The Western Gate

Far from being content with his lot the King of a faraway country in a long forgotten time bemoaned that his head was full of questions, the majority of which went unanswered. The priests in all their fancy frocks could not find the answers in their libraries, the sorcerers with all their incantations and scrying pools and prodding and ‘reading’ the strewn guts of some poor wretched creature offered no solution whatsoever, in fact, between the priest and the sorcerer the whole situation became an even more muddled mess, usually raising more questions than having answers.
“These follies of my kingdom!” he would boom startling the array of sentry guards, startled because most of them had mastered the art of falling asleep whilst standing with their eyes open.
“Send for the philosophers and the historians!” He would holler.
They came, the philosophers with their rolls of self penned musings, and the historians with tomes of histories penned by mad bastards who had erased their enemies history in favour of their own. Again, pointless. Neither could appease the concerns of the unanswered questions troubling the King.
It doesn’t matter what the King wanted, what answers he sought to what question because no sooner had one riddle been solved than another was surely to arise.
It were in point of fact, that the king, required knowledge of knowledge. The omnipotent mind that knew everything. It were more the case that what troubled the king, being as he was there on the throne by divine right, that he could not understand why he didn’t have the gift of knowledge, surely he should know everything.
None could offer guidance on where such suchness could be obtained, save by years and years of training in this and that, which the king didn’t have time or the inclination to be bothered with.
“Perhaps,” said one close advisor, “it is achievable only by patience , prudence and thankful acknowledgement.”
It goes without saying that this particular close advisor ended up forever overlooking the Western sea by means of his detached head plunged into one of the city limit railings, as was the penalty for any useless cretins offering nothing but boring solutions.

“I have heard,” came one grovelling snide, “there is beyond the Claydust mountains an old woman who lives at the edge of the Wearisome forest who it is alleged, being the greatest witch since Samirjaza, knows answers to all the ills and concerns, they say she was raised by the Fey.”

The king pondered for a moment. “Send for this crumbling old hag at once” he commanded only to be reminded the cruel fact that such a journey would put to death the old woman in her frail and diminishing years and so too with her death would go, the answer.

The king mused somewhat, to send his bravest knight or the most obedient fool, but the risk that they would take for themselves such knowledge put paid to these plans. Must he go himself? Heaven forbid ! Missing out on weeks and weeks of the finest cuisine and the grandest balls and the hordes of coerced women.

“Then I!” Announced he, “must go myself!”

It would mean the kingdom would enjoy a period of relative peace, free from the tantrums of the crowned brat.

Off the king trotted on the finest and fittest steed complete with sacks of the finest cuisine and poshest wine the pantry offered, most of which it should be added he ate and drank while still being able to see his kingdom and castle from afar as he journeyed upwards over the Witherall Moors.
Having crossed those bleak and frightful moors over the next few days, and colder nights, the king became restless, and wondered whether he should in fact turn back in time at gallopspeed for that evening’s tea, but this would make him look rather weak having pledged to take the journey. Perhaps he questioned, and wondered, that he could return and say the old hag was dead, just a crumbling mass of tissue and spent flotsam even the maggots didn’t want to feast on.
He ate the last of the fortnights rations on day five, a portly pie of exotic animals and decided, perhaps against his better judgement and soon to be groaning belly that he would continue.
According to his map he was nearer to the Claydust Mountains and Wearisome Forest than he were from his own kingdom, a fact assured as he reached the brow of the last ridge on the moors and saw those very same mountains before him.
It were slow going, the horse was beginning to labour and had heard quite enough of the king’s mumblings about food and drink, none of which had been shared with the horse, all the horse was offered in fact were more moans and pitiful groans regarding why he, the king, hadn’t paced himself with all the food, and, that riding horseback after the first few days of gluttony had in fact gave him terrible wind and furthermore his stomach felt, at every slip, slide and furrow the horse came across, would explode at any moment.
Luckily for the king, though they are called mountains, they were little more than a nest of huge rocks the earth had thrown up, it was said they were called mountains because the Fey and the ‘little people’ had named them so. The Claydust, indeed, being driven up into the air from the red stone and dirt with each hoof and step of the horse and with each fumble, slip or trip -the farting, moaning king.
Persevered on did he, and with patience- an attribute the king not only rarely used but positively hated- progress was made. In fact, much to the king’s fascination, the end of the Claydust mountains seemed somewhat to enrich his vigour, he felt he had accomplished something and vowed that he would try this patience lark more often whilst achieving something, or other. Perhaps.
In the far distance, a small hut was seen with a wispy pillar of smoke arising. Just at the edge of the Wearisome forest.
The king with little more on his mind than a hearty stew, or a honey and cream steam pudding galloped towards it. The horse seemingly finding extra stamina, though more likely was eager to be rid of the flatulent ponce on his back.

