Rose Queen of Pearl's Den

Part One

“He’s an odd choice, isn’t he?”

“He’ll do alright, poor dear. He’s just a boy, but he’ll grow with time.”

“Only Boffo would fish a cub like him out of the giving tree and decide to king him.”

Two lionesses sat side by side, tails swaying as their eyes followed a young lion lying with his paws tucked under him while the lionesses his age laughed and teased him from afar. The air was thick with pollen, and bees buzzed in the air, swarming with young love. Flowers crept in from all sides like the blanket a gentle mother throws over you, and the warmth made the lionesses squint with contentedness. The world was alive, everything growing and springing into life, but the young lion sat with a serious expression on his face, giving no reaction to the youthful flirtation of the others.

A large lion padded out of the cool dens, his great shaggy black fur reminding one of a primordial beast long extinct. None of the lions, though, seemed even remotely frightened of him as they shouted their hellos: “Morning, Boffo!” In fact, one of the younger cubs, seeing him come out, went flying at his side with playful ferocity. Boffo let out a great huff and keeled over, squishing the cub beneath him as he did. The cub let out a delighted squeal and wriggled out from under him, and Boffo laughed a deep, hearty guffaw. “Monarch!” he bellowed upon spotting the young lion sitting alone. “Have you ever seen such a beautiful day?”

The young lion, Monarch, shook his head contemplatively. One of the nearby girls giggled, and Boffo bounded over to Monarch, scooping him to his feet with one of his mighty paws. “Then what in the world are you doing sitting here? Who wants a round of wrestling?”

The cub from earlier piped up, “I do!” and Boffo was instantly distracted.

One of the nearby lionesses, obviously the mother of the cub, rolled her eyes and shouted to Boffo, “Careful with our little girl or you’ll squash her flat.”

Boffo just laughed, and he started tumbling around as the cub clawed her way across his pelt with his tiny needle-like claws. Monarch, who was watching them, gave his first real smile, crinkling up his eyes. The cub’s mother, who was covered in a thick layer of fur, padded over to Monarch. “Us ladies need some help picking out flowers,” she told him kindly. “Care to help us?”

Monarch looked at her, his face once again serious, and took a step back. He seemed for a moment as though he would say no, but at that moment the cub let out a shrill squeal and all of the gathered lionesses shouted with laughter. The smile crept back onto Monarch’s face. “Sure.”



Part Two

It’s funny how a smell can bring back memories so vividly. Monarch hadn’t really meant to stray so far from the warm and cold springs. It was only the scent of sweet flowers, drifting down from the trees above, that made him remember younger days, picking flowers in the feathered grass. It was only that the thought of going back down made his throat constrict, gave him that sense of dread and not enough that made his stomach bloat. If he let the flowered air meander in spirals through his mind, though, he could feel that tightness slipping away ever so slightly. He just wanted to sit and hear the rush of spring water and be alone for a few moments.

But as he padded softly up the stretch, he saw that this was a wish that wasn’t going to come true. The sway of another tail and the glint of another’s eyes met him as he drew nearer. She was sitting under the tree, and purple blossoms swayed above her, giving her a flowering beauty despite her own plain looks. Monarch had the overwhelming urge to turn and leave. But it was too late. She had seen him. She shied behind the branches of the tree for a moment, but her ears flicked in curiosity and after only a moment she came slinking out. “Did you come here to kick me out of your territory?” she asked, and while her voice was mirthful, there was a glint of fear in her eyes.

Monarch paused, and then said quietly, “It’s not my territory. You can stay where you are. I was just . . . patrolling.” He looked around as though making sure everything was in order and then turned around. “Well, I guess I’d better be getting back.”

The lioness smiled and gestured to Monarch with her tail. “You should smell these flowers. That’s why you came up here, isn’t it? I could hear you sniffing from all the way over there.”

Monarch hung back, but the lioness moved forward so that only her sun-colored tail was brushing against the purple violets. She tugged at Monarch’s half-grown mane like an excited cub, and Monarch couldn’t help but move forward. The lioness darted under the violets again and rubbed up against them, arching her back contentedly. “Nobody ever comes around here,” she said, and any fears she may have had about Monarch seemed to have melted away. “It’s a shame - they never get to smell the flowers.”

