The King's Cup-Bearer / Merchant of Dreams

Minisode 3: The King’s Cup-Bearer

By: Jonathan Cohen

They brought King Esterbrook’s supper into his chambers at dusk. Tomlin only knew it was dusk because it was when they brought the evening meal.

Neither he nor the King could see out of the windows to look at the sun, or the kingdom’s lands, or anything else; the glass been boarded up years ago to prevent “poisonous winds and harmful chills” from blowing into the chambers. Sometimes at dawn, before they lit the morning candles, Tomlin could just make out faint light coming in from the cracks in the boards. The King, he thought, could probably see nothing at all.

He looked at the King, thin and drawn as he lay on the bed. The man’s beard had changed over the years, from gold to brown and now a sickly gray. Then Tomlin turned his attention to the fish pie they had brought: not that the King would eat it, of course, but he had his duty to fulfil. The advisors had withdrawn; he was alone with the King for his meal.

Each time he performed his duty, Tomlin still heard the words of his mother, the previous cup-bearer to King Esterbrook. She had taught him how to examine the food and drink, to make sure it was safe to eat and drink.

“What do you SEE?” He examined the pie’s crust, ensuring it was still in one piece, that nobody had tampered with it.

“What do you FEEL?” He used a spoon to rap on the crust, then ran his finger around the edge of the pie. It was as it had left the royal kitchens.

“What do you SMELL?” It smelled of fish and garlic and yeast. No bitter almonds, no heavy salts, no scents that did not belong to a fish pie.

“What do you TASTE?” He cut into the pie with a practiced hand, taking just enough of a slice that he would suffer if it were poisoned, but not so much as to diminish King Esterbrook’s enjoyment.

He turned to see the King, propped up on three down pillows, watching him. “Is it all right, my boy?” the man asked in a raspy, croaking voice.

Tomlin placed the dish in front of the King and gave him the spoon. “It is a fine pie, sire.”

The King carved a piece, then lifted it to his mouth with a shaking hand. “No,” he said, pushing the plate and rack away. “The pain inside presses against the food. I will have my wine instead.”

Tomlin put the plate on the sideboard, then poured some wine into the chalice and repeated the ritual. This, the King drank. He still drinks, Tomlin thought. At least he still drinks.

The King put down the chalice and sighed. His keen gray eyes, still unaffected by age or illness, peered at Tomlin. “How long have we been in these bedchambers, my boy?” he asked.

“Just over three years, sire,” he said.

“Have you been outside of this room in the last three years?” the King asked.

“No, sire,” he replied. Neither he nor the King had stepped from these chambers since His Majesty had fallen ill and the advisors had sent workers to board up the windows.

“Nor have I…It occurs to me,” the King said in a voice that was still surprisingly strong. “It occurs to me that the only news we know of my kingdom is what the advisors have told me.”

Again, his eyes fixed on Tomlin. “We have had a magnificent harvest this year,” he said. “Our soldiers continue to press on into the southern lands. The tithings from the farmers are up.”

“Yes,” Tomlin said. He too had heard the reports from the advisors, since he was duty-bound to observe everything that went on in these chambers.

The King broke into a coughing spell. “Or so the advisors say. But we know nothing aside from what they tell us.” He pointed to a boarded-up window. “For all we know, the kingdom may lie in ruins.”

Tomlin doubted that the King would continue to receive fish pies if the kingdom were in ruins, but he could not say such a thing.

“I would have you leave these chambers,” the King commanded. “Learn what has become of my Kingdom. Return and tell me of the world outside my door.”

At this, Tomlin protested. “But sire, as your cup-bearer, I cannot leave your side, so long as you live.”

“You dare to contradict me, boy.” The King’s face creased in a smile. “Then you are the one I can trust to fetch the truth from outside.” He patted the sheets. “When the time is right, I shall cause a diversion, and you will escape. Obey me.”

He said nothing more, and ate and drank nothing further. But that night, Tomlin was awoken from his sleep by screams, the presence of burly guards, and healers trying to calm the King, who heaved and shook and cried out.

In the tumult, they did not notice Tomlin, did not see him edge around the back of the chambers and slip out of the door. He did not know if this was the King’s diversion, or if the man was truly ill. But Tomlin had promised to find out the truth, even if King Esterbrook were dead.

The palace was much as he remembered it, though it seemed larger and the echoes were louder in his ears. “What do you HEAR?” he thought. Tomlin stayed in the shadows, knowing he could not pass beyond the walls without alerting the guards. He would have to find someone he knew. Someone whose counsel he could trust.

Priya, he thought. Priya had cooked the fish pie; it bore the half-circle vents she used, and her hands were the correct size to crimp the fluting along the edge of the crust. He had no choice; they would notice his absence before long, and would think him a traitor to the King. He had to trust his judgment. “What do you SEE?” he thought, stealing down two flights of stairs to the scullery.

