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In The East
Maria Pia Oelker
Maria Pia Oelker
IN THE EAST
The long road of dreams
Translated by Maria Burnett
Published by Tektime
Copyright @ 2020 - Maria Pia Oelker
Chapter I
The white light of the moon that was rising above the grove of pale silver cypresses contrasted with what was left of the sunset that still lit the western sky, towards the plain and the sea.
Until a few minutes before, it had been an explosion of violets and oranges, of faint pinkish stripes, of anthracite tongues and golden-red flames. The sun had gone darting proudly and, as it vanished rapidly on the horizon, greeting with a last flicker the moon that was rising on the other side of the sky with her group of stars.
The prince watched them, as an admirer, yet powerless spectator.
He would have liked to catch those last rays of sunlight, to hold back those flashes of light, to feel invaded again by that fleeting feeling of happiness that seemed so intense to him every time, that it took away the sense of time, the memory of everyday things. And now he was trying to hold on to every last trace of that dying light with his eyes; the outline of the distant hills, which stood out pure and clean against the sky; every little detail of the large park, of the trees and of the tanks that darkness was about to swallow; finally, threads of the distant river that appeared here and there in the fields between rows of light poplars. The moon came to overtake the earth and to light up that world which the sun had made alive and strong during the day and over which the moon had no power to call to life with her pale light. The moon could only to console and protect, cradling its dreams and making other beings that were on the border between magic and reality come alive.
There, in the ancient oak forest that stretched almost infinitely behind the castle park to the most remote mountains that the eye could meet on the horizon, there were mystical creatures who enjoyed the silver light and lived in the its trembling shadows.
The prince had heard about it many times in his childhood from the old housekeeper, who had taken care of him since he was a baby in the cradle of lace that his mother had prepared him with her loving hands.
He thought he had loved his mother for too short of a time, and yet he had loved her very much in those short years spent together in the great halls of the palace, mostly empty for most of the year, which came alive only when his lord and king and father, deigned to come to visit and stay with them for a few weeks, gifting them his splendid vitality, his exhilarating noisy cheerfulness, exaggerated like his sudden wrath.
The prince had adored the king, whom he had known even less than his mother: he had taught him to ride and to go hunting with the falcon; he had told him the names of the stars observed together on serene nights and the world of ancient books. He had played with him and told him terrible war stories of ancient and fearless heroes with shining armor and a noble soul.
Never had the prince asked him why neither his mother nor he could leave the castle and the park when he was absent: although he was small, he already knew that was a forbidden question. One day he had questioned the queen, who was embroidering and reading at the window and she had smiled enigmatically: "Never ask why, it's a secret between your father and his fantasies. Don't ask anybody, because nobody knows it and don’t even ask your father because he would whip you in his anger. This is my enchanted kingdom and the key is nowhere to be found except in the heart of the king. But he will never give it to anyone. You will be able to leave when you grow up.”
" No, Mother. Not without you " he replied then.
But now he was just waiting for the right opportunity to do it really, definitely, and freely.
When would that opportunity arise?
He was sixteen now and he knew his time had come. That is all he waited for and all he prepared himself for.
His father had died three years ago and his mother a few months later. Shortly before she died, she had told him, looking into his fearless, bold eyes:
" The king took the key with him. However, I will never leave here. You can do it as soon as you are ready. “
" How will I know I am ready? “
" You'll know. Be careful though: don't let that moment pass you by or you'll lose it forever. “
" Can't you tell me, mother?”
" You are the only one who can. “
Now he was sure he had heard that voice that warned him "inside" and had to remain alert to not be caught by surprise.
Antonia, his nurse, once as dark as the crow's wings and now almost all grey, who had cradled him and fed him more than his mother, who had held his hand tight when he had been afraid of storms or cries of his father, who had consoled him for the queen's crying and had played with him in the long corridors and in the park; Antonia had told him many stories about the forest and its inhabitants, who sometimes went to the windows of the castle and the stables of the horses at night and danced and ran and called and rustled flying from tree to tree, without leaving footprints and vanished in the morning sunlight.
"If I stayed awake on full-moon nights, would I be able to see them?" He had sometimes asked, hopefully.”
"No, they wouldn't come close if they knew someone was watching them."
