Note: There is nothing political or particularly pertinent in this post. It’s just a bit of Friday silliness—a rambling explanation of why I feel I should wish you all…
Once upon a time, the King wanted to go on a royal hunt, as his father and forefathers had done since time immemorial. Now this certainly was his right, and tradition was on his side in this, but perhaps it was not such a good idea. He was not exactly the outdoorsy type. He could identify different fabric weaves from across the room, tell you the best way to prepare custard, and was very talented at looking dashing wearing a crown (or so he told himself). But actually venture out into the wilderness? Somehow he got the idea in his head that this was exactly what he should do to seem kingly.
He gathered up a few essentials for the hunt—his smaller, four-horse, decorated carriage, because he thought that might be less conspicuous, a cook, a small kitchen-wagon, three wagon loads of his favorite cakes, salted meats, and wines, several serving maids to go along with the food, a personal bodyguard of elite palace soldiers, a trio of monks well versed in animal lore, a bard and a lutist to commemorate his great adventure, and of course an extra crown to wear in case he met any other royal hunting parties tallying ho through the wilderness between their kingdoms.
They set off through what to him seemed the untamed wild—the carefully planted and well-groomed forest of fir trees that surrounded the castle. They followed between the neat rows of trees for almost a mile, seeing hundreds of squirrels, rabbits, young deer, owls, and such, but utterly failing to see any game fit for a royal prize, such as a great hart, giant gazelle, or perhaps a young dragon. So they decided to push on to even wilder realms.
This proved accurate. Soon the forest turned to aspens and then to oak and beech, becoming so thick in places they had to take long detours around thickets and brambles. The ground became craggy and hilly with sudden gulleys opening up across their path forcing further detours. Their route was becoming so circuitous and tortuous that the king's advisers advised chopping trees to mark their path. The king refused, as the noise would scare off the game and drown out the lute music accompanying their trek. Besides, his great grandfather had been a renowned cartographer and explorer—surely those talents bred true. Thus the king and his party were soon well and truly lost.
Night approached and they had not seen any great game and had no real idea even where they were. The king decreed (royally) that they should have a feast to commemorate the morrow's successful conclusion of their hunt. They cleared an area of undergrowth, arranged the rugs and canopies, started a truly magnificent fire, and had the cook get with it. Soon they were all feasting, laughing, listening to music, drinking wine, and pinching the serving girls.
Some time during the night, the first disaster struck. Bandits, alerted by the bright fire and loud music found the camp and quietly snuck. Within minutes, the decorated carriage, the horses, the wagons of food and wine, and even the King's spare crown were taken by the bandits. The serving girls were taken with the bandits, finding them attractive and thinking that life as a bandit's girlfriend might involve more treasure and less pinching.
Seeing what had befallen, and unwilling to return empty handed and defeated to his castle, the King declared that they would pursue and capture the bandits. Then they could return triumphant and celebrate with a great feast and an execution. The best laid plans of mice and men, just like the worst laid plans of kings and idiots, oft go terribly awry. They were able to move more quickly and quietly without the large carriage and wagons, and the King set off boldly after what he was sure were the tracks of the bandits—trusting to his infallible instincts supposedly inherited from the renowned great-grandfather.
Perhaps this is what led to their second disaster. As they crested a steep ridge, they did finally see some game, and it was truly worthy of a King's hunt. As the stories later told, it stood half again as tall as the largest horse, its antlers gleamed like gold, and it let out a bellow that shook the leaves from the trees as it charged. The hunting party scattered before the onslaught, tumbling down the hillside leaving a trail of packs, weapons, food, boots, and a crown behind. The king and several of his retainers crashed through the brush and fell into one of the sudden gullies, landing soggy and bruised in the stream at the bottom. The walls were too steep to climb and they had to scramble along the stream bed for what seemed like miles before getting out of the wash.
All that were left of the royal hunting party were the cook, two monks, and the boy who polished his crowns. None of them could even guess which way they should go to meet up with the rest of the party or to find home. They searched along the top of the gully trying to find where they had fallen in to no avail. Soon dark forced them to spend a cold, hungry night huddled together in the undergrowth, trying not to listen to the sounds of the wildlife they were sure was determined to eat them for a nightly meal.
That morning as the King awoke, the third and final disaster struck; he was alone. Somehow during the night his three remaining companions had vanished. Desperately afraid of the sorcery or magical beasts that could take his companions without leaving a trace, the King set about trying to find home. He searched all that day and the following day, setting out at almost random directions and trying to maintain a straight line hoping to see something familiar, with nothing to eat except the bread he had absentmindedly stuffed into his pockets the first night of his adventure. He slept huddled fearfully in hollows under the brush and walked daily until his feet ached and his every exposed inch of skin was scratched and scraped.
At last, five days after setting out, after nearly giving up hope of ever seeing home again—of even remaining alive through another night, the King crested a small hill and looked down on the neat rows of well groomed fir tree forest surrounding his castle. The sight of those wonderful trees in their neat rows gently soughing in the wind filled him with such immense joy that ever after he celebrated the memory.
And so, in memory of those beautiful trees and the joy the sight of them brought to the King, I must wish you a Happy Firday,
