A king sits on a tall hill surveying his vast domain and all his subjects. The grassy land that stretches out before him is all his and all its people belong to him. The king’s crown is made of twisted branches and his throne is an old stump. He has sat there for many years and he will sit there for many more. Ruling everything he sees before him.

The king’s wisdom is famed throughout the land and his subjects often come seeking it. He answers their questions in cryptic riddles with no clear interpretation. Often the subjects will follow what they believe he meant and will find good fortune and success as a result. Others will interpret something in their own way and be led only to ruin and misery. Still others ignore the king’s advice entirely, passing it up as the ravings of an old man. These subjects, the king knows, have the worst fate of all.

One day the sun is shining and the king is sitting on his old stump basking in its glory. One of his subjects, a huge monkey dressed all in motley lumbers up to him. This monkey is one of his most loyal subjects and is constantly seeking his advice whether it leads him to good or ill. His name is Baskarar and he is a huge gorilla from out of the south, lured to these lands on tales of the king’s wisdom and power. He is a mighty and fearsome warrior who uses a large bronze greatsword and has no armour beyond his thick black fur. He is not normally dressed in motley though.

“Oh wise and just king of the hill,” Baskarar says. “I wish to catch the fool who dressed me up in this way but he evades me. How do you suggest I go about it?”

“A fool?” the king croaks back. He knew of this fool, he was the only fool permitted in these lands as he was far too cunning to be worth the effort of catching. The fool’s name was Ruumden and he was often heard running and cackling through the merry brooks and glades of the kingdom. His bells jangling on his colourful hat. The fool has been a menace to the king and all his people and he will be glad to be rid of him. The king gives the monkey his answer. “A fool who hides be not a fool, a fool who runs away be a greater fool, but the greatest fool is the fool who runs toward.”

The monkey scratches his head in confusion. This does not make very much sense to him. Nevertheless he clambers down the hill off to catch this fool who would mock him so. He ponders the first part of the riddle. A fool who hides be not a fool. Well in hiding a fool would be very difficult to catch but Ruumden does not hide, his merry hat is too colourful for that. What of the second part? A fool who runs away be a greater fool. Ruumden runs away often. He runs from anyone that is sent to pursue him. He is so good at running in fact that the monkey would never be able to catch him. But the last part. The greatest fool is the fool who runs toward. If he could get Ruumden to run toward him he would have no trouble catching him, for Ruumden was fast but he would have to stop and turn around and the monkey was fast as well. He just had to make the fool run toward him. Then he could catch him and rip him arm from arm. He went back to his cave and plotted a way to make this happen.

The king watched from his hill as the monkey returned to his cave. He also caught a flash of colourful motley as the fool dashed around the kingdom. Bringing madness and insanity to his peaceful lands. This fool would have to be stopped, his madness would finally meet its end and they would return, once more, to peace.

An old woman came to him with a broth. She often did that this time of day. He wasn’t sure who she was or where she came from and she was far less interesting than his other subjects. Nonetheless, as king, he was duty bound to accept such offerings from people such as her and took the broth and ate it. She would prattle on to him in her silly way and he would answer politely, as all good kings do.

“So what’s happening in the world today Gernie?” she asked. She called him Gernie, he couldn’t fathom why.

“Ruumden has gone too far this time. He has brought his little games to the attention of Baskarar who will now hunt him across the land until the fool is too weary to joke and laugh, and then he will hunt him some more until he is too weary to run and walk. Then he will take his revenge and Ruumden will be no more and all shall return to peace.”

“That’s very interesting. I thought Ruumden was a nice little jester?”

“He was once, yes, back when he served in the sylvan court and they kept him on a leash. But then during the Sylvan Wars of the Fading Moon he escaped and has menaced the land ever since.”

“So what did he do to Baskarar? Play a little joke on him?”

“No joke is little to Baskarar, to him all merriment at his expense is an insult to be repaid in blood.”

“Baskarar doesn’t sound very nice, maybe Ruumden will help make him more lighthearted.”

“Baskarar is a noble warrior from the jungles to the south, he needs no light heart.”

“I’m not sure there are any noble warriors in the jungles to the south,” the old woman muttered. “Anywho, thank you for talking to me Gernie, I hope you finish your broth this time.” She stood up and took the old broth bowl from yesterday, his servants had failed to clean it up, they always seemed to miss that bowl, he’d have to reprimand them about that. The old woman waved goodbye and tottered off down the hill leaving him to resume being a proper king and not be distracted by the petty lives of old women. The king didn’t particularly like the old woman, she was not as respectful to him and his wisdom as his other subjects. And she had a strange way of provoking his tongue, luring it out of the riddles and witticisms he so confused his other subjects with. Yes that woman was trouble, maybe even more trouble than Ruumden, it would only be a matter of time before she became as out of control as the fool. He would have to do something about her then. Perhaps he’d send Baskarar after her. He would have no trouble catching an old woman, she was not half as fast as the fool he hunted now. The king sipped the warm broth and turned his attention back to his domain to watch the monkey chase the fool.

Baskarar was laying a trap. He looked down from watching the old woman talk to the king and returned to it. It was well known that the fool loved honey, so much that he would oft slip into houses while people were sleeping and eat all of theirs. Tales were often told of how he would speak to the bees and leave them laughing so much they were dizzy while he stole their beehive out from under them. Baskarar knew of this weakness and he was going to exploit it. He gathered all the honey he could and then found a clearing to stage his trap. He began to dig a hole in the middle of the clearing, a hole big enough for the fool to fall into. He was strong and powerful but the ground was hard and only got harder as he dug. The honey lay beside the hole next to him and he hoped the fool would not arrive and eat it all before the trap was laid.

