Surely You Jest

Prologue

All the plebian boys were outside and so were you.

You didn’t know any of them, since you only just moved to town, leaving the countryside in the past. Its streets were mysteries, its people under a maddening spell. What were they all doing? The day was bright and hot and without any clouds. You went outside, so bored beyond belief you were, of looking at the white walls of your house. Out there in town you felt like a tiny mouse in a labyrinth, turning left and right, desperate to find some friends. Tormenting you, a pit in your stomach; perhaps you had eaten something foul the day before, causing cold sweat and anxious thoughts, overpowering you.

Avoiding the eyes of the gargoyles high above, you walked and walked, ending up at the market. The boys were playing there in an open field, some game you’ve never seen or heard about before. You joined in, running, yet they all looked at you, knowing you didn’t belong there, with them. They made you the ball-fetcher, and as the two teams threw balls at each other you were between them, in the middle. Tasked with the retrieval of the balls, to throw them all back to their respective teams. You wondered, where exactly is the fun in that? This is no game, this is work, and all the other boys are playing.

In their avoiding eyes you see their mistrust, yet you persevere, and throw back ball after ball. More and more come and panic settles in your heart, creeping in, as the gaze of the boys shift in shadows. The boys protested, screamed and complained, and you froze, paralyzed. You couldn’t keep up. So many balls were at your feet, and both teams were all against you, you, surrounded by fifty hundred figures, all mad at you!

You looked around and nothing made sense; what were you doing there, were you lost? You are not one of us, you stranger, you vagabond, you impostor. You can’t even throw back our balls? And so they crept up toward you, as you panicked and opened your eyes wide, and you laid low and ran away, back home, yet you didn’t know these streets, these people. You didn’t know these boys, and they were chasing you, as you tried to hide, somewhere, anywhere, away from them!

There, a dirty mattress laying against the curb. You crawled under it, despite the dirt and the bugs. There, you disappeared, and the demons hunting you vanished. And as you held on with all your force the mattress was lifted, effortlessly, by the hands of a dozen boys. There, you shook, uncovered, their faces adorned with a wicked smile, their mad eyes fixed on you, the outsider, the unwanted, the idiot, the enemy. You tried to awake at last, to wake up from this nightmare!

Yet as you close your eyes and hide your face in your hands you cannot escape, and the shadows around you creep in, a mob, a hysteric crowd, while you are alone. Vulnerable. Torment in their eyes, and alone you are, the world shows its real color to your youthful, naive eyes; people are evil.

Part 1

Twenty years later, there you are, in the dark, addressing your council.

‘Are you calling me a Fool? A Buffoon?’

Silence.

‘I am a Jester! The Jester of the Royal Court!’

You say, standing victorious over the multiple shadows on the white wall of your private quarters, casted by the thirteen lit candles behind you.

‘The King himself, revels in my presence!’ you shout, a finger raised to the ceiling, spit dripping from your lips. The shadows nod with approval, to your certainty.

Your quarters are the humble living space of one of the most important figures of the political scene. There are no windows, and you like it that way. You freeze, as you hear footsteps rushing down the hallway, and you curl up, hiding from the candle light, holding your breath as whoever passes near the door. Gone they are at last. You get back up once more, and look at the crowd of shadows on the wall, all looking at you. Pride fills you up.

You have conquered them! You vanquished the crowd, and overcame your fear of people. How proud you are, of all the progress and hard work you made all these years. Yet you think back on mere moments ago and rage shakes your pride. You address the crowd, in an uneasy manner, almost whispering, your voice trembling with emotions.

‘What do you call a Jester that cannot juggle?’

Of course only silence answers you.

You stand there, overpowered by rage, the candles flickers and the shadows shift and move across the white wall, almost as if they burst in hilarity, knowing the answer.

‘Oh how much I will make him pay for what he did.’ You say, grabbing a glass of wine. You taste it, and it is foul, repulsive, yet you drink it all up, smirking in the dark. You think back on the Royal Court, on the Nobleman, a few moments ago, addressing you in the most insulting manner, interrupting your masterful spectacle, throwing these three balls at you, asking you, without a care in the world, to juggle for them.

