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by Brant LaDorn
The last King of the Alais line in Masalla was famous for the many humorous and curious tales revolving around his rule. Here is one of them.
Let us go back 770 turnings of the seasons. Now, for many, that is more years than they might conveniently imagine, so simply understand that your mother would have thirty and one mothers before her if we were to go back that far. And much has happened in those thirty-one generations. But let us return to that time, to an age when the Alais family held reign over the isles of Masalla for one hundred and sixty-one very colorful years.
The Alais' were a strange but powerful family. They reduced the feudal system that so long held sway until there were but a few barons, and these lived in horse sheds and chicken coops and did farming for the King. His wife was named Anabelle, and she was a ripe woman just dripping with children. Between them, in fact, they managed to produce sixteen babies, most of the boys going on to become chicken barons. Now Anabelle had a passion for music, but she had as well a self-image that precluded most of the rest of the world from even existing, and so her greatest anger stemmed from musicians who would come to introduce a new song to her, for she wouldn't be able to hum along. Many musicians were hung during those times. But she quickly fabricated a solution, which was this -- she would have only a single song in all the world. One which she knew well, and all other songs would be forbidden. At this time, you must realize, Masalla was all the world. There were no other known provinces, and no other known people. And so, the Queen fully believed that her song was the only one in the world, and anyone so audacious as to sing another tune was promptly hung.
Her song was called Anabelle's Truest Composition, or Casanor Dereé La Anabelle in Old Masallan. And it consisted of Anabelle's four hundred and sixteen favorite songs, all sung in a particular order.
And so all was well for a very long time.
One day some strange people from another land attacked the village of Marasay on the western coast of what we now know of as the isle of Masalla. There was a bloody battle, and the raiders were driven off. Many people were killed, and not a few wounded. One of those wounded was one of the raiders, and this strange man was brought before King Alais, bound and beaten. He was a powerful man of odd complexion, pale it seemed, and with hair that was like no other color anyone had ever seen. It was a sparkling, shimmering red, and he had a great beard of the same coloration. Now this man spoke another tongue, but he had picked up a spattering of Masallan from his years of raiding villages and stealing dark-haired women for his pleasure. And so, when the King told him that he was to die by hanging, the man pleaded for his life, saying that he was a bard of exceptional qualities and that he would offer a song for his life.
The King was not duly impressed, but Anabelle eagerly convinced him, sure that she would soon hear her very own song sung from the lips of this strange, beautiful man.
And when he sang, how the room hushed. So rich and deep was his voice that ladies wept and men gaped, and the man's powerful Tirané chest heaved and rippled with his song. Everyone, even the King, sat in awe when the last note ceased. All, that is, save one.
"That is not Casanor Dereé La Anabelle," said Anabelle.
The strange man looked confused.
"Hang him," she demanded.
At this point the man pleaded again, saying that he was from another land with different songs, and there was much laughter, for no one believed that there were any other lands, nor any other songs.
Yet the man insisted that there were, that his land was called Tirané, and that there were many other lands and people, and that there were many other songs.
And the King, who was a thoughtful man, called for a bottle of wine.
All hushed, for the King was considered very wise.
And King Alais took the bottle, doubtless of some vintage men would die for today, and he unsealed the mouth, and asked the strange man what it was.
From his raids, the man knew it was wine.
"And," the King said, "what sort of wine is it?"
And the man didn't know.
And the King told him it was of the name of Veralle Verallie.
"Do you," the King asked, "have such a wine in your land?"
"We have no wine," the man replied, "only mead," and he tried to explain what mead was. That the man had no wine in his land, of course, drew much laughter, and the King looked thoughtful for a few minutes and then dumped the wine on the floor, forming a large puddle on the flagstones. Everyone watched as it drained in between the cracks.
"See?" the King said. "The land drinks the wine. And so too does the wine form the land, and you propose a land where there is no wine?"
"Most lands I have visited," the man said, "do have wine, but mine does not."
Again there was much laughter, for none in Masalla could conceive of a land without wine.
"And thus," said the King, "we verify that you are lying."
"Oh stop this foolishness," said the Queen, who was still very angry, "and let us have a nice hanging out in the courtyard."
And so, he was hung.
