The Interregnum

Far, far, where the wall’s half-crumbled, and a kingdom of cobwebs conquers all the eye can see, hangs a painting of a weeping boy. The points of his crown penetrate his tight grip as a sea of skulls crash into the arms of his broken throne.

“Who is he?” asks the classless mouth of the nouveau riche.

The appraiser furrows his brow from behind his loupe, “I couldn’t say.”

Sketched ever so carefully within prepubescent tears are scenes of chaos and plague, and faintly, behind paranoid pupils, the likeness of a king and queen, pale of skin and void of life.

“How old is it? Worth anything?” the greedy tongue inquires.

“The craquelure and pigments would suggest thirteenth century, but I’d need to test it to be sure. It’s just—” The appraiser stops himself. “There was no king during the Nightpox.”

But the brutal brushstrokes and haunting halftones tell a disturbing tale. Someone reigned over the havoc, forcing the healthy to stay with the infected, ordering the grain to be burned, barricading the castle walls. History blames the random riots of the unruled, but the young king’s face reeks of quiet madness.

“Hey man, if this is above your pay grade, I’ll just go on Antiques Roadshow.”

“The lives,” the appraiser considers all who could have been saved. “The truth,” he stutters as he lights a match, imagining the shame this discovery would bring.

The sound of the flames drowns out the protesting philistine.

And the interregnum is kept alive.