KS

Solomon sat, slumped in his large throne, like a petulant giant. With his large hands, large, neat beard and broad (large), never-ending chest, he reminds me of the Reverend Jack Lawson who I know from now. King Solomon, sat, slumped in his large throne.

King of who? I don’t know. I am a disciple of stories half-told, half-remembered, and this is one.

On the walls there are great (large) tapestries depicting something momentous, yet indistinct. On the floor there are vast (large) rugs (Persian?), plush underfoot – reminding you of their wealth and your lack. KS is swaddled in robes of deep crimson, like a regal baby (large). He sighs once or twice. You’d think that such a giant’s exhalation would ruffle the torch flames and worry the tapestries, but the hall is so great that his breath has petered out by the time it reaches them. They remain untroubled.

From the large (large) oak (?) doors at the far end of the hall comes a commotion, then a tall, gaunt Arab (?) man, with a shock of black hair placed clumsily atop his tall, gaunt head. As he strides towards KS, they both calculate when would be the appropriate point in his approach to acknowledge one another. The tall arrival loses his nerve and fires his ‘Hail! King Solomon of the…’ too early, leaving him with an embarrassing distance to walk before the conversation can be furthered.

As he arrives before the throne KS greets him as ‘David’ and bids him state the purpose of his visit to the chamber.

‘There are two whores arguing in the entrance hall. They are disturbing your servants.’

KS groans like a weary stomach, overfull, stretched.

‘They demand that they be permitted to enter so as to decide the parentage of a sprog sired by a cotton trader.’ (?) Continues David.

A large harpy squawk emanates from the entrance hall.

The echoes decay quickly in the hall but remain ringing in KS’s ears.

‘Let the sluts in.’ KS decrees at last as his throne creaks beneath him.

David begins his long, gangly walk back to the doors and KS relishes the receding footfalls. Soon the hubbub will build, as a tidal wave of grievances, his adoring public, spill in bidding the judger judge.

‘I am a bad man,’ thinks KS, ‘why do they listen. Why am I the authority? Shut up.’

He slowly closes his eyes and sees a deep crimson. He is swimming in it. Gasping he rises to the surface and sees the harsh sun blazing in the sky. He imagines an eye in the centre. The eye fixes its gaze upon him, then looks a little to its right. KS follows the eye and sees, glinting in the distance a vast (large) blade scything through the crimson towards him. He shivers with simultaneous fear and elation.

With a mighty wrench the doors open once again and David ushers in the whores.

One is holding a baby wrapped in rags, the other is shooting hateful glances. David is stood between them, striking a messianic pose so as to prevent an altercation.

The whores give no consideration to the appropriate distance from which to address KS as they begin shouting almost immediately. Harlot. Strumpet. Cunt. Slut. Echoing many fervent ‘endearments’ from punters of that persuasion. It is explicit bingo and nobody wins.

‘Silence!’ Roars KS.

The women fall silent but the child, inevitably really, begins to scream.

KS holds his colossal (large) hands to his head and screws up his face. It looks like crumpled, aged, leather. After holding this pose for a while, he prepares to speak, mouthing a word over and over again. At last he speaks:

‘Speak.’ He speaks.

The cacophony begins again, however this time the enraged piece has greater depth. The screams of the child provide the backing whilst the harridan furious wails provide a coarse melody. Occasionally a percussive foot stamp is added. This echoes around the hall until KS’s head is swimming.

‘One at a fucking time!’ Shouts KS. ‘You first.’ He points at the baby-less whore.

‘This cunt stole my baby,’ she spits, pointing a shaking accusatory finger at the baby-holding whore.

‘That’s bollocks. He’s mine.’ Screeches the second whore.

‘She’s a girl.’ Intones the first, smugly.

‘No he’s not!’ Shouts the second, triumphantly unwrapping the baby to reveal the tiny child’s penis.

KS puts his hand to his eyes and sighs. The second whore still stands, showing off the nude infant like a prize. David looks visibly perturbed.

‘Cover the infant. He is getting cold.’ David says at last.

Somewhat reluctantly the whore covers what, in years to come, will become the child’s modesty.

During this time the first whore has been deep in thought. After some time she speaks:

‘Oh God!’ She squawks, ‘you’ve had my dear child for so long, I had forgotten his gender.’

The slanging match begins once again in earnest.

KS waits for it to die down. It does not.

‘If…’ He begins, slow and low.

He goes unheard.

‘If…if,’ louder, ‘if we are unable to uncover the…ownership…of the infant…’

Renewed shouting.

‘Then! Then we shall split him in half and both can have some.’ KS closes his eyes briefly and sees glinting steel (?). His pulse quickens. The baby ceases wailing and looks, expectantly towards KS, all of a sudden his curiosity has been piqued.

Briefly there is silence. The woman holding the now clothed infant bows her head and, at long length, begins to speak.

‘If that is your judgement, King Solomon, then she may have my child.’ Her eyes endeavour to conjure tears.

The second woman begins to smile.

‘A-ha!’ KS bellows, with all the enthusiasm of a veteran magician, performing the same tricks night in, night out, to an audience of half-dead, post-retirement couples, quietly resenting each other over bottles of red, on some cruise ship, waiting to rust on an uncaring ocean. Then, pointing to the whore holding the child: ‘you are the true mother of the infant and may keep it. Now get out.’

KS shuts his eyes. The glinting dagger recedes. The sun looks at him and he looks at the sun. ‘Well?’ he mouths.

The baby-less whore lets out an anguished cry, but turns to leave with the other. David stays. After some time and some footsteps and a creak they are out of the chamber.

KS’s eyelids slowly lift and the sun turns its gaze away. He looks at the expectant David.

‘They never let me cut the kid.’ He sighs.