The Prince's Vihuela

A young prince, Andres, yearns to be a musician but his father insists he should focus his efforts on his future as a King. An internal struggle of duty and passion.

“My son, you’ll be a fine King when the time comes.” The King said with a bright smile on his face. The young prince was a respectful soul with kindness etched deep in his personality. He loved his father and mother more than anything. He had never done them wrong and he wouldn’t dare to do them wrong now.

“I know, father.” The prince smiled back.

It was a day in autumn, leaves were falling and the green from the trees turned dull. The heat of summertime was less harsh now and the winds of winter were peeking from the horizon. As it was per tradition, the Festival of Arts, was to be held later on that evening. The festival was an annual affair in which music, theater, painters and the like, showcased their work for the entire royal family to see in hopes of being funded by the King. In these times it was difficult to earn a living solely on the arts. Most musicians were starving, begging store-owners for a piece of bread so that they may sing or play another day. Painters were not much better. Actors, however, were the least affected out of the bunch as they were regarded as being an actual profession that required a degree of skill.

“Father, I was wondering….”

“Yes?”

The young prince hesitated. He knew that his question would be a sensitive one. His father had a very clear image of what path he was to take and any semblance of distraction from it caused upset in the old King. Just ask him. As long as you don’t sound too excited about it, it will be fine. The prince said to himself. He held his old vihuela tightly in his hands and spoke firmly.

“I wish to play in the Festival tonight.”

The King was not surprised. He was his father, how could he not be aware? The true passion his son bore was not to be King. He knew this in his heart to be true. The boy’s eyes would light up brighter than any star could ever hope to shine when music was involved.

“Andres, we’ve spoken about this before. I understand your passion, son, I truly do!”

The prince had heard this one too many times before. It was pointless to even try, he thought.

No you don’t.

“You should concentrate your efforts into being King. Learning diplomacy, engaging the people and studying the laws of our kingdom. If only you put as much effort into your future as you did into that old thing.”

“Alright, father. I’ll be going then…”

“Wait, Andres don’t march away like that.”

The King’s words fell on his ears only as Andres had already left the King’s quarters. The young prince went out of the castle to clear his thoughts. He did not want to go the Festival only to be reminded that his passion comes second to his father’s expectations of him.

“Why is becoming King so important to him?

Choose anyone else!

I don’t care!”

His frustration flooded his mind and left little room for anything else. Before he came to his senses he shattered his vihuela into pieces in the ground. It’s gut strings scattered along with the cypress wood parts broken and lost under the tall grass.

“My vihuela…”

Must I give up music to please my Father’s wishes? I wish not to disappoint him but this sadness I feel is tearing me apart. He looked up and was greeted by one of the strangest trees he had ever seen in his life. Was this always here in the woods? It was a tree unlike any other. Its leaves were a grayish blue and the wood was translucent. You could see the inner workings of the tree as clear as the water from a river that flowed into the Mediterranean sea. The young prince glided his fingers through the smooth surface of the tree trunk. It was the perfect gift. Just imagine the vihuela he could forge from this mythical-like wood! It would be an instrument unlike any other. He would come by the next day with tools to cut the wood he would need for the instrument. He worked on it for weeks. He’d made over 5 different versions until he was satisfied with the finished product.

“Finally! She is finished!” Andres shouted. “Now…How do you play?”

Andres had a natural talent for the instrument. His fingers glided over the fretboard as he played around with different melodies in order to fully explore the fruits of his labor. Andres could not believe his ears. The vihuela that had come to be from that strange tree in the woods was unlike any in the kingdom…No, in the entirety in of Spain! Andres wanted to show his father the masterpiece he’d crafted despite their earlier dispute. He always held out hope that his father would understand…Even if it was only a delusion.

No…You know he’s against it. The only thing on his mind is the matter of the throne and that I should inherit it. Nothing else. I’ll keep my vihuela and music to my own in the shadows.

Andres refrained from showing the vihuela he made and played only in hiding or in the forest where he’d found the magical tree. The King, on the other hand, had started to become ill. With each day and night, the grips of the afterlife would strengthen themselves further. His father’s illness took everyone in the castle by surprise. Andres’ father was as healthy as can be for his age. This illness smelled of something evil that had dipped its toes into the castle. Andres and the Queen cared for the king by his side intently during the day and in the evenings the prince would sneak off into the woods to play his mystical instrument. It was the only thing that distracted him of his father’s illness.

“Andres, my son.. Soon, after my death, the throne will be yours to take. Rule with an iron fist but remember that mercy is just as important as discipline.”

Even at death’s door he cannot talk about anything else.

What about your mercy for me, Father?

Is there none to spare for your own blood?

“Father do not speak that way. Your mind is still well and the doctors are trying their best. It is not your time.”

“It’s quite odd isn’t it? How one can be healthy one day and then one step away from death the next. That’s why it’s important to focus on what’s truly important Andres. Make our dreams come true.”

Andres pondered his father’s remark. It was indeed quite sudden. Unnaturally so.

“Yes, it is quite vexing. Now, rest. I’m off to handle some other duties I must attend.”

