TITLES

by
Leon B. Stern

The Sire of Pomp and Prince of Splendor, also known as the Peel of Banana, King of Accordion, High Lord Baron of Flute and many other titles, stood upon his balcony in the Grand Master Ballroom of his magnificent Palace. The balcony stuck out just a few yards from high up in the center of one long wall of the enormous room. He had been there for hours, watching, waiting, gossiping. Speaking of nothing to no one and everything that matters to everyone who mattered. But the time had come.

Pomp was ready to announce the final, most enviously awaited title-awarding of the long evening. One thousand senior nobles, not one more, not one less, of Pomp's splendid Nation and his glittering court stood below, silent, respectful, attentive and envious.

"We," he said, raising both arms into the light so that the rings on his fingers and the bells on his cuffs danced in the light from the huge chandeliers, "that is, I myself, Sire of Pomp, King of Accordion, High Lord Baron of Flute, Bass of Tuba, Prince of Splendor, and King of the Grande Gesture, and thus by right and license Maker of Nobles, Granter of Deeds, do here-by grant and bestow upon the Duke of Bagel, Baron of Scorn and Rise of Yeast, the additional title with all attendant rights, obligations, income and mineral rights in the lands of said title, the new title of..."

Here his Lordship paused for dramatic affect. Mostly. And perhaps a little for breath. The assembled Nobles held their breaths too, delicately, to be sure. Then Splendor continued with a broad sweep of his Ermine laden arms.

"... The Lorraine of Quiche!"

Before a pin could pop or a button drop, the trumpets sounded and the hall was all abuzz.

"Quiche!" some said. "Quite a feather, quite a feather! What an honor!" Of course, everybody who was anybody was there.

"Quiche?" said others. "But the Kurd of Dairy himself told me that Bagel was to get Cheese of Cream with Chive cluster!"

The court had, after all, gathered to gossip and swoop upon the unwary, to snoop and pry into the affairs of friend, foe and confidante alike, to wheedle and cajole neighbor, relative and colleague. The only thing different at this affair of court was the sheer number of titleholders present.

This was the premier event of the year, for once a year everybody listed in the Great Book of Titles, by definition everybody who was anybody, assembled at court to hear the granting of new titles. The celebrations went on for a whole week with the Most Grand Ball right in the Middle.

Fortunes in dress and finery, accommodations, catering and bribes had been tossed upon the alter of pomp and splendor. Thus of course, Lord Pomp, Prince of Splendor, was entitled to a fortune in taxes, permits and fees.

However, the Prince�s announcement of the granting of the title of Quiche of Lorraine was quite a shock to most of the assemblage. But those in the know drew quietly together.

The Lace of Sleeve, also known as the Duke of Finery, said, "Quiche? Bah! I tell you there is muck afoot!"

The Eye of Apple, also known as the Duke of Tender Touches, interrupted. "Couldn't be," he said, looking through his golden monocle, "I saw Muck of Foot in the garden only a moment ago.

"No, you fool," retorted Sleeve, "we have been kugeled. The arrangement had been made, I tell you. Bagel was to get Souls, not Quiche!"

Up on the balcony, Pomp, himself, looked out over the amassed glitterati. He sat on his jeweled cushions, smiling, alert, and watchful. "I love these little gatherings," he thought. "The planning, the plotting, the menus, the gossip, the second guessing, the revenues, the one-upmanship, the pomp. Ah, to be prince," he sighed.

"I am the Prince," he remembered. "Too bad the intrigue never gets tiresome. It would be nice to rest without a care."

He gazed fondly out at the assembled court. The room was so large that even with many small groups of chairs, a bandstand, and an enormous dance floor, there was maneuvering room for the hundreds of celebrants. The buffet tables were in other rooms of the palace.

Pomp looked out over the pomp and splendor, still smiling. The many bodies encased in satin and silk, lace, fur and chintz, ebbed and flowed. Ruby red silk fought with emerald green dyed mink. Pink lace woven solid with pearls fluttered on bound and strategically supported bosoms.

Titled Lords and Ladies moved about the hall gracefully, discreetly checking each other for tax stamp tags. The Pearl of Mother had to be forcibly evicted when she insisted on checking several Ladies corset stays on the dance floor. She had been entirely too obvious. Pomp remained on his balcony, lounging on his silk and Ermine pillows, the tax tags carefully kept in plain view. He had to set a good example.

