They say fire burnt the king in the court. In the court, when the flames crept high, like a pillar, like a column, reaching up, reaching up and climbing the curtains. The king wailed, he cried, shouted, and the burnt corpse that was left, the mouth is still open; he’s still screaming. Why his body remained when all the others were burnt up…nothing but ash now. His poor jester who fled, the only survivor. Burnt too. His hands. The poor fool can’t juggle no more, and what is a fool who can’t juggle, who can’t laugh without his throat rasping and coughing up blood? Cutting remarks are all that’s left; sarcasm, the only joke without humor. He says, he says something different. They say that his wits have left him. He loved the king, they say. He loved the king. He says the king was not burnt by fire, but was fire, that his soul burst out of him like a flame and consumed his traitorous court, that he lies, a cinder, burning in his own corpse, waiting for fuel. Set his soul in a lamp, feed him oil, and let the king live again.
Cinder King
Tale Told 