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To Serve a Prince

by B.W. Clough

The storm was the worst the eastern Mediterranean had endured this century, and the royal yacht Brittania was in trouble. The ship swooped up and down like a roller coaster on the wind-lashed waves. Down in the royal suite Charles, Prince of Wales, was damnably seasick. His cabin had big picture windows, but the waves scoured right up over them so they might as well have been portholes. And the way the curtains swayed back and forth—ugh! it’d make anybody queasy. “Can’t you make this stop?” he demanded.

“Sorry, Sir,” the Brittania’s captain said, a broad apology that covered the waves, the weather, and life in general all at once. “Weather conditions are worsening. We’ve radioed for assistance. I have to ask that you put this on, Sir. Just in case.”

The picture of restrained British fury, Prince Charles looked tight-lipped at the bright orange life jacket. “Surely you’re joking, captain.”

“Just a precaution, Sir—please! Her Majesty would wish it!”

This unnecessary appeal to the authority of his mother infuriated Charles even more. “Rather drown,” he snapped.

It was an unfortunate choice of words, because the deck shuddered oddly under their feet. Somewhere below alarm bells began frantically ringing. “Quick!” the captain shouted.

Disregarding protocol he leaped on Charles and stuffed the Princely arms into the life jacket. A sailor burst into the room shouting, “She’s sinking!”

“Save the Prince!” the captain yelled. They hustled Charles out of the cabin just in time. The Britannia heeled over with a jerk, flinging all three of them across the deck like dice. Charles was so surprised he made no effort to grab the railing as he hurtled over the side.

The Mediterranean was cold enough to make him gasp, and the dark waves were taller than mountains. A slashing downpour made it difficult for Charles to breathe. Hastily he tightened the straps on his life jacket. He couldn’t see the yacht anywhere, and night was coming on fast.

Charles had no experience of mortal peril before, and didn’t realize how lucky he was to be washed up onto a rocky shore before hypothermia set in. Must be an island, he thought, the seas around Greece are stiff with islands. His legs were so cold he couldn’t stand. It would be undignified however for the Prince of Wales to crawl up the beach. He lay shivering in the surf, knowing that help would come because for him it always had. Unsurprised, he felt large horny hands grasping him, hauling him higher over the shingle. “Dash it, pick me up and carry me!” he said, and fainted.

*

Charles woke slowly. A fire crackled cozily nearby. He was dry and warm, with something wooly tucked right up to his chin. His once-frozen feet rested on an enormous hot-water bottle in a wooly cover. Sleepily he imagined his rescuers, perhaps a pair of elderly Greek spinsters who knitted afghans and hot-water bottle jackets. He curled his toes into the luxurious nap of the bottle cover.

To his exquisite horror the hot-water bottle moved away! With a yell Charles sat bolt upright and heaved the covers off. “My god, it’s a dog!” he cried. The big sheepdog shot him a disgusted look as it got up. With a disdainful all-over shake of its curly brown pelt the beast walked away.

Shivering, Charles huddled back into bed. The covers, he saw, were sheepskins tanned with the wool on. The bed was a crude wooden affair, no more than a box to hold the sheepskins in a heap. It stood at one end of a vast cave. The only light came from the big stone fireplace. Impossible to imagine a pair of nice old ladies knitting beside that fire!

He heard footsteps now, echoing from the far end of the cave. Resisting the urge to pull the sheepskins over his head, Charles tried to see past the glow of the fire. The approaching figure seemed fairly ordinary, rather on the plump side perhaps, carrying a toy oil lamp in one hand. Then with a terrible adjustment of perspective Charles saw that the oil lamp was normal-sized. It was the hand holding the lamp that was enormous. The fellow must be fifteen feet tall. Slowly Charles raised his eyes to the giant’s face, and almost fainted again with the shock.

“Phylax the dog said you were awake,” the giant growled. “So you recognize me. Just say it, okay? Get it over with.”

Charles opened his mouth but no words came out. Diplomacy, that was the ticket. The famous British tact. He swallowed and tried again. “You’re one of—of, uh, the binocularly impaired.”

The monster clapped a huge three-fingered hand to its bald head. “Oh for dumb! I’m a Cyclops, dammit! Haven’t you read the Odyssey?”