The lioness stuck her muzzle into a cluster of violets and inhaled deeply. Monarch gave her a small smile and followed suit. There was a slight tickle and he jerked back as he inhaled an entire petal. He sneezed and the petal splatted to the ground. The lioness pulled her head out from the flowers and, upon seeing the petal, laughed and laughed until she had no choice but to roll over on her back. Monarch watched her with amusement which turned to mirth, and finally he gave in and laughed as well, flopping down.

As the last giggles subsided, the two lay with their paws tucked above them, looking up at the sky. Monarch glanced at the lioness, and smiled again as he saw purple stains across her fur from the small violets she had crushed under her weight.

“I used to pick those when I was little,” he said, nodding to the violets. “All along the springs. Windward violets.”

The lioness rolled over comfortably and tried to brush some of the purple stains off of her fur. “Why are they called windwards?”

Monarch paused thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Maybe because they can grow in any place: anywhere the winds set their seeds down.”

“That’s what I’m like,” said the lioness, giving him a goofy look. “No pride, no parents. Just me out here by myself.”

“Don’t you want parents and a pride?” asked Monarch, looking surprised.

The lioness shrugged. “I’m getting along just fine without them.”

Monarch shrugged, and after a moment he pointed out a small black-and-white flower with his paw. “Do you see that flower there?”

The lioness flopped onto her side to look at it. “It’s cute, isn’t it?”

“That’s what I’m named after,” Monarch said. “Monarch of the Veldt.”

The lioness scrunched up her nose in a silly expression. “Why do they call it that?” she asked him.

“I dunno. Probably because it grows on the veldt.”

“You’re real creative, aren’t you?” The lioness laughed and Monarch blushed slightly.

They spoke so long that the sun had sunk halfway to the horizon by the time Monarch realized he had to return home. The lioness tucked a violet behind his ear, smiling, and told him she’d wait for him until the next day. Before he made his way down, though, he stopped and asked her, “You never told me: what’s your name?”

The lioness shook her head. “I never had one.”

Monarch looked at the beautiful tree, and the purple flowers carpeting the earth below, and he said to her, “Then I’ll see you tomorrow, Windward.”



Part Three

She was gone.

It felt wrong, like everything in the was tilted sideways. Like a slant was sending him reeling sideways, because every day for months Windward had been there, sitting for him and waiting under the flowering violet tree.

The first day he had been worried, but he had told himself that she too had things to do and places to be. So she had missed one day. It was fine - he would be back the next day.

On the second day he imagined that she was ill. He fancied she might be late, and when she came back, they would both laugh about how silly his worries had been.

On the fifth day he began searching for her, first in circles around the violet tree, which had become bare of blossoms in a strange reflection of Monarch’s world. He searched across the churning waterfall and cascading rivulet of the springs, and through places where the barren land scorched his paws.

One the tenth day he stopped looking. He sat staring at the twigs that had once held blossoms, and explanations ran in circles through his head, but he knew not one of them was true. That was it. She was gone. He would never know why, left with questions buzzing in his head.

Everything felt distant, and Monarch observed the world rolling past him as he walked. He was going back home, to that other life that had now become his only life. It seemed so long now since he had really thought of them, every day becoming a train of expectations about his visit with Windward. He remembered sweet October Skies, who had come traipsing after him with eyes shining for his affection. He thought of old Boffo, smiling encouragingly as they sparred. He thought of Honeymilk, and her determination to have faith in him through everything. And he smiled a strained, dull smile, flooding his mind with thoughts about how happy he was.

And as he smiled, he refused to turn back and look at the purple-stained pawprints embroidered into the dying ground behind him.



Part Four

“They blossomed so beautifully this year.”

Monarch brushed his tail up against Windward’s side, watching the bees buzzing through the flowers. Windward rubbed up against his mane, so much fuller and paler this year. They had been sitting for a while, not speaking, but Windward had chosen to break that silence.