Pomp always stayed on his balcony at these large affairs because he hated to get his Ermine riffled, let alone his rubies rubbed. His Duke of Aide, Lord of Ceremony, approached and whispered, "My Lord, The Duke of Tarry requests an audience."

"Well, alright," responded Pomp, with a slight smile. "But tell him not to dawdle."

Ceremony withdrew with a bow, but The Lord High Pressure of Blood squeezed by Ceremony at the top of the stairs. Pomp waved him forward.

Blood fell to his knees before Pomp, with many grunts, careless of his mauve satin pantaloons.

"You come to me yet again, Blood?" said Pomp. "You will exhaust me with your pleadings."

Blood's lips began to quiver. Tears formed on his eyelids. His jowls started to quake.

"Oh, please don't blubber, Blood," pleaded Pomp. "Out with it, what do you want to complain about this time?"

�My Lord,� began Blood once again, his fat face wet with tears, �I beseech you, my servants starve, my parties are puny, my wardrobe is strained!�

�Indeed, so I see,� murmured Pomp. �Do go on.�

�Income from the High Blood Pressure Tax that you granted to me,� My Lord, �just a few seasons ago, most graciously, I might add, is simply no longer enough to supplement my other several incomes in ways that permit me to live up to the high standards you yourself so admirably example, standards of pomp and splendor that would do your tax collectors proud if only they could afford to mirror them, Sire.�

�No?� responded Pomp, thoughtfully. �Really?� He paused gracefully, flicking a silk, lace, pearl encrusted, beribboned handkerchief. �I remember a day when high blood pressure was big business! You yourself got fat on that one tax, not so long ago, if I remember rightly! Now, you are crying fraud? What, are the doctors not reporting all the cases?�

�Certainly they do, My Lord.�

�Do some of your collectors hoard some fraction of the collected taxes?�

�No, My Lord, no, no! My inspectors assure me that the system works quite well. But this tax on blood pressure has placed yet another burden upon the people. They work harder and eat less! My Lord, the national blood pressure has gone down!�

� Ah,� murmured Lord Pomp. �Most distressing news for your coffers, I�m sure,� responded Pomp sympathetically. �Perhaps you can suggest a remedy?�

�My Lord,� said the High Pressure of Blood, �rising slowly from the floor, �me thinks adding a tax on heart disease might do the trick, if you would be so kind.�

Lord Pomp was quite startled. �Why Blood, that�s brilliant, he exclaimed. �So, I take it this means that you want yet another title? Diseases of heart, perhaps? That does open numerous possibilities. I shall have to think on it, but you shall have a new title, something very like it, this very night, I assure you. Now, be gone,� said Pomp, waving Blood away, �I have more urgent business.�

Pomp�s huge lace hanky waved high in the air, but as soon as Blood started to bow, Pomp stuffed it back into a voluminous sleeve for fear Lace of Sleeve might see it and dare to demand to see a tax stamp.

�My Lord Pomp, I leap to do thy bidding! Your wish is my command,� he said bowing very deeply and very slowly. He backed up one step and bowed again, and yet again. At the top of the fox lined stairs he collided with the Duke of Aide who was just coming up. Aide was followed at an ever-increasing distance by the Duke of Tarry.

The Duke of Tarry was a tall young man, elegant and refined, who always dressed in black velvet. No one knew why. He is so slow of movement and speech that no one will ask him for fear they would get the answer over several hours.

He speaks so slowly that one could carry on two conversations with two people at once, if one of them were Tarry. However, he has the title by inheritance, a rare thing. The mannerisms that go with it he had apparently come by the same way. The Duke of Aide gained the height of Pomp�s balcony and bowed his most regal bow.

�I have arranged your bidding, My Lord Pomp,� he said. �The Duke of Tarry approaches even now. He thanks you for your kindnesses and willingness to hear his humble request.�

�Thank you, Ceremony. When I have done with Tarry, I shall want to converse with Lace of Sleeve. Tis not urgent, but would be most gratifying. Do find him and bid him be on that moment, won�t you.�

�Indeed, my Lord,� said Ceremony, bowing grandly.

At that very moment Tarry reached the top of the stairs. He advanced slowly and arranged himself to begin his most elegant bow. �I am honored,� he began, �to be allowed,� he continued very slowly, �so glorious an honor,� he said as his bow began, �as to be granted my humble request,� he said, pausing for breadth every few words, �for an audience. . . with your most imperial highness,� he added as his bow reached its lowest point, his forehead even with his knees, �who alone of all his Court, . . . knows of my, . . . .�

�Tarry, said the Duke of Aide, �this is the Sire of Pomp, the Prince of Splendor. Not his most imperial highness. Why, I don�t think there eve is one!�

The Duke of Tarry began to bow again, slower this time, while a look of genuine regret began to form on his face.