After talking with his father, Andres was scared of only two things. One, that his father might die soon and second, that his death would also mean his own. Abandoning his true passion to be King was equal to being dead to Andres. Ruling never suited him better than the delicate sounds of the vihuela. Andres decided against playing that day as his heart was clouded. It was the first time that he did not play after crafting the instrument from the strange tree he had found in the woods. Not even music could lift his spirits and that was a terrifying thought that he carried into his dreams.

My dream…My Father’s dream..

How could I possibly make such a decision..

I love him and my dream would break his heart.

That same morning, he went to wake his father for breakfast as he did since the King fell bed-ridden. With support, he could walk short distances and despite Andres’ wishes for him to stay in bed, the King insisted they would have breakfast together as per usual. As soon as he entered the room, he knew something was off. The King was no longer in bed, but standing on his own two feet all on his own.

What is this madness?

“Andres, I’m cured! It’s a miracle!”

No, no, no!

Andres choked up in tears and sobbed like he’d never done before. It was too cruel, he thought. The King was all better over the course of one night. It was a miracle by anyone else’s eyes, but to Andres it was a rough, twisted backhand from fate.

 What had changed since then? What was different today?

More and more questions crept up in his mind as he tried to escape the tragic truth before him. For he knew very well the cause of his father’s anguish. He knew it from the very start and now the evidence was clear. The vihuela. It was cursed, or at least from his perspective. For the King it was an unknown blessing. The vihuela he adored more than anything was the cause of the sickness. How? That he did not know, but he knew it in his bones. Ever since he’d carved the instrument his father had coughs that he had not had his entire life. After a week, pain flooded the King’s body. And after only two months, his love for music had dragged his father to the edge of his life.

“Oh, my sweet vihuela…I must never play you again.”

But, what about your dream?

He tucked away the vihuela by the side of the same tree it was borne of and walked away without even as much as a glance back.
10 years pass…


“Shame about what happened at the crowning ceremony.” Said a commoner working his fields. Beside him stood another man smoking a cigar.

“Downright embarrasing I would say. How could the heir to the crown suddenly disappear like that with no trace?”

“I’ve no idea either, but I’ve heard some tales about a wandering vihuela player who apparently looks just like him. ”

“A musician? Who in their right mind would give up that kind of power for music? I guess stupidity runs deep even in royalty.”

“I don’t know about that. Dreams are powerful. Not even a King can kill the power a dream can have.”

“Nonsense.”

After the incident of the crowning ceremony there was an urban legend that was popular among the people who lived near the castle, and even the whole kingdom at one point, of the wandering vihuela player. It was said that he donned a vihuela that was forged by an angel. A beautiful instrument played masterfully by the young man. He would show up in a town to perform songs that soothed even the hardest of souls and then promptly leave to do the same somewhere else. But while many thought of him as the renegade prince, Andres, there was something that stood out even more to those witness to the ethereal performer.

He always wore a smile.

Author's Note

Please let me know any grammar problems. Tell me what you liked and didn't like! I appreciate any constructive criticism.

Reviews

[JayG]

Well, you did ask for this, so you have only yourself to blame, right?

I’m glad you included your age, because that makes a big difference in how I looked at this. Why? Because like anyone in your situation you’re still using the writing skills your schooling provided. That may sound odd, in that they’ve been teaching you to write, and have been from the beginning. But the question we never ask is, “What kind of writing are they teaching us?” We assume that writing is writing.

If only. Think about the answers to two questions:

First: How many stories were you assigned to write, as against the number of reports, essays, and other nonfiction applications?

Next: Has the one who graded those few stories sold even a word of their own fiction? I mention that because if teachers—as the most knowledgeable of us in HOW to write—know how to write fiction, wouldn’t most fiction be written by a teacher?

Another point to ponder: What’s the difference between what you expect to get from nonfiction, as against fiction? In other words, what’s the difference in our objective between reading fiction and nonfiction? Is it great enough to require a different approach? It’s a question we never ask ourselves because we assume that writing is writing. Strangeley, while we know that we’re not being trained to write plays, films, or in journalism, we assume we’re properly equipped to write a novel without additional training.

Nonfiction is easy. A report, report, essay, newspaper, etc., has informing the reader as its goal; clearly, concisely, and accurately.

But why do we read fiction? Isn’t it to be made to FEEL? Aren’t we hoping the writing will provide an emotional experience as a form of entertainment?

Nonfiction will provide a description of a setting. But while everyone who views that setting will see the same thing, when YOU look at it, past associations, needs and desires, and your current situation, will govern how you perceive what there is to see. And it’s that reaction that counts emotionally—just as it must for the characters in your story. To better see what I mean, try this article:
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/2011/09/22/the-grumpy-writing-coach-8/

It all boils down to viewpoint. When we read the words of a narrator talking about the scene there can be no emotion in the voice we hear because we can neither see nor hear the storyteller’s performance. So what we get can’t help but read as dispassionate. Yes, we learn what happens, and what can be seen, but though the protagonist is the focus of the storyteller’s viewpoint, it informs, but doesn’t entertain, because it’s told as a fact-based and author-centric report.

