirror lying before him was now ridiculously small, no larger than a precious stone.
A precious stone of gold flecked topaz.
A stone identical to the one now fi
‘Ah, I wondered how long it would take you to get here.’
The prince recognised the voice of the woman who had spoken.
He spun around; he was right.
It was his sister, the Princess Episteme.
*
Chapter 36
‘Why are you following me?’
‘Following you, “Brother”?’
The princess smirked, while also managing to appear shocked by his accusation.
‘I’m not following you,’ she added with a wry grin. ‘I’m chasing you!’
The princess was surrounded by a large number of heavily armed men, each standing by a kneeling, naked man or woman, each holding a sword to the throat of his captive. Although entirely naked, blindfolded, and seemingly bound with their hands tied behind their backs, none of the men or women displayed any sense of shame.
Despite their predicament, the captive people also seemed shockingly free of fear, their expressions both innocent and blissful, an angelic people who appeared completely unaware of the danger they were in.
They were a gloriously beautiful people who would have no chance – even if entirely unbound, even if they were somehow provided with weapons – against the vicious, armed men from the lands of the prince’s kingdom.
And who had unforgivably put these innocent people at risk?
He had, the prince realised.
If he hadn’t come to their lands, then neither would his sister, and her trained band of killers.
These beautifully innocent men and women didn’t deserve to lose their heads simply so he could continue with his ridiculous quest to return the stones.
‘Let them go,’ he said to his sister, turning away from the mirror and approaching the princess with his hands offered out before him, ready for binding. ‘The crown of the kingdom is yours, if that’s what all this is about. I place myself at your mercy, Sister.’
‘At my mercy?’ she sniggered as, with a wave of a hand, she commanded a soldier to step forward and bind the prince’s wrists behind his back, to blindfold him too, so that he was as helpless as all the other captives.