The Future of Silence by Ju-Chan Fulton

Author:Ju-Chan Fulton
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781938890260
Publisher: Zephyr Press
Published: 2018-04-03T16:00:00+00:00

Han Yujoo | I AIN’T NECESSARILY SO

My left hand is the king, my right hand the king’s scribe. Today the king is silent and the scribe awaits his orders. My left hand the king, my right hand the king’s scribe. Today the king is tired and the scribe hides his fatigue. With my left hand seldom dictating, my right hand seldom records. While my right hand writes what my left hand dictates, the kingdom plods on, symptoms of ruin and all. What with its borders shrinking daily toward the capital, rumors growing louder and fiercer sweep the kingdom that an enemy land will soon be the motherland, leaving the king, bereft of his heirs, all the more drawn and aging. In a study weighed down by the portraits of his forebears the king requests a nap. But sleep and dreams won’t abide the king’s orders, and the scribe, head lowered, is at the king’s side, or rather his feet.

So went yesterday and so went today, my left hand the king and my right hand the king’s scribe. While the scribe tends to the king’s words, the king lowers his voice and orders him to remove the gags from the court jesters and let out their words. From the mouth of a jester come words, and then there’s an outpouring of horses, for the king’s scribe has mis-recorded words as horses. The king’s stables are emptier by the day, saddled subjects appearing on the backs of the emptied horses, and the king looks about without really seeing, he closes his eyes without really sleeping, and the kingdom’s demise is placed on indefinite hold. The king’s men covet the king’s crown, his horses, his throne, particulars that reach the king’s ears through the wiggling of his five jesters, who today as always are placed at the king’s forehead, his shoulders, the palms of his hands, while the king thinks of the kingdom’s last page inscribed with their jokes, their repartee, their tales of the grotesque.

And so went the dry season and so went the wet, my left hand the king and my right hand the king’s scribe. With the uneventful passing of what passed as spring for the people, the king gave orders for departure for the summer palace. His orders were carried out by the retainers in their tatty silk livery and the ladies-in-waiting in their veils falling over their faces. The king passed through the gardens with their flowers past their peak, completing his preparations for departure. The silverware and silver candlesticks, the silk sunshade and pillow, the gilded tobacco tin and spittoon were loaded one by one on the carriage. The jesters took the lead, their crimson-and-canary caps stretched crookedly across their heads, as shadows converged over the faces of the king’s men. The king’s men having taken the king’s horses, the king is left with no horse. The scribe having mis-recorded the king’s words as the king’s horses, the king is left with no word. And so the king’s departure, his progress, his arrival are placed on indefinite hold.

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