Still, it would sound well, would it not?

That Enlai, the master minstrel,

had rushed to Jian-Jian in its hour of need.

Enlai sniffed as he appraised his audience.

Grubby men and women with grubby children

on their laps, those who’d survived earthquake,

fire, the nights with no shelter, no food,

nothing but the paltry belongings they’d salvaged.

(Judging by the smell, few had salvaged perfume.)

Among them, sitting cross-legged on the grass,

distinguished only by the men guarding him,

King Xau, his clothes plain, face haggard,

left hand heavily bandaged.

The young king burnished with legends

yet in person so ordinary that Enlai suspected

the tales were a clever concoction

of distortion, exaggeration and fabrication.

(The king, frankly, a disappointment.)

Enlai positioned his harp comfortably,

adjusted his velvet sleeves.

From the first plucked notes,

he knew he had them:

their eyes following his every motion,

faces flushed, fingers tapping time

to the old heroic ballads,

laughing till they wept at comic ditties.

He sang for an hour, looking often

at one marginally less grubby woman

who might demonstrate her appreciation later

in the warmth of Enlai’s tent.

He finished with a flourish,

bowed to the deplorably disheveled king

as the crowd clapped and clamored,

“Another song, Master Enlai, please!”

“One more,” said Enlai, “in honor of the king.”

He played the opening of a ballad

about hundreds of wild horses

coming to this young king—

who lifted his head and looked at Enlai.

Something then in the king’s eyes,

a flash of what? Rage? Rebuke?

No. Rather as if the king raised a weight

that he had set aside.

Perhaps Enlai had misstepped, but too late now.

So Enlai sang of the coming of the horses,

and, singing, saw the moment when the king

thought of commanding him to stop:

and the following moment

when Xau looked at the people round him

and stayed his tongue,

bowed his head.

So, at last, by the ruins of Jian-Jian

Enlai apprehended the truth:

the wild horses had come to Xau

following no command but their own hearts.

And maybe the other tales were true as well,

maybe the king had bested a dragon,

maybe enemy cavalry halted mid-charge

if the king raised his hand.

The final note floated into silence.

Then a scuffling of shoes

as men, women, children got to their feet,

turned and bowed, very low, to the king.

The king said,

still sitting cross-legged

on the downtrodden grass,

“Too many died here. We cannot undo that.

“Those who stay will have a hard winter.

We cannot change that.

But we will stay here ourself until spring,

until the rebuilding of Jian-Jian begins.”

The king got to his feet awkwardly,

cradling his bandaged hand;

headed back toward the campsite,

his guards close about him.

Enlai covered his harp.

Upstaged by the king.

Not what he’d hoped,

but other ways to turn this to advantage.

Perhaps he’d stay long enough

to write a song of Xau and the earthquake,

something in the heroic vein, he fancied.