You catched one, and two, but the third one you couldn’t catch, since your hands were full. And the Nobleman looked at you as you look an idiot, an imbecile, and he addressed the whole Royal Court. The AUDACITY, the ARROGANCE. He asked everyone, as he looked down on you, his voice all-reaching, ‘What do you call a jester that cannot juggle?’

You stood there, as everyone in the crowd shifted their eyes to you, the ball at your feet, and the Nobleman answered himself, all smile :

‘A fool.’

And the whole Court bursted in laughter, surrounding you, towering over you. But you couldn’t let that slide, and in red anger you picked up the ball and threw it with all your force at the Nobleman, insulting him. You were outraged! How dared he turn your own Court against you! The ball you threw ended up on the Nobleman’s face, and he dropped his tea cup that shattered on the floor, spilling the amber liquid and scattering pieces of porcelain everywhere. The whole crowd gasped, and you stormed away, leaving your post, your duty, fuming with rage.

As you left the Court you saw, there, in her yellow dress and bearing her usual perfect smile, the princess. Jolie Chamomille! With shame you avoided her eyes, and made haste for your quarters. You dreamed of her leaving everyone behind, leaving the Nobleman behind, of her coming over and comforting you.

…

The shadows on the wall linger, and you adjust your red hat, its three little bells ringing softly as you do so. You breathe in and out yet anger is there to stay. You picture the Nobleman’s stupid face, as he mocked you in front of everyone, and you throw down your glass in fury at the ground. The glass explodes, and covers the floor with a thousand shards. You stand there and think, never again will you tolerate such arrogance. The Nobleman, how much you hate him. You HATE him!

There, on the table, besides the candles, the two balls. And silence. Broken up by a door, opening up in the hallway, and bright golden light creeping from under your door. What?

‘Jester!’ a soft, feminine voice calls out. ‘Jester’ the voice repeats, as you panic in your quarters, blowing your candles and pushing away the glass shards with your feet. ‘Jester, open up!’ Jolie Chamomille says, from the other side of the door.

And so you open up, your candles still fuming, gray columns reaching the roof. Her golden light sparkles on the broken glass that she notices. You walk back, inviting her, your hands shaking with stress, and she enters your quarters, this shining princess, dancing and singing. In her hands, a kitchen knife. Yet before she can step in your quarters you hold her back.

‘Careful princess, it seems a burglar has broken into my quarters. Look there, on the ground. The imbecile broke a glass!’

She stands there, unimpressed. You add, ‘Careful, my Jolie Chamomille, I wouldn’t want you to hurt your feet.’

She laughs and looks at you, her eyes as charming as anything charming in this world. You continue, almost whispering, ‘Careful princess, for I suspect it is my enemy, that dared trespass and try to harm me, and you…’

She looks at you like an open book.

‘Don’t be absurd, Jester, you have no enemies, especially not here or in the Court.’

She says that as she walks back to the door, inviting you with her eyes.

‘Now, come back already, Jester, for the Court is oh so worried about you’

You stand there, almost ashamed. Were you overreacting? It can’t be.

‘Princess, I can’t go back. If I see this Nobleman once again, I won’t be able to stop myself. He hates me, and I hate him almost as much as he does!’

She isn’t listening, and is already walking back to the court. She tells you through the walls that the Nobleman would surely apologize, and that besides, the King is coming at last.

‘What is a Royal Court without its Jester’ she adds, and charmed you join her side, her smell filling your nostrils, oh how pretty and charming and everything nice is Jolie Chamomille! To think she came back for you, she came to fetch you, to bring you back! You can’t help but think that perhaps after all these years she does actually love you, except in a secret, hidden way.

Part 2

You enter back the Royal Court, with Jolie Chamomille hurrying her step, to join back the festivities. You hurry along, yet you are stopped by several servants, busy with sweeping and mopping the floor, from the mess the Nobleman did. How embarrassing. You look around, and surely there among the crowd, the Nobleman. On his face, you can see a little bandage, where the ball hit him. How absurd. You approach, as you expect him to turn around and apologize for his rude behavior, for his unacceptable treatment of the Royal Jester, yet he doesn’t notice you.