“ But I would be well hidden.”
Antonia had laughed at his naivety “ My dear little prince, they can also see what is well hidden.”
“ So how can I see them?”
-”You can't, you just can't.”
" So, you are lying to me, because if no one can see them, the first one to tell these stories must have invented everything.”
His reasoning made perfect sense, just as his father and his teacher had taught him.
"Someone met them," Antonia whispered.
" How did they do it? Tell me and I'll do the same.”
" No, for heaven's sake. No." she had almost shouted, terrified" Whoever looked at them became half-crazy with fright. I couldn't let you do it.”
That was certainly an exaggeration! She was a simple woman, good and dear, but a little ignorant. His master had taught him that those goblins, witches, evil birds, and other such things were only fables for children and local people. He didn't believe it, but he liked that Antonia still considered him a young, naïve boy, ready to listen to her.
He liked the fact she still considered him her child, shy and dreaming, playful and greedy for caresses and cuddles.
In reality he hadn't been so for a long time, perhaps even since his father had sent him away from his mother for the first time, to take him with him for a long week of hunting deer and foxes in the mountains.
He was then little more than eight years old and had never left the rooms of the castle, the flower beds of the park, full of colors in the summer and sparkling frost in the winter, the thin gravel paths that rolled up and wound between the meadows, fountains and hedges. Never had he gone to bed without first kissing his mother and listening to Antonia's fairy tales.
Thus, at first, he had felt completely overwhelmed, too tense and excited to really enjoy the company of his father and his knight friends, who also usually made him elated; he could not fully understand the instructions of the king, who had repeatedly scolded him bitterly, making him cry bitter and desolate tears, as if his head was stuffed with cotton wool. It was shrouded in fog like the peaks of the high wooded mountains, which he began to glimpse at, for the first time in his life, a few hours after leaving, on the eastern side.
From there, behind those high peaks, which sometimes rose black and terrible in the blue evening sky, sometimes shaded in the morning light, hidden by a floating haze, the sun and the moon came up, both filling his heart with wonder.
And they were a comfort to his little torments and juvenile pains.
"Is there a mysterious country beyond the mountains?" He had asked his father one day, when he had seen him rest and seeming a little more relaxed and helpful than usual.
His father had looked at him as if he saw him seriously only at that moment after two days of ignoring him and rejecting him, annoyed by his childhood weakness.
" Why do you want to know?”
" Because the sun and the moon always rise from there; now I know well that they are in the sky and not on earth, but ... "
His father was silent, though he continued to stare at him, as he jammed and blushed from the tip of his hair. He had begun to stutter, balancing from one foot to the other, then he was completely silent.
"Well? Go ahead," urged his father, impatiently, but also interested.
" I believe that such shining stars cannot but come from a world that is much more beautiful than the earth we know.”
" Who told you that they are stars?”
" My teacher, but my mother also says there is a heaven in the sky and that God lives there with all his angels and good souls. Then I don't understand how both things can be true. “
" What do you think about this?
" I have some thoughts, but I don't know ...”
"Come on, don't be afraid," his father encouraged him, smiling at last.
"I'm not afraid," he said proudly.
" Ah! Is it so? I'm happy. And then?”
" Perhaps the sky that my teacher describes when he talks to me about the sun and the other stars and the moon that revolves around the earth has nothing to do with the sky that my mother talks about. They are two different skies that have only one name in common. God and his angels must stand much higher and as we look at the sun from below, they observe it from above, facing the edge of the abyss. I therefore imagine the world they see, and we cannot because it is hidden from the mountains, must be wonderful, of gold and silver, where there are the colors of the rainbow and ... all the rest.”
" What do you mean? " asked his father more and more curious and amused.
" Well, the clouds, for example. Haven't you seen how many colors they can be? They are black like the night when there is a storm, white as wool when the sky is blue and warm, red, and purple and orange at sunset and pink in the morning. And then there's the wind with its own colors.”
" Really?! I don’t think so.”
" Yes, because the western wind smells of sea and rain and has the color of clear water and the north wind is cold and has the color of snow and ice of fountains, but that of the south is red with sand and hot.”
" Interesting. And that of the east?”
" I don't know, I haven't thought about it yet. It's hard to say because I can't imagine what lies beyond the mountains.”
