A short Story with Plot

In this example we see a plot-driven short story.


LOOKING AT PICTURES



"Okay, this story is called The Judge's Throne. Are you lying comfortably?"

Susie grinned up at me from her pillow, her long hair spread in a silken nimbus about her head, catching and holding the golden light from her bedside lamp. I crossed my legs and adjusted my glasses on the bridge of my nose. Clearing my throat, I was ready to begin.

"Wait! You haven't smelled my breath!"

She was quite right. It was part of our nightly ritual: at nine o'clock every evening I collected together our three current story books while Susie got herself ready for bed, putting on her nightdress, washing her face and so on. After hearing the toilet flush I would go slowly upstairs, giving her enough time to be under the duvet when I came into the room. She would then choose the book from which I was to read that night's story and I would smell her breath to make sure she had cleaned her teeth.

That is what we had done for seven nights a week during the two years since her mother, Carol, had left for the second and last time.

I leaned over the bed close enough to let her exhale, giggling as she always did, into my face. A wave of minty sweetness, mingled with the peculiar milky, naturally clean, uncorrupt scent of the healthy eight year old and I sat back with a pretended dubious 'hmm'. As I always did.

"Like I said, this story is called The Judge's Throne." The book, 'Persian Tales', was new and this was the first story in it so neither of us knew what to expect.

I began to read.

"'A long time ago there was a very rich king ruling over Persia. Unlike other kings before him who were ruthless and cruel, he was kind and thoughtful. He built roads throughout the land so that people could find their way more easily and could travel more comfortably. He built canals so ships could sail right into the cities, bringing food directly to the people. He built lavish temples and libraries and paid the best artists to paint great pictures to hang in them. And he paid the best sculptors to make fine statues to decorate them.

'He himself lived in a grand palace with his wife and children and many servants, and the palace was full of wonderful things. The floors and walls were made from beautiful pink marble which kept the rooms cool during the hot summers and the doors were carved with birds and flowers and all manner of fabulous creatures..'"

I paused and glanced at my daughter. Her bright eyes burned with fire and diamonds as she quickly caught the mood of the story. She had a lively, vivid imagination and a yearning to be pleased by what she heard so that reading to her was as rewarding to me as it was entertaining for her.

"'The queen and princesses,'" I continued, "'were the most beautiful women in the land and they wore the most beautiful clothes made from silk and satin in the brightest colours. On their fingers they wore dazzling rings of precious stones and at their throats shone delicately wrought necklaces of precious metal. They carried deliciously scented sandalwood fans and they were always happy.

'And all this finery and all the good works done by the king were paid for by the fairest taxes the people had ever known, with everyone paying only what he could afford. A rich man had to give one silver 'talent' every year but a poor man had only to pay a few 'obols'.' That's like the difference between a hundred dollars and a few cents," I explained, seeing the spider's web beginnings of a frown on Susie's brow.

Comprehension restored, she smiled again, encouraging me to go on.

* * *

With a flood of tenderness I remembered how difficult it had been to make her smile when her mother had first left, how she had asked, day after day, when her Mummy was coming home. I thought I hated Carol then; I thought I hated her for leaving a five year old child who adored her, who was incapable of understanding that her Mummy had found someone else - someone she loved more than her own little girl and her little girl's Daddy. And I thought I hated her for leaving me in the impossible position of having to inadequately answer our daughter's questions.

But that wasn't hatred. Not then. That was just the taste of hatred.

* * *

"'Of course, the king was much too busy to collect the taxes himself and his lands were too great for one man to cover all the ground in a single year.

'His empire stretched from the sea in the west to the distant Orient many months march to the east. And it stretched from the snow-covered mountains in the north to the deserts of the south.

'And in every part of this huge empire splendid cities glittered in the sunshine.

'Each city had its own libraries and temples and each city had a magnificent palace like the king's.

'It was in these palaces that the local governors lived. They were called 'satraps' and they were appointed by the king to act as trusted friends and representatives to conduct the king's business in their particular province.

'Amongst his many duties, the 'satrap' had to collect the taxes from the people and send them every year to the king. For this he was allowed to keep a small portion for himself as payment.