�I meant no disrepect,� he began, �toward the vaulted and most high,� he added taking a breath, �station of your exalted self,� his torso bottomed out and began the trip back to vertical, �My Lord Pomp. No disregard . . . of your position of honor . . . or your . . . �

Pomp spoke to Aide eagerly. �Does no one claim that title now, really?�

�exalted and revered�,� continued Tarry.

�I don�t think so,� interjected Aide. �You mean like Most Imperial Highness?�

�. . . house of �� added Tarry.

�Yes, Aide, yes,� contributed Pomp. �I may take that glorious title for myself!�

�. . . Lord of Pomp. The most honored of . . . �

�A most heady title indeed, My Lord,� said Aide smiling.

�� among all who know and adore him�,� pursued Tarry. �Yes, lovely. But it needs something, ay?�

��of beauty and pageantry�� plodded Tarry onward.

�Such as what My Lord?� Aide said to Pomp.

��gloriously stylish,��

�Oh, I don�t know, it just needs officializing I suppose. How about Highness of Your Most Imperial?�

�� in your wisdom,... add to my humble domain�� and Tarry plunged on in what for him was a veritable avalanche of words. �the simple title of��

Pomp looked at Tarry, not bothering to bate his breath.

Tarry took a deep breath, �the title and honor of � Thunder of Lightening?� he finished.

A small silence followed. It was an isolated silence, contained on the balcony above the ballroom. Pomp looked at Aide and back at Tarry. Tarry glanced at Aide and then returned his gaze to Pomp. Aide looked at Tarry, tilted his head for a look at Pomp than looked once at Tarry and back at Pomp. No one spoke. Aide and Tarry watched Pomp. Silent. Respectful.

When it appeared that Tarry was preparing to draw breath to speak again, Pomp interjected.

� Thunder of Lightening?� he said. �A most wondrous title, Tarry,� he said.

Tarry only nodded and smiled.

Pomp turned his whole body and stared at Aide. �My dear Aide,� he said, in a kind and gently voice, �my Duke of Ceremony, my confidante and advisor, I ask you, why did we not think of that?�

Aide declined to speak, he looked at Tarry and bowed his head humbly before greatness.

Pomp turned back to Tarry. �My Duke of Tarry,� he said.

�Sire?� Tarry responded in one breath.

�A most wondrous title, Tarry,� said Pomp, �We congratulate you. For this you shall have a new and sparkling title this very night. But, we say, but, you may not have this title all to yourself. It is simply too grand.�

Tarry briefly bowed his head, a tear in one eye, though he was smiling from the compliments. They seemed almost more than he could handle.

�For you,� continued Pomp, �we shall fashion a new title concerning Thunder. But because the Thunder echoes the Lightening, We shall take that part for ourselves. You shall, with our blessing, before the whole court,� here Pomp paused, his face an iron mask of thought and determination.

�You shall have,� he continued, �this very night the new title of Storm of Thunder.�

�Oh, thank you My Lord,� said Tarry in a rush. �How can I portray my� highest regard,� my humblest� glowingest thanks,�

�If you go at once!� declared Pomp.

Tarry prepared to speak a final salutation as all such grand occasions required. Pomp stopped him with a single raised hand, cuff-bells jangling. �I insist!� he said.

Tarry bowed a swift but expansive bow, and turned to go, slowly, although at twice his normal speed. When he was eventually out of earshot of the balcony, Pomp�s face split into a huge grin. A chuckle began deep in his belly.

�Aide,� he said, clutching Aide�s sleeve, �I had to hold it in!�

Aide looked blank. �Most amusing, My Lord,� he said. Pomp managed to control his mirth.

�Find the Lace of Sleeve, at once, Aide. I wish to have words with him as soon as possible.� But then Pomp burst again into contagious guffaws. �The Duke of Tarry,� he said between gasps, �asking for the title of lightening! I could not have held it in a moment longer!�

Aide turned to go, finally letting a smile disturb his features as he descended the magnificently curved fox lined staircase. �Now to find My Lord Sleeve,� he said.