“In school,” Charles stuttered. Unpleasant memories of the Homeric epic returned to him. “You’re shepherds—and cannibals!” But a Prince of Wales cannot dive under the covers and scream for mercy, it simply isn’t done. Even if the creature ate him on the spot he had to assert himself. “And I presume you recognize me.”

“Yeah, yeah, we get satellite TV. You should just marry Camilla and get it over with. Show Princess Di where she gets off, dissing you.”

Charles winced, as he always did at his ex’s name. “So perhaps you plan to hold me to ransom, rather than serving me up on a platter, eh?”

“Don’t count on it,” the Cyclops growled. It stared at Charles from under its single shelf-like eyebrow. “You’ll have to make yourself useful somehow.”

“My pleasure.” Charles threw back the sheepskins and got up. It put him at a psychological disadvantage to be in bed, he thought. He found he was wearing a faded red sweatsuit, a nasty change from his usual hand-tailored suits. “Just indicate your wishes,” he said a little bitterly. “I oblige the entire British nation, a few Greek mythical figures shouldn’t be too difficult.”

“Don’t gimme that! At least you got a role in life!” The Cyclops picked up something from the mantel and tossed it to Charles. “Here, take these—the floors are way cold, it’s the big hassle of cave life.”

Charles flinched and let them drop—the items looked like feet, a pair of large human feet cut off at the ankles. But when he picked them up, with an effort, they were only sheepskin slippers with the fleece turned in. He stepped into them and followed the Cyclops down the cave. “Oh come,” he said rallyingly, hoping to keep the conversation going. “Don’t Cyclops have a role?”

“Sure, one that’s four thousand years out of date. Homer didn’t do us any favor, you know—we came off as dumb.”

“But scary too.”

“Yeah, dumb and scary and shepherds. Whoopie. What do you think of, when you think of shepherds? What’s the first image that pops into your head?”

It was January, so Charles didn’t need to think very far back. He’d sat through no fewer than fourteen Christmas pageants last month in the course of his duties, a schedule guaranteed to shrivel anyone’s holiday spirit. “Bethlehem,” he said promptly. “While shepherds watch their flocks by night. Away in the manger, no crib for a bed.”

The Cyclops stopped. “Actually, Christmas wouldn’t be a bad gig. Seasonal appearances get you exposure every year. Like the way the leprechauns hijacked March 17th. Nah, what am I saying? One of us tried it a few centuries ago—sneaked into a Nativity fresco with a lamb under his arm. Total fiasco—they painted him over into a Wise Man.” The Cyclops began walking again, shaking his head.

“Let me get this straight,” Charles said. “You Cyclops are searching for a—shall we say a niche in the popular imagination?”

They turned a corner into a smaller, more comfortable cave, furnished with a Greek flokati rug, a battered cafe table and a pair of old bentwood chairs. An old-fashioned wood-fired cookstove was crowded on top with kettles and pots from which delicious smells rose. Charles sat in a bentwood chair. He had skipped lunch, due to seasickness, and now felt distinctly hungry.

Without paying much attention to its work the Cyclops set two plates out, produced cutlery and cloth napkins from a cupboard, and poured out two glasses of red wine, talking all the time. “Damn straight we need a niche. There’s nothing deader than yesterday’s folklore figure, just ask Paul Bunyan. And we’re from the day before yesterday. The trick is to make the transition, you know? Without losing anything essential.”

“And you say other legendary folk have made this jump successfully,” Charles said in the encouraging, interested tone a Royal picks up at his nanny’s knee. “I believe you mentioned leprechauns.”

“You wanna know the real success story? The Nereids. And their cousins, the Dryads and Hamadryads.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“They’re the nymphs of oceans and trees and streams. You’ve had dinner with one, I saw it on CNN. Look!”

The Cyclops reached a big coffee-table book down from the cupboard. Charles stared astonished at the glossy dustcover, which had a photo of a huge curving ocean wave, very blue, on the front. On the back the author, a dishy blonde in a Givenchy dress, stood in front of a yacht. “Our Living Waters? But I know her—Constance Bedlington! She’s on the Birthday Honors short list, for her antipollution work!”

