Somewhere and nowhere there exists a place that has always been, and can never be. It has many names, and it changes its decor to suit the times it serves, yet it remains a constant stage for the complex players that it contains. It has been a castle, a palace, a woodland grove, a cavern - even a tomb. For a brief while, perhaps, it can be a small hotel on a small island, isolated in a remote group of islands in an insignificant part of the world. Inside the wooden structure will stand the bar, distinguished by a riotous carving that sets inumerable monkeys swarming around a parade of mirrors. The atmosphere will be warm and friendly, quiet conversation murmering around the room as the ceiling fans sweep lazily overhead. Among the many figures who gather there will be a few who stand out from the crowd.
The first will be the tall man sitting at one of the tables, his hair a tousle of gold under his peaked cap and his leather jacket worn and stained with comfortable use. He is a handsome fellow, his blue eyes pleasent and approachable, his face creased into an ameniable grin. The lanky reach of his limbs add a slight gawkiness to his frame that is balanced by the easy grace with which he moves. He laughs over a half empty glass of beer, and relaxes into his chair with accustomed ease. He is at home in this place. He belongs here with an unconcious familiarity that has grown around him like a comfortable glove, molded to his shape and fitting to a tee. He is an adventurer. His name might be Lancelot, or Tristan, Roland, Robin, Sinbad, even Paris, but currently it might just be Jake. He flies a battered seaplane that is moored just outside the hotel, but it might just as well be a fiery stallion, a wooden galleon, or even a dragon. It wouldn't matter. He'd be much the same.
Beside him there sits a woman, pert and pretty, her auburn hair shining a little in the electric light. She too belongs, in a manner that is hard to define. She conceals a wary innocence that adds to her charm; it shields her and yet makes her vulnerable, and the man responds to it with subconcious reaction. Tonight they are together, and yet there is an emotional space between them, as if they dare not move closer for fear of what might result. Her name has been Guinivere, Marion, Helen; he has fought for her, won her, lost her a thousand times, but they will always meet, always fall in love, whatever else may befall.
On the other side of the pair sits a chubby figure, clad in rumpled overalls, his chin dappled with stubble and his genial face crumpled into a warm smile. His hands are wrapped possesively around a nearly empty beer glass and he nods vigerously in reponse to the fair haired man's words. His comfortable slump is vaguely anxious, despite his convivial smile; his eyes are oddly haunted, an echo of strong self doubt painted behind them with broad brush strokes. He is an innocent, destined never quite to be a hero, but always to be there when the story is told. Percival, you might name him; he will not remember it himself. He is a wise fool though, so don't think to laugh at his expense. In the end the laugh may be on you.
At this figure's feet there sits a small dog, one eye socket covered over with a worn leather patch. The animal carries an air of resigned patience, one ear alert, the other twitching in assumed sleep. It might be thought an insignificant creature, no clear line of pedigree in its pied coat, no hint of savage wolf in its compact frame, but the one eye that regards the world is bright and disturbingly intelligent. It maintains a quiet vigil as the converstation drifts overhead, content to be where it wants to be, and aware of many things that pass its human comrades by. This wise spirit takes many forms, and some are better known than this one. He is the hero's concience, his guide and mentor, content for a while to be a simple shadow at his Master's feet. Had he been a cat, he'd have worn boots, but the eye patch will do. It gives him a jaunty look.
Over by the bar another fair haired man speaks in animated conversation. He has a square, determined face, and his manner carries a hint of displaced forcefulness that belies the message of the clerical collar at his throat. A slender native girl shimmies past and the man's blue eyes light with a hint of unholy fire as he is briefly distracted from his line of argument. This figure belongs, but does not quite fit the niche he has made for himself; he is somehow at odds with his situation and it shows in an underlying nervousness that only the passion of his words can dispell. His role is not a comfortable one, desiring to be nothing more than a friend and always harbouring betrayal whatever he does to prevent it. Here his deception allows him to belong, even if only for a little while. He would like to be a hero, but he is not strong enough to withstand the whispers from the dark, and in the end he will fail, just as he always does.
A figure in a wheelchair moves through the scene, propelled by arms disproportionately strong for his small frame. He moves with purpose and efficiency, quietly determined in the face he shows to the world. His expression is a cheerful one, and it suits him. There is no sense of self pity here, only an accepting confidence. He knows his limitations and he faces them as challenges, not disability. He balances a tray of drinks on his lap as he manouvres through the crowd and people make way for him with accustomed ease. He belongs, in a way that cannot be questioned. He is always here, quietly in charge, unregarded for the most part but certain in his role. He is best friend, faithful servant, patient slave. He was born to serve and does so without complaint, loyal beyond question, always willing to sacrifice himself should demand be made of him. Kay, he has been called, or Sancho; he carries a heavy load yet always asks for more.
At the far end of the room, leaning idly on the balcony rail that overlooks the scene, will be the final figure that draws the eye. He is not immediately obvious, since he carries discretion like a habitual cloak, but his presence is part of the atmosphere, understated but undeniable in its influence. His is a slender shape, not too short, nor too tall, but elegant and exact, the white suit cut to svelte lines and the flare of colour at his throat a finishing touch to a calculated impression. His face is an expressive canvas capable of conveying complex messages; his looks roguishly charming rather than handsome. His eyes are eloquent reflections of his inner ambiguouity; they miss nothing and assess everything, the twinkle of mischief in their depths a wry acceptance of life and what it brings. A remarkable man, intent on being unremarkable, a disguise he wears with practised ease. His name is legion, along with his nature. He has been a king, and an outlaw, a maker of laws and leader of rebellion. He has challenged the gods and defied the devil; he rules with a kind heart and a firm hand, yet never lets order take too strong a hold. His origins are as old as the world itself, and is it so strange to find him here, master of the Monkey Bar? The trickster was the Monkey King, long before he built the wooden horse or set the sword in the stone... or was it he who pulled the blade free? He has done many things in his time, and not all of them were obvious; yet for all that his honour is unquestionable.
A picture then, of gentle tranquillity: a relaxed convivial evening in an unhurried place, friends sharing moments of quiet pleasure while the world passes by unheeded. The moment seems timeless, coccooned in the amber warmth of wood and light, reflected in the mirrors around which the monkeys tumble in frozen frivolity. This picture will change, shattered by the shadows of war, riven apart by time and event which no one man can control. Yet a part of it will always exist, a world out of time, a place where weary adventurers can return, welcomed by those who understand their spirits.
Reality intrudes on the oldest of myths, and yet the myths remain. The faces of the players change but their natures never do. Arthur held court in Camelot, Gilgamesh in ancient Ur; the tales will play out again and again. The setting may change, the story shift in subtle pattern, and still the oldest truths remain constant. There will always be heroes, just as there will always be tales to tell of them. And for a while, just a little while, there is somewhere in the Pacific that they can call home...
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