There he stands, holding a new cup of tea, still filled, without any cream or sugar. He talks and talks to a group of other nobles, all hanging on to his lips, as if he was enlightening them on the very purpose of life itself. As you approach, you hear his frill voice.

‘-This year has been exceptional for my business. I have become the leading company in my sector, and the pressure is enormous’

You stop yourself from tapping on his shoulder aggressively. After all, you are above such petty behavior. Yet the Nobleman doesn’t notice you standing there behind him. You feel the guard’s eyes on you, and as you look at them you smile politely. The nobleman keeps babbling on and on about his paint business, boasting about his above average quality and morally sourced materials. You’re about to cough but Jolie Chamomille reappears, and to your bewilderment she grabs the Nobleman's arm, leaning in dangerously close. He adds, paying her no mind, ‘So much so that I’ve begun supporting many painters here in our city. Their artworks are gifts for the King, I hear he is quite fond of them’

And at that the others laugh, asking questions and congratulating him. Yet you feel nothing but contempt. This Nobleman is nothing but a pretender! Boasting about his business, as if nepotism had nothing to do with his success. God how you hate him. At last the Nobleman turns around, by the princess’s insistence. He stands tall over you, his gray beret barely holding on to his big head, and in his eyes you see almost nothing. You wait for him to apologize at last, yet his mouth remains closed, crooked, although the shadow of a smile hangs on it. You take this time to really LOOK at him, to make him as uncomfortable as you are. His face is imberb, his eyes brown and his clothes, much extravagant. On his hips, a ceremonial saber, adorned in ivory. And he smells of a spicy repulsive perfume. You loathe him and his grotesque appearance.

You think, can he not see the vain, insecure man underneath his costume?

Yet his eyes don’t mind you, your examination, your judgment. And he turns around, ignoring you completely, as if you weren’t the Jester of the Royal Court, as if he didn’t just insulted you in front of all. You decide, there and then, that the Nobleman is maybe too small for you. Irrelevant!

You scheme some way to eventually get back to him, maybe make him trip when no one is looking, or spread whispers of an affair to whoever dares listen. You walk back to your equipment and prepare for the King’s spectacle. You think perhaps a nice, light-hearted story would be appropriate? Maybe a simple song, or even a magic trick. The King, after all, is the most important person of the Court. Well after Jolie Chamomille, and after yourself of course. The King, wisest and fairest of all. The King, awfully late today.

You sit down and pour yourself another glass of wine. You look around, and the Court busies itself with the usual. You look at the princess, her yellow dress and her presence, shining and blessing everyone she meets. You think back on the first conversation you ever had with her, years ago.

You were performing a comedic song on the lute, singing egregiously, as she entered the Court, holding the King’s arm, giggling, her hand hiding her mouth. And you were shocked and awe-struck. As you finished your song her eyes were fixed on you. She had a polite curiosity in her gaze, and her smile was enchanting. You fumbled the last few notes and jumped up, before bowing to the princess. She was so charming! You waited for a moment to perhaps talk to her, and surely the time came. You approached her, introducing yourself as the Royal Jester, and she laughed so genuinely you blushed. She talked about a lot of things, as you listened. It was almost as if she was just pouring down the words for you, certain that you would listen to everything she said. She talked of her dance ballets, of her many prominent roles in theaters all across the kingdom, she talked about the unending praise of Lords, and the clapping of the masses, about how it all bored her so very very much. You were confused at that, and she leaned in, as if confessing a secret to a close friend, ‘To be so loved, so admired, is so tiring!’

She went on about spending her days at the Court, to the polite eyes of all, no one ever daring to think anything wrongly of her. No one ever dares talk to her, in fear of annoying her. ‘Yet here you are, Jester, discussing with me so frivolously’

…

You think of her so often, so fondly, that perhaps her interest and kindness sprouts from a hidden love, unexpressed, secret. And each passing day is hued in her golden light, in her enchanting smile, in her eyes stopping ever so slightly over you.

