Once upon a time, there lived a powerful, but cruel and ruthless king. While his subjects starved, he lived in plenty. The poorer his subjects were, the higher his taxes, and the richer he became. If anyone tried to leave his kingdom or spoke out against the king’s merciless laws, they were instantly executed. All of the people lived in fear of the king, yet their hatred was greater than their fear. Every man, woman, and child in the kingdom would have killed the king without a second thought, if they had been given the chance.
As a result, the king was exceedingly paranoid. He had many tasters to try every dish laid before him so that if there was any poison, it would be an unlucky taster who died and not the king. His servants and soldiers were overworked, underpaid, and beaten at every opportunity.
His cruelty was not limited to humans; he mistreated animals as well. Every horse in the royal stable bore the marks of his whip and spurs. The cats would slink away at his approach, and the dogs would cringe and whine, remembering his many spiteful kicks.
Once, when the king was storming about within his chambers, he tripped over his black boarhound which had been trying to nap on the soft rug. The king flew into a frightful rage, cursing and spitefully kicking the dog out of his way. “Stupid beast!” the king yelled, giving the hound another kick. “You’re always in my way, tripping me when I least expect it!” After that, the boarhound, unless he was asleep, fled whenever he heard his master approach.
It came to the king’s attention that a poet of world renown was passing through the kingdom. The king was eager to hear samples of the poet’s work and invited him to his castle.
That evening, the poet entertained the entire court with his elegant verses. The king was held spell-bound as the poet wove his marvelous tales of bold words and brave deeds. If this fellow can weave such praises for rulers long dead, surely he can create such poetry for my great deeds, the king thought, for he was almost as vain as he was cruel.
After the banquet, the king requested a private word with the poet. He praised the poet’s works, and then asked if the poet could stay to write some poetry praising the king. When the poet heard this, however, he could only shake his head, saying that he could not accept such a proposition. The king offered gold, jewels, anything the poet desired, but still the poet’s answer was no. The king, used to having his own way without being questioned, flew into a rage, and ordered that the poet be locked up and forced to write the poem that the king requested. Faced with starvation and torture, the poet reluctantly complied, warning the king that what he asked for and what he would receive were two very different things.
When the poem was finished, the king eagerly took the scroll on which it was written, and began to read. After about three verses, the king, red-faced and furious, sent for the poet. The king showed the poet the poem that had been written. The poem, instead of praising the king, told of the many horrible acts that the king had committed over the years. The king demanded an explanation, and the poet calmly replied that, in truth, he had not written the verses. He said that he was not a great poet, but that it was his pen that had won him so much fame and fortune. The pen was really a magic pen that could write with no human hand to guide it, but it could only write the truth.
Of course, the king thought that the poet was lying, trying to clear himself, and had the poet executed that very evening. That night, the king slept well, secure in the fact that he would never see the horrible verses, or their author, again.
The next morning, he awoke to the sound of a quill pen scratching away at his bedside. Feeling annoyed, he rose, intending to demand an explanation for the intrusion, but the words died in his throat. There, beside him, scratching away at a piece of parchment, was the poet’s pen.
The king’s heart leapt into his mouth. How could an inanimate object like a pen be moving with no hand to guide it? Breathless with fear, he peered at the parchment. The pen was writing of the kings misdeeds, just as the deceased poet had apparently done.
“Stop!” cried the king.
The pen continued to write.
“In the king’s name, I order you to stop!” the king demanded.
Scratch, scratch, went the pen.
Now thoroughly frightened, the king grabbed the pen and raced to the tallest tower in the castle. Gasping for breath, he ran to the edge of the parapet and, with all his strength, flung the pen as far away from the castle as he could. Then, the king went about his business, acting as though nothing had happened. By the end of the day, the king had convinced himself that it had all been a bad dream.
Next morning, he awoke to the sound of the pen once more writing at his bedside, but the letters were shaped like blackened bones. Terrified, the king fled from the room, but the mocking sound of the pen followed him throughout the castle no matter where he went. Desperate, he ordered his guards to take the pen, and cast it into the sea. If the guards found this request unusual, they did not show it. When they returned and reported the success of their mission, the king went to sleep content because he felt that he would never see the wretched pen again.
In the morning, he awoke with the sound of the pen writing at his bedside once more. Furious, the king sent for the guards, and demanded an explanation. When the guards continued to say that they had done what he had asked, the king exploded. He instantly ordered that the two unlucky guards were to be weighed down with stones, and cast into the sea, the same fate he had ordered for the pen.
When he returned to his bedchambers, the pen was still writing, but the ink had turned red, as if the pen was writing the words in blood. The wretched king put his head in his hands. How could he free himself from this infernal pen which seemed determined to torment him with past deeds? Then, it came to him. Tonight, he promised himself. Tonight I shall be rid of this pen once and for all. Tonight I will burn it until there is nothing left but a pile of ash.
That night, the king silently crept into the Great Hall, the poet’s pen clutched in his fist. Without the pomp and splendor that normally filled the Hall, it seemed very large and exceedingly empty. The fire hissed and sparked in a hearth big enough to roast a whole ox, casting flickering shadows that danced on the walls. It gave the Great Hall an eerie look as the light created the illusion of pillars and fantastic beasts twisting and cavorting along the walls. The long banquet table cast a shadow in front of the roaring hearth.
The king took a few deep breaths to steady his nerve, and quickly began to walk towards the fire. His palms felt moist, and his throat felt dry like cotton. He stepped into the shadow of the banquet table….and his foot struck something. The king tripped, the pen flying from his grasp, and he fell into the fire. The flames roared hungrily, like the jaws of a horrific beast, waiting to receive him. When he screamed, no one heard. When he died, no one cared.
The black boarhound stretched and stood, stepping out of the shadow of the banquet table where he had sprawled in front of the fire, soaking up its warmth. The dog yawned, and as he did so, something caught his eye. He padded over and sniffed at the object on the floor. Lying there, innocently reflecting the flickering firelight, was the poet’s pen.