“Behold there!” he demanded of the fragile wreck of a woman who curiously came to hear the source of the galloping hooves.
“Whom do you carry for tarry?” she asked , to the horse.
The king, quite upset at being overlooked in favour of the sweating, frothing, thirsty horse swung his fatty leg over and dismounted, “I say old lady, do you know who I am?”
She looked up to him, little crystal eyes peering from deep furrows of saggy skin, “ Hast thou forgotten thyself?” she enquired, “that ye not know whom you are?”
“You will beg for pardon!” he exclaimed, ” I am, the King!”, He puffed out his chest, to emphasise his power and authority, which did not exceed the distended stomach.
” Then your majesty, humbly do I greet you.”
The king reluctantly mumbled a few curses before relenting and waved her into her own hut, to see if there was anything cooking, brewing or ready made on the table for him to gorge upon. The hag however stepped aside for the king to hurry inwards whilst she attended to the horse, with water, a heap of hay and lovingly whispered words into its ear. The horse recoiled a little at this, never before had a human spoke to it in such a way, all words said unto it were in the earshot of everyone, all words seemed to be protest or orders, commands to belittle and always the horse felt subservient, now, those soft words, only for its ears. Such a wonder it thought.

The king oblivious to the hags horse driven attention marched inwards to the hovel that was the hags hut.
There was indeed a brew of sorts bubbling away in the cauldron by the fire, a quick sipful from a spatula saw the king spit out what he had just taken in, aghast at the foul concoction “What in the name of stinkpit is…..” he couldn’t say ‘this’ or ‘that’ as it didn’t deserve recognition to be a thing, something that actually exists. He spat the broth back from whence it came into the bubbling boil of putrid stew.
The old lady by now had entered her hut, shuffling slowly as she came, “ah, mind the smell of the washing in the cauldron, just de-licing and cleaning the bed linen,” she had not witnessed the king’s eager greed to take what he took before being offered, or if she had preferred to keep silent on his own fault and greed.
“Wouldst thou like some food?”
she offered.
The king, slightly embarrassed by having drunk the foul detritus from the old woman’s stinky rag bedcovers stuttered, hesitantly, and being now prudent enquired the exact nature of the food.
It was well that he asked as there was a modest but none the less one handful of fingers assortment of food on offer. Three things in fact which left two fingers to the air.
A Rabbit stuffed with wild garlic, a large fang mouthed fish- so potently smoked and strong it were wrapped tightly in another rag destined for the laundry cauldron, and then a fine loaf made of various grains and dried fruits, which the king asked with eager eyes and an even eager belly if he could delight in. The big fruit and grain bun was perhaps, in his state of hunger the finest thing he had ever eaten. As he devoured the loaf he tried to imagine what in his kingdom were better , but could think of none. Not the sparrow and mouse omelette made from the eggs of the pampered hen, nor the shellfish and lobster platter served with the secret rich sauce passed down only to the royal ‘sauce sorcerers.’
“why nothing compares….” Began the king trying to finish the sentence but opting instead to stuff another wodge of bake into his mouth.
”why!” Said the king to the hag at last, “I must have this recipe for my cooks” painfully aware that when the old hag popped her clogs the recipe for this fine dish would go with her. And what a loss.
“It is not the ingredients,” she said, “ nor the measure, but the thankful wish I put into it, each kneed and roll and stir, do your cooks not sing and praise that which they bake as they make them, as we thank the horse that carries us?”

The king could not reply at once as he had a mouthful of bake descending into a mushy gooey mass, but once throatfulls of the dough squeezed down his gullet he were able to say, “sing? Why I could think of nothing worse than overhearing the croaky old cackles of cook Bimmingfester warbling some shrieking catcall”
The old woman were about to politely mention something before the king interrupted and noted that, “and thank the horse? Whatever next!”
He stood up and looked about the place for something to wipe his hands and mouth on, though opting instead to use the fine linen of his cuff to wipe any dribble and spillage from his face and fingers, “now then,” he continued without a word of thanks, “it is said by some ministers that you may be in possession of information, to which I am desirous to know and have in spite of the nuisance travelled here to receive that which, such decided, by such eminence as myself” ,he bumbled his stuttering statement whilst he waved his hand downwards and over his portly bubbling belly.
The hag moved in closer to listen correctly , if she had heard it right,
“That I know? I do not know? What does trouble you oh king?”
“knowledge !” He replied at once with a burp and a hand over his mouth to stop reflux bringing the whole of the meal back out again.
”Which knowledge?” Enquired the hag.
”Well, all of it, of course”.
The king paced up and down continuing, “as a king I should not have to ask ministers or teachers, as the king all knowledge should, by right, be known to me, I’m the king !”
He walked towards the comfy fire before decided it would be better to sit near the open window than the stinking concoction smouldering in the cauldron.
“How then?” He asked sitting down by the open window “does one, such as I, acquire all the knowledge of the world, in an instant?”
The hag paused, the kings blood pressure and heart beat rose awaiting immediately the answer, “well,” said the hag at last, “ There is a lotus flower that grows only in the Myriadian Pool that is in the plateau there” she pointed with a boney old finger that repulsed the king towards the flat piece of land that jutted out from the hillside yonder.
“And?” Demanded the king.
“It is said to illuminate the mind with all that the mind should know.”
The king thought for a moment, “and I would eat this, drink a potion of it? Cultivate it?”
”Oh no,” replied the hag, “it should be left and merely looked upon, smell, and ask to be illuminated”
The king looked towards the hillside plateau, and back to the hag now who was prodding at the filthy rags bubbling in the cauldron…,
With a huff and a few under breathe curses the king marched outwards and summoned the reluctant horse, “ singing to bread, thanking horses, speaking to flowers…” he muttered.

