The Bridges
of King’s Hill
A
violet autumnal evening had fallen over the city of Isfahan. Sofiya’s house was in the northern
outskirts, and her room was the northernmost, the casements flung open to let
in the scented breeze from her garden. She snuggled deep under the thick quilt,
with riotous summer flowers hand-embroidered by her mother, and looked at the
far-off mountains, sprinkled with fresh snow.
“Daddy!
Wouldn’t it be lovely to live high up on the mountains?” she exclaimed. “In a
city built on the highest peak?”
Naseeruddin
wasn’t so sure.
“It
could get frightfully cold, darling,” he said. “And think of sleet on all the
steep streets! Everyone would be sliding and slipping, and poor Grandma would
get hurt. Even a donkey cart would find it difficult coming up with the morning
groceries.”
Sofiya
was still enthusiastic.
“But
Daddy, it would all be so much fun! And I’m sure I could hold Grandma’s arm
when we went walking up and down the streets,” she said. “Why don’t people ever
live on mountains?”
“But
they do, my dear,” said Naseeruddin reasonably. “There’s Lhasa,
that’s the capital of Tibet,
and there’s Quito, that’s the capital of Ecuador. But these
cities are in high mountain valleys, sheltered by the mountains themselves. In
the old days, kings built their palaces within forts on hills to protect them
from raiders. In fact in those mountains you see to the north, but far, far to
the east, near where they join the Hindu Kush, a king once built a new city, which everyone
called the King’s Hill. He got into lots of trouble till he was helped by a
very poor man.
Sofiya
was interested.
“Oh,
do tell me about him,” she said, settling back comfortably on her pillows.
“All
right,” said Naseeruddin, “I’ll tell you a story my uncle the Mullah told me
long ago, but you must go to sleep after the story.”
Sofiya
nodded, and turned to look at the mountains once again, now touched with russet
and gold by the fading sun.
Long,
long ago, in the year Minus 1234, which is very long ago, far to the east in
Persia – started Naseeruddin in his best
story-telling style – there lived a king called – well, we don’t know his real
name – but he built his capital on a hill, and it was called King’s Hill. He
wanted to protect himself from nomads and other raiders, especially the Bruzz, now
don’t ask me why they were called the Bruzz. Maybe because anyone who messed
with them got bruised. That’s probably the right explanation, for the Head of
the Bruzz was called The Bruiser! Anyway, maybe they later went on into Lebanon, and
came to be known as the Druss! Such name changes happened all the time in olden
times. The Hindus, for example, were people who lived along the Sindhu river,
but the Greeks got their name wrong, and they are stuck with it now, poor fellows.
Their Banjara tribes came into Persia
along with Chengiz Khan’s troops, and then followed them into Egypt. But
years later when these nomads went to Roumania, they were called Gypsies, because everyone thought they
really belonged to Egypt, and later when they lifted their tents and went to
the broad pasture lands of Hungary, the Europeans called them Romany! So, you
see, names change with the years, or they used to.
Anyway,
the king wanted to make peace with the Bruzz, so he married the Bruzi princess,
and called her ‘His Woman,’ – they were quite crude in those days, you know, in
fact the French still do so – and the Bruzz not to be out-done called him ‘Her
Man!’ So that’s the only name we know him by – Herman – since an account of
those days has been left to us by the Bruzi princess who was a lot cleverer
than the king.
Now
the king had his good points, though he couldn’t read or write, for one thing,
he danced beautifully. That’s what really won over the Bruzi princess, if you
want to know. He invented most of the dances we know, except the waltz, which
was taught to him by his nurse, Matilda. His favourite dance, though, was the
Salsa. You thought it was invented by Cubans, didn’t you? Well, you are wrong,
as is everybody else, it was taken to Cuba by descendents of the people
of King’s Hill. It was first danced by Herman of the Salsa, as he came to be
known later, up and down the land.
Herman
of the Salsa had many knights in his entourage, in fact, more than many kings
of his day. But they all had duties to perform – guarding the city from raiding
Bruzz, or supervising harvesting, or even just chivvying the peasants so that
they wouldn’t doze off under the balmy summer sun. While Herman was glad his
knights were doing their duty, he got impatient when it came to dancing time,
and there were very few around when a good tune was struck up. So he invented a
special Two-Tone Bell,
which all could hear, even if they were at the edges of his kingdom. The best
dancing knights were to hurry back to the palace for a dance when the Two-Tone Bell was struck under
pain of royal displeasure. When these Two-Tone Knights – for that’s how the
ordinary people came to call them – came hurrying onto the dance floor, the
king was very pleased, and would salsa away the night with his queen.
