The Poet
Part Three
“I am going out,” said Ganan.
The door guard had a shocked expression on his face. This was no normal look of shock, like a man catching his wife sleeping with another man; it was more like a man catching his wife in bed with a llama, and both of them were weaving a giant basket whilst having an intense thumb-war.
“I am going out,” Ganan repeated, and the guard hurried to open the doors.
Ganan had spent the last three days in the crystal dome at the top of his royal home, speaking almost exclusively to the miserable skull. He realised as he stepped outside that he hadn’t walked the streets for months. Ever since he became the new poet, he had spent most of his time inside; a poet had little time to spare for mundane activities.
It felt strange to see the world from its dusty floor; the high vistas of his balcony made it all seem so much smaller. People washed past, some throwing suspicious glances his way when they saw the white toga he wore.
A chorus of whispers erupted behind him wherever he went, and sometimes a distant yell or muttered jibe would reach his ears. He tried to ignore it, but he felt the tension in the air infiltrating his mind.
It was like a wall separated Ganan from the people on the street. They all parted before him like he was diseased, they would not meet his eye.
Then the wall crumbled. The red haired boy was leaning over a fountain in the middle of the square. He looked straight up at Ganan, who almost fell over himself.
His heart was beating wildly. Something compelled him forward. He was leaning over the fountain, grasping for water.
It tasted foul, there was so little left that it was almost equal parts dirt.
“I hope you bring us rains,” said the red haired boy nonchalantly.
Ganan looked up slowly, but caught a glimpse of himself in the water. Truly the most disgusting thing about him was his crooked nose, it was as though it had been broken and clumsily reset to one side of his face. His throat cracked between the force of his desire to speak and the force of his tongue-stilling caution. He didn't want to make a fool of himself. His heart only beat faster.
The red haired boy’s expression became puzzled, then edgy; he looked around for an escape.
“Right, goodbye your greatness- sir poet,” he said awkwardly, and bowed away.
Ganan stood by the fountain for a while, quietly cursing his reflection.
