Protect Your Plums

Once upon a time, I was late for lunch.

I know, not exactly the stuff of legend. No dragons, no heroic duels, not even a sword stuck in anything remotely interesting. While this tale has none of those things, it is true—except for the parts that aren't—and it begins with hunger, as do most bad decisions.

I'm Fennick, official jester to King Roland of Rowlings. My job description: tell jokes, offer running commentary on royal business, and, unofficially, avoid dying. The last one isn't in the contract, but it's hard to deliver a punchline from six feet under.

I was palace-hungry — the kind that knows a roast is ten minutes away and plans to eliminate anything or anyone standing between it and the buffet. When the summons came, I assumed there'd be snacks.

I was wrong.

According to prophecy, a king would die when the last plum fell in Bramblewick. Roland, noticing there were exactly two plum trees in the kingdom, did what any sensible monarch would: made the plum tree the official tree, ordered up ten thousand more, and invented the Department of Prophetic Agricultural Affairs to babysit them. Predictably, the excitement fizzled out somewhere around tree seven.

Roland developed a personal vendetta against gravity. His decree that all fruit should hover three inches above the ground was largely ignored, especially by the fruit.

The orchard withered. By the time anyone dared to look again, one stubborn tree remained, and three plums hung from it, which everyone agreed was cutting it close.

Determined to get ahead of fate, Roland summoned a wizard, a philosopher, an archbishop with a box, and a gnome who claimed to be good with ladders. Their mission: keep the plums up, keep the king alive, and avoid budget overruns.

Roland marched us to the edge of the dying orchard. Beyond the valley, armies of orcs and ogres from neighboring kingdoms pitched tents and sharpened their spears, feigning innocence as they unpacked their siege ladders.

The armies began jumping in unison, a rare moment of cross-border cooperation. Roland called it unsportsmanlike. The armies took this as encouragement.

The ground thumped like a giant's heartbeat. Windows rattled, shingles slipped, and no soufflé was left unscathed.

Roland planted his boots in the dirt and pointed at the wizard. "Walter, preserve the fruit."

Walter flourished his wand and intoned an incantation that sounded like he was scolding a goose.

There was a hopeful pop. A sweet scent. A purple sneeze.

The nearest plum exploded in a burst of jam — sweet, juicy, spreadable. It slumped off the leaves and plopped into the grass as a purple mist settled over the sticky wizard.

My stomach gurgled.

Roland dabbed his cheek with an embroidered handkerchief. "Two plums remain. Be careful, or else."

He tried to sound regal, but the tremor in his voice betrayed something human. I'd seen that flicker before — when the jokes didn't land, and the silence of the court got heavy enough to crush a man with his own crown.

The philosopher stepped forward. "Sire, the problem is interpretive. We should determine what 'fall' means —"

"How does that stop the plum from hitting the ground?" I asked.

"We are attending a metaphor."

"Metaphors are conceptual. Lunch delays are not."

Roland's eye twitched. "Proceed. Quickly."

The philosopher climbed the tree like a man who'd never met a ladder before and perched on a branch.

"The key is to address the consequences of the prophecy linguistically. If the plum falls, we must ask: what is down? For some, a direction. For others —"

The branch shuddered. He torqued upside down, flailed, and hit the grass with an oof.

A second plum dropped and came to rest beside Roland's boot.

Roland's face went grey. He seized the archbishop's arm, who stumbled and tightened his grip on the wooden box. "One plum left! We can't risk any further attempts. It's time for the backup plan."

The armies began chanting something with "plum" and "come undone." The king ignored them, though the cadence was catchy, and we couldn't help but tap our feet.

The archbishop set the box on a stump and pulled out a jeweled crown designed to impress ceilings.

"The prophecy says a king dies," the archbishop said. "It does not specify which king."

Roland turned to me and smiled. I smiled back. I realized why he was smiling and stopped. He didn't.

"It's temporary," Roland said, voice oiled with reason. "Administrative. You'll make an excellent placeholder."

"For?"

"Destiny. After the plum falls, I'll take it back."

"Won't I be dead?"

"Let me worry about the details."

The archbishop placed the crown on my head. It fit like a glove, which was the wrong standard for a head but about average for royal measurements.

The herald inhaled, squared up, and bellowed, "Behold! Fennick, King of Rowlings!"

Trumpets blared. Someone released a flock of doves, which, unlike me, had eaten. The crowd waved pennants, cheered, and acted as though this sort of thing happened regularly.

