An extract from the author’s novel, Sophia House

Once there was a boy who was prince of a kingdom in the mountains of the east. His father the King went away when the child was very young, barely able to walk, for the Queen had died and the man could not bear for a time to enter the house of his first and only love. The King intended to be away briefly, for he loved his son dearly but wished to hide his grief from the people. In the forest, wandering alone and in distress, he happened upon that beast which is called the serpent, the ancient deceiver of mankind, and it overcame him and ate him there. No word of it ever reached the palace.

The boy cried for his father but the morning mists and the night skies did not reply. Day after day he cried. Week after week he cried. Months of this were followed by years, until the grief in the child became a pain he could no longer bear.

“O take away this heart of mine and never again let me feel!” he cried to the stars above.

And one evening as he lay upon his bed and slept, a bird flew through the window and plucked out his heart. It left a small stone in its place, and flew away. In the morning, when he awoke, he felt nothing. Neither happiness nor sadness.

The boy grew and became a young man. He was tall and swift upon the mountains. The greatest scholars schooled him. The bravest knights taught him sword-skill and the code of valor. He hunted the cinnamon bears with his bow and arrow. He slew the smaller serpents which prowled the woods. He was most devout and gave generously of his inheritance to the poor. In all virtues he acted with perfect correctness, though not a thing did he feel. He never cried, he never smiled. Yet he was beloved of the people, for in all things he was most excellent. Thus did many of them wish to make a match for him, to wed him to one or another of the beautiful princesses of the land.

“Too long has the King been absent and the throne empty,” they said. “The prince has come into his manhood, and is most gifted in all graces and worthy of the throne. He is a regal lad, noble and restrained in bearing, good and fearless. He is of an age to marry,” said the people to the elders of the court. “Find him a comely and virtuous wife, that we might once again have a Queen.”

But the prince had eyes for no human loves. When word of the people’s desire reached him, his face grew solemn, and he climbed to the topmost mountain of the realm, and sat there in solitude for a great while. Night and day came and went. And then night came again under a moon as round and yellow as a bowl of butter melting in the summer heat.

A lark came up the wind and landed on his knee.

“Why do you sit and stare at the valleys and the heights, prince?” piped the lark. “Is your heart in sorrow?”

“No, it is not in sorrow. I feel nothing.”

“This is a very sad thing,” sang the lark. “This is a thing which gives me sorrow. My heart is weeping for you.”

“What is this thing you call a heart?” asked the prince.

“The heart? Ah, that is too long a tale to tell you here on the peak of a mountain.”

“It cannot be very important then. The mountain is the highest place in the whole world. From here you can see everything. Here it is possible to understand the hidden things.”

“It is possible to understand some things,” replied the lark, “yes, even great things. But not all things. Indeed, not the greatest.”

“Where, then, can I learn the greatest thing? Will you tell me the tale of it?”

“I will take you to a place of telling and hearing. There you will understand your loss.”

“Loss? I have not lost anything.”

The lark stared at the prince with a probing look.

“Nothing?” it sang in a curious tone.

“What is this place you would take me to? Is it far to walk? Why not sing me the tale right here?”

“If I sing for you, will it ease the grieving of your heart?”

“It will not, for I need it not, ” replied the prince. “I do not have a heart.”

“That is a mouthful of nots,” said the lark. “Thus I will not sing it for you.”

With that, the prince rose to his feet and gazed sternly upon the lark.

“I am the prince of this kingdom. I command you to sing me the tale.”

“I cannot and I will not,” piped the lark. Then it cocked its head and added, “But I do know a way . . ."

“What way?”

“You must make yourself very small, and then you may climb upon my back and I will fly you to the place of telling, where is told the hidden things, the greatest things in the annals of the heart.”

To his surprise the prince felt a flicker of longing within his breast, an ache from the hollow place where once his heart had dwelt and where a small stone rolled around in the cavity. The more he longed the smaller he became. He shrank unto the size of a hummingbird and climbed upon the back of the lark.

“I command you to take me to the place of the heart,” he cried.

“Agreed,” sang the lark and went up into the night and the wind.

They flew a great way across kingdoms and seas until they reached a desolate land of gray deserts and dead forests. Upon a high hill they came to a castle. A dragon slept at its gate. The door and windows of the castle were sealed against the light, all except one small window in a high battlement. Beside the window there stood the skeleton of a once-great oak. The lark landed on the topmost branch. The prince scrambled off its back and clung to a twig.

“Now sing me the tale,” he commanded.

The lark’s beak opened and its throat pulsed; its eyes danced as if it were singing, but no sound came forth.