The
Two-Tone Knights, though, began to grumble. Not that they did not like to
dance. They liked nothing better, that is, besides chivvying peasants or
killing the Bruzz. But getting into the palace was a big problem. The king like
a prudent ruler had chosen a hilly island in a river for his capital, so that
the river formed a natural protective moat all round it. His people also liked
the idea very much for the river was full of eels, which they could fish
straight from their living room windows. But once the city was built, they
started calling the eel river ‘The Pretzel,’ don’t ask me why, for there are no
pretzels in Persia,
people are just strange. The king had a wooden drawbridge thrown over the river
which could be pulled back quickly if there was an attack. But the knights
found this single bridge a nuisance. They had to splash through the river
wherever they were coming from, and go all the way round to find it. The people
also didn’t like all these Two-Tone Knights clogging up the traffic as they
thundered over the simple wooden bridge, especially on market days, but they
were more polite about their grievance.
“All
right, we will have another bridge on the other side,” said the king, who was
all accommodation.
“But
what about us, who are on the far northern marches,” argued some knights.
“And
yes, what about us in the southern pastures?” asked others.
“All
right,” said the king, “we will have bridges all round, to the east, to the
west, to the north and even to the south.”
So
that was settled, and four bridges were built. But the new bridges didn’t make
everyone happy. The butchers were the first to complain.
“Galloping
knights throw a dirty big mask of dust all over the meat,” they said, “and it
was no use the king’s chef yelling at us, he should speak to the knights first.”
The
greengrocers said, “ Yes, we can wash all the vegetables after all the knights
have ridden off, true, but it all takes time, and a down-turn in the economy doesn’t
help the city, or anyone else, Your Honour.”
Only
the blacksmiths were happy with their bridge, for hard-riding knights meant
custom, so they welcomed them, dust or no dust.
So,
the king, who was really a good chap, built a new broad bridge with big
state-supported markets on either side, which pleased all the shop-keepers, and
a new high bridge that no-one but the knights would want to use, and finally to
please His Woman, that is the queen, a nice little bridge leading to the
flowered gardens from which bee-keepers brought her everyday a fresh jar of
honey. She had a sweet tooth, besides having a sweet smile and a sweet nature.
Every year in spring, she would grant a chest full of gold to anyone who
brought her the sweetest honey for tea, and for that year that honey would be
known as The Grantchester Honey for Tea, believe you me.
Everyone
was very, very happy with these seven bridges of King’s Hill, except poor old
Kalin the Oiler. You see, being on a hill, the city got quite cold most nights,
and everyone, especially the king and his knights in their draughty dancing
halls, needed heating oil for their furnaces. Persia has always been rich in
oil, so that’s why all these bandits from olden days have raided the country
under one pretext or another. But old Kalin the Oiler didn’t have to worry
about that, his job was to supply oil to King’s Hill, and he took his donkey
and oil-cart laden with oil jars everyday into the city through one bridge or
the other, he had a day-pass for every one of them. Once he entered through one
bridge, let’s say the Shopkeepers
Bridge, the guards who
had strict instructions would tear off his bridge-pass and tell him to use
another bridge on his way out. They were all highly trained, and kept a keen
eye out for anyone who did not have a pass. Even in those days, as I said,
there were all these foreign terrorists who tried to steal the country’s oil.
Kalin
the Oiler didn’t like the steep streets of the city, built as it was on a hill.
His donkey liked them even less. The least tiring way to supply oil to houses
in different parts of the city, and even to various wings of the king’s
sprawling palace, was to go in and out of the bridges, off-load his jars and be
back home before nightfall. But every time he went through a bridge, his
day-pass got torn off and when he had finished his last delivery he found
himself back in the middle of town without any bridge-pass left to get him
home. You can imagine poor Kalin’s state of mind. Several nights he spent at a
friend’s home or at a lodging. The next day he would be late with the heating
oil, and get roundly scolded. The Superintendent of the Bridge Guards called
him a stupid old Oiler, and said surely he could manage his routes better and
find his way home at night.
One
night, the lodging-house keeper advised him to consult the Great Philosopher,
who everyone knew, knew all the answers.
“How
do I find the Great Philosopher?” asked poor old Kalin the Oiler.
“Well
that’s easy,” said the lodging-house keeper. “Stand in the main square at 7.43
sharp in the morning and you will meet him taking his constitutional. Can set
your watch, God bless him!”
Kalin
was in the main square by 7.15 in the morning, he was that anxious to get the
Great Philosopher’s advice. It was a sharp cold morning, and he had to jump up
and down and stamp his feet to keep warm and blow on his fingers, but as the
lodging-house keeper had said, the Great Philosopher entered the square from
the palace end at 7.43 sharp. He wore a long velvet coat that sparkled with
stars and crescents, and on his head was a high black fur cap. He waved his
arms and talked to himself in deep tones, no doubt about very weighty matters.
