A New Golden Son

Chapter 9

The resident prophet in the imperial city on Draegohn was a Scotsman named Duncan O'Keefe McConnell. This rather lilting eponym had been shortened to Dom somewhere in his adolescence, and then Dumb some time after he put on his robes and censored his head. This moniker, being too kind for the arbiters of nomenclature, was then reduced to Dum Dum: Dum Dum the prophet.

It is exceedingly hard to prove one's validity as a prophet. And this is especially true when one tends to prophecy about things in the distant future. Thus it might not be hard to imagine a man moaning and wailing at the temple, the roadside, the palace – stripped of nearly all the humanity necessary to connect with those he's trying to reach – being belittled with the title, "Dum Dum." But Duncan McConnell was a good prophet. That is, he prophesied that which actually came to pass, and did it in a timely enough manner that you could benefit from hearing the man speak. Unfortunately he was a Scottish prophet who stuck mostly to very pragmatic prophecies about the weather and one's health. So not only were the prophecies usually boring, but they were also rife with the peculiarities of McConnell's insidiously persistent brogue. Therefore, practical helper or no, the name stuck.

For example, when the High King of Draegohn's fourteenth daughter, born to his ninth wife, came down with an illness, Prophet Dum Dum was called. He prophesied as follows:

"Sire. You must beware of this child's snot. It is a wicked snot sire. A wily snot. It is the kind that creeps in the nose and drips down your face. It lingers in the throat. It tickles ya until ya bark for mercy. Twill not die easily. No. But die it must. You must kill the snot your lordship. For if in three days the snot has not receded, nay, disappeared, the child's glands will begin to swell in the nose and the throat. Her eyes will puff up like great balloons. She'll be blind inside of the month and deaf no doubt, too. You must see to it that the snot is expunged from her very being. Aye. It is wicked snot. Be wary of it."

The high king heeded the prophet's words. He sent for physicians to work on the snot problem, and was able to secure safety from balloon-eye blindness and the other foretold calamities. But when the girl was healed, and the prophet was called back to partake in a celebratory feast, the king used the prophet's nickname, and not his given name to honor him.

"Ladies and gentlemen, citizens of the seven worlds, and my fellow Draegohnians, tonight we honor Dum Dum the prophet. He has led us to the healing of my daughter, and both the royal family and the kingdom at large thank him."

The prophet stood at the head of the great hall next to the king. Syncopated shouts of "Dum Dum, Dum Dum" shook the walls. Far from ashamed or angered, the prophet beamed. He was Scottish after all, and by extension, Presbyterian – not practically mind you, but historically. The idea of being honored through self approved deprecation touched him in his deepest soul. Many years later, he felt in his fibers, he would look back on the event while receiving a great reward. 

Following the ceremony, the High King of Draegohn ought to have been beaming. He had everything he thought he had ever wanted. He had already received his reward. But instead of celebrating,  he was hiding. Not well, or cleverly. King Carl had actually only wandered into the hedge-row labyrinth. It was the one planted in the south garden so that the kingdom could be in compliance with the Fantastical Kingdom Rules and Standards Act of 1986 D.B. There had been a perfectly good labyrinth in the east garden. Still was actually. But it didn't contain the requisite number of fantastic creatures, hidden passages, or cracked flagstones. That, and it never held the mist like it was supposed to. On really foggy days it was as good as any other labyrinth, but most of the time the east garden's labyrinth was clear, pleasant, and altogether easy to navigate. The new south labyrinth was none of those things, and the king had chosen it specifically. He wanted to get lost. It had been ten years since his coronation, and far from being exultant, he was depressed. Exhausted. He needed a break.

The real problem was that the romance was gone. He had fought in great battles - 4. He had led heroic charges - 9. He had rescued the princess, married her and lived as happily ever after as one could. But the whole head-of-state business was just dragging him down. Draegohn was home to nine sovereign states over which he was High King. There were also the Seven Worlds of Kyoto with their two dozen-plus sentient races and corresponding kingdoms. He was their official head as well. And then on top of those responsibilities, he had his own marriages.

Polygamy was not only accepted on Draegohn, it was expected. He had married the princess fourteen times over, and a fifteenth was in the works. And, due to a magic "gift" of multiple births given to the Draegohnian royal house by a baby-happy fairy, the High King had produced forty-two heirs. This last piece of the equation had made him very popular among the locals. It had also tired him out more than any of his other responsibilities. Spending time with even five of the children a day was taxing. Often he had to see ten or more at once if he wanted to have any sort of regular interaction with them. And though he loved them all in principle, and as progeny, it was very hard to know them.

Sitting on an appropriately cracked and vine covered stone bench the king took a deep breath and pulled a parcel out from under his robe. It was brown paper, wrapped with twine: nondescript. He undid the twine and pulled at the paper. There, folded neatly, were a white oxford shirt, black dress pants, and a black tie. The shirt was short sleeved and had a pocket over the right breast. It was a techies uniform. His old uniform. They were even, he checked, all his size. Setting the clothing and paper on the bench next to him he pulled out an envelope that had been attached to the package when he found it that morning on his fifth story balcony. The envelope and its card were likewise unremarkable. The paper for both was only slightly lighter brown than the paper holding the clothing. Basic black ink adorned the inside of the card. The message was written by a quill pen and consisted of only one line – a question.

"Do you want to go back," it asked.