the village of r————— had for many centuries been the most damned and desolate place on earth.
there was a little inn outside the village, on the long road leading to the imperial capital.
every year moloch, old nick, the wandering jew, sinbad the sailor, the whore of babylon, the prankster, and the fool met at the inn.
nobody knew exactly why, but they did.
old zashaw, the innkeeper, was always very attentive to his curiously assorted guests.
as good as their custom was - and they spent far more freely than his usual guests, especially sinbad and the whore of babylon - he was always relieved when they packed up and departed and he could relax for another dreary year.
zashaw had trouble retaining help, but one year he happened to have staying with him, his young great grand-daughter.
her name was yara. she was a beautiful raven haired child of about seven years of age, and her notable comeliness attracted the notice of the guests, particularly the whore of babylon and the prankster, as they sat around the big table of the inn, waiting to be served their first meal after their arrival.
“this child,” opined the whore to old zashaw, “is too beautiful to spend her life in this backwater. surely some passing prince will purchase her, either for himself or some faithful and favoured courtier.”
zashaw smiled. after years of waiting on his somewhat frightful guests, he was never sure of when they were serious or when they were chaffing him. “you may think so, madam, but in fact no princes or courtiers ever travel this way, so your prediction is not that likely to come to pass.”
“you do not say so,” interposed the prankster. “so close to the great capital? i would have thought the roads were thronged with the wealthy and powerful?”
“the road from the south, perhaps, leading to the capital,” the old innkeeper murmured, “but on this side of the city the road leads only north to ice and desolation.” what he did not add was, he had always assumed that the seven chose his inn because it was out of the way.
“be that as it may,” said the whore, “i predict that this child will be carried off by a handsome prince, who will make her his princess? what say you all?” she asked the other guests.
“a prince?” cried the fool in his his high voice. “a king, no less! this maiden shall live to be a queen and rule a mighty kingdom!”
the other guests nodded, already bored with the conversation, and old zashaw, assisted by the child, continued to take their orders and serve them, and there the matter seemed to be forgotten.
except by the cook, one of zashaw’s grandaughters, who had big ears and had been listening from the kitchen.
little yara was her stepdaughter, and the cook, jealous of the child’s unearthly beauty, took every opportunity to box her ears or thrash her if she, the cook, thought the child was putting on airs or was developing ideas above her station.
“a queen, eh?” the cook greeted yara when she returned to the kitchen, “i fear that idea will have to be beaten out of you, my sweet child. what say you, grandfather?” she asked zashaw when he arrived behind the child.
“i say mind your pots, you fat baggage,” the old man replied. “and make sure the soup is nice and hot, and the roasts well turned, the way our guests like it. let us keep them happy, and all else will take care of itself.
yara smiled to herself at this exchange - though there was no guarantee the cook would not smack her sooner or later - and exchanged a quick glance with her only friend - zeus, the black tomcat who was co-ruler of the kitchen.
the meal was served and life at the inn went on without further incident.
except that yara grew more beautiful with every passing month, and year.
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