The King Who Went up a Mountain

“How far to the summit, Jeffers?”

“Another thousand metres, your Majesty. With luck, we’ll be there in time for supper.”

The king smiled at his loyal servant. Jeffers had been with him for thirty years, through thick and thin and, despite both mens’ advancing years, had barely batted an eyelid when the king had declared his wish to climb Everest.

He’d had a speech prepared, he remembered, and it had covered every angle. By turns evocative, aggressive, chastising and inspirational, he had written it to press every one of Jeffers’ buttons. He was still quite put out that he’d never got to deliver the thing, his valet agreeing to the venture on the spot, as soon as the subject was raised. It had rather dampened the king’s powder.

The tide of churlish anger receded as he stared about himself though, witnessing the true majesty of mother nature unbound. The view was magnificent, the mountain awesome. It was a sight that he’d never grow tired of, one that would stay with him to the end of his days. He breathed the thin air deeply, but then—

“Was that you, Jeffers?” he said, frowning.

“I beg your pardon, your Majesty?”

“That beeping noise. Was it you? Or rather was it something you are carrying?” The king was perplexed.

“No, sir,” said the valet, equally puzzled. “I am carrying nothing that beeps, nor did I hear anything.”

The king scowled around at the team of sherpas accompanying them.

“Must’ve been one of these chaps,” he said. “Damn odd noise to hear up a mountain, what?”

“Indeed, your Majesty.” Said Jeffers.

They trudged on for a while, each man lost in his own thoughts, until—

“There it was again, man,” the king exclaimed. “Don’t tell me you didn’t hear it that time?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I did not. I will contrive to unblock my ears forthwith.”

The king barked a laugh, but was troubled by this beeping. Surely if he were going to experience altitude sickness it would have happened much earlier in the climb. What time had they started, eight AM? No, that couldn’t be right, surely. It took much longer than eight and a half hours to climb mount Everest. Didn’t it? The king was not completely sure. Amazing weather they were having, though. Perhaps that had a lot to do with the time they were making. Beautiful blue sky.

The king heard the beep again. He narrowed his eyes at the back of Jeffers’ head, but the man made no sign that he’d heard anything. Most vexing. Was that the summit up ahead? There didn’t seem to be anything more to climb. Glorious. The king felt a profound sense of peace.

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“Has he gone?”

“Not quite yet, your highness,” said the doctor. “Soon.”

The young prince clenched his teeth and screwed his eyes shut, willing the tears away. He looked at his father, pale and diminished in the hospital bed, hooked up to tubes and wires, morphine dripping into him, slow and steady, like honey from a spoon.

It wasn’t fair that the old goat was leaving him, wasn’t fair he’d been ripped from his subjects by the disease. Wasn’t fair that he, Prince Henry, would have to give up his carefree lifestyle and run this godforsaken country. A lot of things weren’t fair.

The prince pulled a chair closer to the bed, sat down and held his father’s hand. He wouldn’t let go now, not until the end.

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Forgot to mention yesterday – today’s story featured a King, mount Everest and a character with less than 24 hours to live. Rather redundant to state that now, but there we are. Thanks to my wonderful wife for pointing me in the right direction with the plot for this as I was floundering.

And I’m getting better at keeping the word count down! The quality on the other hand… meh.

Tomorrow’s penultimate flight of fancy Will feature a bee keeper, a silo and a character seeing a friend or relative in an adult film. Oh my.

Cheers,

 

GBN