********

Many halls away, a serious conference was long in session. The Lace of Sleeve had brought together his advisors and confidantes in the smallest public room in the palace, sixty paces by one hundred-twenty paces. The Duke of Bagel was there, also the new Lorraine of Quiche. His loss of the very different, very coveted, originally offered title was the major topic of conversation.

The Curd of Dairy was there, contributing his extensive knowledge of court intrigue.

The Apple of Eye was there because he was rich and intrigue takes money.

The Muck of Foot had been invited but had not appeared because the messenger sent to bring him had been waylaid by a floozy in the palace. But no one was sorry because the Muck of Foot was a foreigner and not really welcome at such a conference about national security.

The Lace of Sleeve had gathered them together to seek a new strategy. Getting the Guardian of Souls title for Bagel had been the cornerstone of the old strategy.

Ahh, but fear not gentle reader. Lace spoke not of revolution, nor deposing a King, nor usurping the treasury. These men spoke only of money and power and how to get more of both.

The meeting had been in session for some time. Now, once again, Sleeve had the floor.

�So, we are back to our original stumbling block, gentlemen,� said Sleeve, gesturing with the most ornate lace covered sleeve and hanky in the kingdom. �The affair was all planned, the deal was sealed. The title was within our grasp. And now we do not even know why Lord Pomp refused it to us!�

Bagel was beginning to get red about the face. �Refused to us!� he said. He was ignored, politely. He gazed petulantly at his silk encased, embroidered knees.

�Perhaps he had second thoughts telling him to keep that title for himself,� said Dairy.

�Mmmmm, that has merit Dairy,� pondered Sleeve. �It is a powerful, never before bestowed title, potentially very lucrative. He may have feared for his control of revenue.�

Bagel had managed to stifle his agitation until now. All at once he burst forth with a torrent of words.

�Why would he do this! To me! Without warning?� he said.

�Did Pomp concede me the title knowing he would never officially actually bequeath it to me? Did he concede it in good faith, some later influence changing him?�

Dairy was most upset. �Sleeve, did you have to hold our meeting in such a cavernous echo chamber? This echo is terrible on my ears, not to mention my comprehension!�

�I�m sorry my dear Dairy. This is the smallest room I could get on short notice. You know that with so many guests swarming over the palace privacy is hard to come by.�

At that moment the Duke of Aide opened wide the meeting-room door in a single sweep and almost as quickly closed it again. He managed to pause, however, upon recognizing the powerful foursome engaged in private conversation.

Aide bowed and spoke from the doorway, surely forty paces away.

�My Lords, I seek not to interrupt, but I have been seeking you out, My Lord Sleeve, one room at a time. I thought not to knock as most of these ballrooms are empty. I sought only to do My Lord Pomp�s bidding in haste.�

�What did he say?� said Eye. �The echo is terrible.�

�Sleeve rose smiling. �Grieve not, my dear Aide. Thy haste is admirable. No ill is thought of you. And, if as you say, My Lord Pomp requests my presence, I shall obey.� Then sleeve hesitated. �Tell me,� he added, stepping toward Aide, as Aide moved toward Sleeve, �Did Pomp require that I appear alone?�

�I believe not, My Lord. He said only that it was a matter of great import.�

This remark stirred Eye. �The import tariff taxes again!� he said. Sleeve was quick to calm him. �No, my dear Eye. Matter of state I�m sure. Sleeve gestured to take in his friends.

�Gentlemen,� he said, �I bid you accompany me and we shall raise the issue of our discussion with Pomp this very night!�

* * *

he Lord of Pomp sat on his many jeweled cushions, on the dais of his balcony overlooking the Grand Ballroom. He was trying to enjoy the view of the hundreds of his grandly dressed subjects below. He moved painfully on his cushions.

�Curse upon the fellow who made these jeweled cushions popular,� he said. �Uncomfortable and popular, why does it happen so often!�

The Aide of Secretary, the Duke of Aide�s first assistant, stepped forward from his Balcony station. �Shall I pluck off some of the offending jewels for My Lord?� he said with a regal bow, his ice-blue satin lapels flashing, his knee buckles glinting.

�And get caught with my pillows plucked! Not on your life!� Then Pomp squirmed again to get comfortable. �Where is Aide with that Sleeve, anyhow, he would distract me from this torture.�

�I�m sure he speeds to do as you command, My Lord,� said Secretary.

Just then the Duke of Aide reached the top of the fox lined steps. Secretary bowed again, backing to his station.

