Perceval in Boots

Perceval polished his boots for a third time. Making gentle clockwise circles while he hummed, he slowly worked the leather until there wasn’t a speck that didn’t shine. Surveying his work, he sighed with satisfaction, pulled them on each respective foot and stood with a stretch. It was time to go home now, now that his work here was done. (At least for now.) Though it had been one hell of a ride…

Fabien, the old miller, lay on his straw cot inside the one-room shack that he shared with his three sons. It was a Blue Sky day outside, but his breaths came ragged and his callused hands could no longer work. His oldest son, Jean-Luc, was working to bring in their scant harvest from the field. His middle son, Jean-Paul, was working to turn said scant harvest into sellable milled grain. His youngest son, Pierre, was attending him.

Pierre had always been a sensitive boy. A head full of ideas and a heart too big for his chest, he would rather sit and watch the scant plants grow and blow in the breeze and sing to them. The prospect of cutting down their long stalks and pounding them to powder chagrined him deeply. Though Fabien had been, at times, a strict and taciturn father, Pierre felt tears tumble down his cheeks upon seeing his father’s current state. He clasped Fabien’s hands in his own and the wet drops ended their journey in the pool of one of Fabien’s calluses. Fabien squeezed one eye open to behold Pierre’s hunched and downcast frame. Between ragged breaths he rasped,

“If...you’re...going...to...cry...at least,” cough, cough, “bottle...the tears...to save...for later,” cough cough.

Pierre met his eye and forced a sniffled chuckle. It was true, water was scarce. Food was scarce. Everything but scarcity was scarce. Unless, for Pierre, it was dreams, for of those he had plenty. Unless, also, you happened to be the Monseigneur and his family. For the whole of Pierre’s life, the Monseigneur had ruled this land with an iron fist. Literally. Well, kind of. Legend had it that he had lost a hand in the Dome Wars and subsequently had a prosthetic hand fabricated out of some rare space rock. But since the Dome Wars, the Monseigneur’s paranoia had run full steam ahead such that their Dome had been locked and shut off from the rest of the world.

Fabien, being the oldest living person in the Dome, remembered what the world was like before. There was a constant exchange of new ideas, culture, fashion, and foods from people, animals, plants, creatures and aliens being ported in and out of their Dome from different times and places in the world and wider galaxies. The world was vernal and no one lacked or wanted for anything. Now, with the Monseigneur’s censoring, no one even knew or believed that a world outside their Dome existed.

It had been years since, but occasionally Fabien had regaled his sons with stories of the past, of his youth before the locking of the Dome. The last one he told was of an old-time creature called a Pleisaurous who portaled in by the pond and asked everyone, where could he get the best slice of apple pie around here? Jean-Luc had then nudged Jean-Paul to whisper that Papa Fabien must have gone batty from years of breathing in the wheat and together they chortled over their thin, moldy wheat water. Pierre, however, never gave up hope that his father’s stories were true.

And now Fabien was dying. He gave Pierre’s hand a weak squeeze and weezed,

“Your brothers...get them...its...almost time.” Pierre dropped Papa Fabien’s hand, left the shack and flew into the small wheat field, running as fast as his legs could carry him. A few moments later, the three sons were huddled around Fabien.

“Sons,” his voice rattled, “you know I don’t have much. Everything I have will now...pass to you...Jean-Luc, you will have the windmill. Jean-Paul, I leave you with the donkey. Pierre, and this...for...you…” From under his rough woolen blanket he produced what appeared to be (and was, in effect) a small stone. With a shaky hand, he placed it into Pierre’s palm. As he turned it over, he saw the marking or etching or what appeared to be a black cat on the stone.

“But Papa, Jean-Luc can use the windmill to make grain. Jean-Paul can take the donkey to plow the fields. This small stone, what am I to do? How am I to eat or make a living?” Pierre asked.

“Hold...at night...you will see…” and with that, Fabien coughed, the breath left his lungs, and he died.

Later that night, Pierre sat in the barren fields behind the shack, holding the stone in his hands. He thought of his father, now cold. He thought of his ill fortune and wondered how he would ever survive his lot in life. He looked up at the ceiling of the dark Dome (or so he thought it was, not knowing that its little holes were the stars in the night sky).

“Please, just give me a sign. How could this rock possibly mean anything? How could it help me to live?” he pleaded. As fresh tears poured down his face, he threw the rock up above his head in frustration. He thew it (he would later discover) right with the Bootes constellation overhead. It fell at his feet.

“Oh come now, its not as bad as all that,” said an unfamiliar voice to his left.

Pierre, slowly unpeeling his hands from his face, turned towards the unknown voice to behold...a human-sized talking cat wearing clothes? He started and the cat placed a friendly paw on his shoulder, calming him.

“The name is Perceval,” the cat gave a gallant bow, “and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Pierre numbly stared and struggled to lift his lower jaw back up to meet to the rest of his face.

“I’m Pierre,” he blurted, shakily.