“They did,” Monarch agreed, his voice warm but something icy underneath.

Windward looked at him with doe-brown eyes and shifted away from him so that he looked back at her. “It happened sooner than I thought,” she said, and none but Monarch could know that she wasn’t speaking of the blossoms.

“What did?” Monarch said quietly, but he knew very well what answer he would get.

“You know I had to leave.”

Monarch didn’t push her again. He simply turned his steely gaze back to the flowers, and when she tried to move closer he stiffened. Windward shook her head ever so slightly and walked away from Monarch, shredding his claws against the rough bark absently.

“Windward,” said Monarch slowly, watching her as she did, “I want you to come back with me.”

Windward paused, not looking at him, and stood still for a few moments before resuming. “Come with you?” she repeatedly, though she didn’t really have to ask.

“To my pride,” Monarch said, watching her intently with midnight blue eyes. “To be my wife.”

Windward smiled and let out an exhale of air that served as a laugh. “I think you have more than enough wives, Monarch.”

“To be my queen,” he said more forcefully, getting to his feet and moving over to her. “My only queen. As soon as I’m kinged.”

The silence that followed was heart-stuttering, and Monarch waiting with mounting anticipation and bubbling worries. Windward was faced away from him, and all he could see was her short golden fur rippling in the breeze. “Windward . . . ?” he prompted quietly, drawing back a bit.

Windward turned to look at him, and her expression was one of a mother whose silly cub told them that they wanted to be a crocodile when they grew up. She was smiling again, her head tilted to the side, a playful reprimand in her eyes. “Now, Monarch, don’t you like meeting me here?”

“Of course-”

“Then let’s just keep it that way.”

Monarch looked down at the ground and then at the sky, and he said with a small nod, “Let’s.”

“And,” Windward added, “if I’m not here when the petals fall, will you wait for me? Will you wait for me to come back the next year?”

“I will.”

“Monarch?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for asking me to join your pride.”



Part Five

The moonlight echoed across the lands, that silver orb lighting up all of Nigeria with its sunlight reflection. The night was brighter than it had been for years, and though roars from the arena could be heard, even the fights had mostly died down with the wind. It was a warm night, and most of the lionesses were out hunting. A blood-colored lioness covered in white like snow laid with the cubs curled around her, licking one gently on the head. Two lions lingered in the foliage behind her, conversing in low voices.

A dark figure came slipping through the undergrowth, causing the lioness to look up. “Monarch,” she greeted warmly, but he took no notice of her. He continued as though in a daze, gliding towards his sleeping spot. The lioness watched him go with a furrowed brow, and turned back to licking the cub on the head.

“Monarch!” came a cheery voice, gravelly and strained with age. One of the lions in the darkness heaved to his feet, helped by the other lion. What had once been a magnificent primal beast was now an unsteady and bone-creaking lion, but his eyes still held the same glimmer of joy. “You certainly have been doing more than your fair share of patrolling.”

The red lioness sighed and the other lion moved back behind the great Boffo. Monarch stopped dead in his tracks as though only now realizing that he was among others. He paused in that position, and then very slowly turned to face Boffo. “Thank you,” he said blankly, his eyes misted over with other thoughts.

“But tomorrow I want you to take a break,” said Boffo genially. “You’ve been spending too much time out. You’re hardly here anymore. I want you to take the pride to the springs. I’m afraid I’m not really up to the trip anymore.”

“I’m . . . busy tomorrow,” said Monarch vaguely, moving towards his sleeping spot again. “Thank you.”

Boffo frowned slightly, looking at the other male, who shrugged. “Young lions like you need free time as well,” Boffo told Monarch. “And I think quality time with lions like, say, October Skies, can do you a world of good.” He gave him a hearty wink.

But Monarch was already in his sleeping place, and he curled himself up without a second glance at Boffo. “No thanks, I’m fine,” he said, shutting his eyes.

Boffo sat watching as Monarch’s breathing slowed, and he shook his head, glancing at the lioness. “Leave him,” he said, trudging back to the bushes and lying down. He laid there wide awake until the lionesses came home, dragging a bloodied gazelle carcass behind them. That night he and his main wife, Honeymilk, stayed up late speaking in low voices.