“Told you! She and the other Nereids have a lock on the clean water stuff. The Greenpeace people, all those groups that monitor oil spills, and shampoo greased-up sea otters, and save whales, and hug trees—nymphs pack all their governing boards. There’s Nereids running water purification plants, and Dryads lobbying against clear-cutting Amazon rainforests, and Hamadryads lecturing at universities on wastewater treatment policy. It’s enough to make a Cyclops sick with envy.”

Charles shook his head in wonder. “Connie Bedlington, a Nereid. Amazing!” He took another sip of wine.

The Cyclops refilled both glasses. “Okay, chow time.” Charles hid his nervousness as the monster brought a serving dish over from the stove. Suppose it was human meat? But the dish was an appetizer, fried calamari—the crisp little brown rings of squid were plainly visible. Charles picked up his fork. “So you eat squid, huh?” the Cyclops said.

“Of course—and these are scrumptious.”

The Cyclops grinned with pleasure at the compliment. “Lots of folks won’t, the wimps.”

The sight of its sharp shark-teeth almost made Charles knock his glass over. “I’m used to eating all kinds of things,” he said, recovering quickly. “Part of the job, being Prince of Wales. I ate a boiled rat once, in Cameroon.”

“A rat? My god!” The Cyclops shuddered all over. “Better you than me, pal!”

“Only one bite,” Charles said gloomily. “If I’d jibbed, the diplomatic scandal would have been indescribable.” He helped himself to more calamari, to get the memory out of his mouth.

“Don’t fill up on that,” the Cyclops warned. “There’s bouillabaisse to follow, and pigeon pie.”

“No human stew, eh?” Charles drained his glass.

The Cyclops looked embarrassed. “That was Homer’s idea, you know. Trashed our image completely. We could’ve got over being one-eyed—look how the satyrs managed their goat legs. But people don’t like people who eat people, no denying it.”

“What are the satyrs into these days?” Charles asked, fascinated.

“Porn, mostly. You don’t believe the male stars in those films are really human, do you? The hassle of shaving goat hair off my legs and haunches every day would put me off, but they don’t seem to mind. Here, you open this white, while I dish up the bouillabaisse.”

Charles had never opened a wine bottle before—the servants did that—but now was the time to learn. The cork broke into pieces when he forced the corkscrew in, and he had to fish the crumbs out of his glass with a fork. The Cyclops pretended not to see his awkwardness, though. Charles decided that Homer had really had the wrong end of the stick—Cyclops were instinctively hospitable. He sniffed the rich garlicky steam rising from his plate and picked up his spoon. “So what kind of job were you Cyclops contemplating?” he asked.

The Cyclops pulled a clam from its shell and chewed it thoughtfully. “I was sort of toying with the idea of starting a Cyclops rap group.” He fixed Charles with a one-eyed gaze.

Charles kept his face absolutely serious. “Do you sing?”

“Rap doesn’t involve singing. I figured if we wore baseball caps turned to one side folks might not even notice our eyes.” The Cyclops put an imaginary cap on, pulling the bill down and to one side of his face.

“Every rap group that I’ve seen has been African-American,” Charles said tactfully. “Perhaps skin color’s not a difficulty, for figures of legend.”

“Well, yeah, it is. No such thing as a black Cyclops. We’re all pasty white—must come of living in caves.” The Cyclops mopped his bowl out with a piece of bread. “You about ready for that pigeon pie?”

“Looking forward to it. Oh, and a red wine to go with, delightful!” This time Charles opened the bottle deftly, and poured the new wine out with justifiable pride. The Cyclops congratulated him and set a large dish down. The glazed and shining piecrust had a unicorn design pressed into the pastry. Charles applauded. “By gum, it’s a masterpiece. Could be on a gourmet magazine’s cover.”

“Well, I’ve always admired the pictures in Food & Wine,” the Cyclops admitted. It served Charles a portion and watched him anxiously as he took a bite.

“Delicious!” Charles pronounced. “There’s something in the sauce, is it basil?”

“And marjoram,” the Cyclops said. “But I bet you eat as good every day, at home.”

“You’d lose your bet,” Charles sighed. “England is famous for its horrible food.”

The Cyclops blinked its eye in surprise. “No kidding? That’s terrible! But you’re the prince, the heir to the throne. Can’t you just wave your sceptre and say, ‘I want roast duck for dinner’?”

Halfway down the fourth bottle of wine, Charles let it all hang out. “It’d be lukewarm by the time the food hit the plate—the kitchen is so far from the dining room in a palace. Not like your charming cave here.”