" Yes. That's where we started. And I didn't answer your question.”
" No. Why didn't you?”
" Because I've never been in that country and I've only seen it in pictures of the ancient books.”
" Could I see those books?”
" Yes, there are many in the castle library.”
" But it's closed, and the teacher doesn't want me to go there.”
" I'll take you there when we get back.”
" Really?”
The prince’s eyes glowed with eager joy and his father told him:
" Come and shake my hand, as a man.”
But when he held the small hand, soft and trembling like a nestling, in his ones, so big and energetic, he had suddenly drawn him to him and hugged him tightly, choking him against his strong chest, which smelled of leather, sweat and fatigue.
The prince had clearly felt something inside him, perhaps a snare or an obstacle, which was coming apart and he didn't know whether to be happy or scared. He started crying, but then he was afraid his father would find him stupid and boring and deny him his attention and affection again. Then, he bit his lips to hold back the sobs.
The king was fully aware of it and had lulled him with almost maternal love until outburst had faded and his son was calmer again, overcoming the nervousness and the gloomy loneliness of a child who lived such a clustered and unusual life.
The king knew it, was aware of his marital and paternal selfishness, was aware of his faults, but also knew that he would never be able to act otherwise.
Many of his friends and advisors had brought it up to him several times, with due caution and with the fearful respect, as everyone was aware of his irascible and proud, sometimes even vindictive and violent temper, but he had not wanted to listen to them. Better yet: he had listened to them with sincere interest, without showing it; he had agreed with them more than once, but then he had never really succeeded in putting into practice the good intentions they suggested and that he thus set for himself.
His love was always possessive, violently possessive. He could never separate the two feelings. He knew how to be generous with his friends and subjects, courageous and daring in warlike enterprises, benevolent with his son, sweet and affectionate with his wife, but his every gesture and his every feeling were burdened by the shadow of an exaggerated sense of possession. His subjects, his friends, his lovers, his children, his wife: everything was his, and he didn't want to lose control of any of it at any time.
He was tormented by the idea that someday he might lose someone or something of his possession and be left poorer, more exposed, more alone.
In truth, the great and noble father of the prince was even weaker and more defenseless than his little son, who sobbed abandoned on his shoulder.
The child trusted those close to him: his mother, his housekeeper, his father. Perhaps, even the servants and the old gardener. He loved them and didn't need to own them to be happy.
For the king there had never been and there could never be a different love. For this reason, he held captive the very people who were dearest to him, and what to others might have seemed a real mental cruelty was for him his greatest expression of interest and love.
He did not miss anything; that is what he stated proudly and annoyed to those who pointed out to him that life could not be enjoyed entirely by being permanently closed between four walls, even if luxurious.
But it was almost painfully conscious that his wife and son lacked the truest and beautiful thing: freedom. To come and go, to meet new people, perhaps met by chance on the road, to do or not do what he thought was good and right for them.
And he felt more guilt towards his son, who was growing up like a greenhouse flower, than he did towards his delicate queen, who had freely accepted that kind of life, only for his sake. Perfect, splendid in his shape and minimal nuances of color, but without any scent, without that complex vitality that animates the flowers of the field and wild herbs, as well as certain children of the people, whom he had come to know and meet in his travels , during his long hunting days or in the properties he owned.
The prince was as beautiful and fragile as a jewel, his delicate features like those of his mother, his young legs long and slender like those of a purebred colt, his hands still small but strong and elegant. The eyes alone, dark and deep, so strange and disturbing in their exuberant rebel force in that clear childish face showed that he had inherited something from his father’s character, despite all the possible interventions, the continuous "attempts" to counterbalance it, shape it, smooth it. He was to be educated according to the firm and precise suggestions of the king.
He fully understood it now and was not entirely sorry. In fact, he had to admit that he was proud of it.
" I should talk about it with his teacher, but I won't. By God, I'm glad my son has some of my traits at least. Even though one day he may free himself, as indeed I myself did with my father.”
He felt that after all this he could stand it, because now he knew that his son sincerely loved him and would always love him.
"So, father?" The prince said.
" What?”
" The mysterious country behind the mountains.”
" Yes, you don't forget, do you?”
" No, I'm waiting for an answer.”
