AN ADAGIO OF APRICITY
AN ADAGIO OF APRICITY
BY JOHN TUFT
In the gelid air of January there is a quality to the light of the sun that has its own word, apricity. It’s an old word, granted, but a word to savor. Growing up in western Pennsylvania, winter could be one long, dreary episode of clouds from November to March. But, invariably, at some point the sun would break through and its warm light made the winter seem beautiful and bearable: apricity. Entering a new year brings with it a whole new set of same old, same old. I’m going to change, but not to the point of upsetting any apple carts. Because the earth has made one more circuit around the sun, we will for sure do what we have been putting off until the beginning of the next circuit, our fulminations against our own bad habits and the doubts about our own willpower notwithstanding. Sometimes what is needed is to welcome the apricity with an adagio of appreciation rather than a frantic effort to affect change.
So it was that as the new year dawned, Bri the King of Norte, set out into the mountains to try to find true love. When you are king, especially a female king, you pretty much get to do what you want. The Kingdom of Norte is small, with treacherous mountains to the west and a sea filled with monsters to the east and to the south lay a desert filled with scorpions and armored beasts. Bri was renowned for her great beauty and its bewitching power over men. And with the power to bewitch came a responsibility to ascertain true intentions and motives. Being of a strong will, Bri insisted on going on her quest by herself. No royal guards or attendants. She got on her great white steed, Sintar, and rode off into the mountains. Alone.
For the next three days and three nights, King Bri followed the known trail up and up into the deep forests that coated the mountains. Rabbits bounded before her and Sintar, through the snow, leaving their tracks in homage. Overhead eagles and hawks rode the thermal drafts, gliding effortlessly through the apricity and its much-appreciated warmth. Young deer broke cover to gape at the king, averting their gaze as she passed by. Small squirrels and chipmunks skittered and chirped, daring to hope that she might drop some seeds on the snow for their winter repast. One could be forgiven to expect seven singing dwarves to appear and follow behind.
As Bri rode higher, the trees thinned out and the air became less dense and also, very still. Bri stopped Sintar and turned to look back on the way she’d come. Far below, in the valley lay the heart of the Kingdom of Norte. Her castle gleamed in the center of the Great Plain. Around it lay the Center City and beyond were the villages and farms. The air was so crisp and clear that she thought for a moment that she could hear the singing of children in the Best School far below. Yet all of this did not fill the one space in her heart that she most desired to fill. A true love.
When she turned back and nudged Sintar with her heels, the horse hesitated. He began to paw at the snow and rocks. It was then that a faint cry came from an outcropping far off to the side, near a sheer cliff coated in ice. Bri urged Sintar toward the sound of distress. When it became too treacherous, she dismounted and went forward on foot. She called out and again came the faint cry. Bri scrambled over the rocks and there before her she saw a man. An old knight. His armor was rusted in spots, his helmet lay beside him, dented and useless. Beside him lay his sword. Drawn and on the ready, for he was after all a knight. A good knight. A watchful and faithful knight. An old and injured knight.
The knight saw King Bri and struggled to try and get up to show obeisance. “My lord,” he murmured in consternation to be found in such a state of weakness and vulnerability. Bri brushed aside his apology. “Good Sire,” she said, laying a royal hand alongside his cheek, “how came you to this state?” She had the audacity to blush, “And pray, tell me your name.” The old knight, moved by her kindness and beauty, struggled to sit up. “Your highness, I am called Jacob the Fearless. I am keeper of the high castle guarding these mountains. I was out hunting for game to feed the servants and their children, and I slipped and trapped my leg.” “Are they not to serve you, Jacob the Fearless? A knight does not have to endanger himself for those who serve him.” Bri felt the matter settled.
To her astonishment the old knight shook his head. “It is I who serves. For whoever serves the king, serves all of the kingdom.” These words touched King Bri deeply. She worked and worked to free his injured leg and then helped him over the rocks to where Sintar waited patiently. “Why is my king out here in these wild mountains alone?” asked the old knight. Bri hesitated. “What does she seek?” he pressed, because old knights can get away with such things. Bri hesitated again. “May my king have all that she desires,” said Jacob the Fearless. “How shall I know when I find what I seek?” asked the king. The old knight pointed to his scars, for they were numerous. “When you are ready to sacrifice in order to gain the world, or to receive yet one more scar, then you will know.”
Bri climbed up on Sintar and helped Jacob the Fearless up behind her. As she turned back down the way she had come, the scene of her kingdom stretched before her once again. As the pair rode down the mountain, the music from below became an adagio, swelling majestically, magnificently as though to echo the smile spreading across the face of Bri…
Words are magic and writers are wizards.
