On meandering: the Queen's Journey
There's a wonderful old story that was told to me by my PhD supervisor, David Russell, and which I've now told to many different groups of students. I've found myself thinking about this story over the past couple of days.
The Queen's Journey
There was once a king and queen who ruled over a good and prosperous land. Good season followed good season, and the people were content.
One day, though, news arrived that in the neighbouring country, a wicked, evil heathen lord had come to power, casting a shadow over the good times.
Full of indignation, the good king raised an army and marched along a straight road leading directly to the borders of the neighbouring country. But the wicked, evil heathen lord got wind of his loud approach, and his armies were waiting in hiding in a mountain pass near the border; they attacked the armies of the good king, captured him, and took him back to their castle, where the good king was thrown into the deepest, dankest, darkest dungeon, and was left there to rot.
The queen, of course, was distraught. Day after day and long into every night, she sat by the window in her chamber, fretting about her missing husband and wondering if there was anything she should do. But what? She already knew that a rescuing army would have to march through the narrow mountain pass, making an ambush likely. Yet she could think of no better plan.
And her fretting increased tenfold when a smuggled note from the king arrived. 'My plight is desperate,' it said. 'Time is short! The time for action is now!'
The queen sat by her window, day after day, racking her brains, trying to think of some plan. Her advisers made suggestions, none of which seemed feasible.
Day after day she sat, day after day.
One day, though, she suddenly noticed the sound of the river rushing way down below. She hadn’t noticed this before, though surely the river had always gurgled and bubbled like this.
She noticed, then, other sounds. The leaves rustling in the breeze. The birds high up in the branches, and flying overhead through the blue sky.
And then, suddenly, she didn’t know why, an impulse took hold.
The queen stood up from her place by the window, and she walked over to an old chest which had sat unopened in a corner for many years.
She took out a lute, which she hadn't touched for years, and an old troubadour's outfit, which she hadn’t worn since before her marriage to the king, when she used to secretly disguise herself as a troubadour and sneak out of her father's castle, to sing unrecognised at local market days.
She had once been a gifted musician; it feels good to hold the lute once more.
The queen put on the troubadour’s outfit, and, with her lute tucked under one arm, left the palace, disguised, by a back entrance.
The queen then made her way down a meandering track to a village nearby. This route took her no closer to the lands of the wicked, evil, heathen lord, but this did not matter.
A plan was forming.
In the village market square, the queen began to sing a few songs. Not so well, perhaps, but better the longer the session lasted. A small crowd gathered. She invited others to sing when she had finished. She is offered food and board for the night.
The next morning, she continued along the meandering track to the next village. This time, she sang a little more confidently, and her fingers moved with more familiarity along the frets and strings of her lute. Again she invited others to join in, and she learned some new songs. Someone told a story. Another talked with her about lute playing. Again she was offered a meal and a bed for the night.
And so she continued, traversing the country, along all the winding village roads, until eventually she reached the mountain pass between the two countries.
By this time her repertoire had grown and her old skills had returned. News of this extraordinary musician and storyteller have preceded her. As she entered the lands of the wicked, evil heathen lord, and she found that there were crowds waiting for her in the villages and towns that she passed through.
And news reached the wicked, evil, heathen lord himself, sitting alone in his castle, bored and despondent, needing a distraction. He sent soldiers to bring this travelling troubadour to his palace. And, once she had arrived, he ordered the troubadour to entertain him.
The queen gave the performance of her life, and even the cold hard heart of the wicked, evil, heathen lord was touched. There were tears in his eyes. He begged the troubadour to join his court. He offered the troubadour gifts and incentives.
But the queen refused. 'I must keep travelling,' she said. Again the wicked, evil, heathen lord offers her gifts. 'All I wish for,' she said, 'is that I may have a companion, a prisoner from your prisons, to accompany me on the road.'
The wish was granted.
The queen was taken down into the dungeons, and there, in the deepest, dankest, darkest cell, she saw the king, body emaciated and covered in sores, lying on a bed of filthy rags and straw. The smell was appalling.
'I'll take that man,' she said.
The king was brought back into the fresh air. Physicians tended his wounds, attendants nursed him back to life.
After a couple of weeks, he was able to walk again. After a month, he was ready for the road. Still, he did not know the true identity of his rescuer.
The two set off, visiting again all the villages and towns, along the same meandering paths and byways. This time, of course, the queen was welcomed and feted. The performances were breathtaking, but always the queen invited others to join in on her songs and to teach her new ones. Always there were stories told.
Almost exactly a year after the queen first set off on her journey, they reached their castle. The queen was still disguised; the king still ignorant.
At the castle gate, the king offered his rescuer gifts and titles. 'You have saved my life,' he said. 'Whatever you wish for that I can grant, will be yours.'
Again queen refused. 'Just saving your life and bringing you back here to your castle is reward enough.'
As soon as they had parted, the queen hurried to the back entrance of the castle. She took off her disguise and was recognised by the guards at the back gate. She hurried up the back stairs, back to her room, and she threw both troubadour guise and lute into the chest, put her queenly robes back on, and resumed her seat by the window.
And she soon heard the king's footsteps approaching her room.
The door was flung open and the king stood there, his face red with rage.
'How dare you!' he bellowed. 'How dare you sit there, idly, while I languished near to death in a dark and dreadful place! How dare you sit there, doing nothing!'
The queen stood.
She opened the chest and took out the costume and the lute.
The king looked. The king now understood.
King and queen embraced.
The king and queen embraced for a long, long time.
Indeed, if the truth be told, the king and the queen are still locked in that embrace.
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Three posts on different aspects of this story:
The Queen's Journey: Meditation 1
The Queen's Journey: Meditation 2
The Queen's Journey: Meditation 3