'Also, he acted as the king's judge within his province, settling disputes between the local citizens who paid him two 'obols' each time they came to court.'" I looked up from the page. "Remember what an 'obol' is? I asked.

"A few cents," Susie replied unhesitatingly. She showed no sign of tiredness and I knew we were here for the duration of the story so I flicked through the pages to see how long it was.

Fortunately it wasn't too long and I inwardly sighed with relief: it had been part of our agreement, since she had grasped the principle behind A Thousand And One Arabian Nights, that I was never allowed to stop reading before the end of a story unless she fell asleep first. In return, she would not ask if the principal female character, queen or princess or whatever, had a tattoo.

"Ready?" I asked.

She nodded eagerly and I carried on.

"'In the greatest city in the east, the 'satrap' was called Ortanes and he was the king's best friend. Each year, he collected more taxes than any other 'satrap' because his province was richer than the others and it took a hundred donkeys to carry all the money to the capital. And because Ortanes was such a good governor the people of the province were always happy to pay. So much so that they were honest and gave what was due instead of trying to hide their wealth as other people did elsewhere.

'One of the reasons everyone thought he was the best governor was because he was the fairest judge in the land. Whenever he dealt with a dispute both sides would go away happy, satisfied that justice had been done. They would each pay their two 'obols' and everyone would be friends again.

'So Ortanes was very popular too, and made many friends himself.

'The city in which he lived was almost as beautiful as the king's and Ortanes' palace was filled with the most expensive things. He had fine paintings and crystal goblets and jewel-encrusted caskets in which he kept his gold. His wife wore the best clothes and his son rode a magnificent white stallion.

'There was always plenty of food and enough wine for the table and he looked after his servants well. He gave lavish banquets to entertain the most important people and everyone said that only the king's banquets were more sumptuous.

'But the grandest thing in the palace, the grandest thing in the whole city, was Ortanes' judge's throne. It was made from solid gold and stood on a high platform at the end of a long courtroom. It's back was tall and straight and carved in the shape of an eagle's wings, and the arms and feet were golden lions' paws. The seat was of the very softest leather and was held in place by mother-of-pearl studs which shimmered in the light -'"

"Pictures!"

Susie wriggled into a sitting position and held out her hands for the book. This was another clause in the deal: at any point in the story she was entitled to look at whatever illustrations there were so far. She could do this once as an interruption and again at the end and would often use this prerogative as a ruse to keep herself awake. And as a means of checking that I wasn't skipping anything.

I watched her face light up as she studied the colour plates of exaggerated opulence and smiled at her obvious joy, remembering how hard won her present happiness had been.

* * *

When Carol had first left I simply said that Mummy had 'gone away for a bit'. But it's a lot more difficult to lie to a five year old than you might think and, after a week or so, I was forced to admit she wasn't coming back. How do you tell a child that her mother has gone to live with someone else? It's not something you get much practice at. Anyway, I did the best I could, and eventually we both seemed to come to terms with the situation, accepting adjusted roles within our relationship. Which was when the 'deal' started to take shape.

We made trade-offs almost as a means of sharing our loss so that the third side of our former triangle was split between the two of us and it was in the portioning that we established our need for each other - but obliquely, without exposing our raw emotions. You know, "I'll cook the dinner if you help with the washing up" and "I'll let you stay up for an extra half hour on Fridays and Saturdays if you keep your room tidy". Not very subtle, I admit. And probably the kind of thing to give child psychologists a fit. But they weren't the ones on the front line, as it were, and it seemed to work for us because it involved both of us to some extent in everything. Anyway, as I say, it worked.

Until Carol came back.

The bitch walked in unannounced on Susie's sixth birthday laden with presents: toys and clothes and trinkets and god knows what else. I was too stunned to react at first: I just watched them playing 'happy families' with a birthday party for two. I was pretty much excluded although they - or she, Carol - made a point of involving me in everything. But it was an unconvincing inclusion and I wasn't taken in by her false sincerity. I just couldn't believe it: after three months of silence - no 'phone call, no letter, not even a postcard to her daughter - here she was back in our midst as though she'd just popped out to do a bit of shopping.