I stood beneath the sagging branch, crown askew, and looked up at the last plum trembling on its withering stem. I'd been dragged here before lunch and handed a job that came with a funeral package and no opportunities for advancement. I was king until gravity declared otherwise.

Roland, the once and past-tense king, joined the armies of jumpers.

Sportsmanship had left the field.

It occurred to me that the tree had more at stake than anyone. When the last plum fell, it would die, having fulfilled a prophecy it never agreed to. No one asked the tree's opinion.

The tree shook. The last plum quivered.

If I were to die, it wouldn't be from hunger.

"Guard," I said. "On your knees."

He obeyed. He had to. I was king.

I climbed his back, bracing on his shoulder as he rose.

The limb was rough. I hooked an elbow, swung up, and boinked my knee. The crown slipped and dangled over one ear. The branch creaked. The plum swayed. For a moment, I thought I feared I might beat it to the ground. I crawled toward it.

I cupped my hand around the plump purple fruit. Its skin was soft and cool.

A thousand boots continued to thump. A thousand and one when you included Roland.

The archbishop said a prayer. The philosopher muttered notes on the moral status of fruit. The gnome scowled because I'd chosen the back of a knight instead of his rickety ladder, though his union would ensure his compensation regardless.

My stomach repeated its earlier objection.

"Oh, what the hell," I said.

I bit the plum from the branch. It was sweet. Juice escaped. A damsel shrieked. Two orcs fainted. The crowd inhaled and forgot to exhale.

I swallowed the last of it and held up the pit.

Nothing fell.

The dead orchard shivered like it had remembered what living felt like and decided to give it another whirl. Leaves unfurled, blossoms popped open with the sound of muffled applause.

The tree shook itself, showering us with leaves. Tiny green bulbs swelled and unfolded until the branches glistened with new plums, ripening like gossip.

The jumpers, including Roland, froze mid-bounce and landed badly, as most miracles fail to check for proper footing. The crowd stared, mouths agape.

Roland pushed through. "It didn't fall!"

I spat the pit into the archbishop's box, edged back along the limb, and lowered myself onto the guard's shoulders.

At the base of the tree, Roland extended his hands for the crown. The archbishop intervened with a cough.

"I fear, Sire — or whatever your current designation may be — there's a complication. You have survived the prophecy, but the crown's authority has been… diverted."

"Meaning?" Roland asked.

"Fennick is king. The coronation remains in force. The crown is not obliged to be transferred because the previous king survived."

Roland blinked. "But my plan was flawless. Fennick would assume the crown. The plum would fall. He'd die, and I'd reassume my royal title —"

"But," said the archbishop, "the plum didn't fall, so Fennick didn't die. You can only be reinstated if he's willing to give the crown back."

Everyone looked at me. I looked at Roland.

"You joined the jumping," I said.

"Leadership is participation," Roland replied, somewhere between pride and panic.

I felt sorry for him. He'd spent a lifetime trying to stay above the fall, only to discover that gravity, like bureaucracy, answers to no man.

"Leadership," I said, "is lunch — when you remember to have it. I saved the kingdom by eating instead of thinking. I'll keep the crown."

The words hung there. I'd said them without particularly deciding to, the way you commit to a joke before you've worked out the landing.

Roland regarded the orchard, obscene with abundance. I saw the tired man behind the title who had nearly been outwitted by a prophecy about produce. He inclined his head the slightest degree that a neck can move without detaching.

"Your Majesty," he said — and meant it.

We marched back through the rows with petals in our hair and our dignity in question. In the square, the villagers constructed a stage, and a baker produced trays of plum tarts.

"Bramblewick," I said. "I am pleased to report that the last plum did not fall. I ate it."

Cheers.

"The orchard has decided to live."

Laughter. Relief.

The baker handed me a tart. I took a bite and glimpsed the future: chores, festivals, irrigation disputes, late nights, early mornings, and a kingdom that would persist if kept fed.

Roland stood beside me and watched the orchard keep living. His shoulders lost an inch of doom.

Later, when the lanterns lit themselves silver, I slipped back to the orchard and rested my palm on the bark of the tree now flush with plums.

"Thank you," I said.

The tree said nothing, as trees are wise to do.

The kingdom was saved, lunch was served, and a prophecy was averted. This goes to show that ignorance may not always be bliss, but when hungry, it can be useful.