You pour yourself another glass of wine and your mind wanders toward him. The Nobleman. He is sitting presently, at a table with twelve others. You can hear their laughter and heated discussion from way over there. And you picture him, you picture the Nobleman, talking about you to anyone that wishes to hear. You hear him, in your imagination, ‘Oh, the jester? A miserable creature he is, a fool he is. Nothing more than a stain on a brown dress. Let us change subjects before I take out my saber and stab him as a wild boar’

You laugh, your mouth filled with wine, and music fills the air all around. A string quatuor starts playing, their melody attracting couples and friends to dance in celebration. You look instinctively to Jolie Chamomille, and of course her eyes are set on you. You put down your empty glass of wine and stumble a bit, bowing to the princess. She whispers something in the Nobleman’s ear, her eyes fixed on you. What an angel. She is trying so hard to make him apologize to you, to humble him before you. You wait for her, and at last she arrives, after stopping and chatting with some friends, and stealing a glass of wine from a servant, gulping it before ending up in front of you.

‘What say you, my princess. Care for a dance, with a lowly jester?’

She put her glass down on the table, next to yours, and dance away with you to the others, moving to the festive music. The Court is ecstatic, something more than Vivaldi is in the air. You question yourself, whether you are dreaming, as you hold onto Jolie Chamomille, dancing and dancing, her being so close and so beautiful.

You never noticed before, how the floor is actually an intricate mosaic, representing a red snake, on a yellow field. You never noticed before since you cannot hold her eyes, you must look down from her enchanting, terrifying eyes, as you dance with her so closely. Is today the day, you think. Is today the day she finally confesses her love to me? Is today, the day I shall make the Nobleman regret his hatred? Is today, the day I shall finally overcome myself?

…

The evening is flowing as fine wine. Almost perfect of a day, if not soured by the juggling incident. No matter, for happiness is of the hour, and so glad you are for that. Your endless nights of confession to the shadows in your quarters are but distant memories, now that you hold and spin the goldly princess. Yet something in her smile troubles you, at just how genuine it is. How is she that happy? Is it the wine, it must be the wine. You look around for the King, and listen for fanfare yet his majesty is late.

Around you the eyes of the other dancers are almost akin to spies, onlooking and side-gazing. All jealous of you of course. Maybe pitying you for the insulting behavior of the nobleman. Maybe admiring you, for your talent and prestance. You are after all the Jester of the Royal Court, and the King is waiting for you to finish your dance with his angelic daughter, and the Nobleman will surely gift you most stupendous gifts as apologies, and everything will be well and swell, and-

Jolie Chamomille holds your arm, and in her eyes, a sort of complicity, a sort of yearning. She grabs you and takes you away, away from the unending music, from the Court, away from everyone else, and she laughs and laughs, her cheeks red and her steps swift. As you both leave the Court you hear rustling behind and turn around. The Nobleman is there, and you scream of joy internally, you jump of happiness, and smile so brightly, for you see on his face, jealousy. You see on his sorry little face, betrayal. And so happy it makes you, to be taken away by the princess, how warm and beautiful she is.

The music fades away and Jolie Chamomille slows down, and stops in front of a gilded door. She holds your hands and tells you to wait here just a second, and she runs away, both her hands lifting her dress ever so slightly, her white immaculate skin almost glowing. You stay there, waiting for her. A servant passes by, looking at you without looking. And another, and a few nobles and even a black house cat, that ignores your calls to pet it. You lean on the door and think back on your childhood, how difficult it was, and how proud you are of your social standing, of your success. You think back on those especially dark days, of avoiding people at all cost, and hiding away for years, when at last you hear footsteps, her footsteps.

She appears at the end of the corridor, holding in her hand a thin, rectangular box, made of wood or something. She is hurrying, holding the box with both hands, almost slipping on her dress as she approaches. Maybe the wine makes you crazy, or she does, but you lean forward and go for a kiss. She laughs and grab you by the arm once more. She opens the gilded door and pulls you in. That is a closet. A royal closet, just spacious enough for you both, once the hanging clothes and the many shoes are tossed aside.

In the dark and silence of the closet she is so near, her body is a magnet, so warm and dizzying. Her short breathing is all you can hear, that and a click, maybe her thin box she was holding. She grabs your hands and she presses them against a moist, wet surface, and both your hands are covered in something. She then whispers in your ears, ‘Touch me Jester.’

