Chapter 49 mirrors and masks

At the battle of Clontarf, when the Norwegians fell, the noble king summoned the poet and said to him: "The greatest deeds lose their splendor if they are not recorded in words. I want you to sing my victories and praise me. I will be Aeneas, and you will be Virgil who sings me. This Do you think you're up to the task of immortalizing us both?" "Yes, Your Majesty," said the poet. "I am a singer. For twelve years I have devoted myself to the study of rhythm. I have memorized the three hundred and sixty fables which are the basis of proper poetry. The history of Ulster and Munster is stored on my strings." I know the most ancient words, the deepest metaphors. I know the secrets of our art, beyond the depths of mediocrity. I can praise love, cattle theft, voyages and wars. I know all of Ireland Fabulous genealogy of the royal family. I am well versed in the efficacy of herbs, astrology, mathematics and canon law. I have beaten my opponents in public contests. I am well versed in sarcasm, which can induce skin diseases including leprosy. I can use the sword, and I have proven it in His Majesty's battles. There is only one thing I don't understand: how to be grateful for His Majesty's gift."

The king is easily bored by other people's long speeches, and when he finished speaking, he breathed a sigh of relief: "That sort of thing, I know well. I've heard that the nightingale has sung in England. When the season of rain and snow is over, and the night drive returns from the south, you will read your carols at court before the members of the Poets' Society. I'll give you A whole year. Every word and every line, you have to think carefully. You know the widow's temper, and the reward will never be unfair to you for working day and night." "Your Majesty, the best reward is to see the face of a dragon," said the poet.He has a knack for flattery.

He saluted and said goodbye, already pondering some verses in his mind. In a year of plague and rebellion, poets turn in their hymns when the deadline is due.He didn't look at the manuscript at all, and recited it calmly.The king couldn't help nodding his head in approval.The civil and military people of the Manchu Dynasty, even the people crowded at the door followed suit, even though they didn't hear a word clearly. The king spoke at last. "I approve of your work. It is another triumph. You give every word its true meaning, and you use no adjective without provenance, preceded by the earliest poets. The images throughout the ode are found in classical works All of them are well-founded. War is the majestic interweaving of people, and the water that drips from the sword is blood. The ocean has its God in charge, and the clouds foretell the future. You skillfully use foot rhyme, double rhyme, approximate rhyme, volume, rhetoric The artifice, the echo of the meter. If Irish literature dies—hope there is no ill omen!—it can be rebuilt by your classical carols. I order thirty honorary writers to copy it twelve times.

He was silent for a moment, and then said: "Although it was good, there was no response. The blood flow in the veins did not speed up. The hands did not grab the bow and arrow. No one's face changed. No one gave a battle cry, and no one raised their chests to face Nordic. Pirate. We'll give you another year to praise you for another ode, poet. Now give you a silver mirror as a reward." "I see, thank you very much," said the poet. As the stars move, it's another year.The nightingale sang again in the Saxon forest, and the poet came with his hand, and this time the poem was not as long as last time.He didn't recite it; he read it over and over again, leaving out certain passages, as if he couldn't understand them himself, or didn't want to spoil them.Psalms are weird.Not the description of the war, but the war itself.Amidst the chaos of battle, huddled were triune gods, pagan gods of Ireland, and gods feuding centuries later in the early modern period.The form of the poem is also quite strange.Singular nouns are followed by plural verbs.The use of prepositions also does not conform to the general rules.A mix of failures and highlights.The metaphor is far-fetched, or so it seems.

The king talked with the literati beside him for a few words, and said: "Your first carol is arguably the greatest collection of Irish poetry, ancient and modern. This one surpasses the last, and at the same time completely overthrows it. It suspenses, astonishes, stupefies. The ignorant cannot see Its beauty is only appreciated by those who are worthy of learning. This manuscript will be kept in an ivory box. We count on your brilliant pen to produce a still better work." The king added with a smile: "We are all characters in fables, and we must remember that fables advocate the number of three."

The poet boldly said: "The three arts of wizards, three in many, and the indisputable Holy Trinity." The king said again: -As a token of our approval, I grant you this golden mask. " "I see, thank you very much," said the poet. Another full year.The palace guards noticed that the poet had arrived this time empty-handed, without a manuscript.The King was a little surprised to see him; he was almost a different man.Something (not time) had wrinkled and altered his face.His eyes seemed to be looking far away, or were blind.The poet asked Tong Guogong to say a few words alone.The slaves withdrew.

"Have you written the hymn?" asked the king. "Written," said the poet sadly. "May Christ my Lord forbid me to do this." "Can you read it?" "I can not." "I give you the courage you lack," the king declared. The poet reads the poem.Only one line. Neither poet nor king had the courage to say that line aloud, but to taste it as if it were a secret prayer or curse.The king was as surprised and astonished as the poet.The two looked at each other, their faces pale. "When I was young," said the King, "I sailed westward. On one island I saw silver pigs slaying golden boars. On another island we were filled with the smell of magic apples. Yes. On one island I saw walls of flame. On one of the farthest islands there was a river reaching to heaven, with fish in it and boats in it. These are marvelous things, but they do not match your poems. than, because your poems seem to contain them all. What witchcraft made you write them?"

"At dawn," said the poet, "I woke up and muttered words that I didn't understand at first. Those words were a poem. I felt that I had committed a sin that God would not forgive." "It is the sin we both now commit together," whispered the king. "Know the sin of beauty, for it is forbidden. Now we shall pay for it. I give you a mirror and a golden mask; here is the third and last gift." The king holds a dagger in the poet's right hand. As far as we know, the poet killed himself as soon as he left the palace; the king became a beggar and wandered about in his kingdom of Ireland, never uttering that line again.