sometimes I feel like....

The sounds of rustling and clanking had reached their ears long before they entered this room. Now the Prince could see the source. Hundreds of men and women, mostly older than thirty, though there were a handful of teenagers and younger children, sat shackled on battered metal chairs. Their faces were masked by rusty helmets clamped down on their heads, with iron visors that covered their eyes. They were in neat semi-circular rows, radiating out from a small, black stage in the center point, where a light from somewhere high above beamed straight down on the only occupant of the stage.

He was a short, bent over old man, with a white beard and mostly bald scalp, a shock of white hair standing out on either side of his head, just above his ears. He wore a voluminous black velvet robe, which he constantly fiddled with and folded around his body, seemingly never comfortable with the arrangement of his limbs, or the covering of them. There was a low, grumbling hum coming from within those folds, like the drone of some ancient chant music. Beside the overstuffed chair on which he sat, a precarious stack of books, magazines, and newspapers threatened to topple over onto him. He was reading aloud.

Stephen and the Prince watched from the shadowy recesses near the entrance to the lobby. They saw no guards. No other people of any kind. Just the old man and the prisoners.

"From what I can tell, this project started - according to the time of the Lower Days - about three weeks ago. As long as he reads," Stephen whispered, "the people forget about their chains, and don't seem to mind their blindness - " Loud cheers went up from the crowd just then , as if they were watching their favorite sporting event. Some laughed. Some sat quietly, grinning.

Stephen continued. "However, once a story ends, they all begin to weep and moan, panic and scream until the storyteller begins again. This goes on, night and day, with no breaks that I that have witnesses. If they fall asleep, they sleep sitting up. On rare occasions, and on no regular schedule that I can discern, they are brought very meager provisions. New 'listeners' are added every day."

The Prince spotted Luke sitting between two elderly women. He was the only child on that side of the room, though he now looked more like a teenager than a seven-year-old. He sniggered at the current tale being told.

"I was able to speak to him briefly before he was imprisoned. He thinks he was supposed to come here," Stephen whispered. "Something he researched, he said. He believes that he was meant to come here and save these people, though he would not tell me how. I gathered he considered himself some hero-not-yet-come. But now he is just here, addicted to the stories like the others." Stephen's mouth curled the word stories, like he had bitten into a rotten orange- something meant to be good and sweet, but turned to bitter mush. "He weeps loudly between readings and I can feel how he longs for his home in the Upper Kingdom, but he can't break his chains.... then he forgets his pain once the next story begins."

"Has he ever even tried to call for help?" The Prince turned to face the messenger.

"No, he is too ashamed. Too afraid to say your name here. And most of the time, he doesn't even remember your name. The storyteller's voice strangles his thoughts and clouds his mind. I've tried to speak to him, but he doesn't hear me during the stories. And between readings, it's almost impossible to get his attention, no matter how loudly I speak." The messenger's gaze settled on Luke's visored eyes.

"The more he ages, the more he will forget about me and the Upper Kingdom. Now is the time to rescue him, before it's too late." The Prince watched the storyteller turning one of the last few pages of the book that was in his hand. "When the story ends, do all that you can to delay the storyteller from beginning the next book."

"Your commands are my delight!" Stephen dashed toward the storyteller, shouting the battle cry of the messengers: "For the King and his Prince!" The storyteller had just opened his mouth to say "The End" when Stephen reached the stage. Unseen, the messenger thrust his golden sword entirely through the giant pile of books and papers waiting to be read.

A terrible chaos filled the giant chamber. The prisoners wept and yelled in agony, without the distraction of a story. The Prince rushed toward Luke, unlatched the heavy helmet, and dropped it to the ground with a clank. Luke blinked his eyes, squinting at the brightness of the light. As his eyes adjusted, he burst into tears before the face of the Prince.

"Say the word, Luke! Say the word!" pleaded the Prince, turning Luke's head toward him.

Luke wept uncontrollably, unable to speak through his tears.

Puzzled and increasingly frustrated, the old storyteller clawed at the stack of books, trying to retrieve just one.

"Luke!" The Prince's tone grew more urgent.

"I... I... I'm sorry!... I'm sorry," Luke spluttered, shutting his eyes tight.

The Prince leaned close to the boy, his mouth just by his ear. "Say the word," he said, in a voice that only Luke could hear.

Luke's sobs slowed. He mustered a deep breath. "Help me, my.... Prince!"

His shackles broke loose.


excerpt taken from (probably illegally) between two kingdoms by: joe boyd