The Fool and the Harlequin
Where Stars are Forged into Swords
Ego is the Fool.
He makes a plan, always based on an ideal.
His big bold heart loves too much, gives too much, dies…
…too much, even in the act of living forever.
He wanders, he searches, he seeks, he finds, he lives, he dies, he becomes infinite people with infinite minds.
Each failure on the path to success is a virtue, but he is exhausted from the work.
He comes upon a cave. Just outside he discovers a forge, steel. Inside, a reflecting pool. He spends many tired nights staring into the still water, dreaming his idealistic dreams. He uses available material to build a mold in the shape of a sword.
Suffering the pangs of consciousness tempers the steel within, an eidolon of the steel without. At first, he stokes the fire only for warmth, but eventually he melts the steel, pours it from the crucible, into the mold.
The fire burns high, higher, highest—until it burns the Heavens and leaves smoldering stars in its wake.
He shapes the sword within the raging flame.
Perhaps it is not steel. He cannot say for sure, but he thinks it may be the stuff of stars, the heart of some dead god. But steel, he figures, is just as good a word as any.
Once the fire burns down to the lightning-quick rainbow-dance of shimmering coals, the steel is ready for the hammer’s blow. The Fool, working feverishly, blow after blow, fashions a sword of his will.
The hilt burns one palm as the handle of the hammer blisters the other. The sword is straight, the edges sharpened to hair-splitting perfection.
He plunges the red-hot sword into the reflecting pool. It hisses steam, and he watches with satisfaction: these dreams, these vaunted ideals which have chronically failed him, disappear into the ether.
He dies from the effort, but the sword remains, slips from his hand as he falls, clatters to the rocky earth.
Aeons pass in the cave where hammer and anvil met fire and steel. The corpse of the Fool putrefies, but Death is a transformation, a prelude to resurrection.
The Fool is reborn a Harlequin.
Masked, adorned with plumes of Truth.
She returns from the Beyond.
She knows The Way.
Beneath her mask, a sly smile.
She commandeers the sword, and ever so elegantly dances from the cave, embracing the ecstatic sunrise.
A New Dawn
I cannot say whither she goes,
For before us, a strong wind blows,
Mystery waiting to unfold,
A story forever untold.
More esoteric meanderings from C. Rommial Butler:
About the Creator
C. Rommial Butler
C. Rommial Butler is a writer, musician and philosopher from Indianapolis, IN. His works can be found online through multiple streaming services and booksellers.
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