“I’m aware,” said Perceval, the giant talking cat.

The two talked into the night. Perceval recounted how he was from the Bootes constellation, and had been to this Dome before but it was a long time ago. He spoke a bit of his home planet—the fabulous architecture in his home city, the magnificent cakes made of exotic fish. They made plans, deciding that on the morrow Perceval would venture to meet the infamous Monseigneur.

The next morning broke bright and blue. Before he set out, Perceval asked for two things: a sack and some boots. Pierre looked at him incredulously.

“Mine must have burned up in the atmosphere on the way here,” said Perceval (in reference to the boots). Otherwise he was dressed impeccably. Save for his naked feet, he was garbed head to tail in a suit of red Arcturian silk. With great ceremony and reverence, Pierre handed Perceval his father’s shoes—his most prized—a pair of boots of a deep carmine red. Somehow, they fit and matched perfectly.

Now with the boots on his feet and the sack slung over his shoulder, he bid farewell to Pierre, saying he would return before nightfall.

“Oh and best not to mention my coming to anyone else just yet. Not sure how the locals would take to my being here.”

Perceval took the back roads on the way to Monseigneur’s sprawling estate. On the way, the filled his sack with rocks. Rocks of all different shapes and colors, hefts and textures. The roads were quiet and peopled with the desiccated husks of houses, the phantom skeletons of grain stores, as if abandoned by time or neglect. When at least he reached the estate of the Monseigneur at the end of the lanes, it was as if an opal stood out amongst a sea of sand. There were lush trees, exotic flowers, fountains of pearlescent marble and gentle harp music piped through invisible speakers. Animatronic workers wandered and worked stiffly, planting flowers or performing other ground maintenance. The smell of honeysuckle and rose perfumed the air. As he approached, the multi-colored chrome and granite of the facade of the palace glinted so uniformly that it appeared to yield no seams for a door or threshold…

Celeste held the Izarian stone under the light of the stereoscope. Papa was right—this stone had marked crystal patterns that folded in a way to suggest a time that pre-dated...when, exactly? Certainly, it must be the oldest stone in the Geode Room (which happened to be her favorite room in the house). The stone itself had striking features to the naked eye: it was a black deeper than onyx, with more sparkle than black diamond, inlaid with specks of iridescent peacock blue, emerald green, ruby red and amethyst purple. It almost looked like the galaxy itself.

Celeste sighed and plopped down on her favorite cushion. Though the discovery was a marvel, she was still angry at Papa. There were still things he wasn’t telling her, she was sure of it. He had a tell, afterall. When he wasn’t telling the whole truth about something, his left eyebrow would arch up too high and then his right would micro-twitch rhythmically to compensate. Just then, he gave a light rasp on the door.

“Tea, darling, tea!” He placed the delicate tea set down next to the stereoscope and his space-rock hand clanged against it, ringing out throughout the room, along with the wafting smell of bergamot. He gave a furtive glance to what lay under the stereoscope and beheld, well, the Izarian stone in question…

Celeste crossed her arms. The Monseigneur cleared his throat.

“Well, dear, I’d like you to know that well, I did want to tell you...well, before but,” he faltered, “its just that the world, well, the world is quite a dangerous place and so I wanted to make sure that you had everything your heart desires but without, well, um…”

Celeste uncrossed her arms and strode over to the wall of Malachite. “Papa, I know your intentions are good. But to think this whole time I could have been, say, riding a chariot across the galaxy pulled by sea snakes? Or meeting other princesses for tea on one of Jupiter’s moons? Or preventing the beheading of Marie Antoinette?”

“But darling, there is still so much we have here!” He gesticulated wildly to the geodes around the room.

Celeste scoffed. “Papa I have barely seen the world inside this Dome. I’m supposed to be a Princess and I’m not even known to my people. And to think, of all the Geodes, like this one,” she gestured towards the stone under the stereoscope, “that I could find Out There and study for the benefit of all knowledge!”

Meanwhile, Perceval was still trying to figure out how to get into the palace. He approached one of the Animatrons planting an exotic shrubbery.

“Say there, good chap, would you happen to know where I could find the door to this here, palace?”

The Animatron gave a shrug of its shoulders. “I do not know, no one has been inside. Just there is the dwelling a gatekeeper who may know. But beware, he is a powerful shapeshifter so don’t make him mad or he will turn you into something unpleasant.”

Perceval winced a bit at the thought and thanked the Animatron for his time. He pulled up his sack of rocks and made his way up the path to the Gatekeeper’s dwelling. It was a dwelling that appeared to be made of wood slats with lots of small wooden platforms jutting out at different height intervals. The sound of jazz and playing cutlery clinking about could be heard from the other side of the door as he approached. He knocked firmly and loudly on the tall wooden door. The chain unlatched and out stepped a tall, green creature with tiny wings on either side of the shoulders. It was wearing an apron with frilly edges and holding a rolling pin.

“Could you make this quick?” The deep voice boomed. “I’ve got tortes in the oven.”