But the hole was taking much too long to dig. It had been hours and he was only up to his chest with his strong and powerful muscles aching with the effort. Sweat dripped down his body, the motley clothes he’d been dressed in too tight and hot for this work. He took a short break, leaning on his shovel and breathing heavily.

There was a disturbance in the bushes around the clearing. He looked up at it intently. Perhaps it was the fool, he thought and looked at the honey. Then thought better of it, if it was there would have been more jangling. No matter, he was Baskarar, the mighty warrior of the south, whatever it was he would face it. He picked up his sword and was about to leap out of the hole when they emerged. They were giants, enormous creatures with their faces and bodies hidden by dark armour. They had huge weapons at their sides, swords as tall as he was and bows even taller. There were five of them and they marched to the edge of the hole looking down at him, their enormity magnified by him being in the hole beneath them. He looked up at them and felt fear, they were bigger than he, stronger than he, and there were more of them than he. Baskarar, the mighty warrior of the south, was scared.

One of them said something in another language that sounded harsh and evil. Another one responded with something else and they laughed. Baskarar tried to shrink back as they surrounded his hole but he was in plain sight. One of them looked at the pile of honeycomb and honey still dripping on the grass and kicked it. It splashed all over Baskarar, dripping through his costume and his fur. He crouched down dropping his sword and held his hands over his head as they laughed some more. He felt some more honeycomb bounce off his back and could feel it seeping into all of his hair. Their laughter died out and he heard them moving off, he sat up in his hole, now covered in honey and watched them leave. The fool hadn’t come. It seemed honey could attract much more dangerous things.

The king watched down from his hill with horror. These interlopers, giants, the like of which he’d never seen before, had just marched into his land and laid low the mighty Baskarar. He watched them saunter across his kingdom, such arrogance, such hateful pride. He vowed revenge and summoned his court. As he did though the old woman came tottering up again. Why her? He didn’t have time for her now. It wasn’t even the time she gave him broth at. Yet she was here all the same.

“Gernie,” she said, using that hateful name. “We should go. And how did you get covered in honey?”

“Quiet,” he replied. “There are interlopers that must be dealt with. I have assembled my court to discuss strategy. We shall-”

“Gernie we have to leave,” the old woman pleaded, looking sad now, tears forming on the crinkles of her eyes. “You can’t stay here, not now.”

He was just about to formulate a reply, something full of wisdom and intellect, when who should emerge but Ruumden himself. The fool that had so long troubled the king and his peaceful kingdom. He really didn’t have time for these people when he had bigger problems to deal with.

“Ruumden,’ he bellowed at the fool who jerked to a halt and looked startled. “You have caused one too many problems already, do not come here now and test my patience.”

Ruumden just stared up at him with wide eyes. He was scared, the king could tell, but not scared enough. He opened his mouth to bellow again when the old woman spoke first. Her voice trembling with worry and fear now.

“Ruumden wants to know how to make a king leave his kingdom. That is all he wants to know and then he will trouble you no more. Surely such a wise king must share his wisdom with his subjects, even his most hated ones.”

The king stared at the old woman, then back at Ruumden who was now twisted awkwardly and licking himself. “Very well,” he replied. “The privilege of abandonment is granted to lesser men, lesser a king is not.”

“Can he become lesser? Ruumden wants to know.”

“Curses Ruumden, your incessant questions show yourself as the plight upon this kingdom that you are. All greater things can become lesser and all lesser things can become greater, this does not mean-”

The old woman grabbed his arm and pulled but he was too strong. She was really crying now, desperately trying to drag him from his throne. He batted her aside and she stumbled to the grass in a sobbing heap.

“Leave me old woman, you dare assault one such as myself.”

Then he heard footsteps, heavy footsteps, heavier than Baskarar, far heavier. He stood from his throne and looked across his kingdom. Then from the bushes Ruumden had emerged from came the interlopers. He had always told his servants to remove those bushes but they never had. He would have to reprimand them for that some day. The interlopers were even bigger than he’d thought. Huge towering giants with armour and capes, knights, or at least some magic mockery of them. The old woman stood up and screamed. She rushed forward toward them, pleading and begging at them. One of them grabbed Ruumden who twisted and writhed in his grip. They just laughed, they laughed their cruel mocking laugh they’d used on Baskarar. They knocked the old woman aside as he’d done and the one that held Ruumden grabbed her in his other hand. He held his helmeted face close to hers and whispered something that made her scream and flail all the more. The king stood by his throne and watched them laugh at and abuse his subjects. They were not his favourite subjects but they were still his subjects and a king is duty bound to protect all his subjects. He charged forward and screamed and the giant who held the old woman and the fool looked up in surprise. He tried to move but the old woman jerked back and pulled him slightly off balance. The king crashed into him and he fell. Not onto the grass though, onto the air. The king fell from his hill, and with him he brought the leader of the giants. Together they crashed to the ground and together they died.

The other villagers would long tell stories about the marauding band from the south that had walked into their village. Of the brutalities and violence they had committed on other villages as they approached. And of the boy Gernie, who, while big for his age, had never been quite right in the head. Who had always been shunned by his peers and the village as a whole. Who had been covered in honey by the band while he was digging for worms in the garden and hooting like a monkey. And who had knocked their leader off the hill he so often visited, breaking both their necks. The others had taken the tavern as their headquarters and drank as they argued about what to do without their leader. The argument turned into a battle and in their drunken stupor only one survived, escaping from the village and leaving it in peace. Gernie was buried next to the stump on the hill he’d loved so much and a new tree was planted over him. The old woman survived and was unharmed if upset. Gernie’s parents had died when he was young and she had looked after him ever since. Her cat survived too and liked to sleep on the hill under Gernie’s tree. It was a very foolish cat, what had it been thinking, dressing a gorilla up in motley?