Of Knights And Faeries

• William Zhou
• Short Story
• 2013

Once upon a time, a woman discovered that stories were perfect for convincing children to go to sleep. There was something about “living happily ever after” that comforted the young. Maybe it was their naivety. Maybe it was their innocence. Or maybe it was the subconscious knowledge that the illusion would not last. Whatever the reason, children clung to those stories.
****
The knight stepped out into the crisp morning air. The clack of his footsteps on concrete was swallowed by the indifferent silence that was nine o’clock on a Sunday morning. The house turned to welcome him, it’s open doorway bared in a toothless macabre grin. Auntie Clara’s house. Hands in pockets, he walked through the silence to be greeted by another. A silence of comfortable groans and creaks. Of dust left undisturbed for too long. A tang of familiarity hung in the air, some miniscule trace of something long forgotten. He cocked his head, but trying to recognise it was like catching faeries in the moonlight. The rhythmic sound of footsteps resumed its course.
There! Oh to think that he could see it once again! Oh beauteous wonder! There it stood, proudly commanding the centre of the room. A gilded throne, towering above all else. The bastion of solidarity, comfort and the naïve hope that things will never change. Upon that throne, the direst of injuries could be cured with naught but a band-aid and hug.
The knight tilted his head back, as he lived those long, lazy Sunday nights again. Huddled on the couch with a faery princess, with eyes wide and shining, they would sit entranced as Auntie Clara spun webs, glittering with dew drops of whimsical tales. Stories of valiant knights in gleaming armour astride their noble steeds to rescue princesses in their soaring towers. Of colossal dragons with jaws big enough to swallow a bus whole and scales that glistened with emerald fire. Of children who outwitted the terrible monsters of the woods. Of faeries that shone like stars, capering in the soft moonlight. Stories that sheltered the two heroes from the battle between their king and queen. A safe haven where Aunt Clara’s arms and soothing voice chased away their trembles with the simple promise that everything would be okay. There is always a happy ending.
The clack of shoes echoed through the hallway, as the knight moved past the throne. Its sides had sagged ever so slightly with fatigue and old age. Its stuffing strained and yearned for release at its frayed edges. The couch clawed desperately, pleadingly, for its façade, for its former glory. But the image had already been shattered, the magic had dissipated and the knight and faery no longer believed.
The family had already congregated there. Uncles, Aunts, third cousins twice removed, relatives from all across the tree had gathered like crows, cawing and clacking at each other over the spoils. Aunt Clara was always the eccentric one, the outcast. Always babbling on about some picture she had taken of dewdrops on a spider-web or a bird that had landed on her window sill or some other nonsense. Who had time for such things in the real world? There were always errands to be run, documents to be filed and forms to be filled. Sure, what had happened was a shame; she was still a Merriweather after all. But enough time for mourning had passed, and it was time to get to business.
****
The man stepped out into the living room. The clack of his footsteps was swallowed by the silence of bickering and incessant croaks of haggling finally falling silent in agreement. His cousin had taken the silverware, old Uncle Adam hauled the grandfather clock home and he had managed to snag the old vintage records and gramophone. Everything was split and divided. Everything but the couch. Nobody had wanted the ancient decrepit piece. So there it stood, like a knight facing battle, staring at its death with forlorn but accepting eyes.
The man’s car pulled away in the hazy afternoon air. The screech of tires echoed through the houses and alleyways. As the car drove on, he looked back at the house as its macabre grin slowly closed.

The ending of a story is characterised by a resolution, or something to the same effect. A happy ending that would finally send a child into the depths of their sweet dreams. The knight rescues the princess. The child is safely returned to his family. The faeries can dance once again. But once those eyes close, the knight in shining armour relives the horrors of war in his sleep. The child returns to a life of poverty. One by one, the faeries capering like stars fade away under the city lights. The throne lies abandoned, forgotten and unwanted in a landfill. And Aunt Clara. Aunt Clara, who had taken two little children far and wide, to magical realms and distant lands, away from their worries and fears, takes her place amongst the stars, never to return again.



-2013