“It is convenient,” the Cyclops said modestly.

“And I don’t have a sceptre. May never have one. My mother will be Queen of England until she dies. By then I’ll be an old man.”

“That’s terrible. And what’re you going to do, between now and then?”

“The usual routine. Cut ribbons at supermarket openings. Give speeches to Mayoral Assemblies. Listen to preschool choirs sing ‘The Little Drummer Boy.’ Press the flesh at old age homes. You should’ve rescued a shipwrecked MP if you want help,” Charles concluded sadly. “Or Steven Spielberg. The Prince of Wales is just a figurehead. Powerless.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” the Cyclops said, tears brimming in its eye. “Your people like you.”

“They like my ex-wife more.” Charles knew he was getting maudlin, a privilege he could very rarely allow himself. But his host was in no better shape, snuffling dolefully into its napkin. And a Cyclops was perhaps the safest confidante on earth. “To tell the truth, I envy your situation,” Charles continued. “We’re both of us anachronisms. Freaks looking for a role. But once you find your niche, I just know you Cyclops will make your mark in the world. I may never do so.”

“Oh, you will,” the Cyclops sobbed. “I’ll help you, if you need it.”

“Would you? Really?”

“Of course!” The Cyclops extended a three-fingered hand the size of a typewriter and, seizing Charles’s hand, pumped it up and down. “Anything! I promise!”

Charles was almost jerked out of his seat by the vigor of the handshake. “You’re too kind,” he said. “And I am indeed going to lend a hand in your problem too. The least I can do, for my rescuer. Suppose—“ Looking around for inspiration, Charles’s gaze fell on the immense pigeon pie. “Suppose you moved to England, and gave my chef some hints? Can all you Cyclops cook so wonderfully?”

“Well, sure, but—you mean, cooking? As a job?” The Cyclop’s shark-like mouth dropped in amazement. “Hey, we only play around amongst ourselves—we couldn’t cook like pros!”

“You already do, believe me!” Recklessly Charles drained his glass and poured more for both of them. “I’ve got it now. I’ll go on ahead, and sack the kitchen staff at Balmoral. That’s the Scottish castle where my family holidays. Then you Cyclops follow along to take up the jobs. Scotland’s a lot like Greece, mountainous and full of sheep, you’d fit right in. If all goes well, a few of you could branch out a bit in a couple years—start a restaurant, open a B & B, write a cookbook—I could write you a foreword. Maybe get on the telly with a cooking show . . .” The entire scheme seemed to leap, fully grown, from Charles’s head.

The Cyclops goggled at him, if a single eye may be said to goggle. “Are you sure? You don’t think that being fifteen feet tall and one-eyed will spoil people’s appetite?”

“No one will see you in the kitchen,” Charles pointed out. “On your TV show you could stand in a trench on the set, to hide your height—actors do that. You could even bring Phylax the sheepdog. Englishmen love people who love dogs.”

The Cyclops jumped up, overturning his chair, and enveloped Charles in a bear hug. “That’s fantastic. You’re brilliant. We’ll be in your debt forever. And don’t think I’ve forgotten your problem. We’ll reform British cooking if it kills us. And you’re gonna get the credit. You’ll go down in history as the prince who gave England a cuisine.”

Tears rose in Charles’s eyes too. “You do that,” he said, “and Connie Bedlington won’t be the only mythological figure on the Honors List.”

An hour later Charles stood on the rocky shore again while the Cyclops brought around its motorized fishing boat. The storm had almost blown away, with only ravellings of cloud scudding across the moon’s face. His hands were clasped behind his back in his customary stance. He was still a couple sheets to the wind, but Charles’s head was clear. There was no reason why the relationship shouldn’t be mutually profitable. Palace employees had an excellent dental plan, so the Cyclops could get its shark-teeth capped before kicking off its TV career. And Charles could dine, at last, like a prince, for the rest of his life.

It occurred to him that he had even done Odysseus King of Ithaca one in the eye. Charles of England had escaped from a Cyclops too, and without any ungentlemanly poking about with sharpened stakes either. Just sympathetic conversation, solid British diplomacy, and four bottles of good Greek wine. “To each hero his own weapons,” Charles said aloud with satisfaction.