Rem's short stories ★ Index

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★ A branch of pine he shall cede as a sacrifice

There was a day when a man awoke to a sheaf of arrows perched beside his bed.

The morning bloomed in a perpetual sunrise; it was early, summer was only a newborn. Such a strange a gift from the gods: no bow was to be found, although the man searched thoroughly; still, thinking of how he worked until his skin was raw every day in a temple, he welcomed the offering with a firm and tearful gratitude, rescission of many years occupied with devotion.

Each arrow was its own unrivalled masterpiece: some lined with swirls of midnight blue dotted with softly glowing galaxies, other donning silky jades and reds of such hues they seemed to have been born in other lands. The tails, made up of equally exquisite and exotic feathers… one had to reach deep into daydream to concieve of what magnificent and loving being could even ideate such things...

The man was scared the arrows would be stolen; and so he carried along them each evening, as he made his way down to the stream in which he bathed himself. He would leave them upon the shore; glowing under a cloudless moon, like distant cousins of sleeping fairies were the points reflected in the shine of the dark water.

And so some time had passed; then came a night underscored by the heavy breath of an approaching storm. Once more came the man down into the clearing. He rid himself of clothes, and soon all worry dissipated when his body donned the ripples ruminating at the entrance. A breeze – noises of life waking up or winding down, his heart; a drum of alien rhythm – gently coaxed his face. Crickets chirped, and for a moment the man closed his eyes.

Suddenly they all felt the incarnating heat of an invading presence: there was singing, glossy imprint of the sky on transluscent fabric. And scattered clouds revealed constellations the man had never seen as, in that very moment, Artemis and her maids descended to the water, which still lay undisturbed, as though no goddess had, right there, entered so gracefully its depths. She shone like snow; she stood there nude, the forest silent in her wake; on her back a curvebow, glistening as though it had just been birthed, and pearly, like a wound of milky blood. Wonder at a perfect image, indescribable; maybe a symphony of crystals, roaring in the seaside wind, an adventure never-ending, a perfect magnitude of thought, everything which could be ever wished to have been said.

A nymph slid an arrow from the grass into the goddess’ palm; the man gazed on in stunned agreement as a wreath inked itself across her cheeks, like ripened apples, for it was so that Artemis smiled.

‘Look, a deer has lost its way from the path.’

Universes undiscovered, golden ratios of moonlight, wading through the summer greenery – the moon, stars and hidden cities of them, eternal rebirth of the stars: kaleidescope of sonary. It was not the words who created; words could not create such extraordinary things. Somethings so cruel, which he did not want, or destined to be beautiful in a way he could not interpret.

A single cricket sang a warning or perhaps a hero’s song, and it was then that the man knew that he was not a man, but something else entirely.

He stepped towards the shore, and in his ears the mocking laughter of the girls remained entirely unheard. It began to rain; his hooves nudged the humid earth, an invitation. Yes, there lay a path painted especially for him, for it had been decided long ago, when a man had found a sheaf of arrows lodged on the side of his bed. And so, into the mossy clearing trotted the deer, for he had found a secret hall, of bliss, misunderstandings, fashioned by the Earth and Sky; a reality uncovered under a cacophony of stars.

★ The Pirates of St. Ricoché

There was a time when the King of Pomegranates ruled over three of the seven worldy seas.

Under his rule, seaside towns, previously acceded to being tossed around between kingdoms, found themselves instantly prospering; indeed, for merchants descended upon the town of St. Ricoché: carts and boats of different providences lined the offshore avenue, and there was yelling of purchasing and pawning freshly plucked wonders from all corners of the continents.

That was, of course, before the King of Pomegranates died, and his rule fell to his only heir.

It was then that the boat arrived. It was big and boisterous, of dark oak: most of the townsfolk had never seen a boat this large. The bowsprit alone was the length of a near half of the avenue. The sails were lowered, a plank descended, and gracefully it splashed a flock of birds by landing in a greasy puddle… then, an expensive, flowing silk fabric; it was a blazing orange with a glistening green finish. It trailed, or perhaps floated, down the descent.

Shoreside, a small girl coughed profusely.

‘Hush,’ a woman behind her hissed, ‘Here comes Cassius. He is the Prince of Tangerines.’

Tangerines had existed for six years at that time, being born on the same day as the prince; the girl, however, being eight, had not known a life without tangerines. A profanity was muttered. Then swooped down a bird and instigated a viscious fight to wrestle from the child’s hand a toy monocular. It was encrusted with jewels, and so she cared about it very much.

