The Muse

By G. W. Thomas

The Rainbow Man watched the poet from hisdoor. "I have observed you every day for a year now, Grya. You sharpen your pens and mix your squid ink, but you write nothing."

"Yes, it is fortunate my family is wealthy. They have supported me all this year that I have written nothing. I don't understand, two years ago I wrote every day and sold many poems."

"When did this dry spell begin?" asked the Rainbow Man.

"About the time I began my Epic."

"Your Epic?"

"Yes, a stunning poem to be remembered for all time." The scribe's face burned with the imagined glory of it.

"How did you begin the process of writing this Epic?"

"I have taken the sternest measures. I read nothing. I visit no one. I listen to no lute players in the village square. I do nothing but what you see, come here and work on my Epic."

"What of your muse?" wondered the visiting wizard.

The scribe looked blankly at the other man. "My muse?"

"Yes. All creatures have one."

"I do not seem to have one," declared the writer.

"Yes, you do. You simply do not know where it lies. Allow me." The Rainbow Man sang a short incantation, burnt three sticks of incense and a handful of hen's teeth. A small box appeared around the scribe's neck.

"Look inside the box."

The man did as he was instructed,ng the box carefully. Inside lay a small skeletal form, human in every detail but no larger than a cricket. "What does it mean?" wondered the scribe.

"Your muse is dead. It starved to death. You did not feed it with the food of life and knowledge. As you said: "The sternest measures. You read nothing. You visited no one. You listen no more to the lute players in the village square..."

"How can I bring it back to life?" pleaded the weeping man.

"Go home. Enjoy the pleasures your family's wealth can give..."

"Will this resurrect my muse? Perhaps if I read--"

"No."

The scribe tried to hang himself later that day, but survived to go on to a career in politics.

About the Author.

Back to the top of this page.