Aide stepped forward and bowing as low as ever he did, said, I ask only your praise, My Lord.� In a most apologetic tone he continued. �I sought to do your bidding as speedily as I might, My Lord. And not in vain, as you see.�

Aide stepped aside and gestured grandly with one arm. The four Lords he had preceded reached the top of the staircase together, a bit out of breath. They paused virtually gasping, leaning on their knees, trying as best they could to make it look like bowing.

�Gentlemen, good Sirs, do not hang back, I beseech you,� said Pomp, gesturing them forward and rising painfully, but with surprising gracefulness from his painful ordeal with the bejeweled cushions.

The four nobles managed to grunt and shove their way forward as Pomp tugged down his great coat, and aligned the cuffs and sleeves of crushed Velour.

Sleeve pulled ahead of the other Lords and bowed first. �We thank you for your Majesty�s summons, a glorious opportunity to do thy bidding especially on such short notice, My Lord. We hope to discuss numerous matters of great import to all concerned, upon the occasion before us.�

�Please, no,� injected Pomp, �not the import tariff again, not today! Leave that to my ministers, I implore you. And let us dispense however briefly with the rigors of courtly brocaded speech, Sleeve. Spin not tangled webs for once, weave not shiny cloth of light bending praise.�

�With pleasure, My Lord. I shall come sharply to the point,� said Sleeve as the other three Dukes huddled behind him. �Would you prefer to straightaway discuss Bagel�s originally proffered title � Bagel, of course, now also known as Quiche?�

The other Lords gasped at Sleeve�s bluntness, especially in conversation with someone in as love with ceremony as Pomp. Even with Pomp�s permission, if was almost unheard of to take his plainest meaning as if he intended it. It seemed that truly, for once, urgency outweighed the need for good form.

�Ahh, indeed, pray do continue,� said Pomp, apparently unruffled. �that is precisely the subject for which I had you summoned. And glad I am that these good nobles did accompany you.�

�I cannot continue, My Lord. We are all speechless with wonder at your glorious generosity in awarding to Bagel the new title of Lorraine of Quiche rather than the doubtful, though eloquent,�

Sleeve added with a smaller bow, �Guardian of Souls.� �Ha!� replied Pomp. �For once I see through your snotty weavings! Speechless indeed!�

�My Lords, I�m taken aback!� cried Sleeve, clutching his chest and staggering back a step.

�Indeed,� continued Pomp. �You are all here not to congratulate me or thank me, but to find out somehow the why of it. You are dying for the mystery of it all. And I do not blame you, gentlemen. As Lords, Nobles, title holders and compatriots I insist on you advising me. I shall tell you all that has occurred without reservation!�

Dairy immediately stepped forward, nervously twitching his mustaches. �My dear Pomp,� he said quietly, �do you think that really wise?�

�Trust in me, Dairy. I shall limit my tale to this topic of highest priority, urgency and immediate concern. Please, gather round.� The four Nobles clustered in front of Pomp, their backs to the great hall, as Pomp began his tale in hushed tones.

�My esteemed advisers,� he began, �I was visited last night in my chambers, away from all court concerns and intrigue, prying eyes and attentive ears, by a messenger admitted by the Duke of Aide himself. Well, at least, this individual in beautifully tailored ensemble claimed to be a mere messenger. He was bedecked with the most glorious array of jewels that I have ever seen a single body bedecked with!�

�Bosh!� said the Apple of Eye.

�Curdle!� said the Curd of Dairy.

�Kugel!� said the Lorraine of Quiche.

�Ripping?� queried the Lace of Sleeve.

�Nice of you all to be so impressed,� said Pomp. �But I don�t think you really appreciate the obvious. Here was a mere messenger wearing a tunic of impeccable cut, paved with fine gemstones.� The Dukes murmured understanding and small gestures as if to say, and? And get on with it.

�Gentlemen, abide! Can you imagine the wealth of a ruler who dresses his servants, nay here a mere messenger, a runner, a word carrier, in diamonds and sapphires the size of walnuts?� Sleeve was first to jump into the sudden quiet on the Balcony. �Assuredly they were for mere show, My Lord. Probably paste imitations? And if not perhaps the messenger�s Master, knowing of your own glory, specially attired the messenger so that he would present well in your court? As indeed do we all here consider you to be the most powerful, glittering, and mightiest of rulers.�

�Thank you, Sleeve,� responded Pomp. �That was kind, even if true. But you did not hear this messenger�s message!�

The four Lords huddled closer around their leader, confidential, concerned, attentive, but not really worried. Pomp whispered his anguish.