“Excuse
me, Sir…I mean, Oh, Great Philosopher,” stammered poor old Kalin the Oiler, I
don’t mean to disturb your Highness, no Sir, but… but… could you show me the
way to cross the seven bridges just once every day, and still get home?”
The
Great Philosopher looked all round at hearing his voice, and then at last
spotted Kalin the Oiler standing right in front of his nose.
“What
did you say?” asked the Great Philosopher irritably. “Speak clearly, man, don’t
mumble!”
Kalin
the Oiler stammered out his humble request once again.
“Ah,
Ha!” cried the Great Philosopher, mightily pleased. “I see you are not yet
Enlightened! You must emerge from your own self-imposed immaturity!” Actually,
he said ‘unmündigkeit’ for that’s the way philosophers speak, but we shouldn’t
for we are ordinary folk.
“What
you need to do my dear oily friend,” said the Great Philosopher animatedly,
poking Kalin in the chest with a long fore-finger, “what you need to do is use your
own intellect without the direction of another. Do you understand? You are
responsible for this immaturity” – he once again said unmündigkeit – “and, and
dependence! Its cause, permit me to inform you, is not a lack of intelligence,
but a lack of determination and courage! Sapere aude! Dare to know!”
With
that the Great Philosopher turned and started to walk away, but Kalin was quite
determined to get advice, if there was advice to be got. He ran after him and
grabbed his long flowing velvet coat.
“Please,
Sir, please tell me how to cross the seven bridges,” he pleaded.
“Shan’t!
Won’t! Can’t! Can’t! Can’t!” yelled the Great Philosopher, stamping his foot
like a child.
“Why
do you keep shouting Can’t! Can’t! Can’t?” asked Kalin in confusion.
“What
else can I say?” asked the Great Philosopher, puzzled.
“Jesus!” exclaimed Kalin in anguish.
“Yes,
you spoke to me?” asked the Great Philosopher calmly this time.
Kalin
shook his head. “I just said Jesus,” he said weakly.
“I
thought so,” said the Great Philosopher thoughtfully. “The name we commonly use
to call on the Messiah. In ancient Aramaic we use another name for God with us…
Anyway, what did you want?”
Kalin
looked at him helplessly.
“Yes,
I recollect now,” said the Great Philosopher smiling brightly. “You, by the
looks of you, should be an oiler. Right? You, in other words, belong to the
category of servants known as oilers. And it is imperative you do your duty as
an oiler, or we will all freeze to death of cold. There! I have solved your
problem!”
The
Great Philosopher once again turned to go. Kalin clung to him like a drowning
man.
“Sir!
Sir! Do…do tell me… how I am to cross the seven bridges just once every day!”
he stammered out weakly.
“So!
That’s your problem! Why didn’t you say so at the start. My dear Oiler, act only according to that maxim whereby you
can – at the same time – will that it
should become a universal law! That’s all you need to know." And with another
muttered unmündigkeit the Great Philosopher was gone.
“Never
mind him,” said John the herder, who had been standing by listening to all
this, along with his interested swine. “He isn’t all that great a philosopher,
as they make him out to be.”
Kalin
went back home very dejected. But he was a game old oiler. He tried every
possible route he could think off, but every time he found himself locked into
the city without any way home open till next morning brought him a new set of
day-passes. Everyone laughed at his stupidity. Funny stories about Kalin the
Oiler circulated well beyond even the boundaries of that small kingdom. He
didn’t mind if people laughed at him and his stupidity. He was a good-natured
chap. But he did mind spending the night in a lodging in town. So, when he
really could not find a way to cross every bridge on his route without getting
caught inside for the night, he carefully put away one last bridge-pass into a
deep inside pocket, and finished his deliveries walking up and down the steep
streets. This made him very tired, and once or twice in a day his donkey would
just sit down and refuse to move.
Consequently, he got home very late, tired, ill, and irritable.
He
smiled less and less at the jokes made up about him. Once or twice when he
really got fed up at all the cracks about his slow wits, he would even mutter
something back about people who thought they were very clever but would find
out who was really dumber one day, if there was a God. It all came to a head
when the king decided to celebrate a Day of Mirth, and called it Kalin the
Oiler’s Day. All the streets were festooned with buntings. The pubs were opened
up as Free Houses for Kalin the Oiler’s Day, and free beer was poured into anyone
who could still stand on his feet. There was a lot of laughter and dancing the
salsa on the streets.
The
king took the lead in the dancing and meeting Kalin the Oiler sitting morosely
by a fountain in a cobbled courtyard asked him all in good humour how he and
his donkey got so muddled everyday on their rounds.
