When the king came again, he knocked at the always-open door, stepped over the threshold, and sat at her table. Philothea prepared the tea.

The silence had remained all this while, but the king, true to his word had returned, more than once. Philothea warmed the tea kettle. As it whistled, she placed the two tea cups and their saucers on an age, dry wood tray without handles. The tea leaves rested in the bottom of the cups. Holding a cloth in her hand, she lifted the kettle from the stove, turned off the burner, and poured the boiling water into the cups. She completed each step with the art of focus that comes only with routine.

The time passed in silence as she removed the leaves. The cups were steaming and full when she set the tray on the table.

“Drink it now,” the king said.

Matter of fact, she responded, “It’s too hot.”

“Then pour the water back and forth between the cups until they cool.” Considering his instruction, she looked at the cups.

“There isn’t enough room them to do that.”

“So you have been with me. In order to cool this tea, you will need to empty one cup, at least a little.” Philothea looked up at the king into his dark steady eyes. “Remember the old days, walking on the hill. I reminded you then to soften a little. You are wise, but you need to step down a little to receive what I have to tell you.” She silently recalled the visions from the old days: the meadow, the forest, the mountain, and now, the desert.

“As you look, you can see the mountain, and the trail that switches back and forth. This is the way life is. Some days you will see the meadow, and other days you will not. But you will have to continue to climb the mountain. Do not go all this way and stop short of the peak. Do not allow your fears to stop you when you have just a few more feet to go. You know you did not come this far to stop now. A time will come when you will see the meadow again, that did not mean the rest of the path did not happen or will not happen again. You must keep climbing.

“And truth be told,” he smiled slightly as he said this, “the very top is a steep climb. To reach it you will need the strength and rest gained along the way. Otherwise you cannot continue.”

“I just felt comforted by you and now you’re going to leave again.” Philothea stared at her cup as she spoke. It was morning. Her child cried in the background. The king was leaving. She stared at her cup, this teacup and saucer from the palace. As she stared visions rose up in her mind of taking that cup by the silver-lined rim in her right hand and smashing it across the wall. She stared at that gold-rimmed cup. At least the force of imagination placated her thoughts. It relaxed her.

Standing at the doorway, she turned her face from that cup and wonderful fantasy to the world beyond.

It was more a haze than fog. Philothea peered past the king and the people at the gate, some distance from her house. There was little she could see beyond the gate. The large blank walls encircled the village. Her home was not far from the gate. Outside the gate, at some distance stood that magnificent castle. For some reason, unknown to her, this little village was separate. They lived in the shadow the palace, but could see it. The walls were too tall and too thick. They could leave any time. They could simply walk out and see the grandeur of that place, but rarely ever did. Rather they ran about their market place, drew water from their wells, and went about their business.

So had her life become. What a long time it was since she stood with her king in those halls, in those glory days. Age and time wore rough on her face as she peered through the dust and doldrum of another afternoon. These days were too hot to work. And so they did nothing.

“You will go now…and then what? I don’t think we shall see you again.” Ever the provocateur, she plied for reassurance. The king denied her desire. He stood beside her, just past the threshold. The knight stood ready to leave.

Opening his hands, the king said, “What would you like me to say?”

The thoughts raced then through her mind like throwing a teacup. Say you will come back. Say you will never leave. Say you will rescue me from this terrible place. Say you will free me from these shadows of dust and sun and take me to where it is beautiful. Say you will restore the riches we lost to poverty, the health we lost to sickness, the freedom we knew when we knew no suffering. You have given me everything; say you will give me these things.

All she could do was stare at him. Standing before her, he felt so far away.

This was the way now. Some days were close; some days far. There was little consistency in her heart.

“Why don’t you let me come?” Philothea asked. A child screamed in the background for want of some shoe or trinket or toy. It is foolish even to ask, her thoughts rebuked her. Still the vision remained: the jewels, the gowns, the gold, the glory. What is the point of being here? The peace, the pride, the comfort. If she left there would be so much more. What is to be gained?

Since the king would not answer, Philothea continued, “I see the goodness here; I know there was beauty. But remember the battlefield. I felt such purpose then. The mission was clear. The goal was clear. I understood what you wanted me to be—“

The sweet king denies her now, “yet did you, my Philothea? Did you really know what I wanted you to be? Because over and over again, we talked and discussed and you heard me say I had plans for you, things you could not imagine. And that has remained. Yes, I have plans and they have none of the romance or glory you once imagined. Yet they are art, and they are beautiful, and they are for you and you alone to become the bride of my heart, my daughter and disciple. It is only through this path that you can learn the way. You would never know it had I sheltered you in my palace, as I may have often wanted to do. You know well that even my mother spent her years here in the village ministering to those around you, your neighbors and your friends. Do you need to speak with her to remind you of those stories she once told when you stayed in the palace at her side those many nights? Have you forgotten?”