�This mere messenger said that his Master had heard of my intent to bequeath the title Guardian of Souls. His master demanded, he said, demanded, not requested mind you, not entreated nor appealed, but demanded, that I not grant such a title.�

Pomp took a step back, fingers on his lips.

Dairy spoke first into the silence. �Did he give a reason for his Master�s request, My Lord?� he said.

�Indeed!� said Pomp with such sudden volume that all four Lords were hurled back from him to fall, painfully, upon jeweled cushions strewn upon the floor. �He said simply,� continued Pomp, stepping forward and speaking quietly, �that his Master laid claim to that title.�

�Fantastic!� cried Quiche, pausing on the cushion after his sudden fall.

�Did he say by what right, My Lord?� puzzled Sleeve, pulling himself to his feet.

�I did ask him, My Dukes,� replied Pomp, heaving a mighty sigh. �He said by right of possession.�

�I never heard anything so ridiculous!� bit off Apple, the core of his ego bruised.

�Utterly preposterous!� foamed Dairy, rising with light dignity.

�Then he added,� continued Pomp, sighs getting longer with each breath, �that this Master�s right was by natural talent!�

�Insupportable! Uninflatable,� burst from Quiche, rising gracefully. He was an elegant dancer.

�What did you do?� pleaded Sleeve, leaning closer to Pomp.

Pomp turned away from them and back again, gesturing and smiling sourly. �I laughed at him,� he responded meekly. I told him to be gone if he had not tribute, nor glowing words of praise, nor words of honor shrouded in schooled pronunciation to shower upon me.�

�Ahhh,� oozed Apple.

�Wise,� whispered Dairy.

�Eloquent,� proclaimed Quiche, rising to bow deeply to Pomp.

�I wish I had said that,� mumbled Sleeve.

Pomp continued in hushed tones. The Dukes leaned in closely once again to hear all the details.

��Why, I had him chased from my chambers!� said Pomp, his chin quivering with the memory. �He left quickly enough, but yelling threats. Well, he tried to make it sound like advise, but I know veiled threats when I hear them. He proclaimed the wrath of his Master when disobeyed, even as he was being thrown out!�

�My Lord,� addressed Sleeve, straightening from the huddle the better to gesture with force and dignity. �You were threatened in your chambers by a Ruby laden servant, a lackey, a slave! A mere messenger from a self-proclaimed King claiming title to titles that you deem, in your wisdom, logic and sound fiscal policy, your right to bestow! Nay, better he is a mere kinglet who plays at diplomacy and insults a truly noble and righteous Prince such as yourself, by sending a mere messenger, a word carrier, instead of a proper ambassador. Such a one who would humbly beg an audience, beg your indulgence, advice and forgiveness for his intruding presence, which must by definition, break the concentration of your Majesty as you contemplate the worries of your station.�

�Well said,� said Dairy, applauding quietly.

�Admirable, admirable,� said Apple, shaking his head in admiration.

�Indeed, masterful,� said Quiche stepping forward to shake Sleeve�s hand. And then he turned to Pomp. �And quite correct,� he said.

�Your words of wisdom are welcome, My Lace of Sleeve,� said Pomp, resettling himself upon his cushions. �I did consider the messenger�s words most carefully, but had not time to call for an assembly of my advisors. I decided to delay bestowal of the disputed title without canceling the ceremony itself. I wanted to shadow to be cast upon your honor, My Duke of Bagel. I hope that Lorraine of Quiche will satisfy, at least until this little matter is settled?� Pomp gestured to include them all. �I depend upon your wisdom and advise in this matter, all of you.�

�A wise choice, My Lord,� said Sleeve.

�We are your willing servants, My Lord,� said Dairy.

�We are honored to serve, My Lord,� said Quiche.

�Your notice, approval, and verbal appreciation are reward enough,� said Apple.

The other three Dukes twisted immediately upon their bejeweled cushions to gaze upon Apple of Eye, their expressions shouting their ill opinion of Apple[s despicable sentiment.

At that very moment the twenty-two foot high doors of the Grande Master Ballroom swung open with a speed and fury such as they had never experienced before. They clanged into their stops and vibrated mightily, stopping every strain of music, every conversation, and every label checker in the great hall. Pomp and his advisors leaped to their feet as though struck! Al eyes in the room turned to the doors where the long entry hall held a single, lone, small figure. He strode into the ballroom and headed directly for Pomp�s perch. The crowd parted as he passed, gaping at his jeweled attire.