And Susie, of course, was all over her, not letting her mother out of her sight for an instant.

Later, at Susie's insistence, Carol bathed her and put her to bed - Susie and I hadn't drawn up the bedtime story clause in our little contract at this point - staying in the bedroom until the child was asleep. Only then did I receive the courtesy of an explanation of sorts, although I thought it more an insult than anything else.

Apparently, they - Carol and whatever-his-name-was - had acted rashly. They spent all their time arguing; about money, about Susie, about everything if the deceitful bitch was to be believed. They argued until neither could stand it any longer and he had gone back to his wife. That had been four days earlier but Carol had waited for our daughter's birthday before she came slinking back under cover of the celebrations. Clever, I thought, very clever. Oh, she was full of remorse, repeating over and over how it had all been a mistake, how she had realised as soon as she left but had been too ashamed to admit it, how she had wanted to come 'home' but didn't know how. She vowed never to hurt us again and said she had missed us - both of us - terribly and was glad to be back.

I let her talk on, not mentioning the fact that she had never once made contact despite missing us so much, desperately trying not to look at her beautiful face, knowing that if I did I would accept her lies. It was at that moment that I truly hated her.

In the morning Susie woke up in a fever of excitement with her little girl smell of freshly baked bread, and came squealing downstairs in search of her mother. I had to tell her that Carol had only come back for her birthday, that now she had gone again. I broke it to her as gently as I could and made a million promises and we both cried and had to start all over again.

* * *

"Daddy!" Having had her fill of all the pictures so far, Susie handed back the book and squirmed once more into a horizontal position waiting for me to go on.

I found my place and re-crossed my legs, pushing my glasses further onto the bridge of my nose.

"Right," I said. "Where was I? Ah, yes. 'Sometimes the king went to stay with his friend and they would go hunting together. In the evenings there would be great feasts with singing and dancing in honour of the king and delicious foods of every kind.

'And in the mornings the king would attend the court to watch Ortanes deal with the grievances of the people and he marvelled at the wisdom of his friend.

'On one such visit the king arrived at the gates of the city after dark and the guards, who did not know he was the king, refused to let him in because the city was locked to protect the people at night. The guards told the king, who they thought was a rich merchant, to go to the inn along the road and come back in the morning.

'Instead of being angry, the king was pleased to find his subjects so well looked after and he set off with his troop of soldiers in the direction of the inn.

'Like the guards, the innkeeper did not recognise the king either, and gave him an ordinary room, telling the soldiers that they could sleep in the stables with their horses.

'Still the king was happy because his room was clean and the stables were dry. But as he ate his simple supper among the true merchants staying at the inn he overheard them talking. And what they said greatly disturbed him.

'One of the merchants had ridden for some distance with the mule train taking the taxes from Ortanes to the capital. "Two hundred mules," he said, "laden with silver and gold and incense and pearls from the Orient." All the other merchants stared wide-eyed at the very idea of such wealth but the king kept his own eyes lowered to the table because his heart was heavy with sadness.

'If what this merchant said was true and, indeed, two hundred loaded mules had been sent to the capital, then someone had stolen a hundred mules and all the treasure they carried.

'But perhaps the merchant was mistaken, thought the king. Only a hundred mules had reached his palace so perhaps only a hundred had been sent by his friend.

'The king decided to stay at the inn for another day and to send his most trustworthy servant, dressed as a foreign trader, to make inquiries.'"

Once again I paused for a moment. "What do you think, darling?" I asked.

"I think he only sent a hundred," Susie said decisively. "He wouldn't steal off the king because he's his friend and if anyone else had stolen them he would know."

Her innocent logic was irrefutable. But it had been less than a year ago that this confidence, this positivism, had been severely shaken.

* * *

I met Polly at work some weeks after Carol had vanished and we easily became friends. By then, Susie and I were firmly fixed in our routine and happy in our world although an element of adult female contact was missing from my life, an element which Polly willingly supplied. And nothing seemed to change at home when Polly started to come to the house; she and Susie appeared to get on well together, forming an almost sisterly bond. I'd explained our domestic situation to Polly and she was very sympathetic, offering to help with anything particularly female that I might not find easy to cope with. I appreciated her consideration and our three-way friendship began to flourish.

