An Incomparable Pearl

By Jon Jacks

To ensure an heir, the king raises his daughter as Prince Argaret – only for the older Princess Epistem and Queen Telete to murder the king and blame the prince. Exiled to lands impoverished by the king’s chivalric quest to restore the precious stones of a shattered angelic crown, the prince vows to return the gems. But are there nine, ten or twelve? And since when was a pearl a stone?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jon Jacks
• Release date: Nov 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311974891

Jon Jacks

While working in London as, first, an advertising Creative Director (the title in the U.S. is wildly different; the role involves both creating and overseeing all the creative work in an agency, meaning you’re second only to the Chairman/President) and then a screenwriter for Hollywood and TV, I moved out to an incredibly ancient house in the countryside.On the day we moved out, my then three-year-old daughter (my son was yet to be born) was entranced by the new house, but also upset that we had left behind all that was familiar to her.So, very quickly, my wife Julie and I laid out rugs and comfortable chairs around the huge fireplace so that it looked and felt more like our London home. We then left my daughter quietly reading a book while we went to the kitchen to prepare something to eat.Around fifteen minutes later, my daughter came into the kitchen, saying that she felt much better now ‘after talking to the boy’.‘Boy?’ we asked. ‘What boy?’‘The little boy; he’s been talking to me on the sofa while you were in here.’We rushed into the room, looking around.There wasn’t any boy there of course.‘There isn’t any little boy here,’ we said.‘Of course,’ my daughter replied. ‘He told me he wasn’t alive anymore. He lived here a long time ago.’A child’s wild imagination?Well, that’s what we thought at the time; but there were other strange things, other strange presences (but not really frightening ones) that happened over the years that made me think otherwise.And so I began to write the kind of stories that, well, are just a little unbelievable.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Treasure of the Angels

This is not the foolish old crone’s tale you and your weary, dispirited knights are expecting to drunkenly jeer, King of the Elmet.

There’s also no earthly reason why your bleary minds will fully fathom its portent; for although a short history, it contains the creation of the world as a passing, insignificant event.

You would think for instance, wouldn’t you, that the God of Light would require a darkness for us to recognise his beauty, his magnificence, his goodness.

But of course, there was no ‘us’.

There was no darkness, either, some tales tell us: not until he – and I say ‘he’ only for the sake of convenience – let his shadow fall. And in his other guise as the Goddess of Wisdom (didn’t I say ‘he’ was a mere convenience?) she granted her shadow the Knowledge of Self.

Thereby another was allowed to arise, a God of Darkness. And he was called ‘Samael’, which means ‘Son of God’.

Now the God of Light did not need a God of Darkness for him/herself. Yet, of course, in our world there can be no light without darkness. And so light and darkness were necessary to create form, to create the Creation.

Indeed, it was Samael who wore the crown of the five elements of Creation (Earth, Air, Fire, Water, Spirit), an inverted pentagram bearing a precious gem at every one of its ten points – bar that of Spirit, which lay out of sight to Samael’s rear.

The Creation, however, became an abyss between the two gods, within whose waters the God of Darkness could only ever see his own beautiful reflection.

He claimed it as his own, leading to war in the Heavens.

Some say that war still rages. Some that this god, or that god, was the victor.

But all agree that during that raging battle, Samael’s crown fell to Earth, shattering and spreading its unworldly metals, its precious gems, throughout the kingdoms. And seeing this, the God of Light shed a tear that fell into the abyss.

This is what we call the Treasure of the Angels; these remarkable metals, these heavenly stones and jewels.

Red sard. Translucently green peridot. White-streaked onyx. Burning coal-like karkand. Night-blue lapis lazuli. Brilliantly honeyed zircon. Gold veined topaz. Leek-green heliodor. Tri-coloured jasper.

And, most precious of all, an inconceivable pearl.

*

Chapter 2

‘Doesn’t that make ten – not nine?’

The queen irritably glowered at the old woman as she finished her tale.

The old woman frowned, as if puzzled by the queen’s query.

‘You also said an inconceivable pearl: are you really saying we’re incapable of even imagining it?’ the princess seated alongside the queen demanded with a haughty, dismissive chuckle. ‘Don’t you mean, say, an incomparable pearl?’

‘I mean,’ the queen said, explaining her own point a little further, ‘you said the crown had nine precious stones: and yet, I’m sure, you just described ten.’

‘And didn’t I also say,’ the old woman retorted, ‘that there’s no earthly reason that can be applied to this tale?’