It took a matter of hours and the setting of the sun before the king at last came to the Myriadian pool, a fine and fragile path led towards it which caused the king to dismount and tread carefully towards it, the horse venturing no further than a shaded tree where the king allowed it to rest. He walked towards the pool and thought for a moment. The tales that the bards and the songsters and poets and writers recalled. The king barked out loud to the nature around him,”I am not that naive!” He declared, “I know what will befall me here.”
Of course nature did not answer, “I will sit by this shimmering pool, waiting, before begging for the answer of it all, and stumble upon my own reflection, yah! I’ll shout, hooray… it is clear, the answer to it all…… well I’m not that bloody gullible, nor accepting of such a contrived revelation.”
Nature still, was silent, even the birds seemed to quieten as the sun set lower in the horizon.
“Nor! “ continued the king wobbling around a precarious ridge towards the pool, “will I see that lotus rising from the still lake, and whoahh! Such an epiphany! Not a fool am I!”

The king continued his protestations, born of fables, legends and tales that he was taught, all on the manner of how men became learned, wise, and he rebuked them all, cold hearted facts and truth, the knowledge of it all, that’s what he wanted, ask a question and then let the answer be clear, no ambiguity, no analogy.

The horse, being restless, and more, yearning to be in the company of the old woman, who fed, and watered, and conversed with it, and without want or favour loved it, decided, for the first time in its life, it would be disobedient, and up it stretched and wandered back down the hillside towards the hut.

The hag, still prodding at the marshy cauldron stopped for a moment, “come my beautiful steed” she sang into the broth.

“Stirring stirring, widdershin the crooked twig stirred,
My old life brewing with all the filth inside,
await for the curse! by the spit or blood of the man
And the stirring will be changeling by my withered hand

Twitch of the fingers, twist of the soul,
Bind these bodies, make the spirits whole,
A swap of places, our souls exchanged,
The wind of time now rearranged.

By salt and bone, by flame and stone,
My form be his, his mind be in this gown,
I speak the words, and they take their hold,
The spell is woven, the truth unfolds.
All knowledge is known,
when this truth unfolds.”

The king with piecemeal steps and care and attention looked down into the pool to see his reflection, so that he could parody and mock the drama of some supposed wiseman that he had rehearsed in his mind…a comedy skit that would be enjoyed by the court when he returned to the palace…..his back felt fragile, his steps unsure, he felt weak and strange…he leant over, and it was not him or his image that stared back…..a ghastly scream was heard across the Myridian hills, the birds flew alarmed from the trees of Wearisome forest.
On the path towards the Claydust mountains, a horse briefly stopped, its passenger a gnarled old woman smiled a little before the moonlight removed the veil over her face, and it were now a king that sat astride that very same horse, knowing all the knowledge that was to be known.

In three moon tides the screaming ‘hag’ of the Myridian hill would be dead, age consumed and forgotten, just rags and putrid grease that even the maggots do not want, where once a king strode proud, his humble shadow swapped place as to face the burning sun, the body now as eternal as the shadow, and the shadow now in its place crowned in the last vestige of the dimming light.
The truth as all the Fae know, “In the light there is always a shadow, in darkness there is no light.”
The silent solitude – the nemesis of the proud gatherer of deadly sins.
The king had become the hag, and the hag, incognito now the king of all that could be pervaded. Not only souls were swapped, and flesh is but a concern of the tricksters dice. By wish the old king had become the body of the wise, yet the mind suffers not to change only by the temple it has built on experience, and the hag, by curse, became the richest though want of this or that were not her bargain, just , yes just! The balance and reciprocal, all things in nature by path of the fey are known only by those who nurture nature, who kiss the spirit of the fauna, who bless the flora, and these, the meek and humble do not inherit the Earth, they are the Earth.
Beware the cunning oh man of want, they slip as easily into your shoes, as the wolf in a garment of the golden fleece.