And you freeze in disbelief. She turns around, holding your hands, and whispers again. ‘Touch me Jester!’ And she moans in frustration as you freeze, and guide your hand over her body, and presses her royal ass against you, and her breathing quickens, and yours too, and how firm and soft and everything nice her breasts are! You lose your mind in fantasy and she turns around once more, you go in for a kiss but she turns her face away, whispering ‘Jester’ over and over, and guides your hands on her bottom, and she moans in your ears, and you try to kiss her again yet she moves back, opens the gilded door ever so slightly, and tells you to close your eyes and wait here again.

And wait you do. You hear her footsteps fading away, with the same swiftness as before, and impatience and lust consumes you! You wait and wait, your mind and body on fire, set ablaze by passion, the possibilities of LOVE dizzying, and happy and excited and most of all you are surprised by this, of this development. Of this turn of event. Of her.

And wait you do. Waiting there behind the gilded door, alone in the dark, in a closet. What madness. How embarrassed, and without any explanation you would be, if a servant were to need something from the closet. How silly and unlikely this moment is. You wait and you wait, and at last you hear words and steps beyond the gilded door, yet they fade away. And again, you hear footsteps, light and swift, and you know the princess is coming back for you, bursting with love and warmth. Jolie Chamomille, you prepare to say, as you think the door opens, yet it stays shut.

How many minutes, if not even hours you stayed there, in the closet, waiting and waiting. You stand there, hungry and thirsty, your bladder full, your mind in complete confusion. What happened to her? Was she taken away? You stop and try to think clearly. The Nobleman perhaps? He is the one that took her away, to prevent her from spilling her love to you, from kissing you. Or perhaps she went to your private quarters, expecting you to join her there? Leaving first and telling you to wait so you wouldn’t be seen leaving the closet? What to make of this… You are of stone, your mind, in ebullition, and you push open the gilded door at last.

Part 3

You step outside and the feeble light of the corridor is blinding. You bring your hands to your eyes, blocking the light, and notice they are covered in red. Both your palms are covered in red paint, dried and just starting to flake away! You step away and close the door, slamming it loudly. You notice over there a few servants are looking at you, whispering between them. You pay them no mind, and walk back to your quarters. Or to the Court? You don’t really know what to do now. Maybe Jolie Chamomille was just fooling around, and didn’t mean to come back. Or maybe she couldn’t bear her love for you, and was ashamed of being so promiscuous, so forward with her feelings.

You blame yourself, if only you had told her you love her. Why didn’t you do that? Walking back to the Court, ignoring any passerby , you wonder why. Why didn’t you ever confess your love to her, and expected, no, knew that she would be the one to confess? Is it Pride? Is it foolishness, madness?

You sigh and push open the doors of the Royal Court. They slam against the walls, and there on the ground, a princess in a yellow dress, stained with a bright vibrant red! She is hiding her face with her arms, sobbing, as the whole court surrounds her. Standing tall the Nobleman turns around, and seeing you he screams, ‘YOU!’

And from that you freeze, and hold both your hands up, palms open, their red, shining in the light of the Court. Both your hands, held high on each side of your face. Your face, struck with shock, surprise, horror. The Nobleman takes a few steps toward you, pointing at you, repeats with an outraged, accusatory tone, ‘YOU!’ and at once he unsheathes his saber, its curved glowing blade shining in the light. The crowd gaps and all but the princess look at you. All look at you, in their eyes, disgust, hate, hysteria.

You fall to your knees, and on the ground Jolie Chamomille lifts her arms up from her face, as you look at her in incomprehension. Only you can see her face, her devious smile, and deep in her eyes, something you can't really understand. What to make of this-

The Nobleman approaches with his saber raised, and Jolie Chamomille sobs and cries louder than ever before, and the Court awaits in anticipation, and the ROYAL FANFARE is heard at last.