‘Watch yourself, old woman!’ the king snapped angrily, yet remaining drunkenly slouched on his tall, wooden throne. ‘I’ve had men tortured until they scream for lesser insults to the queen.’

Despite their own drunken stupor, some of the king’s knights leapt to their feet, clasping the pommels of sheathed swords as if ready at any moment to avenge this insult to their queen.

The old crone who had been invited into the hall to provide an entertaining story had the imposing air about her of a wyrd woman, a possible witch capable of curses if not exactly enchantments.

Her hair was raggedy, her face wrinkled as if that of a centuries’ old woman. Her manner of dress was wild, a mix of homemade leather and cured furs, of black crow feathers and ravens’ claws.

It endowed her with a false bulk to a body that, lying beneath it all, was undoubtedly withered away to virtually nothing, and most likely close to breathing its last.

She stank. She stared from eyes bulbous with craziness.

Even on the required revelation of her name, Korax, the crone had cackled as if it were, at best, some secret joke, or, worse still, an outright lie.

She was not the type any knight would kill without first quickly working out the risks to his or his family’s future health or wellbeing. Not a few of them silently sighed with relief when, with a casual wave of a hand, the queen imperiously dismissed their unnecessarily exaggerated displays of loyalty.

‘Leave her; the poor woman quite obviously suffers from an addled brain.’

Bringing her dismissive wave to an end, she let her hand fall reassuringly upon the king’s own hand, listlessly draped over the combined armrest lying between their two thrones. She glanced, however, towards the smaller throne to her left, her wide eyes prompting a reaction from her daughter seated there.

‘You must always take advantage of someone’s discomfort to project your own sense of power,’ the queen had instructed the Princess Episteme, regularly instilling within her the need to ensure her inheritance of the kingdom by displaying her fitness to rule.

‘How is anyone supposed to make any sense of such a tale?’ the princess demanded haughtily, glaring at the old woman standing before them with a malevolence equalling that of her mother’s.

‘Doesn’t it tell us that even our most treasured and beautiful offspring aren’t necessarily worthy of our bequests?’ the woman answered.

The princess moved surprisingly swiftly for one who had supposedly only been taught the arts of writing, tapestry and dancing. Even as she rose from her seat, she used the flow of the movement to grab and expertly throw the dagger lying beside her meat platter.

The dagger struck the old woman full on her heart; and with a dulled clang fell uselessly away from her furred cloak, clattering once more as it hit the stone floor.

Throughout the large hall there were awestruck gasps, the clink of overturned goblets, the thud of chairs thrown back. Everyone urgently rose to their feet.

The king was close to having her thrown out for her impudence, the disquiet she was bringing to his court. And yet he hesitated, having recognised within this husk of a woman a sense that – were it not for Fortune – even his miraculously beautiful queen could be drawing close to looking like this.

The old woman chuckled quietly at his reaction, grinning calmly as she took in all their surprised faces.

‘Your court and knights are all so foolishly easily impressed, King Odos,’ she sneered. ‘A sign of weakness your many enemies would be wise to take advantage of, if they ever learn of it.’

She pulled apart and flung aside her fur cloak, revealing the metallically sparkling breastplate she was wearing beneath. Her withered legs, right up to her hips, were completely bare bar her raggedy old boots.

Many turned away in distaste.

The old woman grinned all the more.

‘I would ask a favour of some of your pretty squires,’ the old woman said, eyeing some of the younger men with a playfully coquettish stare, ‘to undress me, and take away this heavy burden of mine.’

She held out her arms by her side, waiting for the reticent squires to approach and unstrap and remove her heavy breastplate.

‘This is no game!’ she snapped, noting the way everyone hung back from helping her. ‘See,’ she continued, pointing to the elaborate design etched and painted onto the front of her breastplate, ‘these are the settings for the jewels your men must find if your kingdom is to survive!’

An inverted pentangle was inlaid in gold, a small jewel glittering at each of nine of its sharply angled points, both inner and outer. Only the lowermost point lacked a sparkling gem. The pentangle was split into upper and lower halves, and set against a rectangle of depressions where larger jewels might have once been displayed.

‘Twelve depressions?’ the queen spat incredulously, having been the first to notice that there were a dozen empty beds for the missing jewels. ‘How many jewels must our men search for, you old witch? Nine? Ten? Or twelve? And why should they waste their time searching for jewels that, so far, only seem to exist within your nonsensical tale?’

