Metamorphosis

© 2004 Ian Hobson

Given the amount of time Brantley had been down the hole, it was amazing his single, lid-less eye could still focus; yet he could make out the shape of one of his jailers above, silhouetted against the grey light of dawn.

Would today bring food or an upended bucket of icy water, or worse? After countless days of imprisonment, he knew to expect anything. As he heard the scrape of the wooden bucket, he pressed himself back against the side of his tomblike prison, relieved as he saw that it was being lowered, not tipped. He snatched at it and grabbed for its meagre contents before it was quickly hauled back up.

Bread and a half-rotten apple. He ate the food then knelt and lapped water from the tiny pool in the floor of the old well. The flow was, at times, not much more than a trickle, but it had never dried up completely. Brantley had considered blocking the outlet and allowing himself to be drowned, but his will to survive had proved stronger than his despair. Suddenly there were more sounds from above.

'Who wants him?' asked a gruff voice that Brantley knew well. It was Falmuth, the head jailer.

'Orders from the King,' came the reply. Brantley knew that voice also, but had not heard it for a long time. As he looked up, the end of a rope ladder fell towards him.

'Move yourself, prisoner,' ordered Falmuth. 'If I have to come down there, it will be the worse for you.'

Brantley grasped the ladder and climbed awkwardly towards the daylight, and as he neared the surface, Falmuth grabbed a handful of his hair and hauled him out. With his right hand, Brantley shaded his one eye against the brightness. The prison courtyard was circular, and he could see other prisoners staring open-mouthed at him through barred windows. Most had seen him before; but still, the sight of a childlike Cyclops - especially one so deformed and ugly - was something incredible.

'You don't get any prettier, do you, Cyclops?

'And you don't smell any sweeter, Foul-mouth,' croaked Brantley. This earned him a vicious stroke across the back with the short leather whip that Falmuth carried. It was painful, but Brantley didn't cry out.

'Let him be!' This time Brantley could see who was giving the orders: Lord Chiron, the king's bodyguard.

'Chiron.' Brantley spoke his name, and for a moment Chiron looked questioningly into Brantley's one eye, before gesturing to the two guards that were with him and turning and striding away. The guards stepped forward and, taking the prisoner by the arms, they followed after Chiron. Brantley was barely half their size, but somehow he managed to keep pace with them.

The prison was at the lower end of the castle, so the winding alleyways that they passed through led gradually upward. Brantley inhaled the fresh air, ignoring the stares of passers-by. Ahead, Chiron stepped through a gateway where guards sprang to attention, and as he disappeared from view, Brantley's guards quickened their pace. When they caught up with Chiron outside the doors to the great hall, he ordered the guards to wait and entered alone, giving Brantley a much-needed respite. But soon more orders were given, and Brantley was pushed forward and allowed to enter unaided.

Inside, the hall was lined with courtiers: lords and ladies and their offspring; all dressed in fine costumes and gowns. Brantley knew them all, but as he ran the gauntlet of their stares, he kept his eye fixed on the figures ahead.

King Branghust sat on the largest and grandest throne and beside him sat Esmeltha his queen. Suddenly, aware more than ever of his grotesque looks and ragged clothing, Brantley stopped - fearful of what new humiliation might lay in store for him - until the king beckoned him, ordering him to come closer. As he drew nearer to the king and queen, he saw that Chiron stood close by, and that beside him stood another, much older, man. A man that he did not recognise.

'So this is the little Cyclops.' The man stepped forward and looked closely into Brantley's eye. 'I have heard of them, but never seen one… I am Durghal. Please tell me your name?'

'My name is Brantley, sir… Prince Brantley.'

At this there was a gasp of disbelief from the courtiers and Queen Esmeltha began to weep silently.

'But Prince Brantley was not an ugly one-eyed creature,' said Durghal. 'I am told he was a handsome boy, with two good eyes. Why do you claim to be him?'

'Because I am him… at least, I was him.'

'Murderer!' shouted one of the courtiers.

'You killed the prince!' shouted another.

'Silence!' King Branghust spoke for the first time, and then looked at Brantley. 'You were found wearing my son's clothes, and your hands were stained with blood.'

'I told you father; I was attacked by… this.' Brantley pointed at his own chest. 'And I killed the creature with the sword that you gave me. Then… I can't remember.'

'How did you kill him?' Durghal asked.

'My sword pierced his heart.'

Durghal nodded. 'I believe him, your majesty. I believe this is your son.'

'But how can it be?' asked the queen.

'It is a curse; but one that can be broken. Just as Prince Brantley must have broken it for another.' replied Durghal. 'Many years ago the king saved my life. Now it is time to repay the debt.'

With surprising speed for an old man, Durghal produced a dagger and stabbed Brantley through the heart, and then with Brantley's blood still on his hands, he thrust the dagger into his own heart.

It was then that the impossible happened: As Durghal bled to death, he began to shrink and distort, and his two eyes merged and became one. But before he died he saw the reverse happen to Brantley, and heard the cries of joy that came from the king and queen.