Daylate and Dollarshort
A fairy tale of quest and adventure
Daylate and Dollarshort
Once upon a time, in a small kingdom at the eastern edge of the Great Forest, it was the strange custom that the midwife had the right to name the child she had helped deliver. The name commemorated any memorable birth event, thus marking the child. Prince Daylate required thirty-seven hours to be born, causing the midwife to miss the opening of the Conference on The Magic of Midwifery. When at the birth of Princess Dollarshort, just after the Emperor’s visit in the coldest winter, the coffers and kitchens were bare of cash and crops, so the midwife’s usual silver payment was deficient.
After the death of their parents, the prince and princess ruled the peaceful and prosperous kingdom. Daylate was a good man but a late bloomer, conscientious but always dawdling. Dollarshort was sweet-tempered and open-hearted, but always overspent her allowance. The kingdom adjusted to their peculiarities; the princess’s lady-in-waiting managed the princess’s allowance, and the prince’s valet scheduled the prince’s events. With the help of wise advisors, the populace was healthy and wealthy (despite Princess Dollarshort’s love of charity events), but somewhat unwise.
For years, Prince Daylate had enjoyed reading about the marvelous exploits of errant prince knights of nineteen and twenty. But he had gone on no adventures, had never seen a maiden appealing enough to provide him with an heir, nor any man suited for his sister. Daylate found only longing in his heart.
The next morning, Daylate announced to Dollarshort, “Dear sister, I have decided to go on a quest.”
His sister cried. “No, my brother, you cannot leave, for I cannot rule alone. We shall all surely perish if you leave the kingdom to itself.”
“Nonsense! You have good sense.” He patted her shoulder. “How can I ever call myself king if I have no adventures to prove myself?”
“By marrying and settling down to what you do best,” she said, propping her hands on her hips, “keeping everyone else on time and on task.”
“Who would you have me marry?” He threw up his hands.
“Princess Dawn of the eastern kingdom is beautiful.” Dollarshort nodded right.
He frowned. “She is always in a hurry, flitting like a bird. I should have no rest.”
She glanced left. “Princess Plentiful to the north is very wealthy.”
“I don’t need her plentiful words ringing constantly in my ears, or her plentiful cousins eating us out of our domain.” He slumped. “Besides, no one will marry me if I have no adventures. They all say so.” He gestured toward his library of romances, harlequins, silhouettes, westerns, and trilogies. “I am approaching thirty…”
She eyed him. “You’re thirty-two.”
Daylate was adamant. He called for his valet to equip him to go forth. He would not listen to any of his advisors, nor take along a squire or other companion, only his horse, Desire. Somewhere, he would find a dragon to kill, a princess to rescue, a spell to break (his spelling being impeccable), or some other heroic deed to prove his true self and find his true love.
As he set out late in the afternoon, he spent his first evening in the tavern of the nearest village to the castle. That night, a minstrel from the Great Forest sang praises of Sir Donealot, a mighty knight from the westernmost kingdom, who had slain a beast, outdone ogres, and solved the ancient riddle that had bound the Treekeepers to Shadows of the Forest.
Frustrated, Daylate wailed, “So, are there no other adventures to be had? Has this . . . this Donealot done everything?”
“No, Your Highness,” the minstrel said on his way back from the privy on a break. “A lion was spotted to the north at Rocky Keep, a town is ensorcelled at the Great River, and we are surrounded by villages suffering tribulations. Surely enough adventures for everyone.”
“Thank goodness!” Daylate said, not thinking of how it sounded.
“Take me with you,” said the minstrel, straddling the opposite chair. “I could squire you, cheer you with song, and serve you on your journey. I will sing of your exploits throughout the land when you return victorious.”
“No, good minstrel, for I must do this alone. I would not endanger another.” Daylate sighed. “Go to my castle to the east and sing to my sister. When I return, you shall indeed make songs and music for all the land.”
“As you wish.” The minstrel returned to singing of adventure well into the night.
Without his trusty valet to wake him, Daylate slept through the next morning and into the next evening. He paid the innkeeper a gold coin to wake him early the next morning.
At dawn, Daylate set out for Grayne on Wyne. He hoped to tame or capture or, if necessary, kill the lion. Soon, ferocious roaring and thrashing sounded through the forest, but abruptly stopped, followed by cheers and cries of joy.