‘Take a long, hard look at your men, Queen Telete!’ the old woman snorted. ‘Your kingdom is surround on every side by those who envy your lands, with only this uneasy peace allowing you to survive–’

She was interrupted by angry protests from the insulted knights. But the objections were slurred, incoherent – the cries of drunken men who feared there was a great deal of truth to the crone’s accusations.

The queen observed the protesting men scornfully. They had grown fat, lazy, soft. Even when they had been in their prime, they had lost a number of battles that had disheartened them more than their enemies had thankfully realised.

The king appeared disinterested, too drunk and too resigned to his fate to care. His command of his men on the battlefield had lacked the spark of genius that might have saved them from the worst of their considerable losses; instead, he had secretly found himself panicking when he should have remained calm, unable to think quickly enough to respond to either unforeseen setbacks or opportunities.

He had been too cautious, too fearful for his own life. For if he had died in battle, he had no male heir to take over what remained of his knights and his kingdom. Even now, the most powerful amongst his knights were covertly vying for control; they might not even wait until he was dead.

‘But then, the kingdom of any king lacking a princely heir is living only on borrowed time,’ the old woman added, staring intently at the king as if she had read his mind.

Having sat down, the princess leapt to her feet once again.

‘Treachery!’ she stormed. ‘These are words of treachery, punishable by death! I am more than capable of ruling this kingdom, should anything unfortunate ever happen to Father!’

Out of respect to the princess, there were muted cries of agreement; yet it was obvious to everyone there that there was no real passion or belief behind each supposedly supportive yell.

The old woman chuckled once more at the effect she had caused.

Still no one had approached to unstrap her from the breastplate.

‘No matter,’ she mumbled, as if to herself.

She twirled her hands, her arms still outstretched to either side. The breastplate’s straps unbuckled, as if pulled at by invisible hands. The breastplate rose up and moved away from her body as if borne by unseen squires.

Now, bar her shoddy boots, she was completely naked. She was as scrawny and bony as the most regularly beaten and underfeed mule.

Not that many noticed this. Most were gaping wide-eyed at the magically hovering breastplate, watching it slowly pass across the floor, sighing in astonishment as it slowly and carefully lowered and settled in an impossibly upright position upon the long, high table set before the royal family.

‘Find the gems, and you find the pearl,’ the old woman explained, ‘a pearl within which you will not only be able to discern your future, but will also ensure the continuation of your kingdom!’

‘How can a pearl do all this?’ the queen vehemently protested. ‘I have chests full of pearls: beautiful and priceless. But none of which could accomplish what you promise!’

The king stilled her protests with an extend arm.

Even if this quest the old crone spoke of was a fool’s errand, it had advantages in that it would give his men a renewed sense of purpose. It would also remove from his kingdom those seeking to make alliances that could bring about his downfall.

There was still a problem with it, however.

‘This quest you propose; it could take years!’ he said, eying the old woman suspiciously, demanding more of her. ‘Yet as you yourself have pointed out, I require something more immediate to bring stability to my kingdom. Are you aware of any witc – any medicines that might ensure the queen bears me a male child?’

Both the queen and the princess visibly bridled at this request of the king’s, yet each had the good sense to hold her tongue.

‘I can provide you with a heir of your bloodline,’ the woman replied assuredly.

‘When? How?’ the king asked elatedly, at last sitting up straight on his throne.

‘How soon can you lie with me?’ the old witch replied.

*

Chapter 3

‘When…when do you transform?’ the king asked nervously as he lay with the old woman in his bed.

He grimaced in disgust as his bared skin touched her leathery, hard-boned body. He was barely touching her, keeping contact between them to a minimum.

He wished he could hover above her wasted, withered frame.

He wished he hadn’t agreed to lie with her.

‘Transform?’ the old woman asked innocently, pressing her hard body against his as if admonishing his lack of passion.

‘As…as you said in the hall. You said…said you were really a beautiful woman!’

‘Did I?’

Of course, the court had descend into an almost riotous uproar when the old crone had demanded that the king should lie with her. The queen and princess had been especially scandalised.

This time it had been the queen herself who had thrown a dagger towards the old woman’s heart. And this time, of course, the woman’s bared chest had no hidden armour protecting it.

Just as before, however, the dagger had struck her skin as if striking an impenetrable material. The sharpened blade hadn’t even scratched the old woman’s sadly drooping teat.

The dagger had clattered to the floor, joining that which had earlier been flung by the aggravated princess.