“Sing!” cried the prince.

“I am singing,” said the lark.

“That is not singing! That is silence!"

“I am singing in a key which you cannot hear. Look!” and the bird gestured with its beak toward the open window.

How surprised the prince was to see a beautiful woman within. She was bending over a bed. Her back was turned away from the two unseen visitors in the branches, but they could hear the sound of her weeping.

“My beloved,” she said through her tears, “Why has it done such evil to you? Why does it hate us? Do not die! Do not die!”

The prince could not see the one to whom she was speaking, for the room was only partly visible, and much of the bed was hidden by the woman’s form.

“Listen and be silent,” whispered the lark to the prince.

The woman wept a thousand tears and spoke many words in the direction of the bed, but never once was there reply. For a day and a night and another day they sat and watched her as she patiently tended the figure on the bed. The face of the figure lay just beyond view. She fed it, sang to it, covered it with a large blue comforter upon which she had stitched a heart and a cross and the name of the one who lay there.

Another day and a night and a day came and went, and the prince grew weary of watching.

“This is an unfortunate place, and I regret this woman’s pain,” said the prince to the lark, “But here is no tale of the greatest thing. I wish to return to my mountain.”

“How slow you are to understand, prince, and how little patience you have.”

“Quickly, let this be finished! Is she speaking to her child, or to her husband, or to an aging parent?”

“To none of those.”

“Then to a friend?”

“No.”

“To her betrothed?”

But the lark would not answer. The prince was now greatly irritated.

“Take me away from here!” he demanded.

“That is no longer possible,” said the lark, “for you have become too heavy.”

With this, the bird flew off and the prince, to his dismay, found that he had grown large again. The dead branches began to creak and snap beneath his weight. The dragon awoke at the sound, and smelling the intruder it coiled about the base of the tree, gazing up with malice.

“Come down, o most handsome of the sons of men,” said the dragon, “and I will make you master of this palace and king of this realm.”

“I will not,” said the prince, “for this palace is a prison, and this realm is a desolation.”

“Then I will give you better palaces and thriving realms for your playthings. There are many powers and principalities. I need only eat a king or two and all is mine. I will give it to you.”

“Why would you give it to me?”

“It is no pleasure to rule the world alone. I would share it with a companion.”

“You lie! If you are so generous, why do you entrap this lady who weeps within?”

“She is a madwoman who speaks to mere nothings. I keep her here to wile away my idle hours. Her prattle amuses me.”

“Go away, you foul thing!” cried the prince. “You are accursed and anathema. Be gone!”

The dragon uncoiled and stepped back a pace or two, but its malice emanated a hundredfold, and the prince clung to the trunk of the tree for fear that its hatred would drag him down.

“Come down,” said the dragon.

“I will not,” said the prince.

“By the power of the one who is darkness and hath the form of black flame, I command thee to fall!” roared the dragon.

In the place where the prince’s heart had once dwelt there was a dreadful weight pulling him toward the mouth of the dragon. The prince’s fingers grew weak around the branches; his head was dizzy from the height, and his will faltered. The dragon saw this and was convinced of victory.

“A diet of kings is my delight,” it laughed. “I ate the father of she who is within and I ate your father too. You also will I devour.”

When the prince heard this he cried out, “By the power of the true heart, I command you to be gone!” He drew his sword, and pointing it at the dragon he hurled himself toward the monster. The dragon, taken completely by surprise, could not evade quickly enough, and the sword hewed off its head as the prince crashed to the earth.

For a very long time he lay in the darkness. He felt nothing. It seemed that not only his heart but his body and his mind had been taken from him, and he wondered if he had been devoured by the serpent. Then he heard a voice which wept:

“My beloved,” she said through her tears, “Why has it done such evil to you? Why does it hate us? Do not die! Do not die!”

The prince awoke and found himself on a bed beneath a blue coverlet upon which was embroidered a heart and a cross and his name. His body suffered from head to foot, and in the center where once a heart had dwelt there was a terrible agony. It hurt so grievously that the prince gasped and opened his eyes. He knew now that he was alive and that a fire burned in his breast, and the pain of it was harsher than death itself. The woman saw his eyes and knew that he was alive. She reached forth her hand, touched the place of his heart, and the fire burned brighter, though it was now a fire that gave light. It became warm and exceedingly sweet. And with that the pain dissolved to nothing.

“You have awakened at last,” she said, “just as he told me you would.”

“Who? Who told you this thing?” he asked.

She turned with a smile to the window.

“He did,” she replied.

Together they watched the lark fly away on the wind. As it went up over the sea it dropped a small stone from its beak and never more was it seen.