The next morning, Monarch didn’t take his pride to the springs. Honeymilk led them down to the warm and cold water, and as the cubs splashed in the water and the lionesses groomed each other, way above them Monarch sat still with Windward like he had every summer day before.



Part Six

And I will never stop waiting for you. Not one day, not one moment, every waking hour of my life. Every fall, winter, and spring, every time the petals start to fall and every time they show their faces again. When the day begins I’ll be waiting for you, and when it ends I’ll be dreaming of tomorrow. You never have to ask me what I’m dreaming about.

Windward shuddered like a sudden foul taste had passed along the back of her throat. Perhaps it was the dry winds parching her to the bone. Or perhaps it was the words that Monarch had said to her. At hearing them, she had been elated, filled with pride at being worthy of such promises. But he was gone now, and she could hear the shouts of laughter ringing from the pridelands below. And somehow, without seeing it, she knew that he was not one of the ones laughing.

He laughed with her. He was there, and more alive than anyone she’d met. He made her feel alive. But when the time came to say goodbye, she saw the way his eyes glassed over, and though more than anything she wanted to be part of that pride, she had been afraid for so long to tell him why she couldn’t. It was a fear of losing him, but now that she had somebody in her life that she feared for as well, and that was a far different kind of fear. Of losing him in a different way.

Tell him the truth. On day one she had intended to, but then it seemed so soon. And afterwards she thought they might have only one summer, and she had held onto it. And then - well, then it had seemed too late. But she could only hope now that it really wasn’t too late.

“Monarch, I’ve been running for such a long time.” That wasn’t really how she meant to start it. She should have started slowly, softly, easing him into it like a cub into water. But it was started already, and she could only keep going. “Not in the way you think. Not from feelings or my past. From something real, something that’s been following me all across the lands. Something that drove me away every year, something that I can’t avoid too much longer.

I’m dead.

Or I should be.

I don’t know how she missed me. I know there are ways of keeping her away: toxic springs and stinging jellyfish. I never did any of that, but she missed me the moment I should have died.”

“Who?”

“I know you call her Iku. Others have other names. I just call her Death. It’s easiest that way. She’s been looking for me for a long time, but I have places I can hide. This tree, so long as death hasn’t taken the blossoms. Nooks and crannies, in places where Death doesn’t venture. But only for such short amounts of time. But you see, I want to stay this time.”

“Stay?”

“I want to stay here with you. I want you to take me down to your pride. I want to meet them. I’ll only die one day, but I don’t want to die without having lived. Could you let me do that? Could you forgive me for just a little while?”

She was quiet, with eyes greyed over from the weight of being alive too long. But Monarch didn’t see that heaviness, or if he did, he chose to ignore it. He was only aware of one thing: the beautiful lioness he had known for so long was going to die, even though she didn’t have to. While she sat still in the grass, his mane quivered with panic. “No. No, you’re not going to die. You can run still, we can run, and then we can be together. We can find those places, those - those nooks and crannies, and I’ll be with you. I can hide from her too, don’t you see, and then we can have this forever.”

“Monarch, I don’t want-”

Monarch twined his tail around Windward’s front leg. “Come on. Come now, we’ll leave now. We’ll run, and she’ll never find you.”

“Your pride-”

“They don’t matter, Windward!” Now there was a note of anger to his voice, and Windward drew back in surprise. “Come on. We have to go now, as soon as we can. We have to be far ahead of her.”

“Please-”

Monarch pushed Windward forward heartily, causing her to stumble to her feet. He pushed her forward and she looked at him, letting out a shuddering sigh. “Alright,” she said quietly, letting her face fall because she knew he wouldn’t look to see. “We can go to the oasis. We’ll be safe there - for now.”

“Hurry up!” Monarch bounded forward, and Windward ran after him wearily. They wound down the rocks, the scent of the violets fading away slowly as they splashed through the springs, across the fields, and caught a fleeting glimpse of the place where Monarch’s pride lived.