All stop and freeze and turn toward the throne, to the guards and the royal company, announcing the arrival of the King. And the King enters, wearing his exquisite crown of solid gold and precious jewels, holding his royal scepter, wearing his royal mantle, and being overall very royal. And he looks at the Court, surrounding the princess on the ground. And he sees her stained dress, the red of higher quality than most red paint. And the King sees the Nobleman, brandishing his saber high, ready to strike, at his oh so loved Jester. And the King approaches, as the Court is frozen, as if caught in the act.

The King steps toward you, in his eyes, one thousand questions, yet no trace of the hatred found in the eyes of every other. He takes you by the arm, and lifts you up, and says, in his soothing and powerful voice, ‘Explain yourself, Jester. I wish to hear your side of the events.’

And you stand up, barely, held by the arm by the King himself, your hands covered in red. A red so bright and so similar to the one staining the breasts and bottom of the princess. His majesty lets go of your arm, walks toward the princess. The Court parts as the red sea. The King kneels, and talks to her, his words, inaudible. You stand there, both your hands still high up, as if admitting your guilt and wickedness, and just like when you were young, panic settles in your heart. The King, the princess and the Nobleman and everyone else of the Court looks back at you. How in the world can you explain what happened? And you break. You flee. You run! Back, away, away from them, from the crowd, from the shadows! You run down the corridors back to your private quarters, to the screams of the guards, racing after you.

MORTIFICATION.

You slam your door shut and lock it. You breathe so heavily, and your mind is boiling, evaporating, in shambles. You shake and stand there in the dark, unable to process what just happened. What a nightmare! In just a few moments, your whole life crumbled away. Your reputation, political standing, image, tarnished! And a mere criminal, a rapist, a lustful monster, you are alone! And so vulnerable. Again.

You light up the candles, one by one, all thirteen of them, and on the wall at last the familiar and tamed shadows join you. You step on the broken glass there on the ground, and your feet hurt, yet it doesn’t matter. You freeze as you hear the guards rushing down the corridor, talking and screaming, ending at your door and knocking, knocking, pushing down and screaming some more, about a rapist and a monster, about a cruel beast daring to lay hands on their princess, and other such truths. You shake and hope the door holds, the lock holds. You take a piece of glass on the ground, and cut your finger on it, your blood, indistinguishable from the red of your hands. You look at the shaking door, and run down the glass, deeply, down your forearm, and sigh in relief. Yet at last the knocking stops, and they walk away.

Silence.

You sit there, on the sofa, behind you the thirteen candles flicker, and on the wall your shadow is multiplied. You sit there, and can barely feel your blood flowing out from your veins. You sit there and feel so tired of all that evil, of these people tormenting you all your life. It's too much. You think back to these short few moments of bliss and boundless potential, when you danced and touched and loved your princess. Your tears flow and flow, endless, and you can’t help sobbing and crying, at a life of torment, at the bittersweetness of it all.

You close your eyes, to the shifting shadows, and hear swift footsteps. The rattling of keys fills the air unexpectedly, and you open your eyes, yet you can’t move, for you feel so tired. The door opens and at the corner of your eyes, you see her. Jolie Chamomille, and her yellow dress, stained in red. She drops the keys on the ground, closes the door and looks at you. You can only see her in a blurr, for your tears and your dizziness are shifting reality. She looks at you, and sighs deeply. She looks at the many shadows on the wall, and joins them, dancing to a silent song of death and sorrows, as you watch helplessly.

Jolie Chamomille then leans forward and blows out your candles, one by one, each breath, so loud and deep, the gray pillars of smoke rising to the ceiling, their smell filling the room as mortuary incense. She blows all of them but one, the one directly behind you. And the princess grabs her dress with both hands, gets closer to you and sits on your lap, face to face, embracing you, and on her face you can’t tell what she is thinking, or what she is feeling, or what exactly she is doing. She leans ever so closer, and behind on the wall, the two shadows coalesce as one. She leans in so close that in your dying breath you can only see her angelic face, her eyes and her half smile. She lifts her head up above your head and blows out the last candle, before coming back to you, her soft breathing in your ear, her soft laughter, and-

Complete darkness.

You hear, faintly, the last words you’ll ever hear. The last words she’ll ever tell you.

‘Surely you jest?’