Thy Secrets Should Be Sung

Chapter Two: Echidna

 One morning, the Knight brought the Princess a present, a marvelous wooden box. No more than a foot square and perhaps ten inches deep, lacquered a dark and rich brown, clasped with ornate brass, emblazoned with intricate imagery: boars and oxen, bears and lions.

He carried the box with pride as he strolled through the garden—down along the rows of rhododendron, past the gazebo, along the bank of the silver stream. His steps were light.

A lark followed after him, fluttering from bush to brush to flower.

When he reached the edge of the meadow, where the grass meet the poplar and the sacred groove, he stopped, and dug his heel into the earth. He laid the box down amid the iris and the daffodil, still wet with dew.

"Princess?" he called out, "Are you there?"

As if in answer to his question a great wind swept through the meadow—and the Knight thought he heard the ringing of distant bells.

From the depths of the garden she appeared, her bare feet dancing amid the flowers of the spring meadow. The Knight lowered himself, head hung in shame, knee bent in genuflection, arms downcast in supplication.

The boughs were thick with new growth, they cast a patchwork of light upon the ground. Light and shadow teased each other, never touching, and between them both the Princess toed.

She stood over him. "Why do you insist upon such formality?" she asked. "I have no use for false modesty. You dare bow to me, your captive? What mockery."

"But a Knight must bow to a Princess," the Knight said, "even if she is his prisoner." He lowered his eyes. "But perhaps I can make some small amends. I have tried to bare myself to you, yet you remain far away. The fault is mine. In my haste, I neglected the needs of a Maiden."

He gestured to the lacquer chest. "Take this box, this chest—fill it with your secrets, so you might gain a power over me, and regain a measure of privacy. Not for mine sake, but for thy own."

The Princess raised a finger to her cheek. "Whatever do you mean?"

"I want you to keep mysteries from me," the Knight explained, "for I have robbed you of your feminine allure, the secrets a Princess tempts and tantalizes with."

"Oh, have I lost my luster, then?" the Princess asked.

The Knight shifted uncomfortably. "For me your allure could never dim, and would remain a staple of the age," he said, "but I fear for a woman's vanity, and I know its frailty. I wish for no distance between us, save for that which you create. A letter, a locket, a lock of hair—choose wisely, a secret to hide away."

Bowed, knee bent, he scooped up his present and offered it to the Princess, arms extended. She took the chest and gave him her curtsy, and bade the Knight the stand.

She inspected the box: opening it, closing it again, turning it in her hands, running her fingers over the lacquer finish, the brass hinge, the velvet lining.

Satisfied, she set it down. "As empty as your heart," she concluded. "If love is your aim, this box is a mistake."

"Explain," said the Knight.

The Princess danced her fingers over the lid. "True love has no secrets. Secrets are the domain of doomed lovers, seeking to prolong a spring romance, stoking the embers of a temperate lust."

The Knight's heart beat like a kettle drum.

"Regardless," said the Princess, "I do not want gifts." She gave the chest one last look before handing it back to the Knight.