Perceval made his customary galant introduction and described the purpose of his visit.

“Oh, well what’s in the sack, then?”

“Just some rocks.”

There was a beeping sound from inside.

“OK, just come in then and explain, I’ve got to take these out of the oven.”

Perceval was led into an expansive kitchen with pots and pans hanging down from the ceiling, tall countertops and cabinets of all sizes.

He sat down at the kitchen island. “I didn’t catch your name, I believe?”

“Oh, it's Alienor.” Alienor pulled out a large tray from the oven and placed it on a cooling tray. The smell was incredible.

“Lovely to meet you, Alienor. So the thing is, I need to find a door to knock on to find a way to knock on said door so that I may hopefully have the ear of the Monseigneur.”

Alienor laughed. “Oh, there aren’t any ‘outside’ doors, so to speak.”

Perceval gave a quizzical look. “How can that be? Also, not to be rude, but how is it that I have not seen anyone of your type or kind around here? It seems to be mostly emaciated human farmers and Animatrons from what I’ve seen.”

“Oh, yes, well.” Alienor took a pipette of icing and starting pipetting. “You see, the Monseigneur keeps me a bit, well, hidden away. I am to keep the Dome gates locked and to only fetch certain things at certain appointed times and I am not to speak to anyone or tell them about the gates being locked or what kind of creature I am, blah blah. In exchange, I can lead a hermit life of luxury and protection.”

“Well, that seems to be a bit of a raw deal,” Perceval exclaimed. “It seems you have a lot to offer the world. And to have you here, all cooped up like this. Not very civil I would think.”

Alienor looked up from his pastries. “Hmm, yes, well, I guess its not all bad.”

“And what of the farmers who make the grain for those?” Perceval nodded to the resting sweets. Living in ignorance and destitution when they could have whatever food they want ported in if the gate wasn’t locked.

“And what do you propose I do?”

Perceval cleared his throat. “Hmmm, more like we. What do I propose we do? So, I hear you are also a shapeshifter? Could you also shape objects?”

Alienor rolled his eyes. “And what if I say yes?”

Perceval opened his sack. “I’d say, could you turn these into space rocks?”

“Darling, just because I had one pretty rock from the old days doesn’t mean that there are more! I mean, who knows what the state the galaxies are in now? I just know that we are safe and we are self-sufficient.”

A chorus of chimes interrupted their conversation. The Monseigneur recognized the chime calling card of Alienor. How strange, he thought, he hadn’t made any requests of Alienor today…

A few moments later, Alienor and Perceval were standing in the great hall of the palace with a sack of transformed space rocks. Celeste curtsied to them and turned her face so she could privately squeal with excitement at beholding a giant, talking cat.

Perceval bowed. “Monseigneur, I am a traveler and I am come, bearing gifts.”

The Monseigneur opened his mouth to exclaim in fury that how could a traveler possibly get in when the Dome gates were locked, but he really then really wanted to see what was inside that giant sack.

As he opened it and the glittering space rocks were revealed, Celeste jumped with exaltation.

“See, Papa! I knew there were more out there! I knew it! Please, Papa, you must re-open the gates to the Dome.” She knelt and reached her hands into the sack.

“Now, let's not be too hasty darling.”

She pulled a thin, blue one out. “That one is from the star, Pollock,” Perceval informed her with a smile.

“And this one?” She then pulled out a bulbous, orange one.

“Castor.”

“And these, Monseigneur,” Perceval continued, “are on behalf of my employer and friend, Pierre, who I was hoping could make your acquaintance, but sadly, he is bereaved, for his father has recently passed.”

“Oh but Papa. We simply must go to him, to thank him,” Celeste pleaded.

A few moments later they were all standing in the front garden. Alienor proposed that he could shapeshift into a dragon/griffin-like creature to accommodate all of them to Pierre’s shack. Reluctantly, the Monseigneur agreed. Perceval also proposed that they fly over all the Monseigneur’s people so that they could behold them with wonder and to plant the seeds of hope and joy regarding the gates.

As nightfall came on, Perceval disembarked with the Monseigneur and his daughter, Celeste and approached the door of the shack of the three sons of the miller. Pierre opened the door and gasped. Celeste gasped with horror at seeing the living conditions in which they lived but her eyes eventually landed on Pierre’s soulful gaze and strong frame. For once, they were both at a momentary loss for words. Then Celeste reached into the pocket of her gown and pulled out a beautiful stone, holding out to Pierre, “Thank you, for all you have given us. But you should have this one back, for your father.”

The next several years were spent with Pierre living at the palace (in Celeste’s wing) and acting as Dome ambassador after the grand re-opening. The people of the land slowly began to thrive and grow flush with health. Perceval also had his own suite of rooms in the palace, of course. They all liked to take afternoon tea together in the garden while eating Alienor’s tortes and perusing star charts. Many of the space rocks had even been moved outside of the Geode Room, for some would best catch the light when stars shone upon them.