There was something in the wind, that dryness and heat which made the blossoms fall every year. It was parching, and the ground singed their paws. The sun was pounding down on them and the world moved in and out with every beat like a drum.

“Faster! Go!” Monarch was still side-by-side with Windward, nudging her forward every time she faltered. There was nothing but sunspot mirages and heatwave ripples on either side, but somewhere ahead he knew there was the oasis, shimmering blue.

It was strange, but the heat never quite reached all the way down, because inside everything was cold. Their skin became loose, like it would melt right off of their skeletons, but those bones were as frozen as the cold metal of a human poacher. The world felt like it had lost direction, but if only they could reach that one place . . . How was it that she was so close? Surely it wasn’t time yet?

Monarch was pounding faster and faster, and he thought he could see a glimpse of blue on the horizon. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t notice that Windward was falling farther and farther behind, feeling the hot breath of Death on her fur.

“Hurry up!”

Only when Monarch looked behind him, she wasn’t there. She stood in the distance, golden fur on golden sand, and she wasn’t moving. Monarch yelled for her, and he turned and ran back, spraying golden sand.

She was waiting.

And when he called, she didn’t come, but she watched as he approached.

“Windward, please.” The winds were scorching them, blasting sand into the fur, and their eyes streamed. “Windward, you have to run!”

“No.”

Monarch pulled at her, looking behind. There was something there, intangible but becoming clearer. He struggled against Windward, but she was suddenly as heavy as stone, a look of relief on her face as she turned to look behind her.

“Windward, please.” Monarch was pulling harder and harder, feet floundering in the sand, but she wasn’t looking at him.

“Monarch,” she said quietly, “do you know why I think it’s called a Windward?”

“We have to go. We have to run.”

“I don’t think it’s because it can grow wherever it lands. I think it’s because it’s not afraid of the wind. When the wind comes to blow those seeds away, they don’t hold on. They wait and see what will happen.”

“Please! Just run, just go!”

“And do you know why I think it’s called Monarch of the Veldt?”

“Come on!”

“I think it’s because it belongs to the veldt. And it belongs with the other flowers there. A Windward is swept away, but the other flowers don’t grieve because they know they have their Monarch.”

“Windward!”

Windward smiled at Monarch, her eyes alive with light. And then she closed those eyes, letting the light be extinguished. Monarch was still pulling and yelling at her to move, but slowly she laid down with sand swirling around her.

And Monarch knew, even as he kept shaking her, that the light had gone out for good.

Because the sand had settled, and clouds were covering the sun, and in the distance he could see the blue gleam of the oasis.



Part Seven

They had waited for so long. They could only imagine he was dead, and they could only hope they wouldn’t soon follow him. Tears were shed for him, and tears were shed for themselves, and for the fates they knew they would soon meet. The strong ones held them together, but even the strong ones started to break after a while. They had nowhere to go and nothing to do but wait and see what their fates were.

But he did come back.

He came back more shattered than them, but he came back.

Some of them hated him for leaving them like that. Some felt bad for the unknown tragedy that had befallen him. Some were only glad to have him back. No matter what they felt, though, he never spared them a glance. He didn’t speak to them when they asked him questions, didn’t lick them on the heads when they nuzzled him affectionately.

They could have claimed once to have been a happy pride. Maybe not a strong one, and maybe not a large one, but happy. Now they could claim only to be a pride. Why didn’t they leave? Years and years after, a lot of them asked themselves that question. Why didn’t they find somewhere better? Some knew why: some knew it was for love. Some knew it was for loyalty. Some had no choice. But many of them could only ask themselves why.

Monarch was still up there every day. He trudged his way up to the tree the year after, expecting the blossoms to be wilted and the branches bare. But they were there, just the same as before. They were big and beautiful, and the violets underfoot stained his paws purple.

But it was a strange thing. When Monarch went up there in the years to follow, he never found that scent again. No matter how he wracked his brains, he couldn’t remember what it had smelled like. Eventually he wondered if it had ever smelled so fine in the first place, or whether everything had seemed more wonderful then.