“I have not forgotten.” Defiance mounted. It was a defiance conflicted with the passion seeking answers she had long walked without. “I have not forgotten, but I cannot see what the two have in common. She did not grow up here. She spoke with angels. What have we here? It is not the same.”

The king shook his head. “Then you have made up your mind.” Tilting his head he studied her look, the pressed countenance of her confusion. “I cannot tell you more than what you willing to hear. You will have to be open again.”

“I have been nothing but open—“

“No, my girl. You have accepted; it is true. But there is more for you here. I cannot tell you now, because I do not think you want to listen. It is all darkness before you. There will be other sandstorms and you must prepare. Each time you will grow stronger and at times you will be weaker. Still, know that I am near. I am not in the palace but walk among you and your kin. I will visit. You will not be alone. And when you are ready, we will speak again.”

He left her then, walking away from her home and around the corner, with his knight by her side. It was not long before she was left with her thoughts. It was not as bad she made it out to be in those lonely moments. It was only when she was alone. The flow of her emotions made her feel foolish. It was the ebb that made her feel empty. When everything left her and she stood alone. The time for this was passed. She returned to her duties and to her children. These questions were too big to answer in the kitchen of her home.

It was another night of that never ending night. When asked how she was, Philothea could answer, “the others are well…I am where I should be,” and leave it at that. The girl, alone, before bed, sent a note by messenger to her king. “Be the king you once were,” it read. And she retired to bed.

The darkness came, with the clouds, with the storm, with the awareness that though there was a moon, it was impossible to see through the thickness of the clouds. Philothea was growing used to this, resigned to take what comes. The storm grew louder as the rain pelted her windows. The childhood joy of mud thrown washed away in the rain only to leave a sodden mess below. Her child cried. She rose to check on him. Nothing was different. It was as it should be.

Before returning to her room, she heard a knock at the door. Philothea was not afraid. She walked to the front room and opened the door. It was her king. In a way she was surprised, and yet…

More surprised was she that when she saw him, she felt like a girl again. She felt free in her heart to stand atop the hill, to see the ruin of a forest below and its darkness, to pick wildflowers and stand there allowing him to bless her until the sun went down. She could see him and know him and love him and trust him. She could trust him yet again. “I have brought you something,” he told her and in his hand held a little brown sack.

“I do not know where you like to keep these things,” the king explained, “but I know you have needed this comfort.” It was the dress her daughter wore. It was the dress she wore when she was taken away from her, when death claimed another prize, when the darkness began.

There was only a little blood on it. Philothea thought that perhaps it was more likely her blood than the blood of her daughter. The dress was small, had been sewn for this child of the stars. Philothea held it close to hear heart, pressed it between her hands, folded it up and put it back into the small brown sack. She looked into the eyes of the king. Her body felt paralyzed.

But in his eyes she knew him. “I love you, and I am with you, my beautiful daughter,” he said. It felt like everything was happening to her. She could say nothing.

How good it felt to have a friend again.

She woke suddenly from sleep. Sweat dried on her forehead in the cold air as she calmed her breathing. Looking around in the dark, she grasped for the light but could not find it. She reached out in the dark to find the door. Seeing the moonlight on the floor of that small hallway, she moved to her children’s rooms. Holding tight on the doorknob, she pushed open the doors to see their faces sound asleep. Images flashed through her mind of lifeless bodies, colorless faces, breathless limbs.

They were sound asleep, breathing heavily, their faces turned upwards to the sky. It is okay. It was only her dream.

It was a dream Philothea could not wake from. Where was her king now? How long these nights were when she waited with her tea and her open door, hoping for some news or some sign he was still there. How long this darkness lasted.

It was an hour this time. She sat at the table, staring out into the distance held at bay by the fingerprinted glass of the living room window. Just as they were grown more familiar, he disappeared again.

The darkness was palatable. The dreams continued. Some times felt so long, she hated to go to sleep again. Philothea would wake and wonder what was real and what was a dream. She woke to see that reality was the nightmare. Some times it was better to just have bad dreams.

“At the heart of darkness the hope of the world is dying on a cross, and the longest stride of soul is to see in this a strange glory.” Richard John Neuhaus, Death on a Friday Afternoon

…

The time for another visit had come. She stood in the doorway once again awaiting his arrival. There in the distance the two figures moved: the king and the knight who traveled with him. A third figure, shorter than the first two moved with them. It was a child, a girl. Drawing closer, Philothea saw her hand in the hand of the knight. Clad in white and pink, Philothea knew this girl, a shadow of the girl she once possessed.

How empty her hands felt these days, as she wanted for her king to visit.

She awoke. It was only a dream. The girl was alone in her home, feeling out of place in the world.