If Priya were not there…then all would be lost. But Tomlin heard a woman singing songs of the sea, and he smelled the dark incense she wore as perfume. She sat in the near darkness of a sputtering candle, peeling potatoes with a sharp knife.

She straightened up as he approached, startled. “Tomlin!” she said with a gasp, then looked upwards. “Then, the King --?”

He shook his head and put a finger to her lips. “The King lives,” he said. I hope he lives, he thought. “He has sent me to find news of the outside.”

Priya put the knife and potato onto the counter. “I know what the advisors know,” she said, uncertain. “Nothing more.”

There was so little time. “You see what is true,” Tomlin said. “I would know what you see of the world beyond these walls. What of the Kingdom?”

She pondered for a moment, hand on her chin. Then: “The farmers speak of revolt, but they pay the tithings. Half of the harvest rotted in the granary this year…a blight that has puzzled the scholars.” She closed her eyes. “And…and our army’s swords face resistance in the south. But that is all I know.”

Tomlin heard a bell, faint but insistent. The bell that summoned the King’s Cup-Bearer. He hated that bell.

“I must leave,” he said, and kissed Priya on the cheek. “You have been the King’s eyes tonight, and he will no doubt remember you.”

If he yet lived, Tomlin thought as he made his way back to the royal chambers, the summoning bell ringing in his ears. If he lived.

The King was alive, but pale and damp against the sheets. One of the advisors began to berate Tomlin, but the King ordered them all out with a hand. “Leave us!” he said with an effort. And they were alone.

Dismissing the advisors had cost the King a great deal; he shrank back into his pillows and sheets and closed his eyes. “Tell me of the outside world,” he said. “What did you see?”

I saw nothing, Tomlin thought. I heard the words of a panicked scullery girl.

But he said: “We have as much grain in our stores as we will need to survive the winter. The farmers continue to grumble, but they pay their tithings as they have done before. And our armies persist in the south, valiant against a show of force from our enemies.”

The King opened his weary eyes and looked at Tomlin, very tired and incredibly old. “You are the only one I can trust,” he said. “Do you speak the truth, at last?”

Tomlin hesitated. “I think it is the truth,” he said at last, and heard his mother’s voice once more: What do you SEE?

He gathered his courage, strengthened his resolve, and nodded his head. “I think it is.”

----

The Merchant of Dreams

Dimitri awoke from another night of endless black.

It was dawn; the sun had risen just enough above the horizon to shine upon his closed eyelids. He propped himself up on one shoulder and looked around. He and Biscuit were in a clearing surrounded by a stand of trees. Biscuit had already been up for some time, and the pinto was grazing on some tall grass. Dimitri smiled as he watched his horse eat with delicate, gentle movements. Biscuit had always been a delicate gentleman of a horse. His body looked as though a painter had begun to paint him brown, but then had forgotten his task halfway through: he was mostly white still, but with more and more dark patches as they traveled the road.

Biscuit had no doubt dreamt; Dimitri had spent enough sleepless nights to see Biscuit lying in the grass, muzzle resting on top of his forelegs. Asleep, his legs would twitch now and then. Dreaming of chasing cows or dogs, no doubt. Biscuit had no problem dreaming…

But for Dimitri, another night of endless black.

“Wake up, boy,” he said, getting to his feet. “Another beautiful day.” There were a few clouds above, but otherwise it was clear, warm and quiet. In this part of the world, summer days passed with lazy slowness, but Dimitri did not want to linger. He washed himself in a nearby river, dressed his slight body in traveling clothes, ate some hardtack, and fed Biscuit the precious apple a grateful man had offered him in the previous town.

Then he examined the potions in the back of the cart. They’d had enough time to settle overnight. Dimitri did not know why potions had to settle, but his father had told him to let them breathe from sundown to sunup, and he’d had very few complaints over the years.

By the time the young man was ready, Biscuit was eager to get going. Dimitri climbed into the saddle, and let the horse amble back to the dirt road, and along its bumpy contours. There was a marriage of minds between them; Dimitri did not need to tell Biscuit where to go, because there was only one direction: ahead.

He heard the voices from the next village long before he saw the settlement of small houses and low buildings; a lookout must have seen him. “The dream seller is here!” a young boy’s voice called. “Come to the town square!”

And then he was in the village, surrounded by faces. Not quite friendly faces, but respectful ones. They stood back and let him remove the canvas from his cart, lay out his wares, and expose the shining sea-green bottles to the sun.

The first time he visited a village, Dimitri would have to sell the potions. He’d seen his father do it, and although he was shy, he called and heckled and promised the townspeople: “One dream to a customer! No more and no less! Only a half-silver – satisfaction guaranteed!”

This last was a gentle fib. Dimitri would be long gone by the time his customers drank the potions that night. But he’d never had any trouble when he’d come back along the same way. They were happy with their dreams. The next time he came to that village, he did not need to call, or heckle, or promise. The townspeople came to him.