A storm was brewing; the clouds spat out the first drop of rain as a little girl chased the squawking seagull down the velvet-padded aisle, tripped, and tumbled onto what seemed to be a rather welcoming cushion.

Onlookers gasped in horror as she sprang right back up to be greeted with two emerald eyes large as orbs, forming tears of total bewilderment.

The girl stuck out her tongue. ‘Watcha looking at, Cross-Eyes?’ she giggled as the guards pulled and pushed her away from the long-haired boy who began then to cry. She brandished the monocular. It glinted, as though revealing the light of an unseen star. ‘Raise the sails, boy! The pirates are coming!’

The storm crashed down, spitting bits of ice amid the streaks of purple drops, and knocking on the hats and heads of those unlucky enough to find themselves in its midst.

Escorted back out to the empty square, somehow eluding the aformentioned misfortune, the girl skulked and grumbled her way up the streets until she found an empty barrel and hid and eventually she slept. When the rain died down, it began to snow.

---

The kingdom was beautiful, yes. It donned dawns blue as the deepest ocean. It yielded skies filled with the warmth glow of an eclipse of every setting sun. Flying fish cascaded over horizons of cities built of gold, and the land itself was also very rich. Magic sprouts shot through the clouds in the spring and mysterious fruits of carmine would softly glide back down in the summer, as though on an airfloat.

But the seas were empty. They doted on nothing of marvel. The Prince of Tangerines had uncovered this rather disappointing truth the first week of his reign, which he was to spend seasick on a ship to a tiny mercantile town on the West Continent.

This is not to say that he had not been amused in other ways. The treasury had been filled especially for this occasion with a thousand playthings; Cassius had played with a tiny china dog, which he afterward threw in the salty waters. Somewhere, deep below them, he thought, there had to be a shipwreck, and with it, some glorious story of travel. A story about the jungle in the exotics wreathing beneath its branches a sleeping adventure.

‘But the Prince is too small, your Organic Highness’ had said the Royal Advisor when asked about such an adventure. ‘When the Prince is older, his Majesty may, as Majesty’s Father, wade into the uncharted fields of myths yet unheard.’

‘How much older, Advisor?’ enquired the Prince.

The man sat for a second in thoughtful silence.

‘Time moves of its own terms, Dearest Cassius. Sky may fall when such a Time comes, or mayhaps shall we heed no omen at all. Sire, have I recounted to your Majesty the story of the Unruly Hunter of Dreams?’

And so the Advisor related this story of the Hunter.

Nighttime had approached, and music could be heard from the islands they passed, saluting the Prince on his journey to bestow upon himself the title of his Majesty the new King of Fruits.

The rest of the voyage passed by smoothly. When the ever-changing faces of the glassy waters gave way to tattered and colourful flags, Cassius knew that they must have been approaching the place of his rebirth as King; and so, the Advisor handed him an orange drop, and he stepped out into the crowds cheering upon his arrival. It was all rather confusing; the noise was too sudden, and the Prince felt, in his uncomfortable heels and heavy cloak, as though he had lost sight of his others senses; that is, until a creature toppled violently against him, and nearly knocked him down.

It was a little girl; her eyes were haunting like the beasts his father and he had used to hunt. When he began to cry it was not out of pain but of pity, as though his body was rejecting such a feeling.

He looked back after the guards had dragged her off; but admist the unhappy weather and even less happy seagulls there was no one to be found.

---

Cassius dreamed that night of a world of pirates. Of china dogs as sidekicks; large, stolen ships made up of rotten wooden planks; of little girls in pirate hats, that little girl, to which he could speak, to which he told jokes and secrets. Killing sea monsters and hoisting dewy sails. Somewhere such an ending to his story must exist.

When he woke again, nurses ran over to place him in a woollen dress and put muffs around his ears and hands – red and white and covered in black pips.

And so the Prince of Tangerines stepped out onto the makeshift stage built overnight. A young man with sad eyes approched him with a massive crown as the Advisor read out the vows. And young Cassius said ‘Yes, I shall’ as he had been told to do.

The crown was set upon his head; the land erupted into such shouts that the ground shook. It was there that he became the King of Tangerines; and any semblance of his cross-eyed pirate glory disappeared into an empty future.★ Index