Kalin
had had enough.
“If
you are so clever, Your Majesty,” he said, at the top of his voice, “please
show me yourself how the seven bridges are to be crossed, one and only one at a
time!”
Everyone,
as you can expect, was quite shocked at his disrespect to the king, and they
all fell silent. But the king was in high humour, having himself visited
several Free Houses that day, much to the gratification of the pub-owners, and
he said laughingly, why, he would salsa his way through every bridge. And he
danced down the greengrocers bridge, followed by his knights, and tradesmen,
and great ladies, and parlour-maids, and old soldiers, and bank clerks, and
governesses, and, and, well everyone else in town who could dance. They danced
down a bridge and danced up another, till they had danced through all the
bridges. Then laughing, and tired, they all sat down by the fountain in the
main square while boys brought out great pints of beer for everyone. The king patted
Kalin on the back and called him ‘A Good Fellow,’ great ladies smiled at him,
and the pub-owner ordered that three pints of beer should be set up in front of
him.
“But
Your Majesty,” said Kalin stubbornly, when there was a little quiet, “you
crossed the Honey
Bridge twice – I counted –
so you still haven’t done what you said you would do!”
Everyone
was quite shocked at his temerity. I mean it was the Day of Mirth, all right,
but he was just a lowly oilier and was taking his license far too far. But the king prided himself on being a just
man. Having downed some excellent draught beer he felt fresh again, and
challenged everyone to join him in another ‘round bridge dance.’ No one dared
to call it a day, so off they went again, this time keeping careful count of
the bridges they crossed. As Kalin could have told them, whichever route they
took, they ended up on the wrong side. Even the king was getting tired, and a
thoughtful frown sat on his royal brow. Several knights were openly cursing
that meddling oiler and his cursed oil. The ladies had given up long before the
shades of evening began grew over the main square.
The
king sat in the centre of a silent crowd, immersed in thought, gulping his beer
with great gasps.
“You
are very right, Kalin,” he said at long last, “There is no way the seven
bridges can be crossed just once every day without getting to be on the wrong
side. You have shown Us how thoughtless We have been. From this day on you
shall live in a special wing of the palace. Tell you what! We will make it into
an inn. We shall name it Kalin’s Inn! And We
shall come there everyday to have a drink with you!”
Everyone
cheered of course, partly in relief that they were done with dancing for the
day. But they also liked their king and his easy ways, and they liked Kalin the
Oiler as well, and met up for a drink and a dance at Kalin’s Inn, whenever they
could get away from work, which was quite often in those days. Well, that was a
long, long time ago, but the fame of Kalin’s Inn
and the great people who gathered there came down through the ages, till these
days most people just know the place as Kalin Inn town.
Sofiya
laughed sleepily into her pillow.
“Oh,
Daddy! You have got everything so muddled up, it’s funny!” she said.
Naseeruddin
was puzzled. “Got it all muddled up?” he asked with concern. “What have I got
muddled up?” But Sofiya was already fast asleep.
Naseeruddin
gently shut the window. It was quite dark outside. He then kissed his daughter
softly on the brow, and tiptoed out. Whatever did Sofiya mean? He shook his
head mystified, and wondered if anyone could help him straighten out the story.
Later, he asked around but no one could.
Postscript:
Every
good story should have a postscript, so we know what happened later, don’t you
agree? When Sofiya went back to school, she left a little note for her father.
This is what it said:
Dearest
Daddy,
Great
Uncle the Maulana was pulling your leg, Daddy, when he told you the story. It’s
really about the Seven Bridges of Königsberg, in East Prussia, which were figured in a
theorem in topology by the great 18th century mathematician, Leonhard
Euler. Konigsberg was the capital of the
Teutonic Knights of old, and defended against the Slav tribes of the Bruzi by
Hermann von Salza. The river that flows through Konigsberg
is the Pregel, into which flows the Angrapa, meaning eels in Old Prussian. Only
the bridges in the story are given their right names. Oh, I think he threw in
that reference to Rupert Brooke’s Great War poem on Grantchester, because it is
across the river Cam from Cam-bridge, do you
see? While there is no record that Euler sought the advice of the great
philosopher Immanuel Kant of Königsberg, it is just possible. Incidentally,
Johann Herder was the only notable philosopher of those times who did not
praise Kant, whose Christian name is derived from the Aramaic name for the
Messiah, or ‘God with us.’ Königsberg was renamed Kaliningrad by the Russians,
and is now part of Russia.
Much love to my silly old Daddy,
Sofiya
How
wise his daughter was, thought Naseeruddin, and congratulated himself on giving
her a name worthy of her.
The
End
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