He climbed the fox lined stairs without pause, the hall still silent. He reached the balcony level, approached Pomp and bowed a regal, elegant, imperious bow.

Still, the entire ballroom was silent.

�I am sent by my King,� he said. �Again.�

�You see,� said Pomp, not a word of praise, not a syllable of flattery. He wastes not a moment!�

�I am sent,� the messenger continued, his voice rising a bit with each phrase, �to forbid your use of certain titles and forms of address. I am directed to state that my Sire does not request this out of pique, but from his scorn of your assumption that possession of such titles and use of such forms of address, bestows with it, grants, bestows and guarantees an individual possession of the attributes inherent in each title!�

�Beautifully said, young man, said Sleeve.

�Lovely,� said Apple. �Could you repeat that?�

�Could you possibly clarify?� asked Pomp with a tilt of his head. The messenger looked each of them in the eye, in turn. Then he spoke clearly, loudly, into the still, quiet ballroom. �My Lord objects to your use of the address my lord.�

The Lord of Pomp, Prince of Splendor and the assembled Dukes of the Kingdom laughed heartily. Finally, Sleeve was the first to get his sputtering under control.

�You were surely right, My Dear Pomp,� said Sleeve between tears, �he does want for respect of his betters. A mere messenger! Why, if an ambassador delivered such a message it would mean war!�

�Do tell us,� said Dairy with a broad smile as he leaned over the diminutive messenger, �what manner is it that allows, nay can afford to bejewel his messenger in such glorious gems, and then send such a messenger to do an ambassador�s work?�

�You mean these?� said the messenger, pointing at the diamond-paved belt he wore, a whole hand high. �And these?� he added, pointing to the ruby and gold breastplate sewn into the fabric of his scarlet, purple, and white velvet jerkin. �And these?� he added, pointing to his knee-high boots with sapphire, emerald, and diamond buckles, �and perhaps, these?� he said twisting about to point at the gold studs running up and down every seam.

�Yes indeed,� said Dairy, his eyebrows rising and his eyes wide. �Oh, you mistake me, sire, surely,� responded the messenger. �These are not mine, nor reward, nor pleasure, nor vanity.�

�What!� demanded Quiche. �Then, pray tell, how came such a display into your possession?�

�I have been ordered to wear them for one month as punishment for a minor infraction. However, if I should displease My Lord again I shall be weighed down with gold chains.� He seemed to shudder, ever so slightly. �I couldn�t bear it,� he said.

The assembled Dukes were quite surprised, each in his own fashion.

�Perhaps we could relive you of some of your burden, young sir?� inquired Pomp.

�Oh, thank you, kind sir, very good of you to offer. But I dare not. If I remove even a single stone My Master would only double the weight and the sentence. This is already humiliating enough. He even deliberately sent me on this on this little errand while I was being punished as you see, because this was the farthest, most fatiguing distance available.�

Sleeve rose suddenly from his cushions in anger.� Your master sends a bejeweled messenger to greet the Sire of Pomp, the Prince of Splendor, as a punishment? My Lord Pomp, we have been insulted again!�

�But Sleeve,� responded Pomp slyly, �think of the power and wealth of a king who paves the chest of a mere messenger with gold and gems as a punishment. Think of the grandeur of his court, the distant lands his ambassadors must visit to allow that a mere polite but urgent message and simple visit must be made by this gentle creature here.�

�True, I grant you, My Lord Pomp,� interjected Sleeve, �but he comes with no fanfare, no entourage, no gifts or parade of lackeys, a pitiable thing in itself. Should we not be insulted beyond redeeming?�

Pomp leaned forward with a wink. �But, my dear Dukes, he is but a messenger, a messenger glittering with gems. This messenger�s Master is likely, I believe, to be a king well worth the knowing.� �This, I believe,� said the messenger plainly, �is the last straw. My master will be most displeased. Both with you for your blindness, and me for my failure to make you see. I don�t think he intended to come here himself, but now, oh boy, well, don�t ay I didn�t warn you.�

Once again the mighty doors of the great ballroom burst open. Their mighty clang in the stops seemed to continue outside as thunder was heard and lightening flashed across the windows. A single man, such as one never seen before, lean of body,

confident of stride, with glowing white hair and flowing white beard strode into the hall.

He made straight for Pomp�s loft, mindless of the mob that melted out of his way without a sound.

He carried a staff of walnut and ebony, grown together in an elegant spiral. His robes were of the finest undyed cotton, and his belt was woven of the finest pure white silk.