Until nearly a year ago when Polly moved in with us.

At first, Susie was only sullen and un-cooperative, which Polly said was only to be expected. We all three sat down and talked about what was going on, trying to explain why Polly and I wanted to be together. But Susie became hostile and aggressive towards both of us. Polly smiled a lot and said that that, too, was normal behaviour under the circumstances, while I just felt out of my depth: Polly's understanding of Susie's problem seemed to move her away from me in a way, at the same time that Susie was distancing herself from me of her own accord. It was a stressful and confusing time for all of us.

Anyway, Susie suddenly stopped all the discussion by telling Polly to take off her top. She didn't ask, she commanded. And Polly complied. I couldn't believe it. I started to say something about conduct and decent manners but then Polly told me to be quiet. And she removed her tee-shirt - it was a long-sleeved thing and she got it caught on an earring and took a while to untangle it - and sat at the kitchen table in her jeans and bra while my seven year old child stared hard at the point on her collar bone directly below her left ear.

"See?" she said with a sneer. "No tattoo!"

Polly sat open-mouthed as if she had been physically struck until I explained that Carol had had a thumbnail-sized red rose tattooed on her left collar bone.

Over the following days we tried to make Susie understand that not everyone was the same, that just because someone had - or hadn't - a tattoo while someone else hadn't - or had - didn't mean that they were better or worse than... We tied ourselves in knots, became totally confused in what we were saying and met a blank wall of resistance from my daughter.

This wall, which was originally erected as a negative thing, something behind which she could retreat, has now developed into something far stronger, something which allows her her present forthrightness and poise. She now treats Polly with a politeness often bordering on condescension. But all Polly says is, give it time.

* * *

"I said, what do you think, Daddy?"

And there was that near-adult tone of voice now: patient, tolerant, indulgent. But only just. Only a hairs breadth this side of insolent.

I pretended to have been thinking hard and raised a hand to my temple as an indication that I was concentrating.

"I think," I said slowly, coming to a momentous conclusion, "that we'd better read on and find out."

Susie rolled her eyes in mock despair as I began to read once more.

"'For the whole of that day the king stayed at the inn giving the matter much thought. He could not believe that his best friend - who was also the fairest judge in the kingdom - could be dishonest. Of course, there must be a sensible explanation. He would just have to wait for his servant to return.

'But when the servant did return late that evening, the news was very bad.

'His secret inquiries had led him to a village some distance from the city where he had found a vast warehouse guarded by many armed soldiers. He had bribed the captain of the guard and had been allowed to see inside the warehouse. And what he saw filled him with wonder.

'There were chests full of gold piled high against the walls, soft furs and shimmering silks in gorgeous bales. There was row upon row of overflowing coffers, spilling blood-red rubies and ice-bright diamonds, sapphires and pearls and emeralds. There were silver cups and daggers in great heaps, boxes of incense and barrels of spices. In short, the servant said, there was more wealth than that of the king himself.

'The king listened with a sinking heart, not knowing what he should do. It was now obvious that Ortanes - his best friend - was hoarding all these riches to become more powerful than the king so that could seize all the lands for himself.

'But the thing that saddened the king more than anything else was that the great 'satrap' and fairest of all judges was, in fact, deceiving the people who loved him by stealing their money for his own purposes.

'And suddenly, as he looked at the reason for his sadness, the king knew what he must do.' Any ideas?"

Susie's eyes had misted over at the injustice of the thievery, the thievery that had deceived her as much as it had the innocents in the story. She shook her head saying nothing.

Lowering my voice, I carried on with the tale.

"'Early next morning the king rode into the city and was greeted with great ceremony by Ortanes who ordered that twenty oxen and a hundred fowl be slaughtered for a great banquet that night.

'"But first," said the king, "we must go to your court for I have a problem which only your immense wisdom can solve." Ortanes was surprised but greatly flattered to be asked to sit in judgment for the king himself and he led the way to the royal courtroom.