When he reached the village, wine was flowing, bread was broken, and the children played at knights and lions. Everyone praised Sir Donealot, his bravery facing the beast, his strength in killing it, and his leaving without hearing a word of thanks.
“He left only this,” the innkeeper said, showing Daylate a small silver dagger.”
“Take this gold coin,” Daylate said, “to care for my horse and wake me early in the morning. I, too, am looking for wrongs to right.”
But the people celebrated so late into the night that the prince could not sleep. Finally, when things were quiet, it was nearly dawn, and the innkeeper himself had passed out.
Daylate awoke in the late afternoon.
In the stable, a youth was feeding Desire. “Are you really on a quest?” The youth’s scraggly hair fell over his eyes, which shone with fantasy and imagination.
Daylate nodded and smiled grimly.
“Take me with you,” the youth said. “I will care for your horse, clean your appointments, and tend your fire at night.”
“I must go alone,” Daylate said, “I would not put a fine youth in danger. But come to my castle in the east. Tell my stable master to put you to work in my stables.”
In the late evening, the sun set late and the full moon rose, each orb equally fiery red on the horizon, so that Daylate became confused and turned south instead of north. The wide, well-tended road was easy to see in the moonlight. Desire walked steadily through the peaceful sounds of the night: an owl’s screech, a fox’s bark, and a chorus of happy frogs.
Near midnight, he passed the camp of a fellow traveler sleeping by the coals of his small fire. Not to disturb him, Daylate traveled on until he reached a bridge over a wide river as the moon set and the sun rose. Here, too, the people were just going to bed, having rejoiced all night. The bridge, made invisible by an angry sorcerer, had just been restored. Trade could begin again, and the lands of the East could be united with the lands of the West. Already, the word had spread, as traders from all directions brought their goods to market.
Everyone sang the praises of Sir Donealot, except Daylate, who sat alone eating breakfast in the tavern.
The barmaid commented on his sad countenance. “Be happy for the town, Sir Knight,” she said, “for we have been delivered. You came over the bridge yourself this morning. Why you must have passed Sir Donealot along the way in the night. Did you see him? How exciting it must be to be on a quest!”
“So, I have followed him again. I fear I shall never find my own quest.” His voice was so bitter that his ale soured in the mug and his eggs curdled on the trencher.
His voice touched her heart, and she spoke again. “Have you a Queen far away that waits for your return?”
“No, only my sister.”
“Take me with you,” she said. “I can be your guide, for I have traveled along the roads. I can cook for you and keep you warm in the night.”
Before he could answer no, he looked into her eyes. They were as green and gold and deep as the fabled Western Sea. He lost his heart, but his resolve stayed firm. “I cannot take you, but if you will but give me a small favor, a token, I will return for you and make you my queen.”
“Me? You don’t want a barmaid, Sire. I would go with you, but I am no lady for a prince.” She stared at him boldly, eye to eye. “You will forget me, so take this, if it will make you happy.” She untied the linen string that held her braided hair. Loosened, her hair flowed loose like a river of hammered copper.
His face shone with star-crossed love and darkened with frustrated hopes.
He kissed the twine and her hand. She laughed at him and hurried him on his way north.
Before he had gone two days’ travel, the northern dragon was slain. And so on, through every village, Daylate found happy people feasting, or rebuilding their huts, or singing as they repaired the damage that evil had done to their villages. And the praises were always to Sir Donealot, who had passed that way only yesterday, last week, or was only riding out of town, leaving a silver trinket.
Daylate grew despondent. Desire was lame, so they hobbled into the next village. Daylate paid the innkeeper with his last gold coin.
Several days passed while Desire healed, and market day arrived. The newly liberated villagers brought out all the wares they had hidden to make a merry profit, which they spent in the very same tavern, sharing the news and tales of deeds done and wonders seen.
But far into night, Daylate’s ear twitched up at one tale. A solitary princess had lost her prince. Ravished by wild animals which devoured and trampled her crops, the peasants fled into the castle. In her looming poverty, she and her people must be rescued, else they would starve. The princess was reputed to be beautiful and would make a fine wife for one who would deliver her and her people.
“Sir Donealot should go there,” one patron said, “He’d make the princess a fine husband and have her lands to add to his own.”