The gasps of awe and fear had been even more voluble and pronounced than those which had arisen after the previous and similarly failed attempt on the old crone’s life.

Rising from his throne, the king had stilled the court with a sharp, furious yell.

‘Let her speak!’ he had ordered. ‘And if she seeks to mock me; then I promise I will find the blade that can penetrate that odious flesh of hers!’

‘Hah, I see you are interested in lying with me,’ the old woman cackled with a mischievously wry grin.

‘You disgust me–’ the king spat.

‘Then you consign your kingdom to ruin, King Odos!’ the old woman fearlessly interjected. ‘And for what? Have you never heard tales of hideous crones who, for the night-time pleasures of their chosen, transform into maidens beautiful beyond belief?’

Naturally, the king had heard many such tales. And so he was also naturally intrigued; just what kind of fay-like beauty lay beneath this semblance of witchy hideousness?

Yet so far, he had seen absolutely no transformation in the repulsive creature who lay beneath him in his bed.

‘But wait,’ the hag continued in her answer to the king’s query, adding a wicked guffaw, ‘I do recall what I said; that the tales referred to a beauty beyond belief!’

*

Chapter 4

The king awoke in a crumpled, sweat-stained bed.

His eyes widened in dawning horror as he gradually recalled the previous night.

He spun around, fearing what he would see lying alongside him.

It was a child.

A new-born child, still glistening with birth waters, yet soundly asleep.

The king frowned in anxiety.

Was this the witch transformed?

Had he been completely duped into granting this hideous witch his kingdom?

The bedroom floor was littered with innumerable cast-off wedding veils, glistening like shed, delicately translucent skins.

‘So, your eyes begin to drowsily open at last, King Odos!’

The voice came from by the window; from a naked woman, beautiful beyond belief.

Droplets of the freshest milk still clung to the teats of her fulsome breasts. Milk that still similarly clung to the wet lips of the babe lying beside the king.

‘Why couldn’t you come to me like this last night?’ the king demanded irately.

She was every bit as beautiful as his queen had been when a fresh, untouched princess.

‘I did,’ the fay protested, garbing herself in a magically created gown that clung to her curvaceous body as water clings to smoothly formed rocks. ‘But you were asleep, dead to the world. I fed our child: your heir was ravenous, devouring more milk than any other child would drink within at least ten years.’

The king glanced proudly at the child lying alongside him beneath the bed sheets. When he looked up once more, the beautiful fay was already exiting through the bedroom’s large double doors, elegantly swirling past the gawping guards and patiently waiting attendants and couriers.

The doors swung to behind her, but not before those outside had had the opportunity to see the freshly born babe lying alongside the king.

‘I initiate a new beginning,’ the fay cried out over her shoulder, ‘one I hope won’t finish as I fear the old one will.’

The king’s elated gaze fell on his child, his heir, once more.

His kingdom was saved, its future security assured.

Reaching out, he picked up the child, pulling it out from beneath the bed sheets.

And he gasped in horror.

His ‘prince’ was missing ‘his’ own precious little jewel.

*

Chapter 5

‘A prince – my heir – is born!’ the king proudly cried out as he emerged from his bedroom, draped within a bed sheet as if it were a Roman toga.

He held his child up high, a child similarly regally draped in a toga-like torn strip of bed sheet.

The waiting crowd, already excited after their initial sighting of the babe, the flouncing departure of the gorgeous fay, erupted into relieved, grateful cheers.

A pair of female attendants, those who were most likely to have been chosen as nursemaids for any new babe born within the court, reached up to take the prince off the king’s hands. Subtly, however, the king managed to continually keep the child out of their reach, moving aside as they drew closer, their arms extended upwards towards the surprisingly calm child.

The king acted as if he were too proud, too relieved, too protective, to let his precious child out of his hands. And who amongst those thronging around him could blame or criticise him for such actions?

On his earlier discovery that his ‘prince’ wasn’t really the heir he had sought, the king had naturally been on the brink of yelling out the command to restrain and arrest the fleeing, devious fay. But – he had immediately stilled the cry.

The fleeing woman was a fay, capable of magic, of charms and spells.

She must have known she would be in danger of arrest after fooling the king in such a way. And so, surely, she must have also known that she would – somehow – be able to avoid capture.

Besides, whether she were held or managed to escape, the end result would be the same; his warning cry would alert everyone to the fact that something had gone amiss.

The king would be humiliated. Everyone