“Is he asleep?”
“By whom do you mean, he?”
“Don’t be smart with me Misto. You know whom I speak of.”
“My good Fidelio, surely you have unfairly judged my intent. Alas, I now see whom you speak of.” The silhouette of two figures could be seen just beyond a stone archway, behind whom the sun’s rays penetrated with great brilliance. In this archway once stood a furnished oak door. Needless to say the door was long missing, only its rusting hinges left behind. The seeping beams of light revealed in part a once grand atrium; might I add, small, yet grand. For not all grand things need be large in scale. But might I interject once more and remind you that it was once grand. The floors and columns of marble played host to a thick coating of dust, dirtied and for want of a good polish. Where there once were masterful stain glass windows of vibrant hues depicting the great deeds of kings past, now were wooden planks, nailed into place to cover up the fragile testimonies of broken glass. Overhead the glass ceiling of the atrium remained, remarkably, intact, but so gathered with dust from the inside the sky seemed forever murky. Forever cloudy with a chance of rain. At the center of the atrium was an elevated platform also of tarnished marble, upon which sat a wooden throne. A simple oaken seat, but a throne nonetheless, and upon this throne sat a sculpture of sorts.
“Is he asleep?” repeated an anxious Fidelio.
“Well, see for yourself my good sir,” Misto gestured towards the throne with the tattered, scarlet sleeve of a robe once rich in color. “Some say he sleeps, others suggest he be deceased, gone off somewhere beyond his dreams.”
“Does he not know what has come of his atrium? His kingdom? Is he not aware…”
“Perhaps my good Fidelio you should try to understand from the young king’s perspective?”
With great shock came Fidelio’s reply, “Young? Behold his countenance Misto! Does not foliage grow from his ears to far below his chin? Does his forehead not exhibit creases as if he were raising his royal brow even while his eyes remain shut?”
Misto defensively gathered the loose ends of his scarlet robe tightly about him, “Well sir, youth is in the eyes of the beholder.”
“Hardly. The king has been asleep so long that his body betrays his immaturity. His beard testifies against his princely hat, which he has elected to maintain atop his dome, rather than be crowned with the helm of his fathers.”
“Perhaps the good Fidelio could bring his majesty back to consciousness?”
“And what of you Misto? Have you- no, has anyone attempted to awaken him?”
“The thought has crossed my mind then and again but-”
Fidelio in absolute bewilderment grieved, “When was it last that someone has even tried? Just one attempt even? Just a small whisper in his ears?”
“To my recollection… never. Once he closed his eyes all the men of the court filed out one by one, day by day,” replied the pensive Misto, who most likely hadn’t thought a day in his life. “But I,” beamed he, “I my good sir have remained here keeping watch over his door while all the others have gone!”
“Do you call that a boast? Surely your ego is not so unashamed!” Utter astonishment seasoned with anguish filled Fidelio. His heart heaved, he could not contain himself. Four years he had waited to return to the king’s atrium, to see its majesty and to behold the king’s presence. Yet though there sat the lord on his throne, his presence could not be found. Four years Fidelio served in the king’s army, defending the land from the savages without borders, but all the while the kingdom was rotting from within. It was the deed of no foreign army that struck such a devastating blow to the country, no… it was a sleeping king.
With moisture building up in the corner of his eyes and the letters of pain being written over his forehead, Fidelio stepped into the threshold of the atrium. He took another step, followed by a third. Small steps, silent steps. Steps that left pearly white imprints in the marble floor finely coated with dust. As he proceeded to take a fourth stride towards the throne, the stone buddha’s eyes opened.
A written and illustrative piece inspired by my reflections in Nepal. Written with consideration of the Shakespearean style.