There was an old man whose hair looked like Biscuit’s: mostly white, with some brown, his face lined and tan from the fields. You want to be young, Dimitri thought, and smiled. You want to be my age again, before you married, had children. The man was with his partner and a grown son, but Dimitri saw how he looked at Biscuit, and at the cart. He would dream of wandering free as a feather again, of the adventures he’d known before he’d come down to earth.

There was a woman with a comfortable, placid, accepting face, holding a young boy who reached for the potions before she could even speak. For you, Dimitri thought, adventure. Tonight, the woman would slay dragons and free the innocent from slavery, earn the admiration of kings and queens, and take her place among the gods. But today, as she handed him the half-silver, she just smiled and gave her son a half-silver of his own, so he could buy a dream as well.

The boy was happy, too; he did not need to dream of escape, or love. No, Dimitri thought, the boy wanted the wheels of time to speed and speed ahead. To live as a man who was not held back by the arms of his mother. To decide for himself whether he would take a lover, fight a war, or perhaps accept the same quiet existence his mother had.

By morning’s end all of the potions he’d planned to sell to this village were gone. Dimitri had given one bottle to the town beggar in exchange for another apple; of everyone in the crowd, that man needed a dream the most.

A woman who had not bought a potion stood in patched sapphire robes watching him sell, and observing him refuse to haggle in his own gentle way. At the end, she came forward after the crowd had dispersed.

“You are wasting your time,” the woman said. She did not introduce herself, and he imagined that she was not the type to bother with such matters.

“It has been a good morning,” he said, securing the canvas with the ropes and hooks.

“You could sell these potions in any large city. Wellam. Tyr’s End. Charging at least a full gold for each one. You’d have dozens, hundreds of customers. More gold than you’d ever want.”

He felt uncomfortable. She had not bought a potion, because she did not need one; her dream already sustained her. She was a mage, he thought. Judging from the quality of her robes, not a very good one.

“My father told me just how to mix, and bottle, and sell the potions,” he said as he climbed back upon Biscuit. “Good day.”

“What did your father say about your dreams?” she called after him. He did not reply.

Dimitri had never dreamt. Not even once. And he had never spoken of it to his father. He knew that his father had dreamed, and dreamed often; Dimitri had never seen him drink a single potion.

Over the years, Dimitri had tried blending and mixing his potions before swallowing them, taking several bottles or only half of one, and taking a potion at different times of the night. No dreams would come. Every night was wrapped in that same, endless black.

A dark cloud hung over his mind as Biscuit trotted toward the next village. It was said that to dream was healthy, that one could die from a lack of dreams. But Dimitri had rarely been sick. As the road stretched out ahead of him and the pinto horse, Biscuit sensed his change of mood, and shook his head and neighed in concern.

The next village was a bit larger, a bit wealthier, but otherwise, much like the first one of the day. He thought of the dreams the villagers would have, and then he thought: I am responsible for that. I have filled their nights with visions.

A young dark-skinned farmer who had been one of the first to buy a potion this time remained as Dimitri packed up the cart. “There is no more, my friend,’ Dimitri said. “Your town and the last village have bought all the dreams for the day.”

“I am Pallos,” the man said, extending a hand.

“And I am Dimitri,” he replied. From the farmer’s expression, the man thought of him only as the one who sells dreams.

There were looks between men, and there were looks between men, and Dimitri was unsure of this Pallos. “Where do you go after here?” the farmer asked.

“To the next town, and then the next,” Dimitri said. He did not immediately jump into his saddle, as he had with the sapphire-clothed woman. This man was curious, not rude.

“Are the roads safe?”

Dimitri laughed. “I rarely see another soul upon them. The roads keep me on my path.”

It seemed as if something was tugging at the young man, urging him to speak. “Have you seen the places they tell of in legend?” he asked. “Have you broken bread with the men and women of fables?”

Dimitri laughed again, but without mocking. He tapped Biscuit’s flank. “There is me, and there is Biscuit, and there is the road. If the road winds through legends and fables, I have yet to see them.”

The farmer looked at the heavy, sea-green bottle in his hands. “I shall dream tonight.”

Yes, Dimitri thought as the road opened back up and Biscuit settled down, the farmer would dream. In the man’s dreams, he might even be at Dimitri’s side, on a second horse, leaving his town far behind.

An hour later he made camp, and spent the afternoon mixing potions, then leaving them to settle. At dusk he wrote of his day, of the mage and the farmer, filling another page of the small journal he kept.

That night, Dimitri lay on his bedroll, awaiting another night of endless black. How could he be immune to his own creation?

Then he thought of the villagers that morning, the farmer that afternoon. The anticipation, the joy they felt. They would live out their dreams of past and future in the shadows of the night.

And thinking of that anticipation and joy, Dimitri knew at last why he never dreamed. Delivering dreams to others…that was happiness. That was contentment. Dimitri closed his eyes at last and thought: The happy and content never need to dream, for they have the waking present.