Stories of the King: Iron John

By John Griffin

In the Kingdom of Hyperboly, near the Port of Gontosy, when autumn had begun to change the leaves and shift the air, a young man approached the castle gates to meet Lord Triton Phoenix and hear his many tales. The wise Lord Phoenix conveyed many things to the young Jeremiah Joplin from Joppa, but the most captivating story of all, was that of the ancient legend of Iron John, and how a young man much like Jeremiah became a man.

About the Author
John Griffin is an active volunteer at St. Vincent DePauls, preparing and cleaning up meals for those in need. When he isn't helping his local community, he's enjoying nature all around him, writing letters to public officials on behalf of the environment, fishing, hiking, and basking in the poetic inspiration that nature gives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: May 8, 2024
• ISBN: 9781685376833

Book preview

I The Guest

The weather was still and the leaves were changing—with autumn in the air, therewith an aroma forecasting the rain. ‘Twas long ago and far away whence a tale came to pass, in a time of castles with moats and kingdoms with boats to sail the seven seas. Many were those who lived in the region of Hyperboly near the Port of Gontosy. It bustled with merchant traders and fishermen tending to all of their customers. The musicians would sing songs of the sea, and, of maidens who longed to be with a knight, before the dragons who kept them up at all hours, and of spring showers and beautiful flowers in hanging baskets from the castle towers.

And there at the castle lived a king whose name was Triton Phoenix. He looked out of his castle window at the waters of his moat, rippled by the breeze with reeds and lily pads undulating in the verdant waters as bright orange carp swam slowly by. Triton took a seat at a very long table and his servant came in with a snack on a platter and said, Lord Phoenix, you have a guest who is requesting to see you.

He looked up at the servant and said, Who is this guest, Benson?

He claims to be Jerimiah Joplin from Joppa near the Isle of Crete.

It has been so very long that anyone has paid me a visit from Joppa, and I do wonder what sends him this way. Please my good Benson, show the man in and fix us some refreshments, then send for the musician and the storyteller.

Benson took leave of the king and suddenly there was a clap of thunder that rattled what it will and sent a chill down the king’s spine. At the drawbridge, Jerimiah waited patiently for Benson to return. Rain began to lightly fall, and as Benson spoke to Jerimiah the king peered out his window to get a peek at this traveler looking for a royal visit. The frogs were audible but unseen, and egrets waded in the shallows that were now in the late evening shadows of the massive redwood trees on the mighty jungle’s edge. The king returned to his seat and what meandered in his mind wasn’t easy for him to convey. There was a place in reflection that took him to the foggy recollections of his faded past. The world is vast, and he was cast unaware, why he would be king—or have change to spare, and why should he even care . . .

Just then Benson entered the room saying, My Lord Phoenix, may I present to you Jerimiah Joplin from Joppa near the Isle of Crete.

Phoenix stood saying, You may my good Benson. Please take Mister Joplin’s coat and bring us some refreshments. When you are done, see to it that his horse is fed and get the beast some water.

Yes, your highness.

"And I’ll have no more of that either Benson, it’s a little too much. I don’t really care for the Lord crap either, but it has been tradition for so long now and to the tune of normality it remains a formality that I live with."

Jerimiah stands there listening to the king and pondering why he chose to stop by. There were rumors that said the king was very noble indeed, and he tried hard to plant good seeds with an eye on just cause, and hesitation with room for a pause . . . where understanding was at the base of his laws and compassion borne of reflection of his own flaws. And at this place in time it was mostly unheard of, an anomaly one might say, as if presented in an enigma.

Please sit down Mr. Joplin, and relax a little. You must be worn out from your long journey. It is no easy task to make your way to Hyperboly, but why would you come into this jungle when Joppa has everything you need?

Lord Phoenix, if I may call you that?

Please do and carry on. I’m not real big on the formality thing, and some days . . . wish I wasn’t a king. So, if you slip and call me Triton it might be just as well. One man’s life is just another story to tell.

The stories are what takes me from my homeland in search of their origins. A fairytale is cause for consideration, but I searched the world looking to pause for notation, for all that catches my eye, and when the drama is near, I lend my ear to the words I hear in the space I fear to face what is dear to my tale—when the story puts the wind in my sail. I can wail and whine, quail then shine, beyond the veil at the shrine, but it is only words for my page if I never make it to the stage that my spotlight shines. There I find what matters most, tending to my post as I wall to the wicked. I sort out the disarray beyond the bog—this side of the fray, deep inside the mire, I yearn with desire to sally forth on a quest to battle plight, and the unbeatable foe, to run where the brave dare not go. Alas my Lord, I’m really not all that brave and I’m a slave to my anxiety. But I must face my fear to know the stories that a bard longs to share, and I hope my path to you will help take me there.

Mr. Joplin, you have a way with words I must say, there was poetry you did display and feelings of the soul you did portray. I think I know why you traveled here now. The world is so hard to know from behind castle walls, with moats that surround and the drawbridge to put down just to travel into town. Isolation I have seen, and like a hermit I have been, an anchorite in lonely hours and sleepless nights. And there are many who think that if only for one day, I’d love to be king, where the troubles are at bay. But they don’t understand the turmoil within, the audacity of the psyche’s chagrin, with demons constantly pointing the way. The inner struggles are not tamed by wealth, and the darkest notions are subtlety and stealth, where what matters most is the whole of my health, mentally and physically.

"You look well King, like this life has smiled upon you. Mobility you still afford, and your nobility is still adored across the