'The king made Ortanes sit on his gleaming throne while he, the king, knelt on the floor before him like any ordinary citizen. "My problem is this," he began. "I know a man whom I have trusted as a friend and treated well. But I have discovered that he is cheating me and those around him by pretending to be what he is not. Everyone in his house thinks he is fair and honest and loyal to his master and servants alike. But in truth he betrays everyone for his own gain, ultimately seeking the greatest of all glories for himself. How should I deal with such a man?"

'And Ortanes, too smug to realize that the king was talking about him, thought for a moment before speaking. "For his greed," he replied, "take from him everything he owns and give it to the poor. Then, when he has nothing, take the last thing - his life. In seeking the greatest of glories, which is the immortality of the gods, send his soul to join them. But for his treachery in betraying his people, preserve his body and display it in a public place as a warning to the masses.

'"You are indeed as wise as your reputation proclaims," said the king, raising himself sadly to his feet. "Seize him!" he called to his guards and Ortanes was bound and shackled and held prisoner.

'The king had his governor taken to the main square in front of the palace and he summoned all the people of the city so that they might hear the misdeeds of their 'satrap' and the judgment of the king.

'The king explained to the throng how Ortanes had seemed to be the very fairest tax collector but that he was keeping half the dues for himself. The king explained how he seemed to be the fairest of all judges but that his fairness as he sat on his golden throne only served to disguise the fact that, in private, he was unfair to everyone in stealing from both the king and the people.

'"The punishment for his greed," said the king, "is that he should lose more than he has stolen." His lands and gold and jewels and furs and pearls from the Orient would all be taken from him, sold and the money given to the poor. He would lose his palace and his servants and all his fine clothes. Then, when he had nothing, the king said, he must lose even more. He would be flayed alive and lose the very skin he wore to clothe his bones. And as a warning to all others, his skin would be used to replace the leather on the seat of the great throne so that future judges would always be mindful of the fate awaiting those who sat in false judgment.'"

I waited for a moment, expecting some reaction from Susie, an expression of revulsion maybe, or a moue of distaste. But she merely sat up in her bed, propped herself against the headboard and held out her hands.

"Pictures," she said.

As I passed her the book I could hear Polly downstairs, moving from the kitchen to the living room. Polly, small and dark and understanding. The opposite of Carol in almost every way. Pretty Polly whose portrait hung facing the sofa on which she always sat - on which she would be sitting now - so she would always know how I felt about her.

It was a good likeness in oils. I commissioned it when she first moved in, after I'd made sure she understood about Carol's moving out and coming back and disappearing the second time.

A student from the local art school painted it for me, having negotiated a rather high price, I thought. But at least I made him agree to my two stipulated conditions of me supplying absolutely all the necessary materials and -

"I'm not sure the king was a very nice man." Susie had closed the book and was holding it towards me. "It said at the beginning that he was kind. But skinning his best friend..." She wrinkled her nose in doubt and disgust. "That doesn't sound very kind."

"But his friend wasn't really his friend, was he? Not if he was stealing from him and from all the people who thought they were paying their taxes to the king."

"Yes, but to peel his skin off! Yuk!" Her concern had given way to a gleeful horror and she wriggled down into her bed, giggling.

"In the olden days," I said, relieved to see that the story wasn't going to give her bad dreams, "they made examples of people to teach others a lesson." I bent over her bright and perfect face. She was too young to understand, really, took everything too literally. She was unable to see the deeper meanings within a story. I kissed her brow and turned to leave the room taking the book with me.

"Goodnight, darling," I said. "Sleep tight."

* * *

In the kitchen I poured two whiskies, one each for Polly and me. As I fetched ice from the freezer I thought about the outcome of the story. It had a certain poetic justice, which I appreciated, even if it lacked the subtlety of Solomon. But, I decided, in stories as in life, we can only do our best.

Polly was on the sofa as I'd expected, her legs curled beneath her and a happy smile on her face. I handed her the whisky and told her she looked lovely as I raised my own glass in my nightly toast, first to her and then to her portrait.

"Good health," I said, feeling the warmth of the liquid bring a contentment to my throat.

Oh yes, the second stipulation for the artist - looking at the painting just now reminded me: he was to use only those materials I provided, as I said, and he had to leave visible the thumbnail sized red rose at the top right hand corner of the 'canvas'.