The Mino Pool

by Pil Lee

In the shadow of the Eastern Mountains, a little over four days hard ride from the Crystal Palace, there was a village called Palmino. It was a quiet, moderately prosperous village, very like many others on the border of the kingdom. Traders bought new horses at Neuland, down in the valley, then sold their old nags to the tannery at Palmino. On the outskirts of the village, where the stone bridge spanned the Mino, fat from the tannery wadded and congealed against the narrow canal sides, and on just one day each year it blocked the sluggish water.

The pool that formed was rank but a thing of singular beauty. The oily, viscous fluid glowed with a thousand iridiscent patterns in the midwinter sun, and butterflies, drawn by the dancing light, raced and spun in hundreds across its stagnant surface.

As midday approached, the villagers made their cautious way down the banks of the canal and gathered around the pool. As the small shore grew too crowded, they spilled onto the bridge, jostling for a vantage point over the side.

A hush fell as the sun reached its zenith and the distant toll of the town clock marked the noon. The ring of people fell back a little to reveal an old woman, her white hair bound with a scarf, tottering slowly forward. Unaided, she knelt on shaky legs and dipped her face into the water.

For long moments no one moved or made a sound, and the seconds stretched to minutes.

A great silence spread outward and blanketed the countryside; the rustling of the trees stilled, the distant sounds of livestock faded away. For a few minutes the whole world seemed to hold its breath, then with a swift motion that caused barely a ripple, the woman raised her head from the pool.

She wiped the rainbow of glistening oil from her face and turned to face the throng. Glowing with an inner radiance she opened her mouth to speak, when the thundering of horses hooves scattered the crowd and drowned out her words. With a flash of royal livery and deafening clash of armour the six horsemen galloped down to the pool. With a great shout the leader held his sword aloft and swung it down with all his strength against the neck of the old woman. His horse cleared the pool with a great leap, his companions following close behind, and the last to cross leant down and swept the old woman’s head into his saddle.

The crowd sank to their knees as their king raced through, then rushed to the woman’s body as the sound of horses died away. Those closest to her stripped her clothes fearfully from her withered body, searching as they did every year for the sign of the beast. Once again they discovered nothing, but still they murmured in gratitude that they had been spared what might have been, and blessed the gods for giving them a king who took so little yet spared them so much.