Suppose though, that we make the reader know only what matters to the protagonist enough for them to act on it? That’s how we live our lives. Something catches our attention and we respond to it. And that response will probably determine what will hold our attention next. And if it works in life, can your character behave differently and seem real?

Suppose we make the reader know what has the protagonist’s attention that way, how important they feel it is, and what their options and needs are in regard to what to do next? Won’t we have just calibrated the reader’s, viewpoint to that of the protagonist? Won’t we have set it up so that whatever the protagonist decides to do is what the reader would do in-their-place? And won’t that give the reader an emotional investment in what happens as a result of what the protagonist does—and a reason to WANT to turn the pages to see what happens next?

See what I mean? Nothing in the writing skills you’ve been given has prepared to write like that. And making it more difficult, when you read your stories back you already know the setting, the characters, and everything else. And, you hear emotion in the voice of the narrator—something the reader can’t. So for you it works perfectly.

Think of the reaction of a reader—ne who doesn’t yet know where they are in time or space, doesn’t know what’s going on, and doesn’t know whose skin THEY wear—to your first line:

• “My son, you’ll be a fine King when the time comes.” The King said with a bright smile on his face.

First the silly: Where else would he wear a smile? Drop “on his face.” The fewer words to say something the faster the read. The faster the read, the greater the impact. And: Stand at the mirror and smile. Then try to make it “bright.” When you stop laughing, rephrase. Never forget that while you can make the reader know what can be seen, and though the words come from the image in your mind, that knowledge doesn’t generate the image in your mind. To do that would take far too many words and slow the action to a crawl.

Minor point: When you use the word “king” as a title it’s capitalized. When it’s generic, as in “a” king, it’s not.

Next: Since we don’t know who either of them are as we read the line—so far as age, experience, or character—this could be a school play, the words of an exiled king to his son, or many other things. It could be be set in ancient Rome or modern time. You know, but that helps the reader not at all. And not knowing what prompted the king to speak as he did, there can be no context for the prince’s reply. Is it the king just saying it? Or did the prince just express doubt? There can be many reasons for speaking the line, and each of them sets the scene differently.

Suppose, for example, the opening line had said, “I know you have your doubts, son, but put them aside, because you’ll be a fine king when the time comes.”

Do that and the reader has some context for what’s going on, and for why the king said what he did. In fact, why tell the reader that the speaker is the king? It’s implied by calling the future king son. Unless there’s some unusual situation, like him being exiled, let implication work for you.

Or, and this is the approach I favor, instead of reporting what you visualize happening, you can place the reader into the viewpoint of one of the characters, so we know what motivates the speech, and the hoped for response to it is. That’s a better idea because it involves the reader. But… to do that you need to know a few of the tricks-of-the-trade. So…

Several suggestions:

You might poke around in the writing articles in my blog. They were written for those in your situation, to give a feel for what needs to be added to your toolbox. Another resource is the local library’s fiction writing section (but not the school library, because it’s usually far too limited). There, you’ll find the views of publishing pros, successful authors, and noted teachers. And while you’re there, look for the names, Dwight Swain, Jack Bickham, or Debra Dixon on the cover. They’re pure gold.

For a specific recommendation I have two.

Debra Dixon’s, GMC: Goal Motivation & Conflict is a warm easy read, and provides easy access to the basics of building scenes that will sing to a reader. You can download it from any online bookseller or buy it from Deb’s site.

Dwight Swain’s, Techniques of the Selling Writer, is a far more difficult book, because it was written by a writing professor, for college students, and adult hopeful writers. And because it is, it can go into a lot of detail, and be a bit dry. But I’ve found no better book so far.

Either book should be read slowly, with time to practice, digest, and polish each new idea, so you don’t forget it exists in a week. If you get through it in less than a few weeks you’re moving too fast, because they are both very close to a college level writing course. I suggest you get your own copy of the one you choose, and that after six months of using what you’ve learned, go back and read it again, to get as much that time as you did the first time. And if you do choose the Dixon book, pick up the Swain book in a year.

Not good news, I know. But pretty much every writer faces the same problem because we all leave our school years believing we know what we need to know to write a bestseller. Your advantage is that you’ll leave school actually knowing how to write fiction. Damn few do.

Hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/

[Juan Muniz]

Hey man, first of I want to thank you for taking the time to write such a detailed review. It really means the world to me. Also, little reveal here I'm actually 20 now. I made this account when I was sixteen. I'm actually glad in a way I didn't change it because maybe you wouldn't have bothered to write as much as you did. Writing is my dream but I know the road is long and harsh towards being good let alone being great. I thank you, Jay and I will definitely take a look at your blog and the resources you've mentioned. And don't feel bad, I know I've long ways to go. But I feel comfort in that even though you said all that, you think I can do it(i don't know if it's genuine but I'll assume that it was). Plus, i got quite a bit of years to get it right! Hope to see you around again for a future post of mine. I'll be posting again sooner rather than later. Kind regards, Juan Muñiz.