when men and women journeyed

from half the world away

to honor him.

OPUS

Magnificent in deep blue velvet,

his harp gleaming in a slant of sunlight,

entirely pleased with himself,

Enlai sang to an audience

of ministers, dignitaries, advisors,

their families, and King Xau himself.

By darkest night, no moon in sight,

armored with flame, the demon came.

Two kings alone opposed his might,

two kings against the fire.

“Kneel thou to me!” the demon cried,

his hands ablaze with searing light.

Two kings his victory denied,

two kings against the fire.

Eighty-nine verses thus far performed,

Enlai’s audience enraptured;

King Xau’s son eyeing his father in awe,

but King Xau himself appalled,

delightfully, conspicuously appalled,

his cheeks stained red.

“Kneel thou to me!” again he roared,

and one king knelt, the other fought.

Two kingdoms balanced on one sword,

one king against the fire.

That sapling king alone he fought,

alone opposed the demon lord,

bereft of hope, but stern of thought,

one king against the fire.

King Xau, that sapling king,

buried his face in his hands.

Hah! That served him right

for refusing Enlai a royal commission:

the king chronically reluctant

to be cast as a hero.

“Kneel thou to me and call me Lord!”

The demon’s spite in searing waves

engulfed the king; pain his reward,

that king who fought the fire.

Each breath, each step an agony,

yet still fought on that sapling king,

so young, yet none as brave as he,

that king who battled fire.

All Enlai’s labors amply rewarded:

eight months of tedious exertion,

gathering accounts of the demon.

Admittedly, he’d taken a few liberties,

an opus of such stature demanded

a hero of equal proportion.

All night he fought that Lord of Flame

till he could scarcely raise his sword,

yet would not yield: acclaim his name,

King Xau who fought the fire.

With his last strength as morning came,

his sword-hilt scorching in his grip,

he thrust clear through the Lord of Flame

and proved the demon’s bane.

His limbs undone, his vision dim,

his foe now slain, the young king fell,

but Donal knelt and tended him,

the king who’d conquered fire.

A rustle of silk, a creaking of chairs

as the audience rose and applauded,

bowing first to Enlai, then to Xau,

who sat, head hidden in his hands.

Doubtless the others thought him

overcome by his memories.

All in all, quite satisfactory.

RIDDLE: INSTRUMENT

“I hear,” said Leong,

over breakfast with King Xau,

Xau’s family, Xau’s other guards,

“that I missed a fine ballad.”

“Better than fine,” said Gan.

“Gripping. Inspiring. Magnificent.”

Leong caught the reproachful look

that the king gave him—

Xau’s cheeks turning red,

the king perennially discomfited

by his heroic reputation.

“It was all about Papa,” said Prince Keng.

With studied innocence, Leong asked,

“What was the best bit?”

Gan sang in his clear sweet bass:

“Two kingdoms balanced on one sword,

one king against the fire!”

“Dao!” said the king,

as soon as Gan paused for breath.