The King of Mirrors
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| Les Aiguilles, in the Alps near Chamonix (AWM) |
A tale inspired by Jorge Luis Borges' Universal History of Infamy; note the reference in footnote 2.
In a certain region of Northern Italy, west of Bergamo (though perhaps in Southern France, east of Arles), the King of Mirrors is said to have reigned. Although some argue that he ruled after the invasions of the Ostrogoths,[1] it is most probable that his kingdom existed before the Romans ever conquered the region, whether it was Lombardy or Languedoc. Collected below are the fragments of the Blind Codex.
…
For his image looked nothing like his actual appearance.
…
He could be seen, striding purposefully about his circular throne room, leaping from pane to pane, parading around his guests as they stood, deferential and terrified, at the centre of the chamber. His regal eyes, flashing from the glass, glared at his visitors as they stared back, not at their own reflections, but into his redoubtable gaze.
…
When the desire took him to survey his goodly lands, the royal colour guard was assembled and marched under the portcullis. He would take his position at the front, striding majestically in the centre of a brightly polished shield, with the emblem of the kingdom emblazoned on its obverse. The reflection of his image would leap amongst the freshly polished blades held aloft by the stoical guardsmen, as they rolled uniformly over the hills and plains. It is said that when he inspected his kingdom, there was not a single space by the roadside that was not filled by a reverent peasant, stooped over, nearly scraping the dust, with the sweat dripping from his quavering forehead, glinting with the gleam of the King’s rubied vestments.
…
As the situation grew ever more perilous, and the people cried out for a king who was not merely an image (in words the vizier had taught them) at last the King of Mirrors resigned himself to flight. It was rumoured that a great king in the East was marching westward, possibly to the Adriatic.[2] Perhaps the King of Mirrors assumed his fellow monarch might assist him; perhaps he reasoned that resistance against the two menaces confronting him—both foreign and domestic—was futile.
As other kings would later attempt (and perhaps inspiring them by his example) the King of Mirrors bedecked himself as a peasant, fleeing the palace at nightfall, though he was kept, as always, illumined by a royal torch-bearer. Rustic clothes hung off his noble shoulders; a fisherman’s cap, ruffled and threadbare, rested on that noble forehead where his jewel-encrusted crown had once been nobly perched. In spite of these indignities, and groaning at them inwardly, he acted out his part, stooping his posture and trudging along in the dull blade of the poignard belonging to one of the houseboys.
Such was the departure of this surreptitious expedition, most likely headed in the direction of the Alps.[3] All went well until they reached the foothills.
…
The bridge gave out and the boy slipped; the party saw terror flash across the King’s face as the dagger spiralled in the insipid sphere of light cast by the last torch. The blade continued its parabolic descent, whirling, and fell beneath the wooden slats. A great gasp went up from the party; the torch quavered in the starry sky from the force of it. After an instant of silence, the boy cried out triumphantly: his young heuristic fingers, probing in the darkness below the bridge, had caught the knife before the sound of it splashing into the river could have reached them. The General let out a heavy sigh, releasing into the night air his tension; as his stress had been so great, its expression that windy evening created a whiff of air powerful enough to puff out at last the Royal Flame.
The night was total: no moon relieved the darkness, and the craggy peaks obscured the greater part of the stars.[4] Shouts and exhortations echoed in the canyons—a light, a light!—illumination had to be found! These residents of the palace, who had spent their lives surrounded by the bright fortress of mirrors, were seized with a horror of great darkness. At last, one of the loyal scullery maids produced a flint stone: with her gnarled hands, she prayerfully created a spark, which passed immediately to the torch.
In the dim glow of the new flame, the palace officials and servants gazed in anguish at the dagger, which the boy held aloft in his right hand, as if piercing the firmament. In the shadows, the reflection had vanished: the King was gone.
At this time, the edge of a crescent moon became evident over the distant summit of Mont Blanc.
…
The vizier installed himself as a new monarch, and decreed that all the palace mirrors were to be smashed. When word of the destruction of the royal party reached him, pleased with his good fortune, he set about constructing new roads, reforming the tax system, and undertaking an agricultural census.[5]
His reforms, however, were not long-lived: on hearing of the unrest, the prince of a neighbouring seaside principality invaded the kingdom, annexing it as a province of his own lands. The bits of glass remaining in corners of the hallways in the Palace of Mirrors shattered under the soldiers’ boots. The prince had the choicest shards collected, polished, and sewn into the manifold pleats of a dress belonging to his favourite concubine. So festooned, she would dance in the evenings on the wooden tables in his great hall, the light swirling around her, as the moon sank slowly into the sea.
[1] DeBreaux writes “this assertion is as baseless as it is false”. Les Rois de Gaul, p. 117.
[2] Though Kohler writes that this was one Hafis of Turkestan, Malducci deems this an “irredeemable anachronism”. European Archaeology Review, March, 1940, p. 678.
[3] LeBrun argues, somewhat convincingly, that this was a sleight, and the true destination was Corsica. Myth and Legends of the West Mediterranean, Vol IV, p. 56.
[4] Grignard reasons that the escape must have transpired in the autumn, as the Milky Way was not visible at midnight. Ibid, p. 8.
[5] DeBreaux, pp. 117-131.