He mounted the fox-lined stairs without pause or hesitation, not once stopping for breath. His face was a study in determination and confidence. His bearing was proud and powerful. And he was angry.

Pomp rose from his cushions as the stranger climbed the stairs. When he entered the loft, the Dukes all bowed and gestured while Pomp extended a hand in friendship.

The little foreign messenger was on his knees with his head bowed.

�Welcome, Noble Sir,� said Pomp, loudly, proudly. He pointed at the now prone bejeweled messenger, noting that his back was as paved with gems as his front. �This fine servant,� continued Pomp, �was, I understand, sent by you to pave the way for your arrival and official reception? That was welcomed but unnecessary, sir. We are always ready top receive and welcome nobility. Our customs require finery and elegant attire at all hours.�

The mysterious stranger glared at Pomp with arched eyebrow. His voice boomed out effortlessly, neither piercing nor painful, but clear, powerful and commanding.

�And do your customs require you to violate the titles of those more worthy?� he said. �Do your customs require you to pretend to the power and rights of those less frivolous and self-mocking?�

Pomp looked rather puzzled. �You, sir, in all your glory must know of the rights of kings, simply put sir, as one king to another?�

The newcomer�s eyebrows arched even higher. The thunder and lightening outside the walls of the palace reached a louder, brighter pitch.

�You would compare yourself to me!� he declared. �Your puny empire and gaudy ways are beneath even the humblest of my subjects! And they should be beneath even you!�

Before the visitor could rumble on, the Lace of Sleeve leaned toward Pomp. �He speaks harshly, My Lord,� said Sleeve softly, �but his favor may be well worth gaining because of his apparent wealth and power. His kingdom, however, must itself be unimportant since we have never heard of it.�

The stranger continued. �I would have hoped that such gaudy things and fanciful titles and self-centered judgments as just revealed were beneath you all, your dignity being so large! But no! You revel in it, you maintain it generation to generation. You neglect honor and charity in favor of the glorification of a senseless bureaucracy designed to promote and preserve wealth to be used for the display of that wealth! Do you feed the poor? Relieve the sick? Honor the wise? No! You tax pain and collect taxes from those stupid enough to go hungry! You tax the maker of thread and the giver of milk! The brick maker as much as the weaver, the tailor as much as . . . �

�No need to go on, My Lord,� interrupted Pomp, taking the stranger�s arm. �We understand your displeasure. Perhaps you in your kindness and mercy can guide us to better ways, finer motives?� This was Pomp as his very best.

�Well. That�s much better,� mumbled the stranger, suddenly quieted. The lightening and thunder stopped. The rain became a pleasant summer drizzle.

The Lace of Sleeve stepped forward and touched the stranger�s other arm. �Yes,� he said, �I would be most pleased to hear your ideas. You seem to have vast experience in just this arena.�

The stranger smiled at Sleeve. The drizzle stopped and the sun came out.

�Indeed,� added Pomp, �perhaps you could suggest a few new methods of taxation, painless one�s of course?�

The stranger stood absolutely still.

The sheen of the cloth of his robe caught Sleeve�s attention.

�Magnificent cloth, you have there, sir,� sighed Sleeve softly, fingering the slightly glowing weave with gentle fingers. If I might ask, is one of your titles Gin of Cotton?�

The stranger stiffened. The sunlight stopped. Suddenly it was so quiet that you could think that every molecule of air in the room stood still.

The little messenger rose from where he still knelt on the floor. He could be heard throughout the huge room, sharp, clear, like a tiny bell. �Now you�ve done it,� he said.

The tall stranger stepped away from Sleeve and Pomp. He glared at each Duke and the King in turn. Then he raised his staff of ebony and mahogany. Pointing it them all, he spoke, his voice filling the huge hall effortlessly from end to end.

�I am the King of Kings!� he said.

Pomp and all the Dukes on the Balcony applauded lightly.

�Bravo!� said Quiche.

�Wonderful, wonderful!� said Pomp.

�Delightful! said Sleeve, �I wish I had thought of that one!�

The magnificent stranger seemed to shudder and quake. His hands shook. His head rattled. His face began to glow. His staff vibrated so fast it began to hum.

Once again he spoke, but so loud, so powerfully that windows shattered. The very stones of the palace rattled.

�I am the Lord of Creation,� He said, �and all of you are doomed.�

� Leon B. Stern
Reproduced with permission

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