She stands in the doorway, leaning against one of the two strong posts that hold up such a doorway, made of wood worn down by time. The endless sky stretches ahead with another sunny day, a deep blue, to contrast the sand-colored town. She looks and looks, lost in her thoughts for this quiet moment. Seeing movement in the distance, near the town gate, she squints her eyes. Yes, it is him.

The king has come to visit her. A knight escorts him. It makes no difference. He follows his path in his own power. They never recognize him, as it is. As the years have gone by, Philothea met several others who recognized him as he is.

She waits the longs wait of the still figure watching the approaching figure. When he drew close, there was the momentary question of to be reverent or familiar. She straightens up, and bows her head. Clasping her shoulders in his old hands, he looks into her eyes, a knowing and long look with a smile. She gives into this warm gesture, and smiles back.

The king walks inside and Philothea follows. They tread across the worn floors, sand colored and smooth as any grand oak installation. The kings knows where to go. He sits at her table, unevenly made out of necessity for a growing family. Philothea goes to the teapot and the cupboard. The walls and floor and table may all be sand colored, but the teacups she brings from the cupboard, these show the artistry of her heart. How little they fit in these poor surroundings. They were a gift from the Queen Mother in those years back when Philothea was at court. How long ago it seems. And in all that time, how much silence!

She pours the tea and sits across from the king in silence. Her fingers absentmindedly run across the rim of her cup. He sips, observes her, the floor, the tea, and gazes out the window. The knight sits outside the doorway, allowing for this private audience. Philothea stands to take him some tea, he refuses at first and at second insistence, accepts because she has already poured it in the cup.

Returning to her seat, she looks long and daringly at the king. This old king. How young he seemed when she loved him, and he loved her as a father. How foreign he seemed in those years that past when she moved back inside the walls and took up residence in this dusty habitat. How strange that she chose this home, when she had seen and done so much in those golden halls, with all those teacups.

Now she only stares and remembers. Everything looks different here, even the king. It is simpler, less romantic. She can feel the hard work, the ache of labor and delivery coloring all she does. Sitting here with him, she can remember her anger.

There was so much anger. She was angry to live inside the walls, angry to put aside her ambition and dreams and romantic notions of a life with the king, the life within the court. Then the silence followed. Not a silence out of anger but the silence that comes with work and children and marriage. There is too much to do to take daylong hikes and chat over little flowers on her birthday. It is too difficult now to remember her birthday from the last year. It was in the fall of last year that the pain began. It was one event after another. Some decreed by the king; some fell out of the sky. So the girl would walk to the edge of the town, look past the walls and see that palace in all its difference and whisper under her breath, “I used to know you.” So as to imply, “I do not know you now.

Events piled on each other. Philothea labored and worked and worked and worked, barely looking up. She began to take long walks to create some peace of mind. More than once she wandered to the marketplace and dreamed of that life she left behind for the glory and simplicity of married life. She walked and pondered and walked some more. But ever she had to return. The children must be fed, the house cared for, her husband greeted.

That prince. He, too, chose this life. He left behind the glory he might have had for a life with her, a life that once seemed so full of adventure and now seemed so full of sorrow. He, too, had separated from the king in the distance and anger of those events in this past year. Philothea did not question the prince on what conversations he had with his father. All she knew was they felt the distance.

It is painful to look back. Philothea returned her mind to the present room. The king stood admiring her humble room made a home. He could see the care and beauty she put into it; like the teacups but translated to this more difficult terrain.

The past year had not continued. It was only, perhaps, one month ago, or less even…no, it was more, when the king began to show the signs of his presence. Did he have spies, or messengers, about to report to him what Philothea had wished for? No, she began to write letters, short simple letters requesting the time away from home to be short. And each request was answered exactly as she asked it, again and again.

So, her letters grew in length and gradually grew in affection. Then, in the past two weeks came the gifts. He anticipated her longing for some particular items to help with the sadness about to come. For she was great with child, but this child was not to live.

Why in the distance did the words pour out of her mind like a flurry and she could imagine all he would say to her, and then, in this visit, the third this week, was there this silence? After long enough, he broke it and asked, “is there anything else you need?”

Is there anything else I need? The words echoed strangely for a mind so full of furniture. It was not an offer to change her life or her home or to give her the glory she too often missed. And yet…she had only to ask.

Very well, she thought, I’ll ask. “I would like to show my daughter the art gallery…I want my husband to walk again…I…well, could I see you more?”

He turned and stood before her. The king was so tall and strong before her. “Yes, I will visit you often.”

What of the other things? He never answered for sure. She would have to wait and see what he decided to do. The king took his cup to the counter and walked to the doorway. Philothea followed. They stood together in the narrow doorway. Her mind wandered as her eyes fixed on his chest. He grasped her left shoulder with his right hand, and squeezed affectionately. He would be there for her, as she needed him. Indeed, for the first time, things were beginning to make sense.