“He’s likely the roving type, always rescuing and hunting, never coming home to his own.” said the ruddy barmaid, winking as she set down the mugs of ale. “Like any man. Never knows when to go home.” The patrons laughed and called for another round.
Daylate called for Desire, now rested and sound, for he knew his last chance had come. Although no one knew the name of the princess or her keep, it lay in the direction of his home, so he resolved to return, even as a failure. If he could not help the princess, at least Donealot would be finished as well.
He set off before dawn, riding Desire as fast as he could through the dark villages, stopping to camp just outside his own lands.
With the rhythm of Desire’s trot, the words echoed and stung: Sir Donealot. Sir Donealot. SIR DONEALOT!
Perhaps his sister would know the name of the princess in the fallen keep, and perhaps it be the kinswoman of the indefatigable Donealot who so long away from his lands. How well it would serve Donealot to find his own kinswoman rescued.
Daylate built a fantasy to stay awake as he rode out before the sunrise.
But the truth was not long in meeting him: his lands were deserted. Vines strangled gardens, and weeds clogged the roads. The silence weighed heavily on him, much like his guilt.
Just as his ancestral home came into view, banners and flags rose in all colors, and in seconds, the blaring of trumpets and the cheers of the people touched his ears. Surely they could not recognize him at such a distance!
He urged his tired steed to a stately canter. As he approached, the drawbridge lowered to allow a procession that came out to meet him. Musicians played, and the people danced in bright colored garb, accompanying his lovely sister in a flowing white and gold gown. Like the prodigal son, forgiven his selfish quest, he was welcomed home!
But no!
It could not be!
He saw… impossible… the bridal procession...of his sister...and Sir Donealot.
Daylate’s mind snapped.
Drawing his sword and screaming in blood rage, he galloped towards the bride and her champion. Three people ran from the crowd and blocked his way to the knight in his sister’s arms: a minstrel, a youth, and a barmaid.
Desire balked, nearly throwing Daylate. He dismounted, still gripping his sword, and confronted them.
The minstrel knelt. “Kill me, Sir Prince, but do not kill Sir Donealot, for he saved the kingdom when you were gone. I am yours to command. Kill me.”
“No, Sir Prince, kill me,” said the youth, “for I am nothing. Sir Donealot has made the princess happy again. Kill me.”
The barmaid came out in front of the other two. “You have returned, O my King,” she said. She kissed him and took his sword as it fell from his hand, putting it back in its scabbard. She supported him as he swooned from exhaustion.
“Sir Prince,” said Donealot, leaving the side of his bride and facing Daylate.
Dollarshort cried, “He is my brother! Don’t hurt him!”
“Welcome home, Brother Daylate,” Donealot said, “As you can see, I have married your sister, and my sister says you have promised to wed her.”
The prince, finally resigned to his disgrace, replied, “No, Brother Donealot, I am promised to this barmaid, though I have no adventure to report to her honor.”
“Hail and well met, Brother, for she is my sister Sunset, and these two louts my younger brothers, Singsalot and Horsefeathers.” (Now those are stories for another time!) Donealot embraced Daylate as the people cheered.
And finally, Daylate hugged back.
And so the one-day wedding became a three-day wedding, and all the exploits were sung by Singsalot.
“I have no story to recount, ” said Daylate sadly. “I have done nothing but bring my land to ruins.”
“Not true, Brother Prince,” said Singsalot. “Although you did not kill anything, you helped every village you entered. Because of the general prosperity from the defeat of evil, the Emperor laid down a new tax for every village of a gold coin. Everywhere you went, the town had a coin to pay. You are called the Golden Prince.”
Sir Donealot clapped Daylate on the shoulder. “My trinkets were to no avail—just remembrances, “but you protected them all from the tax man!”
Everyone toasted Daylate until he hid his blushing face in his new bride’s lap.
At the end of the third day, Daylate called the priest to him and his new family with a request.
“Father,” he said, “As we all enter a new life, may we all change our names together? My brother shall be called Done, and stay home with my sister who shall be called Dollar, as it is a done deal. And I shall be called Day for my Sunset shall be the end of me.”
The priest agreed.
The names were changed, trade was set up through the Great Forest, and the two kingdoms prospered until their happy rulers died of old age.
This made me smile... :)